Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 33 (Historical Fiction SI)

+++

Count Adelchis sat tall in his saddle, a striking figure clad in gleaming mail and a nasal helmet, his crimson cloak billowing as the wind swept down from the hills. High above, the sun blazed mercilessly, casting sharp shadows over the assembled host. He squinted across the river at the enemy lines, their armor sparkling like a field of scattered stars. They stood motionless, their banners fluttering faintly in the breeze.

"Are..." Count Oswald let out a long yawn, his voice breaking the monotony, "are they doing anything?"

Adelchis glanced at him without turning his head, his expression as sharp as the blade at his side.

"No. Not a peep," Oswald muttered, slouching back in his saddle.

His fellows languished, groaning. When the Kaiser had told them all to prepare for battle, they were all eager to get to it. They could see how rich their enemy was and thought of the money they could make in selling off their armour. Adelchis wasn't planning on selling it anywhere near Italy however as the supply would be far too much. Perhaps at home in the East. But no, there was no battle. They had been doing nothing but stand at attention for two hours.

He would know. He had counted.

"When are they going to charge?" one voice muttered.

"I'm starving," another complained.

"My damn legs feel sore." someone else added, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle.

Such were the words spilling around Adelchis. Adelchis ignored them, his eyes fixed across the river. He felt the weight of the silence pressing down on them like the sun overhead. The Greeks were not fools; they would not waste their strength on a reckless charge. The longer they waited, the more the impatience of his comrades began to feel like a weakness. Was this what they were betting on? Wearing them down with boredom?

He turned slightly to glance at his men, their discipline beginning to fray under the weight of boredom. The sun was unrelenting, and the heat had turned the air heavy, stifling. A few soldiers had already removed their helmets, wiping sweat from their brows, while others leaned against their horses, their weapons held loosely at their sides.

A knight nearby scratched at the back of his neck and grumbled, "If they're not going to fight, why don't we just cross? Sitting here is madness."

Adelchis shot him a sharp look, his tone biting. "And step into their trap? You think the Greeks are just sitting there out of fear? They're waiting for us to make the first mistake. We cross that bridge, we exhaust ourselves while they pick us to pieces."

The knight flinched under Adelchis's glare but said nothing, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle.

Nearby, Count Oswald yawned again, louder this time, and stretched his arms theatrically. "Oh, come now, Adelchis. We're already straining here. Might as well do something, anything."

"I..." He swallowed. "I will try and ask if there are any orders,"

"Heaven above, this heat," Oswald sighed, reaching down for his waterskin. He corked it open, but there was no more water left. "Damn it, does anyone still have water to share?"

"Here," Adelchis said, tossing his own towards Oswald. "Return that to me. That's good leather."

"Of course, of course," Oswald promised, drinking it greedily. Adelchis turned his horse, the leather creaking under him as he trotted across. His horse, Begleiter, snorted in appreciation at the stimuli. He passed lines of men slumped by their spears, helmets off, faces red and weary. Some sat in the dirt, gnawing at hard bread or half-dozing with their shields as pillows. Others bickered quietly over rations or the lack of water. Even the horses stamped impatiently, heads tossing, as if mirroring their riders' mood.

Finally, he approached Margrave Eckard's bandon. They were better put than his own. Some of their horses had already started grazing, chewing gently on the nearby grass. The Margrave had taken his helmet off, switching it for a wider summer hat that shaded his face. Adelchis slowed his horse and saluted.

"My Lord Margrave, I am Adelchis of Kallmunz, I ask on behalf of my fellows." he said. "Have we any orders?"

Margrave Eckard did not answer at once. His gaze stayed fixed on the river, on the glimmer of shields beyond it. Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "Hold your position."

Adelchis looked back toward the ranks. "Hold position," he repeated, the words tasting like ash. "Margrave, the men are growing uneasy. If the Greeks decide to strike, half our lines will be caught unready."

