Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 37 (Historical Fiction SI)

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Cries of pain hovered in the air.

Otto walked amongst his men, his boots crunching over blood-soaked earth. The stench of charred flesh and burned grain clung to the wind, mingling with the acrid tang of smoke. A soldier, his face pale and twisted in agony, reached out weakly as Otto passed. His leg was gone, hastily bandaged with strips of blood-soaked cloth. Otto paused, his gauntleted hand curling into a fist at his side. He wanted to offer comfort, to say something that would ease the man's pain, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he simply nodded, his eyes locking with the soldier's for a brief moment before moving on.

He stopped in front of a wagon where a boy lay trembling. His chest was wrapped in bandages, but the blood seeping through told Otto this one would not last the night. A grizzled sergeant knelt beside the boy, murmuring soft words of comfort. Otto's jaw tightened. 

Greek Fire. He...he should have known. His mother had told him about it, the secretive substance which Rome used to burn away the Arabs besieging Constantinople. Otto's lips pressed into a thin line. Were they not all Christians? Politics aside, were they not brothers in Christ? Yet Constantine had chosen to wield this weapon, this abomination, as if they were heathens or heretics.

A piercing scream shattered his thoughts. Otto turned sharply toward the sound.

A soldier was thrashing on a table as surgeons held him down, their faces grim. "No, no! I will be fine! Don't take it! Please!" the man cried, his voice breaking with desperation. Otto's gaze fell to the man's leg or what was left of it. The limb was blackened and charred, little more than a husk. The surgeons knew it was beyond saving, but the soldier, overcome with terror, still clung to the hope that it could be spared.

"Hold him steady!" one of the surgeons barked. Another man brought out a saw, its blade glinting in the dim light.

At his side, his bodyguard moved to lower the tent flaps but Otto stopped him. His bodyguard paused, then nodded quietly as Otto watched. The Kaiser forced himself to watch. Not out of cruelty, but to remind himself. 

The saw bit into flesh, and the soldier's screams turned to raw, animalistic howls. Otto's fists clenched tighter, his nails digging into the leather of his gloves. His guards turned green, or glanced away. This was not skilful warfare, but butchery. Otto's gut told him to look away, shut out the sound. 

But he didn't. For his heart burned with rage.

Finally, it was over. And the soldier passed out from sheer shock. Otto exhaled slowly, his breath fogging in the air. He turned and resumed his march through the camp, eyeing each sorrowful glance, each pained cry. 

​It was only thanks to him that he was able to turn his army's route into a retreat. When there was a fire, animals ran for what they saw was an opening. He recognized his men had turned to animals seeing the Roman fire. Thus, he became an opening for them to rally with his own personal banner, something which they had been following since his rise to Emperor. 

​His path found itself to his tent. And there, he glanced up. "Leave me," he commanded.

His bodyguards exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed, nodding silently as they left him alone in the dim tent. For a moment, Otto stood motionless. The weight of the crown in his hand seemed heavier than ever. He took it off his head, and turned it over slowly, its golden surface catching the faint flicker of candlelight. The symbol of his power, his empire, his divine right to rule. 

What did it mean now after today?

Nothing.

Wordlessly, he placed the crown on the table before him. Then, he wept.

He cried and cried, falling to his knees before the table, one hand still clutching his crown. The cries of the wounded outside, the memory of men burning alive, the failure of today, it pressed into him. He was the Emperor of the Romans, the Germans, and the Italians. King of Germany and of Italy, heir to Karolus Magnus, and countless other Lords and Chiefs before him. But he was just so powerless. No matter what he did, the best plans...it all failed. He felt no elation, no divine favour, only utter suffocation. 

And so he cried. He cried until there were no tears left, only shallow, stifled breaths.

The sudden rustle of the tent flaps startled him. Alarmed, he hastily wiped at his face, trying to compose himself. But when he looked up, it was only Margrave Eckard. The Margrave still wore his chainmail, stained with grime and blood, his face etched with exhaustion from the day's horrors.

"Your Majesty?" Eckard's voice was low. 

"I...I said I wished to be alone," Otto muttered, his voice hoarse and uneven.

"I've just returned with the others," Eckard replied, his tone steady but soft. "I thought it best to report to you at once."

Otto straightened a little, forcing himself to meet Eckard's gaze. "The knights. How many?" he asked, the words sharp and strained, as though they were all he had strength to say.

Eckard hesitated, then answered quietly, "I managed to save most of our cavalry. Many of the men rallied when they saw your banner retreat."

Otto nodded faintly, relief flickering for a moment before it was consumed by the crushing weight of guilt. He slumped onto a chair, his gaze falling to the ground. "Eckard..." he began, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Your Majesty?" Eckard stepped closer.

"I..." Otto's voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands. "I failed," he whispered, his words trembling with despair. "I failed them all. My men... Everything I planned...it all crumbled. And now look at them. Burned, maimed, slaughtered." He shook his head, his thick with bitterness. "What kind of Emperor am I? What kind of man lets this happen?"

