Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 34 (Historical Fiction SI)

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The morning revealed an empty camp on the far side of the river. Constantine was cautious however and he would not order his army to cross until it was certain the Franks had fully retreated. Scouts were dispatched to confirm, and their reports soon returned: the Franks were indeed gone.

"Hah," Dalassenos laughed. "The cowards have fled!"

The army began its march across the bridge.

"Do not celebrate yet, Patrikios," Constantine warned. "By pulling back from the bridge, Otto may appear to have relinquished the initiative, but that is a deceptive comfort. I suspect he and his council will now be twice as cautious. In open terrain, he can bring his cavalry to bear at full strength."

"Bah, and so can we, Caesar," Dalassenos retorted. "Just give the word, and my men and I will torch the food Otto relies on."

"These are not Arabs we can harass with impunity," Constantine reminded him. "These are Latin Christians, and when this is over, my uncle will rule over them. We cannot inflict so much harm that they will resent his reign."

Constantine turned his gaze to the horizon. It was worth noting again just how breathtakingly beautiful Italy was. Though far removed from the splendor of ancient Rome, this was still a world untouched by the Industrial Revolution. The air was clean, the skies impossibly blue, and the trees stretched heavenward as though they sought to touch the clouds.

"Beautiful," he murmured, smiling.

Dalassenos noticed Constantine's gaze lingering on the horizon. "Italy is fine, Caesar, but it is not Anatolia," he said, his voice tinged with wistfulness. "The hills and mountains there rise like great pillars kissing the sky. The land is rich, full of deer and other game. My sons and I, we would hawk and hunt together, bringing back enough meat to last a winter."

He chuckled softly, his memories seemingly warming him. "When my sons were younger, they kept little rodents as pets. Tiny things, no bigger than your fist, with bright, beady eyes and pink noses. They'd stuff nuts into their cheeks until they puffed out like little sacks. I had one myself when I was a boy."

Constantine glanced at him, intrigued. "Did you give it a name?"

Dalassenos nodded. "Oh yes. Kriketos."

Constantine raised an eyebrow. "He who squeaks," he translated.

"Precisely," Dalassenos replied, a grin spreading across his face. "Until one day, Kriketos ran loose in my room… and a hawk swooped in and carried him away." He chuckled, shaking his head. "I was devastated."

Constantine stared at him in disbelief. "That's horrifying!"

Dalassenos laughed even harder. "Perhaps, but it's the way of things, Caesar. The hawk was just quicker."

Stjepan, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke. "I never had anything like that. But I did have a hound for a companion. My people call them Tornjak."

"Tornjak?" Constantine repeated, curious.

Stjepan nodded. "Yes. They are loyal and intelligent creatures. Patient with friends but ever watchful of strangers. You could have no finer companion."

"And what was your hound's name?" Constantine asked gently.

"Mrlja," Stjepan said, his voice growing softer.

"Does it mean something in particular?" Constantine pressed.

Stjepan hesitated before answering. "…Yes, though I hesitate to say."

Dalassenos leaned in, grinning. "Aw, what's wrong with it?"

"It's not exactly a name fit for a king," Stjepan admitted, his cheeks coloring faintly. "It means…Spot."

"Spot?" Constantine raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"Yes." Stjepan shrugged, his face resigned. "He has dark spots on his fur, so I named him that when I was young."

"What a gentle name," Dalassenos commented with mock seriousness.

"I was young!" Stjepan defended himself, his voice rising slightly.

"And why didn't you bring him with you?" Constantine asked, his tone turning more serious. "Surely he must be worried sick."

A shadow passed over Stjepan's face. He sighed, his voice quiet. "I couldn't. He's getting old now. It wouldn't have been fair to him."

Dalassenos and Constantine exchanged a glance, their usual humor fading. Constantine turned back to Stjepan, offering a small, understanding smile. "In that case," he said gently, "let us endeavor to finish this campaign as swiftly as possible, so that you may return to your loyal friend."

Stjepan nodded. He knew that Caesar was only telling him this to comfort him but he had already made his peace. It was likely he was never going to see Mrlja again. 

Constantine turned to his right, where a massive hulk of a man sat astride a horse, his imposing frame making the steed beneath him seem almost small. "Say, Miroslav. Have you ever had a pet?"

The Varangian paused, his rugged face unreadable, then gave a single nod. "Bogdan."

"Bogdan?" Dalassenos raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "It sounds strong. Was he a hound? A hawk?"

Miroslav's expression didn't change. "Bogdan was a cat," he said flatly. "He was also an ass."

Stjepan burst into laughter. "Such is often the case with cats. Care to elaborate?"

"He stole food and ate it in my room," Miroslav said gruffly. "I got into trouble for it more than once. Took some time before everyone realized it wasn't me." 

"Was life in the Rus hard?" Stjepan asked, his curiosity evident. "I've heard that many Scythians raid the frontiers."