Eckard's head turned slightly. "Then keep them ready," he said, his tone curt. "That is your task, Count. Remind them who they serve. The Kaiser trusts his commanders to keep their men in line. I will not have panic spread because a few soldiers cannot stomach waiting."

Adelchis bowed his head slightly, though irritation flared within him. "As you command," he said, turning to mount again.

He reared his horse to return to his fellows, grumbling all the way. Eckard for his part watched the Bavarian lord ride off, and grumbled as well but towards something else.

"Damn Greeks," Eckard growled. He saw them for what they were doing. They were tiring them out with inaction. Immediately, Eckard looked back into his lessons. Scipio once did the same to the Carthaginians at Ilipa. For days, he made camp and broke it, showing them the same order until they thought him predictable. Then he struck before dawn and crushed them before they could form ranks. That was how he understood it at least. The Greeks were wearing him and his men down. If they decided to make camp for the day, he would not be surprised.

He clicked his tongue. "I am going to the Kaiser," he growled. "Men, with me."

Eckard spurred his horse forward, the animal snorting as it moved. He rode past lines of weary soldiers, some sitting cross-legged beside their shields, others already breaking out their cooking pots and gathering kindling. The smell of smoke began to drift faintly through the air as the first fires were struck. Somewhere, a pot clanged, and laughter followed. He passed a group of archers huddled around a wineskin, sharing it greedily. None looked up until his shadow fell over them. They scrambled to their feet at once, saluting hurriedly. Eckard glared but said nothing. Their shame was punishment enough. Ahead, was Otto. He too had taken his helmet off for a hat just like the one he was wearing.

Eckard slowed as he approached, then reined in and saluted. "Your Imperial Majesty," he said, his tone even but edged with concern. "The men are breaking formation. They believe the day will end without battle. Some are already cooking."

Otto turned slightly, his brows drawing together. "They grow restless."

"They grow careless," Eckard corrected. "We are all roasting under this sun, but this still smells of trickery. If we let the men stand down now, we invite disaster. The Greeks are waiting for that single moment when our guard drops."

The Kaiser said nothing at first. "This feels like Illipa."

"Correct," Eckard nodded. "But we must be Scipio, not Gisco."

"What do you suggest then, Margrave?" Otto asked.

"The men are tired and hungry," Eckard pointed out "It would be best to rotate the army. Let half rest and eat, while the other half stays. That way, we do not leave ourselves vulnerable."

"Let it be so," Otto nodded. "Do we have enough?"

Eckard coughed. Otto raised an eyebrow.

"Your Imperial Majesty, we only have enough supplies for today. A great portion of our chest is at Rome." Eckard reminded him. "We will have to send worth North for supplies."

Otto stared, then he understood immediately. They had marched south in the expectation that battle would be joined quickly, the Domestikos smashed, then he would return back to Rome to continue the siege. "We will have to live off the land. Campania is rich..." Otto mused.

"Shall I send for foragers, Augustus?" Eckard asked.

"Go," Otto nodded. Eckard saluted, then reared his horse. As Eckard rode off, Otto remained still upon his horse, the reins loose in his hand. He watched the Margrave's retinue descend the slope, their banners rippling faintly in the heat. He took the moment to look around at his army, men unstrapped helms, rubbed dust from their faces, shuffled their feet like restless cattle. He glanced across the river and saw that the Romans were starting to disperse as well, but ordered and efficient. They were settling down for lunch, it seemed.

He thought of his mother, how she had spoken of the East. How its armies were disciplined, patient, and ordered. How illustrious and beautiful Constantinople was. He had thought it unbelievable. Surely, such an army belonged only in stories. But no, it was not. He stole one more glance ahead, then back to his men, and how the difference was so utterly stark.

His fists tightened.

He had so much work to do. But that was alright, Otto felt. For labour was good in the eyes of the Lord, and he would not be found wanting. A small part of Otto however whispered to him, envy. How he wished he was across, with fellow Romans, delighting in ancient glories and being a part of the most vibrant city under Heaven.

He shook his head. He turned.

+++

"Well, they are preparing lunch," Dalassenos observed dryly.

