The morning after the wedding feast, Constantine found his new wife waiting for him in the palace gardens. Fausta stood observing a mosaic of Orpheus charming the beasts, her expression thoughtful. The charade of the blushing bride was gone, replaced by the cool composure he had first noted.
"My father departed at dawn for Italy," she said, without turning. "He is pleased with his work here."
"He has secured a powerful ally and a peaceful northern frontier for his son," Constantine replied, stopping beside her. "He has reason to be pleased."
"He believes he has found a strong sword to wield against Galerius," she corrected, finally turning to face him. Her gaze was direct. "He does not yet realize that the hand holding the sword is not his own. You should not underestimate him, however. My father is a master of seeing opportunity where others see only chaos."
"A trait we may find we have in common," Constantine echoed her own words from the feast, allowing a rare, thin smile. It did not reach his remaining eye. "Your loyalty, Empress. Does it travel south with your father, or does it remain here in Trier with your husband?"
Fausta smiled back, a subtle, intelligent expression. "My loyalty, Augustus, is to the stability and future of the imperial house into which I have married. My ambition is for my husband to be the most powerful man in that house. I believe our interests are, for now, perfectly aligned."
For now. The unspoken words hung in the air between them. Constantine gave a curt nod. The parameters of their arrangement were understood. They were allies, bound by shared ambition, until the day their interests diverged. She was a dangerous, fascinating woman.
Maximian's departure did little to ease the new tensions within the palace. Fausta's retinue, composed of sophisticated, ambitious Romans from Italy, immediately clashed with the more austere, military-focused court Constantine had established. But the true fault line lay between Fausta and Helena.
Constantine watched as his mother, with her quiet dignity and growing circle of pious followers, and his wife, with her sharp intellect, political acumen, and adherence to the old gods, began to build their separate spheres of influence. Helena saw Fausta as a pagan usurper in her son's affections and court; Fausta saw Helena as a relic of a past her father had discarded. Constantine observed their friction with a cold detachment, intervening only to ensure it did not disrupt the functioning of his administration. The emotional currents of his household were simply another system to be managed, another set of variables in his grand calculation.
With his new title of Augustus formally sanctioned by Maximian, Constantine governed with increased confidence. He began a more systematic reform of the Gallic tax system, rooting out corrupt officials with a ruthlessness that terrified the provincial bureaucracy but earned him the quiet support of the common taxpayers. New coins began to issue from the Trier mint, now bearing the full, unambiguous inscription: IMP CONSTANTINUS AUG. It was a declaration to the world.
The world's response was not long in coming. Valerius brought him the intelligence from the East, gathered from spies in Galerius's court at Nicomedia. "As expected, Augustus, Galerius is incandescent with rage," Valerius reported. "He refuses to recognize your title. He considers your elevation by Maximian to be a second act of rebellion, compounding your first. He has formally declared both you and Maxentius to be public enemies."
"And what of his planned invasion of Italy?" Constantine asked.
"Delayed. Reports say he is shaken by the failure of Severus and the treachery of Maximian. He does not trust the loyalty of his own troops for such a campaign right now." Valerius paused. "Instead, there are whispers he intends to convene a great conference of the remaining Tetrarchs. He has summoned Diocletian himself from his retirement, and your father-in-law, Maximian. He seeks to restore order to the system by their authority."
Constantine processed this. A conference. A political solution. It was a sign of Galerius's weakness, his inability to impose his will through force alone. But it was also dangerous. Diocletian's authority was still immense. He seeks to undo my rise with words and legalisms because he cannot do it with swords, Constantine thought.
That evening, he stood with Fausta on a palace balcony overlooking the city. "So, the great Galerius seeks to talk his way back to power," Fausta remarked, having clearly been informed by her own agents. Her intelligence network, Constantine had already discovered, was swift and discreet. "He seeks to have my title stripped away by the man who created the system," Constantine replied, his gaze distant. "He wants Diocletian to declare me a usurper."
"And will he?" Fausta asked, her single question cutting to the heart of the matter. "Diocletian is a man of order and principle," Constantine said, his voice a low murmur. "He will not approve of a son inheriting his father's station. It violates the very foundation of his Tetrarchy." He turned his single eye to her, a glint of something hard and unyielding in its depths. "But Diocletian is retired. His principles are a memory. I am here, in Trier, with the legions of Gaul, Britannia, and Hispania at my back. Power, Empress, does not reside in the memories of old men. It resides where one has the will to seize it and the strength to hold it."
Fausta looked at her husband, at the scarred face, the single, burning eye, and the absolute certainty in his voice. She saw no trace of the boyish hero some in her father's court had imagined. She saw a predator, one who saw the entire Roman world as his hunting ground. And she smiled. Their interests were indeed aligned.