Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 32 (Historical Fiction SI)

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[SPOILER="Rome Total War Theme"][URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:h_teaZ0xA_4"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_teaZ0xA_4[/URL][/SPOILER]

Their horses met in the middle of the bridge: Kaiser and Caesar. One clad in yellow and black, the other in purple.

"I pray you withdraw your forces," Otto spoke first. "Or we will all die here."

He spoke in Greek, the words clear and precise, though accented by his native tongue. Among the many things his mother Theophano Skleros had taught Otto, Greek was one of them. Constantine heard it, and inwardly, he was pleased. But he would not let that satisfaction show.

"You of all people know I cannot do that, kinsman," Constantine replied, acknowledging their shared blood, however distant. "The Emperor has extended his protection to Pope John XVI. There is no negotiation to be had. Rome is not some bauble, to be given away at whim. It will return to its ancient possessors. This city, our city, has been out of our hands, taken by others. No more. As long as the Emperor rules, and as long as I draw breath, we will not relinquish it."

Otto felt the sting of those words. Our city. Constantine spoke of Rome as if it had never truly belonged to the West, as if Otto and his predecessors had merely been squatters in a house built by others. It was infuriating, yet he kept his composure. He could not allow himself to be provoked.

"John XVI is no true Pope," Otto countered. "His accession was secured by Roman nobility, not by the clergy." He straightened in his saddle, his voice steady. "And do not speak to me of possession. You speak as if I and my predecessors came to Rome with swords drawn like the heretic Arians. We did not. The crown upon my head was not seized, it was earned. When Rome cried out in its hour of need, my forefathers answered. We defended the city and the Pope. We shielded Italy, our ancient homeland, while the Eastern Court preoccupied itself with distant intrigues."

Constantine's lips curled into a faint smile, one that did not reach his eyes. It was not a smile of amusement, but of dismissal. "Your guardianship of the Eternal City does not make it yours. If a man defends his neighbor's home from thieves, does that make him its owner? Let us not confuse necessity with entitlement."

The words struck Otto. He felt his jaw tighten, though he refused to let his anger show. Entitlement? The sheer arrogance of the man before him was staggering. Constantine spoke as if the West's sacrifices meant nothing, as if the blood spilled by Otto's ancestors had been for naught. He watched Caesar gesture north. "Do not mistake the deeds of your predecessors for a transfer of power. The Pope has no authority to crown anyone. He is the Patriarch of Rome, not the arbiter of the Roman Empire. That authority has always resided with the Roman Senate, the Roman people, and the Emperor in Constantinople. My uncle, Basil, the Emperor, stands in a line stretching back to Augustus himself."

Constantine leaned forward, his voice firm. "I will say this only once more: withdraw your forces. The city's ancient possessors have returned."

Otto remained composed, though tension roiled in his gut. For a brief moment, when Constantine had called him kin, Otto felt joy. Here they were together. Romans to Romans, brother with brother. But that joy was fleeting, pushed aside by the sting of being dismissed as a fraud, an imitator. Did their shared blood mean so little to Caesar? 

He took a steadying breath and met Constantine's gaze. His voice was calm but charged with conviction. "I do not dispute the legitimacy of Constantinople. But the fact remains, Caesar, that the East abandoned the West. Constantinople turned inward, distracted by palace intrigues and distant wars, while the Eternal City fell to ruin. If the Empire you speak of still existed in the form you claim, neither I nor my forebears would be here. But it does not. The world has moved on, and the mantle of Rome has passed to those who can wield it."

Constantine's fingers twitched. It was infuriating because Otto wasn't lying. Constantinople did leave the West, though not because it wanted to, but because it had to. The Arabs, the Avars, the Sassanids, so many enemies coming East that previous Emperor's had no choice but to lose the West. Otto Continued. "There is no question that your dynasty descends from glorious forebears. Yes, the line of the Emperor can trace itself back to Diocletian's division of the Empire. But my authority is derived from action, not ancient laws that no longer serve the living. What good are traditions if they fail to meet the needs of the world? Rome has chosen, and so has Italy. It has chosen me."

Constantine was silent for a moment, his eyes turning north, as if he could see the Eternal City itself in the distance. Then he turned back to Otto, his expression calm but resolute, his eyes flickering with fire.

"So you say," Constantine murmured. "But the Roman nobility have closed Rome to you and before I came, you had besieged it. That hardly shows to me love, kinsman." 

Otto did not flinch, though the barb struck close to home. "A temporary setback. Rome will be restored to proper hands."

"Yes," Constantine agreed, his voice cold. "The Emperor's. And mine."

"This is ambition, then?" Otto asked.

"No," Constantine shook his head. "This is restoration. Setting the world to rights. You are correct, kinsman, that Constantinople has faltered before. But that era is over. My dynasty has rekindled the dreams of Iustinianus Magnus. My great forebears restored Crete, Cyprus, and Syria. My uncle has restored Roman rule in the Levant. Jerusalem is Roman once more. I have bled for Bulgaria, reclaimed Illyria. Actions do matter, as you say. And we have reclaimed our provinces."

"Then we are at an impasse," Otto whispered at last, his voice heavy with resignation.

