The year 307 AD was a year of consolidation. While Italy burned with the fires of civil war, Constantine's domain—Britannia, Gaul, and Hispania—was an island of disciplined, enforced peace. He poured the newly secured revenues from his provinces not into lavish comforts, but into strengthening his realm. Roads were repaired, frontier forts reinforced, and the armories of Trier glowed day and night, forging the swords and shields for an army that grew more loyal and formidable with each passing month. His rule was hard, efficient, and, for the war-weary people of Gaul, blessedly stable.
He was overseeing the reinforcement of Trier's city walls, his single eye critically assessing the new stonework, when Valerius brought him the news he had been anticipating for months. The intelligence from Italy was no longer a trickle; Galerius's campaign had reached its denouement. "It was a complete failure, Augustus," Valerius reported, his voice low but unable to hide a hint of satisfaction. "Galerius reached Rome, but his army was beset by low morale and the same desertions that plagued Severus. He could not take the city. He has been forced into a humiliating retreat back across the Alps."
Constantine listened, his expression impassive, but inside, his mind alight with the strategic implications. Galerius, the senior Augustus, the architect of the Great Persecution, the man who saw him as nothing more than a rebel upstart, had been utterly humbled. The Tetrarchy was not just broken; it was a shattered wreck. The West was now, de facto, split between himself and Maxentius in Italy. An unstable, two-way divide. It was a situation that could not last.
The proof of this new reality arrived not long after, in the form of an astonishingly high-level delegation from Italy. It was not led by an envoy, but by Maximian Herculius himself. The old emperor, restored to the purple by his son, traveled to Trier with a small but elite retinue, seeking a parley. The meeting took place in the main audience chamber, the same room where Constantine had broken Junius Tiberianus. Now, he faced a different kind of man entirely. Maximian was old, his hair grey, but his body was still powerful, his eyes holding the familiar, predatory glint of a man who had wielded supreme power and craved its return. He was a political animal, a survivor, and, as Constantine's memories confirmed, utterly treacherous.
"Constantinus," Maximian began, foregoing the full title in a subtle test of dominance, his voice a gravelly rumble. "You have carved out a strong domain for yourself. Your father would be proud. But he is gone. And the legitimacy he gave you died with him. In the eyes of Galerius, and the laws of the Empire, you are a usurper."
Constantine remained silent, letting the old man play his hand. His single eye, cold and analytical, never left Maximian's face.
"My son, Maxentius, rules Rome," Maximian continued, gesturing grandly as if all of Italy's recent success were his own. "Together, we have broken Galerius's man, Severus. We have repelled Galerius himself. Italy is secure. But an alliance between us, between the rulers of Italy and the master of Gaul, would create a power in the West that no one, not even Galerius with all his Eastern hordes, could break."
He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "I am still an Augustus of Diocletian's own making. My authority is recognized by many. I will formally bestow upon you the title of Augustus, making you not a rebel, but a legitimate colleague. We will cement this alliance with blood. My daughter, Fausta, is of age. She is intelligent, beautiful, and worthy of an Emperor. You will marry her."
The offer was laid bare: full legitimacy and a powerful dynastic marriage, in exchange for an alliance. Constantine's mind raced. He remembered Fausta from his youth at court; a sharp-witted girl, already aware of her own value. The alliance was a pact with a serpent, he knew. Maximian was using him to legitimize his own family's usurpation and to create a bulwark against Galerius. But the benefits… the benefits were immense. To be named Augustus by one of the original Tetrarchs would silence most questions about his right to rule. It would transform him from a provincial claimant into a recognized Emperor on the world stage.
He thought of the long game. This alliance would be temporary, a flag of convenience. Maximian and Maxentius were his rivals as much as Galerius was. But for now, their interests aligned against a common foe. "An alliance is a powerful thing, Maximian," Constantine said finally, his voice even. "And the hand of an Emperor's daughter is a worthy prize." He stood, descending from the dais to stand before the old emperor, a meeting of two generations of ambition. "You offer legitimacy and a bride. In return, you gain my neutrality in your war with Galerius, and the security of your northern frontier. A fair trade."
Maximian's lips stretched into a triumphant smile. He had not expected such a swift, pragmatic acceptance. "Then we are agreed, Augustus?" the old man asked, granting the title now that his goal was achieved.
Constantine gave a slow, deliberate nod. "We are agreed. Send for your daughter. I will make her my Empress."
The die was cast. He would legitimize his rule, secure his flank, and bring a potential viper into his own household, all in one calculated move. The intricate, deadly dance for control of the Roman world had just entered a new, more complex phase.