Snow still clung to the rooftops of Augusta Treverorum when Constantine rode through the city gates at the head of his escort. The cheers that greeted him were sincere—he had brought Italy's grain and Egypt's spice back to the Moselle markets—but he scarcely acknowledged them. An emperor could not afford the narcotic of applause. Within the hour he was seated in his private office above the basilica, the river's grey ribbon visible through arched windows, parchment already spread across the table.
Claudius Mamertinus appeared, bowing over an armful of provincial ledgers. Constantine tapped a stylus against one roll. "Bracara Augusta reports flood damage," he said, "yet its wine exports rise. Explain the miracle."
Mamertinus swallowed. "Local treasurer Cassius claims—"
