Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 38 (Historical Fiction SI)

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HistoryMarche - 2 Hour Documentary - The Battle of Rome

Despite his vows, Otto eventually had to pull back. 

The reason for doing so was due to faulty intelligence at the time. Word had just finally reached him that another Roman army had landed in Italy, which meant extra reinforcements for Constantine the Younger. His marshals and commanders wanted to take a punitive force south to ambush the second Roman army but Otto did not want to stretch his forces by the time Constantine would arrive at the city. And thus, the Frankish-German army pulled back towards Rome, linking up with the token force he had set up there. Otto then sent for word towards his northern Italian vassals to reinforce him. And thus, he waited, fortifying his position for Constantine to arrive. 

For his part, Constantine reeled from the death of Damian Dalassenos. An experienced and aggressive commander, the loss of Damian deprived the Western Army of its much needed aggression. His replacement, Manuel Erotikos Komnenos, was a crafty Anatolian commander. Rising to fame from protecting Nikea during the revolt of Bardas Skleros via fooling the rebel general of its extensive grain stores. He further rose into prominence by entering Constantine's service. What he lacked in aggression, he made up for with suicidal courage, as shall be seen later on in the battle. 

Returning to Constantine, the Domestikos wished to march towards Rome and defeat Otto. But there were complications in the form of Gregory Taronites and Nikephoros Xiphias. Now, Xiphias had been trying to convince Taronites of the merits in subjugating the yet undeclared Lombard lord, Guaimar III. Taronites, wishing to return to Constantine as soon as possible, refused at every turn. But Xiphias would have his way no matter what. After setting out from Bari, Xiphias lead Taronites through paths that edged them closer to Guaimar's territory. Harmless by all accounts but to the Lombard Lord, it seemed as if that the Roman army was coming for him. Therefore, Guaimar sent messengers to the Roman army, wishing to ask them of their intentions. 

By all accounts, it would have been run-of-the-mill diplomacy. But Xiphias did not want it to be run of the mill.

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The envoy saluted, a closed fist to his chest. The Lombard envoys found the Romans just after midday. The sun burned, and birds chirped. Taronites straightened on his saddle as Xiphias watched them approach coolly. 

"Greetings, my lords," the envoy spoke in near flawless Greek, a thin Lombard with a neatly trimmed beard. "I am Benedict, representing my Prince, Guaimar. He sends his regards and requests to know the intentions of your army. Your approach toward our frontier has caused some concern in Salerno."

Taronites blinked. "Tell your prince that our march is part of our rejoining the Domestikos. No designs are held against Salerno, nor against your lord, for as long as no designs are raised against us."

Before Benedict could reply, Xiphias commented. "Your Prince grows anxious quickly."

The envoy hesitated. "My lord…the proximity of your forces naturally raises questions-"

"Questions about Roman movements," Xiphias said sharply, leaning forward just so the sunlight caught the line of his scowl, "on land that is ours? Who is your Prince to demand explanations from those who have returned to their ancient homeland?" 

Benedict shifted as Taronites glared at Xiphias. The Lombard envoy continued. "My prince only wishes to avoid misunderstandings. If your movements pose no threat, then peace remains unbroken."

"Peace is unbroken because we have chosen not to break it," Xiphias replied, voice smooth but chilled. "Your lord should remember that distinction."

The Lombard party stirred. Taronites cleared his throat sharply, cutting through the growing tension. "Enough," he said, his tone firm, eyes fixed on Xiphias. "We are not here to provoke hostilities, nor to engage in petty disputes." Turning to Benedict, he softened his voice. "Return to your lord. Tell him our intention." 

Benedict's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Thank you, Strategos," he said, bowing his head. "I will relay your words to Prince Guaimar. He desires nothing more than to ensure the safety of his people and the stability of our lands."

Xiphias, however, was not finished. "Safety and stability," he said, his voice dripping with disdain, "are best ensured by recognizing the authority of the Emperor. Your prince would do well to remember that his lands exist by our tolerance, not by his strength."

