The death of Galerius was not a cause for celebration in Trier; it was a cause for intense, cold calculation. The news had settled over the Western provinces, and an uneasy quiet descended as the world waited to see how the remaining pieces on the board would move. In the imperial palace, Constantine spent his days poring over maps and dispatches, his mind sifting through the new realities of power.
Valerius's reports from the East soon confirmed his predictions. "Maximinus Daia moved first, Augustus," he said, tracing a line across a map of Asia Minor. "He has seized all of Galerius's Asian provinces, right up to the Bosphorus. Licinius has solidified his hold on the Balkan provinces in Europe. They have divided the spoils of the dead Augustus between them, and now they watch each other across the strait like suspicious wolves."
Constantine absorbed this, nodding slowly. "So the East now has its own troubles. They will be too consumed with each other to concern themselves with Gaul for the time being. Good." It bought him more time, the one resource he valued above all others.
With the eastern frontier of his domain temporarily stabilized by the new rivalry between Licinius and Daia, he turned his full attention inward, and south. His kingdom-building accelerated. He poured funds into the Gallic armories, demanding increased production of shields, helmets, and, most importantly, the spatha, the long sword his legions favored. He inspected the new recruits for his Scholae Palatinae, watching them train with a critical eye. They were his creation, an elite force of cavalry whose loyalty would be absolute, a counterweight to any lingering political sentiments within the regular legions.
His primary rival was now clear, his enemy defined. Not Licinius, far to the east, but Maxentius, his own brother-in-law, the self-proclaimed master of Italy and Africa. "He strengthens Rome's walls," Valerius reported. "And he styles himself the 'Conservator of the City,' the champion of the Roman people against the taxes of Galerius." "He champions them with the grain shipments from Africa and the wealth he loots from Italian nobles," Constantine countered, his voice laced with contempt. He remembered Maxentius from his youth: a man of appetites, not strategy; of arrogance, not true ambition. "He is playing the populist to secure his nest."
The religious dimension of their rivalry also began to sharpen. Reports arrived that Maximinus Daia, in his new eastern territories, had swiftly revoked Galerius's dying edict of tolerance and begun a fresh, vicious persecution of the Christians. "A fool," Constantine remarked to Mamertinus. "He weakens his own provinces by alienating a large and resilient part of his population. An enemy you cannot destroy, you must find a way to use." He made sure his own edict of tolerance was widely publicized. The contrast was stark: in Daia's East, persecution; in Constantine's West, security. He knew Christian communities existed throughout the Empire, their communication networks surprisingly efficient. Word would spread.
Fausta, ever the astute political observer, saw the growing rivalry with her brother in the same cold, practical terms. "Maxentius was always my father's least favorite," she commented one evening, as she and Constantine played a quiet game of latrunculi, a Roman board game of strategy. "My father saw his passions, his lack of discipline. He rules from his gut, not his mind. That will be his undoing." "What are his weaknesses?" Constantine asked, moving a piece on the board. "He believes himself loved. He believes the walls of Rome make him invincible. And he underestimates his enemies, especially a younger brother-in-law with a single eye, ruling from what he considers the barbarian frontier." She looked up from the board, her gaze meeting his. "He will not see you coming until your legions are at the gates."
Constantine accepted her assessment. It aligned with his own. The invasion of Italy was not yet possible; his army, though strong, needed more training, more cohesion, and the logistics for such a campaign were immense. But the cold war could begin now.
He summoned the master of his Trier mint. "You will strike a new series of aurei," he commanded. "The reverse will bear the image of Sol Invictus, the Unconquered Sun, with the legend SOLI INVICTO COMITI – 'To the Unconquered Sun, my companion.' My profile on the obverse will be clear, strong. I want these coins to be of the highest purity. They are to be used to pay the legions and our largest suppliers. Let them circulate. Let the whole empire see the prosperity and divine favor our domain enjoys."
It was a brilliant stroke of propaganda. The cult of Sol Invictus was popular with the army, and the image of a strong, divinely favored emperor with a stable, pure gold currency would stand in stark contrast to Maxentius's chaotic rule in Rome. He also issued orders for a significant expansion of the road network through the Cottian Alps, the most direct route from Gaul to Italy. The official reason was to improve trade and communication. The true reason was known only to him and his most trusted commanders: he was paving his own invasion route.
He stood before the great map, a new gold aureus resting in his palm. The sun god on its reverse seemed to gleam in the lamplight. Maxentius could have Rome, for now. He could posture and preen behind its ancient walls. Constantine would bide his time. He would build his army, consolidate his power, and undermine his rival with gold and propaganda. He would let the serpent in Italy grow fat and complacent. And when the time was right, he would march south and cut off its head.