Dawn of a New Rome
Chapter 42: The Milan Accord

Chapter 42: The Milan Accord

The journey north to Mediolanum in the early months of 313 AD was a tour of a pacified Italy. The cities that had once stood with Maxentius now welcomed Constantine with lavish displays of loyalty. He moved through his new domain with a purpose, observing the land, the people, the state of the infrastructure. His mind was a restless engine, absorbing data, identifying weaknesses, and formulating plans for the future governance of the Italian peninsula.

He arrived in Mediolanum, a city of wealth and strategic importance, and established his court in the imperial palace. He was the master of the West, and he waited for his eastern counterpart to arrive. Licinius, the Augustus of Illyricum, arrived a week later with a retinue of grim Pannonian and Dacian officers, his army’s standards bearing the traditional eagles of Jupiter. He was a man in his fifties, with the broad shoulders and hard, weathered face of a career soldier who had risen from the ranks. He possessed none of the aristocratic bearing of the old Roman senators, nor the restless ambition of Maximian. When he and Constantine met for the first time in the palace’s main hall, it was a meeting of two different kinds of power: Constantine, with his one-eyed, unnervingly still intensity and cold, analytical mind; and Licinius, with the raw, pragmatic authority of a seasoned general who had earned his power through decades of frontier warfare.

They sized each other up, the two most powerful men in the Roman world, their alliance a thing of necessity, not trust.

Their private negotiations were brutally direct. There was no room for flattery or rhetoric. "Maximinus Daia is a problem," Licinius stated, his voice a low rumble. "He has seized all of Galerius’s eastern provinces and now styles himself the Senior Augustus. He resumes the persecution of the Christians with a renewed fervor."

"Daia is a zealot and a fool," Constantine agreed. "His cruelty will make him enemies within his own domain. It gives us an advantage."

"An advantage we should formalize," Licinius said, his eyes sharp. "Your policy of tolerance in the West has won you support. I see the wisdom in it. A united policy, across both our domains, would further isolate Daia. It would paint him as the sole tyrant, the enemy of peace and the gods—or God."

Constantine nodded. "Absolute freedom of worship, for all citizens, under the protection of the state. All confiscated properties returned. This will be our joint decree." On this, they found easy agreement. The policy served both their interests perfectly. They would draft and issue a joint proclamation from Milan that would resonate across the entire Empire, a declaration of a new era of tolerance that would stand in stark contrast to Daia’s brutal persecutions.

The second part of their bargain arrived with her own household retinue: Constantia, Constantine’s half-sister. He had not seen her in years; his memories were of a quiet, watchful child living in the shadow of other, more favored imperial children. The woman who stood before him now was poised and intelligent, keenly aware that she was a living seal on a treaty between emperors. "Brother," she greeted him, her bow perfectly executed. "Constantia," Constantine replied, assessing her. "You understand what is being asked of you." "I understand my duty to our house, and to the peace of the Empire, Augustus," she said, her gaze steady. There was a strength in her he had not anticipated. She would not be a simple pawn.

The wedding of Licinius and Constantia was a grand affair, a public spectacle designed to showcase the new unity of the masters of Europe. Their negotiations concluded with a new map of the world drawn between them. The West, from Britannia to Rome, was Constantine’s. The provinces of Illyricum, Thrace, and Greece were Licinius’s. Maximinus Daia, in the East, was now their common, declared rival.

At the great feast celebrating the marriage, Constantine and Licinius stood together before the assembled dignitaries. They raised their golden goblets. The crowd roared its approval of the apparent unity between the two emperors. "To the health of the Empire!" Licinius’s voice boomed across the hall.

Constantine inclined his head, echoing the toast with a slight raise of his own cup. His single eye, however, remained cold as he watched his new ally. He saw not a partner, but a temporary necessity. This is not peace, he thought. It is merely a pause. An intermission before the final act. The contest for the world was not over. It had simply been postponed.