Weeks turned into a month, then nearly two, since Constantine had seized Trier and the news of Maxentius's ambitions in Rome had arrived. Autumn was painting Gaul in hues of gold and russet, but Constantine found little time to appreciate the changing seasons. The imperial palace in Augusta Treverorum remained a hive of relentless activity as he worked to transform his audacious Gallic gamble into a solid foundation of power.
Envoys and military detachments had spread out from Trier like the threads of a vast web. Most of Gaul, from the Belgic provinces to the foothills of the Pyrenees, had bent the knee. The example of Samarobriva, and the swift, decisive fall of Trier's Praetorian Prefect, had proven a potent persuader. There were still pockets of hesitation, particularly in the more remote Aquitanian regions, but Constantine dispatched trusted officers with small, mobile forces to demonstrate the reach and resolve of his new administration. These were not missions of conquest, but of firm political re-alignment. Resistance was met not with immediate brutality, but with cold, unyielding pressure and the clear implication that defiance was futile and ultimately self-destructive.
His immediate attention had also turned to the vital Rhine frontier. Leaving Metellus in command of Trier's core garrison, Constantine himself, accompanied by Crocus and a strong contingent of his most loyal troops, made a swift tour of the major legionary fortresses along the river – Mogontiacum, Colonia Agrippinensis. He reviewed the legions, spoke to their commanders – men who had served his father with distinction – and ensured their defenses were strong, not just against the ever-present threat of Germanic incursions, but also as bastions of his own authority. He needed these veteran troops, their loyalty absolute. He left them with promises of continued imperial favor and the resources they needed, satisfied that the Rhine, for now, was secure under his eagles.
Back in Trier, Claudius Mamertinus, the acting prefect, toiled to enact Constantine's directives. Tax revenues were being reassessed and collected with a new efficiency, though Constantine had cautioned against undue harshness that might breed resentment. Supply lines for the army were paramount, ensuring his legions – both the Britannic troops who had crossed with him and the Gallic units now under his command – were well-fed and equipped. The machinery of Roman administration, vast and complex, was slowly but surely being turned to serve his will.
Valerius's agents, meanwhile, were proving their worth. Reports trickled in, piecing together the chaotic mosaic of the fracturing Empire: "Maxentius was indeed acclaimed Augustus in Rome by the Praetorian Guard in late October, Dominus," Valerius reported one grim evening, his face etched with the fatigue of managing his sprawling network. "The Senate, it is said, had little choice but to ratify the acclamation. He has seized the city mint and is striking coins in his own name and that of his father, Maximian, whom he has apparently proclaimed Augustus alongside himself."
Constantine absorbed this with a cold stillness. Maximian back in the purple, even if only as his son's figurehead, added another layer of complexity. The old emperor still commanded respect among many soldiers. "And Severus?" Constantine asked.
"As you predicted, Augustus. He has gathered his army at Mediolanum. Reports indicate he is preparing to march south on Rome to crush Maxentius. Galerius is said to be… apoplectic. He has ordered Severus to make an example of the usurper."
"An example," Constantine mused. "Galerius overestimates Severus's capabilities and underestimates the sentiment in Rome. Severus's army is strong, but an assault on Rome itself, if the city is united against him, will be a bloody affair." His mind calculated the distances, the probable troop strengths, the logistical nightmares Severus would face.
The time was ripe for his own next move. The delegation to Hispania, meticulously prepared by Mamertinus under Constantine's direction, was ready. It was led by a senior Gallic senator of Spanish extraction known for his diplomatic skills and loyalty to Constantius's memory, accompanied by a strong honor guard of cavalry. "Hispania was my father's heartland before even Gaul," Constantine briefed the senator, Lucius Valerius Corvus. "They revered him. Stress that continuity. Stress my commitment to their prosperity and security. The wealth of Spanish mines and the loyalty of its legions are vital to our cause. I expect their governors to swear allegiance without… undue persuasion." The unspoken implication was clear.
Corvus, an older man with shrewd eyes, bowed. "I understand, Augustus. I will carry your standard and your will to the Pillars of Hercules."
Constantine watched the delegation depart from Trier a few days later, a small but significant party heading south towards the Pyrenean passes. Securing Hispania would effectively consolidate the entirety of his father's former territories under his rule, creating a powerful, contiguous Western bloc. With that set in motion, he turned his full attention back to the unfolding drama in Italy. The clash between Severus and Maxentius was inevitable. He spread the map of Italia on his table, his finger tracing the roads leading to Rome. Valerius's agents were already in place, ready to report on every significant development.
The Roman world was tearing itself apart. And in that savage, internecine struggle, Constantine intended to be the one left standing, ready to pick up the pieces and forge them into something new, something stronger, under his own unyielding command. The game was afoot, and he held more cards than his rivals yet realized.