"You do not control what happens next or what your foes have," Eckard argued. "You did your best."

Otto snapped, looking up, his eyes red and wide. "My best wasn't enough! I did this to them!" he pointed outside. "I lead them here! Me!" 

Eckard's eyes widened, shock on his face. Otto glanced back down, unable to look the Margrave in his eyes. His ears heard Eckard move but he did not look. He sat back down, hopeless. The sound of pouring water entered his senses. The Margrave neared, carrying a small wooden cup filled with what he saw was water. He held it out for him. "Drink, my Kaiser," Eckard offered. 

Otto hesitated, then took the cup with trembling hands. He drank slowly, the cool water soothing his dry throat but doing little to ease the ache in his chest. When he finished, he set the cup down and looked at Eckard, his eyes red and weary. "You didn't have to do that," he muttered.

Eckard shrugged as he then took another chair and sat next to his Emperor. "I didn't," Eckard admitted. "But I am German. Frustrating my chief is in my blood." 

Otto smiled slightly at that. That was true enough. "But now, Your Majesty, you need to listen to me," Eckard said.

Otto sighed, rubbing his temples. "What could you possibly say that I haven't already told myself?"

"That none of this is your fault," Eckard said firmly.

Otto looked up, his brow furrowing. "How can you say that? I led us here. I led us into the fire."

"No one could have known Constantine would use Greek Fire," Eckard countered. "No one. Not you, nor me. No one will blame you for this."

Otto shook his head, his voice heavy with self-recrimination. "Blameless? Look around, Eckard. My men are burned, maimed, broken. What does it matter if I couldn't have known? I still failed them."

Eckard leaned forward, his tone growing softer but no less resolute. "Failure is a part of life, Your Majesty. It doesn't make you weak. It doesn't make you less of a leader. Even the greatest men fail. Your father-"

Otto interrupted, his head snapping up. "Leave my father out of this."

"No," Eckard said firmly, his gaze unwavering. "Because he failed too. Do you remember the Battle of Stilo? How your father's forces were crushed by the Saracens? How members of the chancellery and clergy were slaughtered alongside his knights? It was a defeat so catastrophic that it haunted him for the rest of his life. And yet, he endured. He learned. He fought again."

The Battle of Stilo. A utter humiliating defeat suffered by his father, Otto the Second. It was so devastating that the politics of Southern Italy changed. So many knights, nobles, clergy, and notables died to the Saracens that Imperial governance suffered. The Elbe Slavs revolted and the Emperor was forced to hide his identity just to escape, gaining passage on a Roman ship that had been in the area. 

Otto's shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. "Maybe it's this cursed south," he muttered. "Every time we march here, it brings nothing but ruin."

Eckard allowed himself a small smile. "Perhaps. But in this battle, Your Majesty, you saved your men. The injuries are grievous, yes, but this was no complete rout. You rallied them when they broke. You turned chaos into a retreat. And because of that, your army still stands. They can still fight another day. And they can still avenge this loss."

Otto stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. "Avenge this loss," he murmured, almost to himself. He looked down at his hands again, flexing them as if testing their strength. "Do you really think we can?"

"I know we can," Eckard said confidently. "Because they believe in you. They still have hope. You could have run away but you did not. You took the Imperial Banner and rallied the rout to you. Men who have lost hope run away, never to be seen again. But as far as I saw coming here, many are still around and coming back." 

Otto snorted. "They still believe in a dreamer?" 

"No, a leader," Eckard corrected. "Your Majesty, you could have fled. No one would have blamed you. Any other man would have turned and ridden for safety. But you didn't. You stayed with your men. You took the Imperial Banner and rode into the chaos, not away from it. That's why they still believe in you."

Otto looked up at him, his brows furrowing. "I stayed because I had no choice. If I had fled, the army would have been annihilated."

Eckard gave a slight nod. "Exactly. You stayed because you understood what needed to be done. That is what makes you a leader, Your Majesty. When others falter, when others give in to fear, you rose above it."

Otto's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to dismiss Eckard's words as mere attempts to soothe his wounded pride. But deep down, he knew there was truth in them. He had rallied his men, stayed with them, because he did not want them to suffer alone. He went silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the golden crown that sat on the table. Its surface seemed heavier than ever, the flickering light reflecting the weight of the burden it symbolized. He reached out and ran his fingers over its intricate carvings, his touch hesitant.

"Do you think my father felt this way?" Otto asked suddenly, his voice strained. "After Stilo? Do you think he sat there, wondering if he was still worthy of ruling? If he had failed so completely that there was nothing left for him to give?"

Eckard paused, considering his words carefully. "I think," he began slowly, "your father was a man like any other. He felt the sting of failure. He felt the weight of defeat. But what set him apart is that he didn't let it break him. He kept moving forward, even when it felt impossible. And so will you, Your Majesty."

Otto's lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded faintly. "Perhaps," he said softly. "Perhaps you're right."