On the opposite bank, the Frankish lines sagged like a rope losing tension. Men sat with helmets off, smoke curling lazily above their campfires.

"Tell the men to break camp as well," Constantine said, his tone calm, almost casual. "I am feeling quite hungry myself."

Dalassenos yawned fully. "This strategy of yours, Domestikos. I understand the logic of it but it's boring."

"Such is the best we can do in our current circumstances," Constantine replied. "We must keep casualties manageable until Gregory arrives with the rest of my army. The force ahead of us is far superior in numbers. We cannot afford to engage them yet."

"Avoid not only an enemy force of superior strength but also one of equal strength, unless it has already been defeated three times," Dalassenos quoted blandly.

"The Praecepta Militaria," Stjepan of Croatia muttered.

"Presentation and Composition on Warfare of the Lord Nikephoros," Constantine continued. "My forebear."

"I've only just started reading the Taktika. I'll endeavor to read that as well," Stjepan promised. He winced as Constantine rode up and slapped him on the back.

"Make sure you do. It will serve you well," Constantine said ominously, his intense gaze making Stjepan pale. The Prince of Croatia bore the brunt of Constantine's unbridled energy. Even now, he struggled to reconcile the man with the reputation his father had described. A snake, coiling itself around you before delivering a fatal bite. But Constantine was none of that. He treated Stjepan like a long-lost friend, open and disarmingly warm.

And thus, they ate lunch. Roasted lamb and goat, their fat dripping over the coals. They enjoyed it with flatbread, dried figs, dates, and almonds. Olive oil was used in abundance, paired with vegetables, yogurt, and cream.

"Watch this," Constantine invited his generals. Dalassenos and Stjepan watched as he knelt beside a fire, the heat shimmering around him. He gestured for a poker, and someone handed it to him.

"What is he doing?" Stjepan asked slowly. Dalassenos, however, shook his head, resigning himself to the sight of the Domestikos threading pieces of lamb and onion onto the poker. The morsels were bursting with herbs and spices. Constantine laid the skewer over the coals, turning it slowly, his eyes fixed on the meat as it sizzled and spat. Fat dripped, hissing as it hit the embers. The smell was intoxicating, rich and savory. When the kebab was done, he lifted it carefully, slid the meat onto a round of warm flatbread, added a spoonful of yogurt and a leek, then folded it and handed it to Stjepan.

"For me?" the Croatian prince blinked.

"Eat. It will put hair on your chest," Constantine promised. He handed another to Dalassenos. Hungry, Dalassenos bit into his with gusto. Stjepan hesitated, staring at the unfamiliar concoction in his hands. Feeling Constantine's expectant gaze boring into him, he gave thanks to God and took a bite. The flavors were unlike anything he'd ever tasted. Savory, and the yogurt was a cool contrast to the richness of the meat.

"This...this is very good," Stjepan muttered, swallowing.

"It would be better with garlic sauce, but alas, we don't have time," Constantine admitted.

"I'll have to try that," Dalassenos said. "Though the taste is familiar. Is this from the East?"

"No, that is nonsense. This is our food. Let none tell you otherwise," Constantine insisted with strange intensity.

"Really? I've never heard of it..." Dalassenos trailed off.

"Because you haven't opened your eyes to the truth about..." Constantine paused, choosing his words carefully. "...kebab."

"Kebab," Stjepan repeated, the word foreign on his tongue. Dalassenos echoed it with a raised brow.

"That is not Greek," Dalassenos pointed out.

The Domestikos narrowed his eyes. "This is a Greek invention," he declared.

Dalassenos quickly corrected himself. "Of course. A Greek invention."

Constantine smiled. "Good. Now, have another."

And so they ate. When they finished, their stomachs were full, and everything was washed down with watered wine.

"Ah," Constantine sighed, relaxing. "The advantages of a good supply line."

"I don't understand," Stjepan admitted. "Why haven't the Franks attacked us?"

"They're eating lunch," Dalassenos remarked.

