The city of Verona presented a far harder problem than Turin. It was an ancient fortress, nestled in a sharp bend of the river Athesis, its high walls and towers commanding the surrounding plains. Ruricius Pompeianus, the Praetorian Prefect, had garrisoned it with the best of his remaining forces and camped a second, larger army outside its walls, creating a formidable double-layered defense. A conventional siege would be a bloody, months-long affair, a war of attrition that Constantine, deep in hostile territory, could not afford to win.
From a low hill overlooking the city, Constantine surveyed the enemy dispositions with his commanders. The setting sun cast long shadows, glinting off the standards of the Maxentian legions camped in the fields below. "He uses the city as his shield and the river as his moat," Metellus observed, his face grim. "His field army is strong, and if we attack it, the garrison from the city can sally out and strike our rear." "And if we invest the city, his field army can harass our siege lines at will," Constantine finished, his single eye narrowed in concentration. "He thinks he has created an unsolvable problem."
That night, in his command tent, Constantine laid out his solution. It was not a plan any conventional Roman general would have contemplated. It was audacious, bordering on reckless. "We will ignore the city," he stated simply, his finger tracing a line on the map that looped far around Verona. "We will leave a small force here to make them think we are preparing for a long siege. The main body of our army will march tonight, under cover of darkness. We will cross the river further upstream and fall upon Pompeianus's field army at dawn, from the one direction he does not expect: his rear."
The tent was silent for a moment as the commanders absorbed the sheer risk. "It is a mad gamble, Augustus," Metellus said, his voice respectful but filled with doubt. "It is a calculated risk," Constantine countered, his voice like flint. "Pompeianus is arrogant. He believes his position is unassailable. He will not be expecting an attack from the east. We will use his pride against him."
The march began after midnight. There were no torches. The only sounds were the soft tramp of thousands of sandals on damp earth and the occasional, quickly stifled clink of armor. Constantine rode in the midst of them, a silent figure in the darkness, feeling the immense, disciplined tension of his army moving as one. They forded the Athesis at a shallow point miles upstream, the icy water chilling them to the bone, and reformed on the eastern bank.
Just before dawn, they were in position. Below them, the Maxentian camp was stirring, cookfires beginning to glow. Constantine gave the signal. A single horn blew, a shattering blast that ripped through the morning quiet. Then came the roar of forty thousand throats as his legions surged down the slope. The battle was a maelstrom of confusion and brutal slaughter. The Maxentian soldiers, caught completely by surprise, stumbled from their tents half-armed. Screams of panic replaced the morning calm. There was no time to form lines, no time for commands. Constantine's cohorts, in perfect battle order, slammed into the disorganized camp, their shields a grinding wall, their spears a forest of death.
Constantine himself led the decisive charge. At the head of his Scholae Palatinae, he was a terrifying apparition in the dim light, his one-eyed visage a mask of cold fury. They smashed into the enemy's disorganized center, their heavy lances breaking through the desperate attempts to form a resistance.
From the walls of Verona, Ruricius Pompeianus watched the unfolding disaster in disbelief. The army he had believed safe, his primary strength, was being systematically annihilated. Men were fleeing in a panicked rout, cut down by Constantine's light cavalry and Crocus's roaring Alemanni who swept the flanks. He was not yet defeated. In a final, desperate gamble, Pompeianus made his choice. "Open the gates!" he roared to his officers. "We will strike them now, while they are lost in looting and triumph! We will cut the head off the serpent!"
The city gates were thrown open, and a new, fresh army poured out – a massive sortie led by Pompeianus himself, hoping to catch Constantine's forces disorganized from their victory. But Constantine was not disorganized. Anticipating such a move, he had held Metellus and his veteran cohorts in reserve for this very purpose. "Metellus," Constantine's voice was calm amidst the din. "Your turn. Hold the line." The reserves met Pompeianus's charge head-on. The fighting at the gates became a furious, churning vortex of men and steel, the most brutal of the day. Pompeianus, fighting at the front like a common soldier, hacked his way deep into the fray. It was there, amidst the chaos, that a spear from a stoic legionary of the VI Victrix found a gap in his armor. The Praetorian Prefect fell, his death a final, crushing blow to the morale of his men. The sortie wavered, then collapsed into a frantic retreat back towards the city gates.
As the last of the sortie broke and fled back towards the city, a great roar went up from Constantine's lines. There was no hesitation. The legions surged forward as one, a tide of steel that poured through the open gates before the panicked defenders could close them. The fighting within the streets was brief and brutal. By midday, the last pockets of resistance were silenced. Verona was his.
Constantine stood on the captured walls later, looking down at the fields littered with the cost of his victory. Below, his legionaries, weary and blood-spattered, began the grim task of clearing the dead. As they worked, their gazes would occasionally turn up towards him, and in their eyes, he saw not just loyalty, but an unshakable, almost fanatical belief. He had led them through an impossible fight and delivered an absolute victory. The road south, towards Rome itself, was now almost entirely open.