The preparations in Augusta Treverorum were swift and grand. Constantine understood the language of power, and this new alliance with Maximian required a spectacle to cement its significance in the minds of his soldiers, his subjects, and his rivals. The city, already energized by his victory on the Rhine, now buzzed with anticipation for the arrival of an emperor of the old guard and the wedding of their new one.
Maximian's retinue arrived with all the pomp the old emperor could muster, a calculated display of his restored prestige. But all eyes were on the veiled litter that carried his daughter, Fausta. When she was presented to the court in the main audience chamber, Constantine finally saw the woman who was to be his empress.
She was younger than him, perhaps sixteen, but she carried herself with a poise that belied her years. Constantine's memories recalled a clever, watchful girl; the woman before him was that, and more. Her features were fine, intelligent, and her dark eyes, when they met his, held no trace of fear. Instead, he saw a sharp, appraising curiosity as she took in his appearance – the raw scar, the empty socket, the cold intensity of his remaining eye. She was not intimidated. She was assessing a key piece on the board, just as he was assessing her.
"Lord Constantine," she said, her voice clear and melodic. "My father brings greetings and speaks of a new dawn for the West."
"A dawn of strength and stability, I trust, Lady Fausta," Constantine replied, his tone even. "Welcome to Trier." Their exchange was brief, formal, yet it was a clear parley between two keen intellects.
The reaction from his mother, however, was anything but formal. Helena confronted him that evening, her face a mask of pain and disbelief. "Her?" Helena whispered, her voice trembling with a long-buried hurt. "You would marry the daughter of the man for whose family your own father cast me aside? Have you forgotten what that name, that bloodline, represents?"
Constantine faced her, his expression unmoved. "I have forgotten nothing. I remember that my father's marriage to Theodora, Maximian's other daughter, secured his position as Caesar and peace in the West for a time. It was a political necessity. As is this."
"This is an alliance with serpents! Maximian is a man of boundless, faithless ambition!"
"And I am a man who will use any tool, any alliance, to secure what my father built and what I have won," Constantine stated, his voice dropping to a cold, final tone. "Maximian gives me legitimacy in the eyes of the old order. This marriage secures Italy as an ally, not an enemy, while Galerius remains a threat. Your personal feelings, Mother, however justified, are not a factor in the strategic defense of the Empire."
The chasm that opened between them in that moment was vast and cold. Helena recoiled as if struck, seeing in her son not the boy she had raised, but a hard, unyielding stranger. She left without another word.
The two ceremonies took place on consecutive days. First, in the grand forum of Trier, before the assembled legions and the city's dignitaries, Maximian, in full imperial purple, formally proclaimed Constantine as Augustus. He placed a new laurel wreath of gold upon Constantine's head, raising his hand and presenting his new co-emperor to the world. The cheers of the legions were thunderous. Constantine now had what no acclamation from his troops alone could give him: the sanction of one of Diocletian's original chosen.
The wedding that followed was a grand, traditional Roman affair, rich with pagan rites that made Helena, watching from a distance, clutch the small wooden cross she now wore beneath her robes. Fausta played the part of the dutiful bride perfectly, her composure absolute. Constantine played his own part, a solemn and powerful bridegroom.
At the wedding feast, amidst the wine and music, they sat side-by-side on the raised imperial couch. "You are not what I expected, Augustus," Fausta said quietly, her voice barely audible over the celebration. "And what did you expect?" Constantine asked, turning his single eye to her. "A boy. A fortunate barbarian general's son. I did not expect…" she paused, choosing her words with care, "…a mind so… still. So watchful. My father believes he has gained a strong, pliable ally. I am not so certain he is right about the second part."
A thin, almost imperceptible smile touched Constantine's lips. "My father-in-law is a man of great experience. I am sure his assessments are astute."
"He is a man who loves power more than anything," Fausta countered, her gaze direct. "A trait we may find we have in common. I hope we can be of… use… to one another, my lord husband."
Constantine looked at his new wife, this intelligent, ambitious girl who was now the Empress of the Gauls. She was a key to Italy, a tool of legitimacy, a potential spy, and, perhaps, a player in her own right. The intrigues of his court had just grown infinitely more complex. He had secured a vital alliance, but in doing so, he had brought the serpent's daughter into the heart of his own palace. The path to absolute power, he reflected, was paved with such dangerous bargains.