The year 308 AD was a year of construction. While the rest of the Roman world convulsed with the struggles of his rivals, Constantine laid the foundations of his new order in stone and mortar. He initiated massive building projects in Trier, commissioning new baths, a larger forum, and reinforcing the city walls to a degree that made them all but impregnable. These projects served a dual purpose: they provided work for the populace and stood as undeniable symbols of his power and permanence, stamping his identity onto the capital of his Gallic domain. He governed with a steady, iron hand, and the provinces under his rule, from the cold mists of Britannia to the warm plains of Hispania, experienced a stability that was becoming a distant memory elsewhere.
He was reviewing architectural plans for a new basilica, its scale meant to dwarf any other in the north, when Valerius brought him the long-awaited news from the East. The great conference convened by Galerius had concluded. "It was at Carnuntum, on the Danube frontier," Valerius began, his tone sober. "Diocletian himself was coaxed from his retirement to preside."
Constantine did not look up from the plans, though his attention was now absolute. "A gathering of ghosts. What did they decree?"
"Maximian, your father-in-law, has been forced to abdicate a second time. He is once again a private citizen. Maxentius, his son, has been formally declared an enemy of the state." Valerius paused, choosing his next words carefully. "And you, Augustus… the conference has seen fit to grant you the title of Filius Augustorum, Son of the Augusti, recognizing you officially as Caesar of the West."
Constantine finally looked up, his single eye glinting with a cold, sardonic light. "Caesar," he repeated, the word tasting like ash. "So they demote me. They offer me a title that I have already surpassed, a rank that my legions and my victories have made irrelevant. A scrap from their table."
"There is more," Valerius continued, his face grim. "The position of Augustus of the West, left vacant by the death of Severus, has been filled." "By whom?"
"A man named Licinius. An old comrade-in-arms of Galerius, from Dacia. A tough, experienced soldier. Diocletian and Galerius have named him Augustus."
Licinius. Constantine committed the name to memory. A new player, granted the legitimacy of the old order, a direct, legal rival for the very lands Constantine now held. "So the old men have shuffled their titles and drawn new lines on the map," Constantine murmured, turning back to his architectural plans. "It is meaningless. Their conference has changed nothing. Power is not granted in debate; it is held by the sword. And my swords are here, in Gaul."
He sought out Fausta later, finding her in her apartments. He told her the news of her father's second humiliation, watching her face for any reaction. She received it with the same cool composure she had shown since her arrival. "My father is a creature of immense pride," she said, her voice even. "To be stripped of the purple once was a wound. To have it torn from him a second time will be unbearable to him. He will not accept it."
"And you, Fausta?" Constantine pressed. "Your father is now a private citizen. Your brother is an enemy of the state. Your husband has been demoted. Where does that leave your ambitions?"
She met his gaze, and for the first time, he saw a flicker of genuine, hard anger in her eyes. "It leaves them where they have always been, Augustus," she replied, emphasizing the title Galerius had sought to deny him. "Tied to you. My father and brother grasp at the past. You are building the future. Diocletian's system is dead. My loyalty is to the man who can build its replacement." In that moment, Constantine knew her alignment was, for now, absolute. Her ambition required a winner, and she had placed her wager on him.
He acted with swift contempt for Carnuntum's decrees. He allowed his soldiers to continue to style him as Augustus. The new coins from the Trier mint continued to bear the same title, a direct defiance of the conference's decision. He sent a message to the new Augustus, Licinius, a missive of curt, professional neutrality that acknowledged his elevation but made no concessions, offering no hint of submission.
The true consequence of the conference arrived a few weeks later, on a cold, rainy afternoon. A messenger galloped into Trier, announcing the approach of a small, bedraggled party seeking refuge. It was led by Maximian Herculius. The old emperor, twice Augustus, twice stripped of his power, had not retired gracefully. Humiliated and furious, he had fled from Galerius's sphere of influence. And he had come to the one place left for him: the court of his son-in-law in Gaul.
Constantine stood on the palace steps, flanked by his guards, as the small party approached. He saw his father-in-law, no longer in imperial purple but in the dark, plain robes of a traveler, his face a thunderous mask of resentment and wounded pride. Fausta stood beside Constantine, her expression unreadable. "The ghost has come home to haunt us, my lord," she murmured.
Constantine watched the old man approach. He was not a ghost. Ghosts were powerless echoes of the past. Maximian, he knew, was far more dangerous. He was a serpent, stripped of its skin but not its fangs, now invited into the heart of his home.