"I meant before that. We don't have the numbers. Surely they could have crossed the bridge to destroy us," Stjepan pressed.

"Ah," Constantine said with understanding. He gestured around them. "What do you see, Stjepan?"

Stjepan glanced around: banners rippling in the light wind, fires burning in uneven rows. "Too many flags and scattered fires?"

"Exactly," Constantine nodded. "We're making the Franks think there are far more of us than there actually are. I've also positioned our infantry in random ranks to make them harder to count. And well..."

"Well?"

Constantine raised his hand. "It's windy, isn't it?"

Stjepan glanced up at the rippling banners. "Yes, it is."

"Do you think the Franks have brought enough supplies here?" Constantine asked.

"To Italy?" Stjepan guessed. "I'd think so, yes."

Constantine shook his head. "I mean here, in the south."

"I think so as well. Why wouldn't they?"

"How long have they been sieging Rome, Dalassenos?" Constantine asked.

"For a while," Dalassenos replied.

"And were we expected here?" Constantine pressed.

"No, we were not," Dalassenos admitted.

Constantine turned back to Stjepan. "And what do you take of all this, Prince Stjepan?"

Stjepan hesitated, the weight of the question settling on him. He glanced around again, at the fluttering banners and uneven campfires, at the soldiers moving about with a casual ease that seemed almost unnatural given the circumstances. The Franks were just across the river, yet Constantine's army lounged as if they were at a festival. They ate roasted lamb and flatbread, their laughter carried by the wind, while the Franks sat motionless, their lines sagging under an invisible weight. The pieces began to form a picture in Stjepan's mind, one he hadn't seen clearly until now.

"It's..." Stjepan said slowly, his voice uncertain at first. He glanced at Constantine, who watched him with an expression of faint amusement, his eyes glittering with something sharper than mere interest.

"Go on," Constantine encouraged with a slight nod.

"You've made them think we're stronger than we are," Stjepan continued, his confidence growing. "The banners, the campfires, the way the men are spread out, it's all a performance. You're buying time."

"Good," Constantine said, his tone quiet but approving. "And why would I need time?"

"For Gregory," Stjepan replied. "You're waiting for his reinforcements. Until then, we're vulnerable. You can't risk a fight, so you're making them hesitate. Making them cautious."

He paused. "But if we can't risk a fight, why did you send men to Capua? Is that not risky?"

"We needed to show strength," Constantine said. "If we had abandoned Capua to Frankish raiding, that is not setting a precedent here. We had to show that even despite our low numbers, we could still do damage. This is all about image, here. We make shock them, we awe them, that they focus on that, and not on the practical reality that if they just marshalled their forces, they could surround us."

"But the casualties?" Stjepan asked.

"We are better supplied to care for our wounded. The ones that survive can return to service. So while we may get injured, we can prop them back up to battle. The Franks however cannot." Constantine explained. He then smiled, and for a moment, Stjepan felt like he'd passed some kind of test. But the Domestikos wasn't finished.

"And why haven't they attacked yet?" Constantine asked, leaning forward slightly, the intensity of his gaze pinning Stjepan in place.

Stjepan paused, his mind racing. "Because they're uncertain," he said. "They don't know how many of us there are. They can't tell if we're stronger or weaker. And if they cross the river and fail, they'll be vulnerable, especially if they don't have enough supplies to hold out for long."

Constantine's smile widened, but it wasn't the warm, friendly grin Stjepan had come to expect. It was something sharper, colder.  "Precisely," he said. "The Franks are not fools. They know the risks of acting rashly. A failed attack here could destroy them, so they wait. They watch. They hesitate." He leaned back, his voice turning almost conversational. "And while they hesitate, we eat. We rest. We grow stronger."

He pointed ahead. "So now, we lock them into two choices. "They attack, but they attack tired and hungry. Or they wait it out, but by then, Gregory would have arrived with the rest of the Western Army. Either way...we have victory on our side."

Stjepan felt a chill run through him. He did not know if that was from Constantine or from the wind.

