The column that pushed south from the Alpine foothills was a living weapon, lean as a drawn sword and honed to the point of necessity. Forty thousand men, stripped of every frill and fattening, advanced as a single iron will. Each cohort moved in seamless step with the next, drilled to lock shields, to pivot on command, to become the plates and bands of a cuirass meant for conquest. In the misty dawns of Lombardy, villagers emerged from doorways and watched the mailed ghosts appear on their roads. Their standards glimmered, gold and crimson, in the light of a sun that seemed to rise only for them. The stories spread ahead of the army, unbidden and unstoppable: Constantine's legions were coming, and nothing in Italy could stand before them.