The Lombard envoy stiffened, his composure faltering. "My lord," Benedict replied carefully, "Salerno has always respected the Emperor. But we are also a proud and independent people. Respect is a two-way road."

Taronites sighed audibly, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Enough of this," he said, his voice carrying the weight of command. "We are not here to debate politics or test the limits of fragile alliances. Let us part in peace as neighbors should."

Benedict nodded, though his gaze lingered warily on Xiphias. "As you say, my lord. I will report your assurances to Prince Guaimar. May peace prevail." He saluted again, fist to chest, before turning his horse. The Lombard party began to ride off, though the tension in their movements betrayed their unease.

As they rode off, Taronites turned to Xiphias and frowned. "What the hell was that?" 

Xiphias met his glare with a cool, unbothered expression. "Merely reminding the barbarians of their place, Strategos. There is no harm in checking the arrogance of those who squat on Roman land." 

"There is when we are three days behind schedule," Taronites snapped. "We need to link up with Constantine, not start a border incident because you cannot hold your tongue."

Xiphias shrugged, turning his gaze toward the dust trail where the envoys had vanished. "If a border incident frightens them into obedience, our position improves."

"Our position worsens," Taronites countered immediately. "If Guaimar panics, he mobilizes. If he mobilizes, we have to respond. If we have to respond, we are delayed. And if we are delayed, Constantine faces Otto alone. Is any of that unclear?"

Xiphias tried to speak but Taronites cut him off. "Strategos, you hold your tongue. I do not care how you feel about Lombards or how your pride twitches when a petty prince asks a question. Hold yourself together. Am I understood?" 

Xiphias smiled. "Perfectly." 

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Xiphias, however, would not hold his tongue. Despite Taronites' warnings, he seemed intent on testing the limits of Lombard patience. As the Roman column resumed its march, Xiphias repeatedly ordered his men to veer closer to Lombard territory, setting up temporary camps just within sight of Salerno's borders. His scouts, under direct orders, rode boldly into Lombard-controlled villages, their presence a deliberate show of Roman authority.

Guaimar, for his part, struggled to maintain his composure. The reports from his borderlands grew more troubling by the day. His advisors pressed him to act, but Guaimar hesitated. He knew that any move against the Romans could spiral into a full-scale war, one that Salerno could not hope to win.

The breaking point came when a Roman patrol detained a group of Lombard merchants traveling to Salerno. Claiming they were carrying "contraband," Xiphias' men confiscated their goods and sent the merchants back empty-handed. The humiliation was too great to bear. Guaimar, at last, sent word to his vassals, calling them to muster their forces.

And just like that, the Roman Empire was at war with the Principality of Salerno. Marshalling his men, Guaimar attacked the Romans, to the delight of Xiphias. Meeting them in battle, it was a slaughter and a disaster for the Lombards, who were routed, and retreated to Salerno. 

Constantine, for his part, discovered this on the cusp of marching north, when Taronites sent him a message regarding the battle, as well as an account of Xiphias's actions. His reaction was to be expected.

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The letter dropped from Constantine's hand, fluttering to the floor like a discarded piece of refuse. For a moment, the Domestikos said nothing, his face reddening, his jaw tight. The messenger standing before him looked as though he wished to vanish, his head bowed low, eyes fixed on the floor.

"WHO TOLD HIM TO DO THAT?!" Constantine roared, his voice echoing through the command tent. His fists slammed against the table, sending maps and scrolls scattering to the floor. "BY WHAT RIGHT DOES XIPHIAS THINK HE HAS TO START THIS?" 

The officers in the tent exchanged nervous glances, none daring to speak. He paced furiously, his boots pounding against the floor, his hands clenching and unclenching as if he would strangle Xiphias himself if the man had been present. 

