Chapter 43 - The Causeways of Cibalae

Constantine rose long before the eastern sky grew pale. The canvas walls of his tent were damp with the last breath of night, the oil lamp guttered low beside a neat stack of orders. He buckled his sword in silence, took up the heavy purple cloak, and stepped outside. The predawn hush over the Pannonian plain was broken only by the distant pulse of legionary drums, the occasional call of a sentry, the subtle shift of iron and leather as the camp began to stir. Far in the east, beyond the misted vineyards and muddy river flats, the outline of distant watchfires flickered-tracing the length of the field where his fate would soon be decided.