The official proclamation declared that Maximian Herculius, overcome with remorse for his treasonous actions, had taken his own life. Constantine discussed the fallout with Valerius in the days that followed. "The proclamation has been made, Augustus. The official story is accepted," the old guard reported. "At least publicly." "And in private?" Constantine asked, his single eye watching Valerius intently. "In private, those with sense understand that your rule is not to be challenged. They understand your justice is… absolute." "Good," Constantine replied, a hint of cold satisfaction in his voice. "Fear is a more reliable foundation than love."
He turned his attention back to the consolidation of his domain. He began the formation of a new elite imperial guard, the Scholae Palatinae. They were to be a mounted force, recruited from the best soldiers across his provinces, including loyal Germans, and their command structure would bypass the traditional military hierarchy, answering only to him. "The Praetorian Guard chose to make an emperor in Rome," he explained to a skeptical Valerius. "Their loyalties are to the city, to their own privileges, not to the stability of the Empire. I will have a guard whose loyalty is singular. To me."
It was during this period that Helena approached him again, not with tears, but with a petition. "Your father did not hunt them, Constantine," Helena said, her voice firm with a conviction he had not heard from her before. "He saw no threat in their worship." "My father saw them as politically irrelevant," Constantine replied flatly. "And are they still?" she pressed, her gaze unwavering. "They are numerous. Organized. They have endured the worst hatred Galerius could offer and they have not broken."
He considered her words from a purely strategic standpoint. An organized, resilient group, spread throughout the Empire, currently despised by his rivals. He issued a formal edict throughout Gaul, Britannia, and Hispania, reaffirming his father's policy of tolerance. Helena thanked him, her eyes bright with a gratitude he found tactically useful. He had secured the quiet loyalty of a growing sect for the mere cost of ink and parchment.
Valerius began to bring him bizarre and unsettling reports from the East. They spoke not of troop movements or political plots, but of the health of the Senior Augustus, Galerius. "The accounts are grotesque, Augustus," Valerius reported, his face pale. "They say a plague has taken root in the emperor's own body. A wasting sickness, a putrefaction that even the imperial physicians cannot halt."
Constantine listened to the lurid details with a cold, clinical interest. A weak emperor bred instability; a dying one, doubly so. Valerius returned later, holding a dispatch scroll with a broken seal from the East. He seemed to hesitate before speaking. "Augustus… another edict from Galerius. From his sickbed in Nicomedia." "Read it," Constantine said. Valerius's eyes scanned the text, a look of profound confusion on his face. He looked up, then back at the scroll as if to confirm the words were real. "He has… ended the Persecution. He grants the Christians the right to exist and rebuild their churches, asking only that they pray for him and for the state."
Galerius, the most savage persecutor, was now begging for the prayers of his victims. It was the desperate act of a man staring into the abyss. It was also a sign that he knew his end was near.
The final confirmation arrived a few weeks later, in the spring of 311. Galerius was dead.
The most powerful man in the Roman world, his most implacable enemy, was gone. Constantine stood alone before the great map in his study. He traced the borders of the fractured empire. Four emperors left, he thought. A fragile balance of predators. Galerius's death has not brought peace. It has simply unlocked the cages. His gaze swept across the territories held by his rivals: Licinius in Pannonia, Maximinus Daia in the East, and Maxentius in Italy. The path to sole rule, once a fantastical dream from another life, was no longer a distant abstraction. It was a stark, tangible possibility, laid out before him on the map, waiting for the one with the will, the strength, and the coldness of heart to claim it.