Dawn of a New Rome
Chapter 43: The Last Rival

Chapter 43: The Last Rival

In Mediolanum, the two masters of Europe took their leave of one another. "Brother," Licinius said, his grip firm on Constantine’s forearm. "May your lands know peace while I deal with the tyrant in the East." "And may victory grant you a swift return, Augustus," Constantine replied, his own tone perfectly even. Their eyes met, and in that shared gaze was the cold understanding of two predators who had just agreed on the boundaries of their hunting grounds. For now.

Constantine returned to Trier, not to rest on his new legitimacy, but to forge it into a weapon. The work was relentless. Back in Trier, Constantine’s focus on governance was absolute. He summoned Claudius Mamertinus, a stack of tax rolls from southern Gaul between them. Constantine’s finger tapped a name. "The magistrate Cassius. His reported revenues decline, while the district’s prosperity grows. He thinks me a fool." He took a stylus and drew a sharp line through the name. "Replace him. Send one of Valerius’s men to audit his entire estate. Let the others know that my treasury is not their private purse." Such was his rule: a hard, demanding efficiency that was slowly forging a new, brutal kind of stability across the West.

All the while, Valerius’s agents fed him a steady stream of intelligence from the East. The war between Licinius and Daia was brutal. Daia’s initial invasion had faltered. Licinius, though outnumbered, had proven himself to be the superior general. The decisive news came after the Battle of Tzirallum. "A complete victory for Licinius, Augustus," Valerius reported, laying the dispatch on Constantine’s table. "Daia’s army was shattered. He fled the field and escaped back to Asia Minor."

Constantine read the detailed report of the battle, analyzing his nominal ally’s tactics, his use of troops, his strengths, his weaknesses. Licinius was a formidable, conventional commander. Solid, experienced, but not, Constantine noted, particularly innovative.

The final report came months later. Maximinus Daia, a fugitive in his own territory, his armies deserting him, had taken ill and died a painful death in Tarsus. Some called it poison; others, the judgment of the Christian God he had so viciously persecuted. Constantine cared little for the cause. The result was all that mattered.

He stood before the great map in his study. In 306, there had been a college of emperors. Now, only two remained. He, Constantine, undisputed master of the West, from the sands of Africa to the cold walls of Britannia. And Licinius, undisputed master of the East, from the Danube frontier to the deserts of Egypt. The Edict of Milan, the marriage of Constantia, the alliance forged to confront a common enemy – all had served their purpose perfectly. Their common enemy was gone.

The world was now divided neatly in two. He looked at the line that separated their domains, a jagged scar running through the heart of the Roman world. There was no room for two such men, two such ambitions. The peace they had brokered was a lie, an intermission that had just concluded. Fausta entered the study, her gaze falling upon the map and the utter stillness of her husband. "So, only one rival remains," she said, her voice a quiet statement of fact.

Constantine did not turn. His single eye traced the borders of Licinius’s vast domain. "There has only ever been one," he replied, his voice a low murmur, cold as the marble beneath his feet. The final war was no longer a question of if, but when. The long game for sole mastery of the Roman world was about to enter its final, bloody stage.

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