Morning mist drifted up from the Ouse, rolling through Eboracum's streets in pale ribbons. Constantine watched it curl around the Praetorium's columns while the fortress yard below clanged with renewed purpose. Yesterday had been thunder; today must become machinery.
Valerius arrived first, helm tucked beneath one arm, scroll-case in the other."Messages from the Wall, Augustus. Vindolanda and Eboracum's vicus report full oath-rolls signed. Fort Arbeia hesitated—until the donative reached them."Constantine quirked a tired half-smile. "Gold melts doubt. Good."
He unsealed the scrolls, noting troop counts, grain tallies, and the temperature of each cohort's loyalty. Arbeia's prefect asked for replacement spearheads—rust ate iron faster near the sea. Constantine added a margin note: divert surplus from Deva foundry.
Crocus entered next, smelling of damp leather and horse sweat."My riders intercepted the eastern courier beyond Cataractonium. He bore two documents: a courteous condolence from Severus and an edict declaring you delicate of mind, unfit for command—signed by Galerius." He laid the singed parchment on the table; only blackened fragments remained.Constantine traced a charred edge. "Let them wonder whether their words ever reached us."
A knock. Lucius Metellus ushered in an ageing centurion with a leather pouch. Inside lay a fistful of freshly struck aurei, Constantine's profile barely cooled from the die. The reverse showed Sol Invictus, radiate crown blazing.
"First run from the mint, Caesar—" Metellus caught himself. "Augustus."
"Distribute them with the evening watch," Constantine said. "And send a dozen to the guildmasters; a reminder that commerce rests on our coin."
By mid-day the Praetorium's courtyard filled with black-clad priests and civic dignitaries assembling for Constantius's funeral cortege. Constantine donned a plain wool cloak rather than imperial purple; ostentation at a father's pyre stank of vanity. As the bier was borne toward the western field, legionaries lined the road in silent ranks, shields reversed, standards draped. A single kithara struck a mournful, Phrygian melody; the note seemed to vibrate through bone.
When the torch finally touched the resin-soaked timbers, flames leapt high into the afternoon haze. Constantine stood motionless, heat brushing his face, smoke stinging his eyes more than sorrow dared. No time to grieve.
Helena's hand slipped into his. She said nothing—only squeezed once, hard, then stepped back to let him return to the living world.
Evening councils became routine before they had a chance to feel strange. Grain clerks reported, armourers pleaded for tin, shipwrights for tar. Constantine granted, bargained, cajoled. At last he turned to the map.
"Phase one is secure: Britannia holds." He tapped the chalk circle round Eboracum. "Phase two—control of the Channel."
Gaius Fulvius outlined the flotilla's readiness: twenty trieres refitted at Rutupiae, ten more serviceable within a week. Crocus pledged eight hundred spearmen to serve as marines; Valerius volunteered fifty veterans who had sailed before.
"Phase three," Constantine continued, shifting to the Gaul sheet. "The road to Gesoriacum." He sketched two arrows: one sea-borne force to seize the port, another column to march from Londinium to Dubris, embark, and reinforce.
Metellus frowned. "If Severus lands first, we face siege."
"Then we sail first," Constantine replied. "Weather is our ally. Autumn storms will hamper heavier transports. We use smaller hulls, hug the coast, move in packets."
He paused, letting their eyes track the chalk lines. "Once Gesoriacum is ours, we dispatch heralds to the Rhine legions. Those men served under my father longer than they've taken pay from Severus."
"And if Galerius marches west in force?" Crocus asked.
Constantine met his gaze. "Then the Rhine becomes our shield and Gaul our anvil. But we'll cross that river when we hold its bridges."
A murmur of rough laughter broke the tension. Decisions settled like stones; the council dissolved.
Near midnight Constantine climbed the watch-tower overlooking the river. Below, furnaces hissed where smiths forged spearheads for Arbeia. To the south, torch-columns flickered—riders departing toward Londinium with sealed orders.
He drew Constantius's codex from his cloak, turned to a blank margin, and wrote in cramped Latin:
Day 1 after acclamation. Britannia steady. Channel plan set. Galerius hostile. Risk index: high, but initiative ours. Father—your West is not yet lost.
He closed the book, breath curling in the chill. Somewhere beyond the dark horizon lay Gaul, and beyond Gaul lay every other dream he dared not voice. For now, holding tomorrow was ambition enough.
A sentry saluted as he descended. Constantine returned the gesture, steps firm on the timber stair, the torque at his throat warm from his skin, the empire's weight settling evenly across his shoulders—heavy, but finally his to bear.