Dawn of a New Rome
Chapter 46: The Battle of Cibalae

Chapter 46: The Battle of Cibalae

The pale light of dawn crept over the Pannonian plain, revealing the enemy. From the low hill where Constantine sat on his horse, the army of Licinius was a dark, sprawling beast, its lines of infantry held firm between the grey mist of a marsh on one side and the dark slopes of a mountain on the other. Tens of thousands of men, the veteran legions of the Danube, stood waiting. Their standards, topped with the eagles of old Rome, formed a forest of sharp, metallic points against the rising sun.

Facing them, Constantine’s army of the West arrayed itself for battle, the strange Chi-Rho symbol on their shields a stark contrast to the traditional emblems of their opponents. In his command tent, the mood was tense. "He has chosen his ground perfectly, Augustus," Metellus said, gesturing to a hastily drawn map. "The marsh protects his right flank, the mountain his left. He forces us into a direct, frontal assault. He intends to bleed us white."

"He intends to fight a conventional battle," Constantine corrected, his single eye scanning the enemy lines. "He believes his Danubian infantry is superior to our own in a grinding match. He may be right."

Crocus spat on the ground. "Then we do not give him the fight he wants. Let my horsemen sweep wide, find a way around the mountain..."

"There is no way around," Constantine cut him off, his voice flat. "This battle will be won here," he said, gesturing to the grim expanse between the two armies. "It will be won in the center, with blood and iron. He has built a wall of shields and spears. We will find the crack in it, or we will make one." He turned to his commanders. "Prepare the lines. We advance at my signal."

The trumpets sounded, a brazen call to war that echoed across the plain. The legions of the West moved forward as one, a great, disciplined river of men, their shields held high. The battle began not with a wild charge, but with a horrifying, grinding crash as the two shield walls met. The sound was a monstrous percussion of wood on wood, steel on steel, punctuated by the first screams of the dying.

The fighting was a nightmare of close-quarters butchery. This was not the chaotic rout of Maxentius’s forces; this was a contest between two professional, equally matched armies. Men locked their shields, stabbing with their short swords over the top, grunting with the immense physical effort of holding the line against the pressure of thousands. The ground became a slick, muddy morass of blood and offal. For hours, the battle raged, a bloody stalemate. Constantine’s veterans fought with skill and courage, but Licinius’s Danubian legions refused to break. They were like a granite cliff against which his army crashed in wave after futile wave.

From his command post, Constantine watched, his face an impassive mask, but his mind was a whirlwind of calculations. He saw a cohort from the VI Victrix recoil, leaving a momentary sag in the line before their centurion, roaring, forced them back into the fray. He saw Licinius’s officers, calm and professional, moving behind their own lines, reinforcing weak points, directing reserves. His rival was a competent, formidable general. Frustration, a cold and unfamiliar emotion, began to prick at the edges of his concentration. The sun passed its zenith, beating down on the exhausted, blood-spattered soldiers. He was losing men, good men, for no discernible gain.

Then, late in the afternoon, as the shadows began to lengthen, he saw it. On the far right of Licinius’s center, a legion had just repelled a fierce assault. In the process of reforming, their line was momentarily disordered, a subtle misalignment at the seam where it joined the neighboring unit. Their local commander was repositioning his reserves to plug a different gap, leaving this single point vulnerable for a few precious moments. It was the fissure he had been waiting for all day.

"My horse," he commanded, his voice suddenly sharp with purpose.

"Augustus, it is madness!" Metellus protested, his face pale. "The center is a meat grinder! Let me lead the charge!"

"No," Constantine said, swinging himself into the saddle, his one eye blazing with a terrifying light. "Their line is tired. It will not break for a tribune. It must be broken by an Emperor."

He galloped to the front of his Scholae Palatinae, his personal weapon held in reserve. He raised the gladius his father had given him. "You are my household guard! My Scholae! The finest cavalry in the world!" he roared, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "The dominion of the world rests on the points of your lances! With me!"

He did not wait for a cheer. He spurred his horse forward, a one-eyed specter of vengeance, aimed directly at the heart of the enemy army. His five regiments of elite heavy cavalry thundered after him, a perfectly timed avalanche of steel.

The charge was an act of supreme, calculated audacity. The exhausted Danubian legionaries in the target sector saw them coming, a sudden storm of horse and armor appearing on their flank. They tried to shift their shield wall, but they were exhausted, their movements sluggish. The wedge of the Scholae Palatinae smashed into their line with irresistible force. Shields splintered, bodies were thrown aside, and the formation that had held firm for eight hours dissolved into screaming panic. Constantine was in their midst, a whirlwind of destruction, his sword rising and falling, his presence an incarnation of divine, unstoppable wrath.

The center of Licinius’s army was broken. The rupture spread outwards along the line as Constantine’s infantry surged forward into the gap. Licinius, seeing that the battle was lost, proved his mettle. He did not panic. With a skill that Constantine had to grudgingly respect, he organized a desperate but disciplined fighting withdrawal, forming a new rearguard from his own household troops and sacrificing them to slow Constantine’s advance. Under the cover of the approaching dusk, he managed to pull the shattered remnants of his army away from the field.

As night fell, the field of Cibalae belonged to Constantine. He was the victor. But the cost was staggering. The ground was carpeted with the bodies of his own men alongside those of the enemy. He looked out across the ghastly scene, the groans of the wounded filling the air. He had won, but Licinius, though beaten and bloodied, had escaped with a still-dangerous army. This war was not over. It had just cost him thousands of his best soldiers to win the opening round.