The late winter mists of 321 AD drifted over Trier's ramparts as Constantine dismissed the final clerks of the day. Scrolls lay in neat rows across the cedar table, each bearing testament to the order he had imposed upon the West. Outside, hammers rang from half-built forums and the glow of kiln fires painted the Moselle red; within, silence reigned except for the scratch of Claudius Mamertinus's stylus.
"The revenues from the Gallic weaving guilds are up nine percent since you standardized the import duties on Egyptian flax," the Praetorian Prefect reported, tapping a ledger with ink-stained fingers. "Hispania's silver yields have risen by a fifth; the new aqueducts have purged the old flood tunnels of silt."
Constantine glanced over the columns, nodding once. "Efficiency breeds stability—but only if the populace can feel it. Are the roads secure?"