"ROME IS A DAYS MARCH AWAY! ONE DAY! ONE DAAAAAY!" Constantine screamed. "OTTO IS BACKED INTO A FUCKING CORNER AND WE JUST LOST THE FUCKING INITIATIVE!" 

Makedons had their own ways of expressing rage. Basil for example held enormous patience. But when it was broken, it manifested as a cool, collected fire. Constantine the Elder was quick to anger, but his anger also vanished quickly as well. The Younger however held both. For as Constantine felt the anger in his body flow like water pouring forth from a broken dam, his focus returned. 

"What do we lose out of this?" He growled, glancing to his generals. 

"Initiative, as you said," John Ammiropoulos supplied, standing up from his seat. "We cannot pressure the Franks. We will not have force of arms as well with the lack of numbers." 

"Your authority as well, Domestikos," Manuel Komnenos supplied as well. "Yours and Gregory Taronites." 

"Trust, perhaps," Prince Stjepan added his thoughts. "Xiphias will make us hated by the Lombards."

A growl of frustration left his lips. "Suggestions?" 

The room was silent for a moment as the generals considered their next actions. Finally, John Ammiropoulos stepped forward. "First, Domestikos, we must contain this situation before it escalates further. Order the army to halt and Xiphias apprehended for his treachery. Compensation should be offered to the Lombards both as a weregild and a bribe." 

Constantine growled. "Money which was supposed to be bribes for the Romans. Now this fucking idiot has to..." He felt his head pulse with frustration before he took in a nice long breath. "It will not make do to just send a messenger. We will have to pivot south. But..." 

"But?" 

​Constantine glanced at Komnenos. "We cannot let the Franks find out about this insubordination or they will descend upon us like bears to honey. Komnenos, it is time to prove your mettle." 

​Manuel straightened. "What do you ask of me, Purpleborn?" 

"I want you to take some men and obfuscate Otto. I want him to chase after phantoms and ghosts. Buy us time until we return from the South. Do whatever you have to. Do you understand?" Constantine asked. 

​Manuel paused, then nodded. "Yes, Caesar." 

Constantine turned to Stjepan. "I want you to work with Manuel, Prince Stjepan. You have excellent skirmishers. Make the Franks fear you." 

The Prince of Croatia nodded. "Otto will curse the day he set foot in Italy, Caesar."

Constantine offered a curt nod of approval before turning to the Catapan of Italy. "John," Constantine said sharply, "Prepare the army to march south immediately. I will not allow Xiphias to disgrace us further. He has risked this campaign with his stunt."

John Ammiropoulos saluted, his fist striking his chest with a resounding thud. "It will be done, Domestikos."

"Good," Constantine growled, his tone filled with venom. "Make sure the men know that this is not a retreat. We are pivoting south to restore order and enforce discipline. I want them ready to move by dawn."

"Yes, Domestikos," John said, turning on his heel and leaving the tent without another word.

Constantine's gaze then fell on the messenger, who had remained frozen in place, still visibly shaken by the Domestikos' earlier outburst. The man flinched slightly as Constantine approached him, but he gathered what little courage he could muster and bowed low.

"You," Constantine said, pointing a finger at him. "Return south immediately. Find Gregory Taronites and deliver this message: Xiphias is to be arrested immediately. He is to be stripped of his command, his men disarmed, and his camp secured. Taronites is to hold him under guard until I arrive."

The messenger nodded quickly. "Y-yes, Domestikos! At once!"

"And make certain Taronites understands this is not a suggestion," Constantine added, his tone icy. "If Xiphias resists, he is to be subdued by any means necessary. I will not tolerate further insubordination."

The rider saluted, his hand trembling slightly as he brought it to his chest. "It will be done, Domestikos." Without waiting for further dismissal, the messenger turned and bolted from the tent, eager to escape the suffocating air of Constantine's wrath.