"If you weren't careful, it could be," Miroslav replied gruffly. "But it is a good land. The farming is rich, and the rivers are full of fish. Imagine grain fields stretching as far as the eye can see, with a clear, endless blue sky above."

"You could make a banner out of that," Constantine said, his eyes twinkling with a private amusement.

"It does sound beautiful," Stjepan mused. "Croatia, though, is different. We have the Adriatic to the west and mountains on every side. The best of both, right in the middle."

Miroslav gave a small nod. "It is beautiful where I come from too, but you must always be vigilant. Raiders from the east are a constant threat."

"Such as it is," Constantine agreed. "I will petition the Emperor to strenghten our Eastern Defences. Far too long has Rome suffered because of barbarians that flood through from the East. A strong Armenia will mean security for the rest of the Empire. Imagine if you will, we lose Anatolia." 

Dalassenos paused, trying to imagine such a scenario. Then, his eyebrows furrowed and his face darkened. "I would rather be dead than see Anatolia ruined. Whoever is the piece of shit that allows that to happen should be blinded, castrated, then executed." 

He spat on the ground, as though the thought itself had left a vile taste in his mouth. "If we lose Anatolia, the Empire loses the Themes that provide most of the men for the armies. How is Rome supposed to defend itself without its soldiers?" 

Constantine nodded. "Exactly. Hence why, the East should be defended at all costs. Mountains are hard to attack but easy to defend. Should any invader from the east come, their host will break before our fortresses." 

"A pity Gregory isn't here. He would be delighted at the idea of protecting his homeland." Dalassenos rumbled. 

​"Speaking of which, he ought to be in Bari by now," Constantine said. "I expect Xiphias to link up with him and reinforce us by the time we arrive in Rome." 

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Gregory Taronites tightened his grip on the rail of the dromon as the ship pitched violently beneath him. The Adriatic, calm and glittering when they had left port, was now a churning mass of gray fury. Rain lashed at his face, and the howling wind drowned out most of the shouting from the crew.

"Hold fast!" he cried, his voice straining against the roar of the storm. "Hold!"

The sailors scrambled across the deck, tying down loose rigging and securing cargo as waves crashed over the sides, soaking them to the bone. The oarsmen, protected only by the narrow covering of the ship, rowed desperately to keep the vessel steady, though each stroke seemed futile against the chaos of the sea. 

He knew it as soon as the Croatians started screaming about it. "Nevera! Nevera!" 

Then Gregory saw it. A massive wave, rising like a mountain out of the sea. His breath caught in his throat as the wave surged toward a nearby dromon. The ship tried to turn, its oars flailing desperately in the water, but it was too late. The wave struck with the force of a battering ram, snapping the dromon in two as though it were nothing more than a child's toy. Men screamed as they were hurled into the icy water, their cries quickly swallowed by the storm.

Gregory could do nothing but watch, helpless. 

Two choices went to his head. He could continue on towards Italy, reinforce Caesar with whatever men he had left. Or he could turn his fleet around back to the Empire, save the men. 

His fists turned white.

He could not turn back, not in this storm. They were already too far off that he'd just be sailing them to their doom. As lightning slashed open the clouds, he made his choice. 

"Steer west!" he shouted. "We hold course for Italy!"

His voice was a blade against the wind, and the men roared back, half in obedience, half in defiance of death itself. The helmsman leaned hard into the tiller, face slick with rain and terror, as the ship shuddered forward into the darkness. Gregory could feel the rhythm of the oars below deck faltering, the men groaning, but he beat his fist against the railing and bellowed, "Row, damn you! Row for your Emperor!"

"FOR. THE. EMPEROR." his men roared as they strained.

A wave slammed against the prow. The dromon dipped so deep that seawater rushed across the deck, sweeping a sailor overboard before anyone could grab him.  Gregory turned his face into the rain. His cloak was a sodden mass clinging to his armor; his hair, plastered against his skull, streamed with salt and cold. The Adriatic was trying to kill him, the heavens screaming with the voice of a thousand demons, yet something in him refused to bow. Caesar had ensured that he still had a career despite his dismissal. His son held a prestigious command because of Caesar. He was not going to let Caesar be alone in Italy for the Franks to tear into like vultures. They were going to be with Caesar or die trying.

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Xiphias blinked. 

"Good God, Taronites. What happened?" 

Sailors staggered off gangplanks like men twice their age, salt stiffening their hair and beards; oars cracked and splintered lay in heaps beside coils of tarry rope; wounded horses shivered as handlers struggled to coax them onto the quay. The air reeked of wet wood, sweat, pitch, and suffering. Gregory Taronites moved among it calmly, exhaustion sapping him of all energy. 

He took a towel from a servant with a curt nod, wiping the crust of brine from his face, then lowering it slowly as he turned toward Xiphias. 

"What happened," he said, voice hoarse but steady, "was that the Adriatic tried to kill us." 

Xiphias grimaced. "You should have stayed in port." 

"When we left port, the skies were clear and it was good to sail. Then the Adriatic heard we were around and went out in force to kill us," Gregory muttered as he returned the towel. "It seems God has plan for us yet." 