Wait...

"And the wind?" Stjepan asked, the question slipping out before he realized it.

Constantine raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Ah, you noticed. Good." He gestured to the fluttering banners. "Well...that will only just drive my point even further."

+++

His stomach groaned.

Adelchis ignored it. Hunger was nothing new to him or his fellows. They were hardy men, forged by hardship, and had fought through worse when supplies were at their lowest or nonexistent altogether. But now...

"I can smell meat," Oswald sighed, his voice low and wistful.

"Shut it," Adelchis warned, his tone sharp.

"But Adelchis, I'm hungry," Oswald complained, his voice cracking slightly with desperation.

"And so am I. But do you hear me complaining about it?" Adelchis growled, his irritation rising. His stomach grumbled louder, almost mocking him, and the wind carried the smell of roasted lamb and spices straight into their camp, taunting them. The aroma was maddening, a cruel reminder of what their meager rations could never match.

They had eaten, of course, but not enough. The food was spread thin, shared among too many mouths. Their camp followers had prepared what little they could, and the foragers had scoured the surrounding countryside, bringing back scraps of grain, dried fruits, and small game. Barely enough to keep them standing. But the gnawing hunger remained, a constant presence, dulling their senses and weakening their resolve.

Adelchis shifted uncomfortably as he adjusted his position. He glanced at the men sitting near him. They were quiet, their faces gaunt, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. Oswald wasn't the only one suffering; they all were. Yet discipline held them together, barely. A few murmured prayers, while others simply stared at the ground, their thoughts distant and grim.

The smell of meat lingered, carried by the wind, and Adelchis couldn't help but glance across the river. The Greek lines looked lively. Fires burning, banners fluttering in the breeze, men moving about with ease. He could hear faint laughter and the murmur of voices, carried over the water. It was a stark contrast to the silence of their own lines.

His jaw tightened.

Oswald spoke again, breaking his thoughts. "Do you think they have enough for all of us?"

Adelchis turned sharply, his gaze hard. "Don't be a fool. You think they'll share? You think they'll let us walk over there and take what we need?"

Oswald shrank back, muttering, "It was just a thought."

"A stupid thought," Adelchis snapped, but his anger quickly faded. He sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Focus, Oswald. Hunger is the least of our problems right now."

"We're out of water too," Oswald said. He glanced away. "Might as well fish and drink from the river."

"Can you guarantee you will find a spot where people haven't been shitting?" Adelchis challenged.

"Fucks sake," Oswald cursed.

The hours dragged on, the Franks standing in their battle formations, their weapons ready, their eyes fixed on the enemy. But the Greeks made no move to cross. merely returning to battle formation. Adelchis could feel the fatigue settling deeper into his bones. His stomach ached, a hollow pain that seemed to grow with every passing minute. The men around him shifted uneasily, some leaning on their spears for support, others whispering quietly among themselves. Every so often, a commander would shout for silence, and the murmurs would die down, only to rise again moments later.

As the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky in deep reds and purples, the order finally came to stand down. The Franks broke formation, their movements sluggish, their expressions grim. The men returned to their campfires, though there was little to eat and even less to drink. Adelchis sat heavily on a log, his armor creaking as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His stomach growled again, the sound loud in the quiet of the camp. Oswald sat nearby, staring into the embers of their dying fire.

"What was all that for?" Oswald muttered. "Standing there all day, hungry, tired. And for what? They didn't even fight us."

Such murmurs was not centered around Adelchis and his friends. It was spread around camp. In his tent, Otto did not need to be among the men to know their mood. This day was wasted on standing around. He cursed himself for being baited. All day they had stood ready for battle, weapons drawn, eyes fixed on the Greeks across the river. All day the enemy had done nothing. And he had allowed it. He had let them dictate the pace, the rhythm, the very breath of the day.

He should have seen this sooner.

His tent flaps opened, and in came Eckard, his face all but telling Otto he was about to deliver a complaint. But Otto spoke first.