For a moment, the Domestikos stood in silence, his fists clenched at his sides. His generals had left to carry out their orders, the tent quiet except for the faint rustling of maps and the distant sounds of the Roman camp. He had thought that Xiphias wouldn't be so brain dead but he clearly underestimated the depths of his brazeness. In the original history, Xiphias had attempted to rebel against Basil after feeling snubbed, the Emperor had not taken him to the campaign in Georgia. It was also one of the most sabotaging rebel attempts in Roman history as he had murdered his partner in crime, Nikephoros Phokas Barytrachelos. Unironically, the son of Bardas Phokas, the same Phokas that tried to seize the purple from Basil. The Younger Phokas was more established, more popular than Xiphias and the murder lost Xiphias support and popularity. In shame, XIphias surrendered, got his head shaved in shame, and lived the rest of his life in exile as a monk. 

Constantine growled. 

Fucking Romans.

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Declared a criminal and a rebel by the Domestikos, Xiphias tried to rally the army to join him in rebellion, citing ingratitude for had they not protected Constantine's rear from a potential Lombard backstab? The army however, and Taronites, understood that they had been duped, and promptly arrested Xiphias and his supporters on the spot. 

Constantine's flight south was quick, and he was able to get to Taronites in a fortnight..

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The cell stank of shame and hay. 

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Constantine demanded. 

Xiphias sat chained to a post, wrists raw, his tunic torn open, his left eye swollen into a purple knot that half-closed his vision. He looked up only when Constantine's boots struck the boards with deliberate force. At his Miroslav glared, adding a shadow to Constantine's wrathful one. Outside the cell, Gregory Taronites watched, arms crossed. 

"I was thinking of Rome," he rasped. "Guiamar was a threat, Caesar. He could have turned on us." 

"And how exactly did you know that? Did he tell you of this?" Constantine asked sarcastically. He shook his head and slammed his boot into Xiphias's stomach. The officer groaned, the air leaving his lungs. Constantine knelt down, and glared at him. "Don't you dare dress this in patriotism, Xiphias! Do you know what your stunt cost us? Initiative! Otto was right there! And now we just lost days of set-up!" 

Xiphias's remaining good eye burned with wounded pride, his words wheezing. "I saved your flank."

"You endangered my campaign," Constantine fired back. "You forced Taronites to waste time. And now..." 

He took a breath, and closed his eyes. "This is pointless," he said flatly. "I will not spend anymore time telling you that you are an idiot for history will do that for me." 

Xiphias swallowed, voice barely steady. "You'll execute me then. Make an example."

Constantine stared at him with a calm, absolute certainty that chilled the air more than shouting ever could.

"Oh, Xiphias," he said quietly. "If I wanted an example, your head would already be nailed above the camp gates."

Xiphias blinked, unsure whether to feel hope or dread. 

"No, what is going to happen now is that you are going home," Constantine clicked his tongue. "Your career is over, Xiphias." 

Xiphias's breaths grew ragged, his shoulders trembling as fury overtook him. "I was only doing what was prudent!" he snarled, his voice cracking. 

Constantine's expression didn't change. He stared down at Xiphias, his voice cold and sharp as a blade. "No one asked you to do that," he said evenly. "No one needed you to think. Your job was to follow orders. If you can't do that, then soldiering is not for you."

Xiphias strained against his chains, his wrists raw and bleeding. "Then give me at least the dignity of death!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the damp walls. "I've earned that much, haven't I?"

Constantine shook his head. "No. Your life as a joke is punishment enough. Let everyone see what happens to a man who thinks he knows better than his commander."

Xiphias's eye blazed with fury, his voice breaking with rage and disbelief. "Ungrateful bastard!" he bellowed. "I bled for you! I bled for Rome! You'd be nothing without men like me!" 

Constantine didn't flinch. Without another word, he turned and walked out, Miroslav trailing after him. Gregory Taronites met him, his expression flat as he glanced at Xiphias writhing in his chains. Constantine met his gaze with a tired look. "With me" he said curtly, brushing past Taronites without another glance. 

The Armenian Prince followed. 

