The brittle accord forged in 316 had eroded to dust. By the first blossom of 324 AD, Constantine's answer to Licinius's latest provocations gathered outside Thessalonica: a moving city of one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand soldiers, sixty thousand animals, and enough wagons to choke every road from Gaul to Thrace. The emperor rode its avenues of mud and charcoal like a one-eyed god surveying a creation shaped to his will. He noted every slack shield strap, every limp standard, every cart bogged to the axle, and issued corrections with a clipped word or a glacial stare. Officers felt the judgement and hurried to match the impossible bar he set; enlisted men whispered that the August One could see through leather, iron, and excuses alike.