"We are," Constantine agreed.

"Then may God favor what comes next," Otto said, his heart heavy.

With that, Constantine turned his horse, his voice ringing out: "Prepare for battle!"

The strategoi exchanged glances, then nodded. They turned their horses and barked their commands. Otto turned as well, raising his voice to rally his own troops.

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Constantine's words echoed in his ears, each one cutting deeper than the last. Otto's hand tightened on the reins, his knuckles whitening. He kept his face composed for the sake of the soldiers who watched him, but inside, a storm raged. The arrogance of the man! Constantine had spoken as if the West's sacrifices, its struggles, its survival through centuries of chaos, meant nothing. As if Rome's very soul still resided only in Constantinople, waiting patiently for its rightful masters to reclaim it.

​His ministers and bishops saw him approach. His chancellor was the first to notice his mood. "My Kaiser, what happened?" 

"May God forgive us this day," Otto said simply. "Prepare the army. Battle will come today." 

His court paused, shock on their eyes. But then determination. "Yes, sire!" Margrave Eckard cried out, turning his horse around. Shouts came from him, and the rest and the men were electrified. Shouts came, and banners and standards waved. "For the Kaiser!" and "For Rome!" left the lips of the Romans. Otto reared his horse, and turned. Ahead and across, the enemy. They were all marshalling into formation, swift and disciplined before him.

Otto exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cold air. He wanted to hate Constantine, to see him as nothing more than an enemy, but it wasn't that simple. The man was fierce, determined, and, Otto had to admit, genuine in his convictions. He truly believed he was setting the world to rights, that he was restoring something sacred. Otto felt something else as well, sorrow. He had thought, perhaps, that this meeting could end differently. That they could find common ground, not as enemies but as brothers. Yet that hope had been dashed. 

Did Constantine truly think so little of him? Of the West? Was Otto nothing more than an imitator in his eyes, a pretender who dared to claim what was not his?

Otto's heart ached at the thought. He had wanted this meeting to be more than just a prelude to war. He had wanted Constantine to see him, to recognize him not as an enemy, but as a fellow Roman, a fellow leader, a fellow heir to the legacy of Augustus and Constantine the Great. 

Did they not fight for the same thing? 

Did they not want to restore the world? 

The answer, Otto realized, was clear. There was no place for compromise in Constantine's mind. For him, this was not a conflict of equals, not a negotiation between two heirs. 

And that, Otto thought bitterly, was the tragedy of it all. 

If such was the case, then Otto would finish it to the end. In his mind, Rome is not a city. It is not a throne in Constantinople or a Senate long dead. Rome is an idea. A legacy. And it belongs to those who can fight for it, who can protect it, who can make it live again. And he would bring that legacy forward. He and his heirs would continue that, to make the West even more vibrant than even Rome's golden ages. 

Yes. 

That was good. 

As Constantine rode back across the bridge, the weight of the conversation lingered in his mind. His outward composure remained unshaken. His back straight, his head high, the purple of his cloak catching the wind but within, his thoughts churned.

His words had been sharp, deliberate, and rooted in history. Otto had addressed him in Greek, a gesture of respect that pleased him, though he had not shown it. It was a subtle acknowledgment of Constantinople's cultural and intellectual superiority, a reminder that the East still carried the torch of Rome's legacy. That had motivated him to acknowledge their shared blood via Theophano Skleros. But...

Constantine's grip tightened on the reins of his horse as he replayed Otto's words. Otto's argument was not entirely false, and it stung. Constantine could not deny the failings of past emperors, who had been forced to let the West slip away in the face of overwhelming threats from the Arabs, the Avars, and literally anyone with a bone to pick with Rome. But those were the burdens of necessity, not weakness. Constantinople had endured, had survived when the West had crumbled. It had outlasted its enemies, rebuilt itself, and now stood stronger than it had in centuries. That Otto could not see this, that he dared to suggest the mantle of Rome had passed to him, was infuriating. 

The arrogance of it! Otto spoke as though the Roman Empire were a prize to be claimed by whoever had the strongest sword arm. Constantine dismissed the notion. Authority did not come from brute force or opportunism. It came from legitimacy, from continuity, from the unbroken line of emperors stretching back to Augustus himself. Otto might call himself Emperor, but he was nothing more than an imitator, a pretender cloaking himself in stolen traditions.

And yet, Otto's conviction had been genuine. That was what grated at Constantine most of all: the German king believed what he said. He had spoken with the calm certainty of a man who thought himself in the right. For a brief moment, when Otto had called him kin, Constantine had felt the faintest flicker of camaraderie. They were both men of Rome, separated by distance, faith, and time, but bound by a shared heritage. For a fleeting instant, Constantine had wondered if diplomacy might bridge the divide. But that hope was extinguished by Otto's stubborn refusal to acknowledge the primacy of the East.

Disappointment settled over him, though he would never admit it aloud. Otto had shown respect, even restraint, and Constantine had admired the man's composure. But admiration was not enough. Shared blood was not enough. This was not a debate between equals. It was a struggle for the soul of Rome, and Constantine would not waver.

He took a breath. 

For Rome. 

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A/N: Sad, innit?