Chapter 39 - The River of Kings

The dawn of 28 October broke red and windless, a hush so deep it seemed Rome itself held its breath. Two armies drew up upon the flat north bank of the Tiber, dew fog curling around greaves and hooves. Maxentius arrayed his multitude with theatrical precision: Praetorians in polished purple scale, city cohorts ranked six deep, Numidian horse glittering on the wings. Behind them the venerable eagle standards dipped in the still air, and beyond those, like a silent threat, the river slid past, confining every man to a single narrow exit—the stone Milvian arch, and the makeshift pontoon lashed beside it during the night. Maxentius had chosen the ground exactly to fit the prophecy he cherished: here the enemy of the Romans would perish, and he believed that enemy wore Constantine's cloak.