The winter rains had scarcely lifted from Arelate when Bassianus arrived beneath Constantine's banners. He rode through the gates with an escort of senators' sons, scarlet boots flashing, convinced the emperor had summoned him to confirm fresh honours. The port buzzed with activity—hulls for a new Classis Germanica sliding into the Rhône, armourers hammering out mail in rhythm with legionary trumpets—but the bustle did little to settle the flutter in the newly made Caesar's chest. Power, he had discovered, was an addictive spice; every breath tasted of it now.
He was ushered directly to the praetorium's audience hall. Expecting ceremony, he found severity. The chamber was stripped of courtiers; only Constantine waited beneath a single oil lamp, Valerius lurking at his shoulder, and twelve scholares lining the walls like columns hewn from basalt. Bassianus hesitated, feeling the temperature of the room drop despite the southern sun outside.
