Morning mist clung to the Tiber's banks like funeral gauze when fishermen's hooks snagged imperial purple. Soldiers waded in, heaving the bloated corpse onto the mud. The water had scoured Maxentius of majesty— swollen features, eyes staring with a dull, glazed wonder at the sky he would never rule. Constantine strode down the embankment, cloak brushing puddles. He studied the face of his rival for three long heartbeats, unreadable as stone, then lifted one gauntleted hand.
"Sever the head," he said.
Steel flashed; the order was carried out with brutal economy. A centurion raised the grisly trophy atop a spearpoint. Crows scattered before the sudden, wet gleam of bone. Thus began Constantine's entry into Rome.
