When Constantine rode through the gates of Nicomedia in the close of 324, he entered not as a liberator, nor as a stranger, but as the living edge of inevitability. The city received him in brittle silence. No resistance, only anticipation that quivered in every colonnade and alleyway. The air itself seemed to hover, awaiting his verdict.
A delegation of Licinius's highest magistrates greeted him at the ancient marble gate. Their robes were spotless, but their faces were gray. As they bowed, one elderly official pressed the ceremonial city key into Constantine's palm, his head almost brushing the ground. "The East awaits your command, Augustus," he whispered, voice nearly breaking. "We are leaderless. The administration is adrift without a firm hand."
Constantine's only answer was a thin smile. He let his gaze linger along the line of trembling functionaries, noting who flinched, who met his eye, who dared to look away. Fear was a lever. Inertia was another. Both would serve him.