"We should have attacked as soon as negotiations broke down. Now our men are weak and hungry," Otto murmured. He glanced up, and saw surprise on Eckard's face. "They wanted this. They wanted us to sweat under the sun while they sat and waited. They never meant to fight today. They meant to watch us suffer."

Eckard said nothing.

"We are not fighting an army," Otto continued. "We are fighting time. Hunger. Heat. And patience." He turned to Eckard. "And we are losing."

Eckard nodded once. "Shall we withdraw, sire?"

"Yes," Otto said at last. "We must pull back closer to our supply lines. Instruct the men to keep the fires burning and-"

They froze as horns trumpeted.

Across the water. 

Otto stood first. He seized his sword, pushing past the tent flap, and cried. "To arms! To arms!"

He did not need to do that however as the Roman trumpets had sprung them all into motion. Men scrambled to their feet, half-eaten scraps forgotten, helmets snatched up, swords drawn. Armor rattled and hooves struck the earth as knights ran for their horses, shouting orders, shoving servants aside to find shields and lances. The air filled with the metallic chorus of panic turned to readiness.

Adelchis was already up, shouting over the din. "Form ranks! Form ranks, damn you!" His voice cut through the confusion like a whip. Oswald stumbled beside him, trying to fasten his belt as he ran.

Across the river, the horns blared again. The sound rolled over the water like thunder. Then silence.

Nothing moved.

Adelchis blinked, eyes narrowing. "Where are they?"

No horsemen thundered down the slopes. No shields glinted upon the bridge. The horns had fallen silent as quickly as they had begun.

Minutes dragged on. Nothing happened.

The Greeks did not move.

A ripple of confusion passed through the ranks. Men shifted, glanced at one another. Some cursed under their breath. Oswald leaned toward Adelchis. "Was...what the hell was that?"

Adelchis did not answer.

In the distance, faint laughter carried across the water. A few horns sounded again, shorter this time, mocking, like the notes of a jest. Adelchis saw red.

"You motherless sons of whores!" he roared. He kicked his horse into a charge. Oswald joined him, and so did the others, their faces burning with fury.

"Hold your positions!" Margrave Eckard cried out. "HOLD YOU BASTARDS!"

But rage deafened reason.

A dozen riders broke first, then two dozen more. The bridge shuddered under the pounding of hooves as the knights thundered forward, roaring in blind fury.

"Idiots," Eckard hissed through his teeth, about to go and rescue them, but Otto held out his hand. They could not see in the darkness, but they could heard it clear as day. The cries of horses, the screaming of dying men, and the clashing of steel. Otto inhaled, then exhaled.

"Margrave," He exhaled slowly, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "Instruct the men to light more fires. Make it look as though we still hold here. I want every fool on that far bank to think we are waiting for them at dawn." He turned, his voice low and bitter. "Then break camp quietly. We pull back to Tarracina. Do it, before the rest of the army loses their heads."

Eckard saluted sharply, then wheeled his horse around.

+++

A/N: Now, I had found out something interesting and Jesus Christ I wished I found this podcast way earlier. In the History of the Germans podcast, Otto  "He crosses the alps in the middle of winter 997, which means he must be in a real hurry. He rapidly descends via Verona, Pavia, Cremona and Ravenna down to Rome." so this basically means that whatever supplies Otto had was enough to keep his army fast, and he relied on local italian magnates to feed him and his army. (And naturally, that is unpopular to any ruler in the medieval world) 

​Here, Otto has left most of his shit back at Rome. He took his army south with the expectation that a battle would be joined but Constantine isn't exactly itching for one nor does he want to run away. Meaning and with great irony, Otto is closest to his supply base but he can't feed his men while Constantine is far more prepared at this than he is. 

Fucks sake I wish I found this podcast way earlier. Oh well, I will keep this entertaining and Rome-pilled. Let's keep on moving. The only real solution for Otto now is to pull back, let his men rest and eat, then prepare for battle. At least this time, he knows that Constantine will pull off bullshit tricks to fuck with him. He will be prepared for that.