Dawn bled slowly across the Pannonian plain, unveiling the full immensity of Licinius's host. From the saddle of his white charger, Constantine studied the distant dark mass—legions drawn from the Danube garrisons, their bronze eagles glittering where the sun pierced the river mist. To the east a sullen marsh steamed, to the west a ragged shoulder of the Fruska Gora rose like a black wall. Between those anchors ran a single, brutal corridor of flat ground where Rome's divided empire would decide its master.
Within the canvas walls of the command tent the tension coiled tight enough to hum. Metellus, thin-faced and ink-stained, stabbed at hastily scratched chalk lines. "Both flanks barred, Augustus. The bog on his right will swallow horse and cart alike, the mountain track is no wider than two shields. He forces us straight on."
