Dawn after Cibalae smelled of iron and rot. Pale light crept over the flattened grassland and laid bare the victory's true price: a carpet of twisted bodies, shattered shields, snapped pila glistening with frost and blood. When the camp trumpets sounded, they called not to glory but to the weary business of survival.
Constantine strode between rows of canvas dressing-stations, cuirass unbuckled, helm beneath his arm. Inside, physicians worked knee-deep in ruin—resetting tibias with wooden splints, sewing abdominal rents with coarse gut, whispering final prayers over men who bled too quickly for wine or comfort. Veterans from the Sixth Victrix saluted as he passed; Gauls who had followed him since Lugdunum tried—and failed—to rise from their pallets. He returned each gesture with a curt nod, hiding the chill that gnawed behind his ribs. Yesterday's frenzy had been a soldier's storm; today was the reckoning of an emperor who had wagered human lives like coins.