Eckard scoffed. "I know I'm right. And if you still doubt yourself, look to your men. They believe in you. They see their emperor not as a man who failed, but as one who stood with them in their darkest hour. That is a leader worth following, Your Majesty. That is a leader worth fighting for."

Look to your men.

"Perhaps I shall," he whispered. Rising to his feet, Otto steadied himself with a deep breath. His legs felt heavy as he walked toward the tent flaps, each step carrying the weight of his fears. They will hate me, he thought. They will despise me for leading them into this disaster. For the burns, the screams, the dead. For the horror of it all.

As he pushed open the flaps and stepped out into the cold night air, he braced himself for the scorn, the anger, the bitterness he was sure would come.

But it didn't.

Instead of hatred, Otto found men sitting by dim fires, their faces tired but alert. Many were still bandaged, their burns and wounds hastily treated, but their eyes shone with a sharp intensity. Whispers died down as they noticed him, and slowly, heads turned to look at their emperor. There was no sneering, no muttering under breath, no glares of contempt.

No, he found...

Focus?

[SPOILER="OST: The Fifth Crusade"][URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:QYdji6sSF0c"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYdji6sSF0c[/URL][/SPOILER]

"Your Majesty," one soldier called out, his voice rough but clear. "What's next?"

Another stood, his arm in a sling but his expression fierce. "When do we avenge this? When do we make them pay?"

Otto blinked, taken aback. Their eyes burned with resolve, their jaws set with determination. These were not broken men. These were soldiers who had endured hell and were ready to march back into it, not in retreat, but with vengeance in their hearts.

"They burned us like animals, Your Majesty!" another voice cried out, this one filled with raw anger. "What did we do to deserve that? We fought honestly! Without trickery, without guile! And they...they burned us!"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the camp, growing louder as more men stood, their voices rising with righteous fury.

In that moment, Otto understood. The fire that had burned his men alive had not crushed their spirits but had forged them into something harder, sharper.

The tent flaps opened behind him. He turned around to see Eckard approaching, the crown cradled in one hand and the sword in the other. The Margrave's face was stern but determined, his eyes locking with Otto's as if to say, This is your moment, Your Majesty.

Eckard stopped a few paces away, kneeling on one knee and holding out the crown and sword. Otto hesitated, his gaze falling to the crown and sword. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, and for a brief second, he felt the doubt creeping back in. But then he looked beyond Eckard, to the faces of his men, bruised, bloodied, but unbroken.

Take it, they all but said.

He reached out and took the sword first, its familiar weight grounding him. Then, with his other hand, he took the crown. The cold metal sent a shiver through him, but as he lifted it, he felt something stir within him: determination. He turned back to his men, raising the sword high, the blade glinting in the firelight.

"Brothers!" Otto's voice rang out, carrying over the camp like the toll of a bell. The murmurs quieted instantly, every eye fixed on him. He stepped forward, standing tall despite the exhaustion that gripped his body. "Today, we have suffered. We have bled. We have endured horrors no man should ever endure."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, meeting the eyes of as many men as he could. "The Greeks sought to break us. To humiliate us. To burn us alive, like cowards, because they fear us. They fear our strength. They fear our faith. They fear the justice we bring, for they know they have none!"

A low rumble of agreement rippled through the men, growing louder with each passing moment. Otto's voice rose. "They turn to tricks, to foul devices, because they know they cannot match us! They fear our strength! Our truth! An army that marches with God need not fear the enemy, and the Greeks march without Him!" 

The rumble grew into a roar, men pounding their weapons against shields, their voices rising in unison. Otto held his sword aloft, its blade catching the firelight like a beacon. "They will pay for what they have done! For every man they burned, for every scream they caused, we will answer with fire of our own! We will march again and show them the wrath of the righteous!"

He cried out three words, words that would enshrine his fame forever. "GOTT MITT UNS!" 

​The camp roared. "GOTT MITT UNS!" 

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A/N: This fic is just about everyone aura farming. Personally, not bad. 

But on a serious answer, I do not see a reality where the Franks do not be super salty about being set on fire. it is one thing to use superweapons against non-christians, but against fellow Christians? Yeah, they will be legitimately angry about that. Frankly speaking (lmao), this and future events will cement causes for the HRE to hate the ERE. But then again, the feeling is mutual. Imagine the discourse this is going to spark. 

The battle of Rome is going to be le epic.

ANd fun fact, the Battle of Stilo was a utter defeat for Otto 2, Otto 3's daddy. Legitimately, it sent shockwaves across Italy since so many Lombard lords died there, and the Germans also lost tons of nobles there as well. Otto 2 managed to escape the battle by disguising himself and seeking passage on a Roman vessel. Said Roman vessel had been dispatched by Constantinople to collect taxes from the Roman holdings there. If the crew fucking knew that Otto was aboard, they would have sailed to Constantinople to turn him into a hostage. But apparantly, Otto 2 had some great Disguise skills.

Imagine how hilarious that would be if they found out.