In the basilica's audience hall in Trier, Constantine sat in judgment. Before him, two Gallic landowners argued furiously over a disputed property line, a case that had been tangled in local courts for years, wrapped in layers of obscure statutes and paid-for testimony. He listened to their lawyers' long-winded orations for a time, his face a mask of cold neutrality, before raising a hand for silence.
"The land survey from the time of my great-uncle is clear," Constantine stated, his voice cutting through the chamber's dusty air. His memory of the provincial archives, which he had been methodically consuming, was absolute. "The river's course changed seventeen years ago. The eastern marker stone stands where it always has. The land belongs to Petronius. The suit is frivolous, and an attempt to defraud this court. Decimus," he said to the petitioner, "you will pay Petronius's legal costs and a fine to the state for wasting its time. Next case."
The swift, brutally logical verdict left both parties stunned into silence. It was with this same unsparing efficiency that he had begun to impose his will on Gaul. As Claudius Mamertinus ushered the bewildered landowners out, Valerius entered from a side door, his expression urgent.
"Augustus," he murmured, leaning close. "A rider from Italy. One of our own. He rode three horses to death to get here."
Constantine's eyes sharpened. "Bring him."
The scout was brought into a private chamber, his clothes caked in dust and sweat, his body trembling with exhaustion. He knelt, then forced out his report. "Augustus… Severus is defeated."
Constantine felt a cold stillness descend upon the room. "Explain."
"His army… it deserted him on the march to Rome. The old soldiers of Maximian went over to Maxentius in droves. Severus fled with a few guards. He has taken refuge in Ravenna… and Maxentius has him trapped."
Defeated. Trapped.
Constantine dismissed the exhausted scout, sending him for food, wine, and rest. He stood alone with Valerius before the great map of the Empire. The implications of the news unfurled in his mind, not as a summary, but as a series of stark, cascading realities.
Severus, the legitimate Augustus of the West, neutralized, Constantine thought, his mind racing. Not by my hand, but by his own army's disloyalty. Galerius is now an emperor with no hands in the West, his authority here shattered. Maxentius holds Italy, but he is a firebrand, not a strategist. He has created a power vacuum, not a stable state.
His eyes traced the territories Severus had held outside of Italy – Pannonia, Noricum, the gateway to the Balkans. "Leaderless," he whispered. "His legions there are now masterless."
"The entire game is overturned," Valerius breathed, his old soldier's mind grasping the scale of the chaos.
"Overturned," Constantine agreed, a predatory light entering his eyes. "Our rivals are bleeding, stumbling over their own ambitions. And we…" he tapped his finger on Trier, "...from our secure bastion, are poised to watch."
The news from the Hispanian delegation, which had arrived days earlier confirming the loyalty of the Iberian provinces, now seemed even more significant. His entire Western bloc, from Britannia to the Pillars of Hercules, was solid, while his enemies descended into fratricidal war.
He thought of the ladder of chaos, the concept that had driven his thoughts since the news of Maxentius's revolt first came. It wasn't just a metaphor; it was a blueprint. While they fought over the crumbling rungs in Italy, he would be methodically building his own staircase, solid and secure.
"Valerius," Constantine said, his voice crisp and decisive. "Double the watch on the Alpine passes. I want to know the instant Maxentius moves beyond Italy, or if Galerius dares to march west himself. Continue to consolidate our new legions here in Gaul. And send word to Claudius Mamertinus. I want a full report on the output of the Gallic armories. We will need more swords, and soon."
The chaos in Italy was an opportunity he would not waste.