In the weeks following his entry into Ro, Constantine moved to solidify his rule over the entire Western Empire. The Praetorian Guard was gone, their barracks demolished, their na struck from the military rolls. The Senate, suitably cowed and grateful to be free of Maxentius, voted him the title of Senior Augustus, a formal recognition of his supre authority. From the Palatine Hill, Constantine’s directives now flowed not just to Gaul, Britannia, and Hispania, but to Italy and North Africa as well.
He found the administration of Ro to be a bloated, inefficient tangle of ancient traditions and entrenched interests. He began the slow, arduous process of imposing his own cold logic upon it, streamlining bureaucracies and demanding accountability. The city, for the first ti in years, felt the touch of a firm, active, and present master.
It was during this ti that he granted an audience to a delegation that would have been unthinkable under his predecessor. Bishop Miltiades of Ro, an old man whose face was a map of the hardships endured during the Great Persecution, led a small group of his clergy into the imperial presence. They did not bow with the practiced supplication of senators, but with a quiet, profound reverence.
"Augustus," Miltiades began, his voice surprisingly strong. "We co not only as citizens of Ro, but as spokesn for the Christian community, to offer our thanks for our liberation. The sign under which you conquered... it was an answer to our prayers."
Constantine listened, his single eye assessing them. He saw not just piety, but a disciplined organization, a network that had survived decades of concerted imperial effort to destroy it. They were a force, one that his rivals had consistently underestimated or tried to crush. "Your freedom was won by the valor of my legions," Constantine replied, his tone neutral. "But your prayers are your own affair. Under my rule, no one in the West will be persecuted for their conscience." He went further. In a move that sent shockwaves through the old pagan aristocracy, he ordered the restoration of all Christian property—churches, ceteries, and lands—that had been confiscated during the persecutions.
His mother, Helena, who had arrived in Ro shortly after his victory, was overco with joy. "You see, my son?" she said to him, her eyes bright. "You are an instrunt of His will." "I am an instrunt of my own will, Mother," he answered coolly. "And it is my will that every useful group within my domain feels the benefit of my rule. The loyalty of your Christians is a useful asset."
He summoned his most trusted legal advisor, the acting prefect Claudius Martinus, a draft of a new proclamation between them. "Galerius’s edict was a half-asure, born of fear," Constantine stated, his finger tapping the parchnt. "It grants tolerance, but it does not grant security. That is a weakness." "Augustus?" Martinus asked, uncertain of his emperor’s direction. "My decree will be absolute," Constantine declared, his voice leaving no room for debate. "We will not simply tolerate the Christians, or any other faith. We will grant all citizens full legal freedom to worship as they see fit. We will state, explicitly, that all confiscated properties are to be returned without delay. Order and stability require that no significant portion of the populace feels like a guest in their own empire. Let this be promulgated in every province, from Britannia to Africa."
With the West settling under his firm control, all eyes turned to the East. The Roman world now had three masters: Constantine in the West, Maximinus Daia in the furthest East, and Licinius, the new Augustus, holding the vast Balkan provinces between them. The balance was precarious. The first move ca from Licinius. A formal embassy, bearing his standards, arrived in Ro. They brought a proposal.
Constantine received the envoys in the audience hall. Their leader, a high-ranking officer from Licinius’s court, delivered the ssage. Licinius, he said, recognized Constantine as his senior colleague and the rightful ruler of the West. He sought not conflict, but an alliance. He proposed a formal eting between the two Augusti in the city of diolanum (Milan) to solidify their partnership and agree upon a unified policy for the whole Empire. "And to seal this alliance," the envoy concluded, "the Augustus Licinius asks for the hand of your noble half-sister, Constantia, in marriage."
Constantine listened, his face impassive. An alliance. A marriage. He had played this ga before, with Maximian. But Licinius was different. He was a shrewd, ambitious soldier of peasant stock, like Galerius, but known to be more calculating, less prone to rage. Constantine’s mories of his half-sister Constantia were vague – a young girl, kept close to the centers of power in the East. She was now a valuable political pawn.
An alliance with Licinius would completely isolate Maximinus Daia, who was already showing his tyrannical and anti-Christian tendencies in the East. A united front between the masters of Europe would be unassailable. He saw the shape of the future. A temporary peace, a division of the world, followed by an inevitable, final conflict for sole rule. This eting was the next logical step on that path.
He looked at the envoy. "Inform the Augustus Licinius that I accept his proposal. I will et him in diolanum. And my sister, Constantia, will be prepared for her new station as his wife." The board was set for a new ga, this one not against a cornered tyrant, but against a co-emperor, a man who was his equal in rank and, perhaps, in ambition. The contest for the world was about to be formalized.
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