Constantine entered Byzantium at the head of a single cohort of his Scholae Palatinae, polished mail and scarlet crests gleaming beneath a slate-grey sky. No banners fluttered, no drums beat; the only sound was the iron rhythm of hooves on flagstones. Citizens watched from shuttered windows, expecting pillage and fire, yet the soldiers rode with lances upright, swords sheathed, eyes fixed ahead. In the forum a knot of trembling magistrates awaited him, bearing the city's keys on a silver dish. When the emperor dismounted, they prostrated themselves so swiftly the dish clattered on the marble.
"The treasury and the granaries are yours, lord," their spokesman whispered.