A silence passed between them, broken only by the dull thud of barrels being unloaded and the distant cry of gulls. 

"Where is he? Where is Caesar?" Gregory asked. 

"He is marching North to Rome. My task was to meet you and link up with him," Xiphias reported. "Though...it seems that we are going to have to be delayed." 

Gregory reddened. "Damn it, Xiphias. My men and I did not live through the tender mercies of Leviathan to be held back by another delay." 

Xiphias lifted his hands in a placating gesture, though his expression was sharp beneath the calm façade. "Peace, brother. I meant no offence. I am speaking facts here." He gestured to the torn fleet. "You've got men coughing seawater and horses that won't stand. If you drive them now, they'll die before they see a Frank. Caesar has no use for men that cannot fight." 

Gregory's jaw flexed. His eyes, raw from salt and sleeplessness, narrowed with a soldier's stubborn pride. But Xiphias was right. 

"I understand the Emperor has sent his own reinforcements with you," Xiphias said further. "I do not think he would be pleased you allowed some of his finest to die of exhaustion." 

"Damn it, I know, you do not have to remind me," the Armenian grumbled. "We rest, one day, then we have to go." 

"Of course," Xiphias nodded. "Tell me, does the Emperor have any news from the East?" 

Gregory groaned as he sat upon a chair. The chair, held, miraculously. "News?" 

"Yes. He has sent you regiments, I presume he has also sent news?" Xiphias pressed. 

Gregory paused, taking in a few breaths then nodded. "Yes. Work in the Levant continues. The Emperor has finalized a ten-year truce with the Caliph in Cairo and he has begun reconstruction in the Levant. The east is calming down, it seems." 

"So it does. But Caliph is young still, no? He will not take it kindly that the Levant is lost to him," Xiphias pointed out. "Within ten years, we might face another war from him." 

"That is if it comes to that. His court has been taken over by his soldiers and he is a prisoner there," Gregory said. "The Emperor deems it wise to encourage this and has sent support to the slave-soldiers that have placed the Caliph under their protection." 

It was a brilliant move in caging a potential for. "Oh, for shame, to have one so young under their thrall." Xiphias lamented dispassionately. "The utter horror." 

"Quite. Now I wish to be out of this armour and go to sleep," Gregory declared as he stood up. "Tell me, what news from here however?" 

​"The Lombards have seen sense and have opened up their gates to us, save a few. Caesar has skirmished with the Franks though it hasn't been a total victory," Xiphias reported. 

"I see," Gregory muttered. "And these Lords that have not turned to us?" 

"The Prince of Salerno, Guiamar," Xiphias said. "He has summoned his army but fights neither for the Franks or us." 

"An opportunist waiting for a clear winner to support," Gregory said disdainfully. 

Xiphias gave a slow, knowing shrug. "That's Italy. Every man here waits for the wind to change before setting his sail. They swear oaths as often as they change banners, and each thinks himself cleverer than the rest for doing so."

"As if our politics are any different," Gregory said, unclasping his ruined cloak. "Damn it, this was fine wool." 

Xiphias watched balefully, arms folded. "Guiamar's neutrality may yet be a blessing. So long as he sits on the fence, he isn't reinforcing the Franks."

"Or he could turn on us at any moment," Gregory pointed out. 

"Not unless we make sure that doesn't happen," Xiphias commented. Immediately, Gregory's eyes locked in. 

"Are you suggesting something, Strategos?" Gregory accused. 

"Suggesting implies it is my desire which is not," Xiphias defused. "I am merely commenting on a possibility. What if Guiamar decides he wants to side with the Franks and stabs us from the back?" 

Gregory's stare hardened, a slow burn behind the salt-reddened rims of his eyes. "Our orders are clear: we are to link with Caesar as soon as we touch ground. Not to go gallivanting off to Salerno on the whisper of what might happen."

Xiphias didn't flinch. "I am not thinking imaginary plots. It is a possibility that might happen. The Prince may swear neutrality today, but he lives under no one's leash. If the Franks send him reason to support them, he may find his conscience and harry us. If we visit him first, he will realize where his true loyalties lie." 

Gregory turned half away, as though to dismiss the thought, then back again. "And where is the benefit here to you, Xiphias?" 

Xiphias looked offended. "My dear Strategos, there is no benefit in this for me. I serve the same master you do. The difference between you and I is that I am creative, and you are not." 

The Armenian's glare sharpened. Xiphias inclined his head in obeisance. "I mean no offence." 

His voice was anything but that. But Gregory could not pounce on that without Xiphias outright telling him he was slow. Gregory turned away. "We follow our orders," he declared. 

"As you wish," Xiphias said, his eyes humble.

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A/N: Updoot. 

So apparently, the Adriatic can have freak storms called Neverra. Violent freaky storms. Anyway, Constantine is going to have to push forward without them in the meantime. Make your bets in how it is going to go.

In other news, I am taking Taiga out of the clinic today. I shall make sure he thanks all of you, personally.