Chapter 36 - The River’s Fissure

Constantine entered Augusta Taurinorum not like a marauder splashing blood on marble, but like a landlord crossing a threshold he had never truly surrendered. Trumpets blew a single, clipped blast; then the legions filed through the western gate in utter silence. Citizens watched, tense as bowstrings, waiting for the sack that had so often followed a Roman victory. It never came. Centurions posted tablets at crossroads forbidding pillage on pain of death, and grain stores were sealed under imperial sigil. When the first household realized its wine amphorae were untouched, a hush of bewilderment slid through the city like a turning wind.