The world was a different shape with only one eye. The lack of depth perception was a minor inconvenience, one Constantine's mind was already compensating for with slight, constant movements of his head. The true change was the psychological impact, both on himself and on those who looked upon him. The right side of his face was now a landscape of scarred, stitched flesh, the empty socket a dark testament to the price of victory. The boy who had left Trier was gone, replaced by a man marked by war. He felt the gazes of his own soldiers linger on him, a new mixture of awe and fear. He did not discourage it. Fear was a useful tool.
The army's return to Augusta Treverorum was a carefully orchestrated triumph. The victorious legions marched through the city gates, their standards held high, followed by carts laden with captured Frankish arms and treasures, and long lines of sullen, shackled prisoners. The citizens of Trier, who had lived under the constant, low-grade threat of barbarian raids for generations, cheered with genuine fervor.
But all eyes were on their Augustus. Constantine rode his warhorse, his posture erect, his single eye scanning the crowds with an unnerving intensity. He wore a simple military cloak, no grand imperial purple, but the fresh, raw scar and the empty socket were more intimidating than any diadem. They saw not a boy playing emperor, but a warrior who had bled for Rome on the far side of the Rhine and returned victorious.
Helena was waiting for him in the courtyard of the palace. Her hand flew to her mouth when she saw his face, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. When he dismounted, she rushed to him, her face a mask of anguish. "My son," she whispered, her hands hovering near his ruined eye, afraid to touch. "What have they done to you?"
"They have given me a victory, Mother," Constantine replied, his voice flat, unmoved by her distress. He gently but firmly set her hands aside. "And they have paid the price for their insolence." He felt a phantom of Constantine's youthful need for his mother's comfort, a fleeting warmth, and crushed it. Such feelings were a liability.
His next public decree shocked the more civilized members of his court, including the stoic Claudius Mamertinus. Constantine announced celebratory games to be held in Trier's amphitheater to honor the victory. The main event would not be gladiators or chariot races. It would be the public execution of the captured Frankish kings, Ascarius and Merogaisus.
The amphitheater was packed. From his imperial box, Constantine looked down upon the roaring crowd, their faces hungry for the brutal spectacle. He felt nothing but a cold detachment as he gave the signal. The Frankish kings, proud and defiant to the last, were herded into the arena. They met their end not with the clean death of a sword, but torn apart by starved bears and massive hounds released from the dark tunnels beneath the sand.
The crowd roared its approval, a savage, bloodthirsty sound. They saw a strong emperor, a vengeful emperor, one who visited Roman justice upon barbarian enemies in the most terrifying manner possible. Constantine watched it all, his single eye missing nothing, gauging the mob's reaction, noting the fear on the faces of the foreign envoys in the stands. This wasn't merely punishment; it was statecraft, a calculated act of terror designed to send a clear message to every tribe along the Rhine frontier.
Later, Crocus came to him. The Alemannic king, who had watched the games with grim satisfaction, gave a nod of deep respect. "You have a hard heart, Augustus. It is good. Your enemies will know you are not a man to be trifled with."
"They will know that the price of attacking Roman lands is absolute," Constantine corrected. "That is the only message that matters."
The spectacle had cemented his authority. The plunder from the campaign had been distributed, further enriching his soldiers and his treasury. The Rhine frontier was cowed into a terrified silence. He had achieved everything he set out to do.
It was in the quiet of his study that evening, the echoes of the arena's roars finally faded, that Valerius brought him the news he had been anticipating. The intelligence from Italy was no longer a trickle of rumor, but a torrent of fact. "Augustus," Valerius said, his voice low and serious. "Galerius has made his move. He has crossed the Alps. A massive army is marching on Italy to depose Maxentius."
Constantine turned to the great map on the wall. The two largest military forces in the Roman world, the Eastern legions of Galerius and the Italian defenders of Maxentius, were now set on a collision course. The heart of the empire was about to become a battlefield. He traced a line with his finger from the Alps down towards Rome. While his rivals were locked in a death struggle, he, the master of the West, sat in his secure capital, his victorious army at his back, his treasury full. He had used the time they had wasted to forge a weapon. Now, he would wait and watch for the perfect moment to use it.