The camp burned brightly, soldiers saluting them as they passed by. "What happened, Taronites?" Constantine asked tiredly. 

"A grasping fool," the Armenian replied. "I should have known he had designs when he opened his mouth." 

"And why didn't you stop him?" Constantine asked, eyebrow raised.

"His mouth moved faster than my fist," Taronites sighed. "I am sorry, Caesar." 

Constantine paused, closing his eyes. They stopped walking, and Taronites felt apprehension in his stomach. Then, he kept on walking. "Don't sweat it. I know what the game is like. You were quick enough to put him in chains so that is good." 

​They turned into a corner and went towards the command tent. There, John waited. The Catapan of Italy stood, greeting the two. "How did it go?" 

"I am sending him home," Constantine said flatly, finding a chair to collapse on. 

"Is that wise? You'd have him resent you for the rest of his life," John pointed out. 

"No one will follow an embarrassment," Constantine shook his head. "We had no great casualties out of this so that helped as well. No, now, our problem is one angry Lombard to our south. His forces may be defeated but he can frustrate us in our backlines." 

He reached for a cup, and saw it was empty. Taronites made to serve him wine but Constantine did it himself. Pouring, he met them both, but mostly John. "You're the Catapan of Italy. You know him most. What would he want as compensation?" 

John crossed his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on Constantine as he considered the question. "Guiamar is like most Lombard princes, proud. That's his first weakness and his first strength. He'll want to save face before his people. If we humiliate him, he'll dig in, even if it destroys him. But if we offer him something that keeps his pride intact, he might stand down."

Constantine drank deeply from the cup, the wine staining his lips a dark red. He set it down with a dull thud, leaning back in his chair. "What kind of 'something' are we talking about? Land? Gold? A marriage alliance?"

John nodded. "Land, perhaps. Or a formal recognition of his authority over a few disputed towns though that will iritate other Lombard lords who claim ownership of those towns. He's already lost the field. Give him a reason to walk away from this with his head held high, and he'll take it. Press him too hard, though, and he'll turn his losses into a vendetta."

Constantine exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the table. "So I'm to bribe him for not being a thorn in my side. Hm. How distasteful." He glanced at Taronites, who had taken a seat across from him. "What do you think?"

Taronites considered the question. "Guiamar's pride can be bought, but it's a temporary solution. Give him what he wants, and he'll be satisfied for a season until he decides he deserves more. We did destroy his army so he will feel like he is owed it."

Constantine growled in frustration. This had become way harder than it had to be. Now the Lombard could claim injury and wail to anyone that would be willing to hear it. Fucking Xiphias.

"You beat his army totally so he is not in any position to make demands," Constantine said to Taronites. "I think he's smart enough to know he will have to accept what we can offer him." 

"The weregild," John reminded him. 

"Would that be enough?" Constantine asked.

"To satisfy his honour, perhaps. And to satisfy the families of the slain. Perhaps an apology would do with that weregild." John said. 

"Or handing them Xiphias," Taronites added. 

Constantine considered it.

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A/N: Fucking lmao

A few years after the campaign in Bulgaria, Xiphias would become a well respected strategos of the Anatolic Theme. But somewhere around 1021-1022 AD, he would pull a 180°, and start to turn against the emperor, after he apparently was not allowed to accompany him in his war against Georgia. Xiphias allied with the magnate Nikephoros Phokas Barytrachelos, son of the legendary Bardas Phokas (who had himself fought for and against three different rebellions against two different Roman emperors). Together, they planned to kill Basil, and would probably be a force to be reckoned with, if it wasn't for Xiphias' massive ego and jealousy, leading him to betray and assassinate the far more popular, with the people and army, Phokas, and lose pretty much all of the rebellion's support.

After this fiasco, he quickly surrendered to Basil, who, probably more disappointed than angry to see his old comrade and strategos betray him, spared his life, had him shaved and banished to the island of Antigone, to live as a monk.