The proclamation spread through Gaul like winter fog, settling in every forum: Maximian Herculius, stricken with remorse for his rebellion against Constantinus Augustus, has taken his own life. Traders repeated it with solemn nods, magistrates carved it onto waxed tablets, and soldiers accepted it without question—at least while the sun was up. In shadowed taverns a quieter consensus formed: Constantine's reach was longer than any exile's hope, his justice a blade that neither kinship nor past glory could blunt. Valerius delivered that unspoken verdict three days after the burial, hands clasped behind his back. "Publicly, they mourn an old emperor. Privately, they understand your rule is not to be tested."
Constantine allowed himself the faintest incline of the head. "Fear," he said, returning his gaze to the map of the western provinces, "is a more reliable foundation than love." His stylus tapped Trier, then traced the roads south to Arelate. "And foundations must be reinforced."
