Dawn of a New Rome
Chapter 36: The Road to Mediolanum

Chapter 36: The Road to Mediolanum

Constantine’s entry into Augusta Taurinorum was not that of a conqueror taking a prize, but of a master returning to his house. His orders were immediate and precise. His soldiers were to treat the citizens and their property with respect, a stark contrast to the looting they might have expected from a barbarian army or even a less disciplined Roman one. He seized the city’s military stores and granaries, not as plunder, but to replenish his own army’s supplies, an act of logistical necessity. The surviving Maxentian soldiers captured in the rout were disarmed and offered a simple choice: swear a new oath to him or be sent to the mines in Hispania. Most, seeing the discipline and victory of his army, chose the former.

He spent only three days in Turin, just long enough to ensure the city was secure under a small, loyal garrison and to send word of his victory back to Trier. He issued a proclamation to the people of northern Italy, declaring that he had come not to wage war on Italians, but to free them, and all of Rome, from the tyranny of Maxentius. It was a message of liberation, carefully crafted to secure the goodwill of the Italian people and to persuade other cities to welcome his army.

In his command tent, he met with his inner circle. Crocus was flushed with the thrill of the victory, his Alemanni having performed exceptionally in the pursuit of the routed enemy. "That was a good fight!" the barbarian king boomed. "Their iron-clad riders fell like overripe fruit!" "They fell because our discipline and tactics were superior," Constantine corrected coolly. "Do not mistake a single victory for the end of the war. Maxentius has other armies."

Metellus confirmed his point. "Augustus, even with this victory, we are deep in enemy territory and significantly outnumbered overall. Maxentius controls the vast resources of Italy and Africa."

"Which is why we cannot give him time to consolidate them," Constantine stated, his single eye already tracing routes on a map spread over the table. "We press our advantage. We march on Mediolanum."

Mediolanum. Milan. A major imperial residence, a hub of commerce and military power in northern Italy. To take it would be a strategic blow from which Maxentius’s authority in the region might never recover. The decision was made. With the cheers of Turin’s citizens still echoing behind them, his army, their morale soaring, marched east into the fertile plains of the Po Valley.

The news of his victory at Turin traveled faster than his legions. Several smaller towns along his path opened their gates without hesitation, declaring their allegiance and offering supplies. It seemed, for a moment, that the march to Mediolanum would be a triumphal procession. But the reports from Valerius’s scouts soon painted a different picture.

Ruricius Pompeianus, the Praetorian Prefect who had commanded the Maxentian army at Turin, had escaped the rout with a core of his loyal guards. Burning with humiliation and desperate to redeem himself, he had not fled south to Rome. Instead, he had rallied all available Maxentian forces in northern Italy to the city of Verona.

"Verona is a formidable fortress, Augustus," Valerius reported grimly a few days later, as they made camp. "It is protected on three sides by a loop of the river Athesis. Pompeianus has a large force there, far greater than what we faced at Turin, and he has fortified the city’s defenses. He has made it the lynchpin of his new defensive line. We cannot advance to Mediolanum or further east while leaving his army intact at our back."

Constantine listened, absorbing the intelligence. The easy advance was over. Pompeianus, despite his earlier defeat, had chosen his ground well. A direct assault on Verona would be a bloody, grinding affair, the kind of battle of attrition that Constantine’s smaller, elite army could not afford. He walked to the edge of the camp, staring eastward into the dusk, towards the unseen city of Verona. His mind sifted through the problem, dissecting it with a cold, inhuman precision. He had smashed Maxentius’s cavalry with an unexpected tactic. Now, he faced a fortified city and a superior force, commanded by a man desperate for revenge.

This was a far more complex challenge. It would require more than just tactical brilliance on the battlefield. It would require a masterpiece of siegecraft, strategy, and psychological warfare. Crocus rode up beside him, his expression for once sober. "This is a strong rock you must break, Augustus."

Constantine’s single eye glinted in the fading light. "Every rock has a fissure, Crocus," he said, his voice a low murmur. "You just have to find the right place to strike." The war for Italy had just found its next bloody

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