Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 30 (Historical Fiction SI)

Rome.

Glorious. Majestic. Grandiose.

Roma.

Worn. Faded. Dark.

The city that had birthed an empire, the city of Caesar, Augustus, and Trajan, had long since fallen into ruin. Its population, now a mere shadow of its former self, huddled close to the remnants of greatness. Thirty thousand lives clinging to the ruins of an eternal dream. Crumbling marble colonnades loomed over vegetable gardens, goats wandered aimlessly through the Forum, and the Tiber carried with it the stench of neglect. The Colosseum, once a monument to imperial might, stood stripped of its dignity, its stones harvested for materials by the very people it once entertained. The Palaces of the Emperors were no more, some ruined, others repurposed beyond recognition. Rome no longer heard the triumph of legions or bore witness to the proud march of bronze eagles. Statues of emperors, once symbols of eternal Rome, now lay buried in the mud, locked in silent witness to their city's decay.

But...what if it didn't have to be that way?

What if men still lived who dared to dream?

What if men still believed in the vision that was Rome?

Such were his thoughts as he gazed upon the Eternal City. How he longed to see it as it once was, to witness its prime. But he was no god. He was only a man. Yet as long as man possessed will and power, even the endings of the world could be defied.

Otto III, King of Italy, Germany, and Emperor of the Romans, stood tall upon ancient stones. His camp lay within the ruins of a once-great structure, its columns and walls now shadows of their former glory. The irony was not lost on him. He, a ruler of Rome, reduced to living among its ruins. But this would not be the legacy of his reign. No, Otto would not let the Roman dream fade into oblivion.

Young though he was, barely out of a regency controlled by his mother, Theophanu, and his cousin Henry, Otto was now master of his destiny. And what a destiny it would be.

Rome would rise again, its beauty and majesty restored. His rule would be holy, guided by God's will, and his vision for Rome would shine as a beacon to the world. After all, had not Jerusalem itself returned to Christian hands? News of the Holy City's liberation resounded across Europe, brought by Norman pilgrims and other travelers. The triumph inspired Otto, filling him with both humility and ambition. He would not be found wanting in his divine duty.

But before such dreams could be realized, Otto had to confront the present. Crescentius, the rebellious noble, and his false pope still defied him. Though Otto's heart longed to forgive, he knew his duty as emperor. Mercy without consequence bred contempt. Crescentius, whom Otto had spared once before, would now face justice. Crescentius he could put up with. But the false Pope, John XVI, pained him deeply. For he had once been his godfather, his tutor, a man Otto had admired. Yet betrayal demanded retribution, and Otto prayed for forgiveness as he prepared to do what must be done.

The sharp clink of armor on stone interrupted his thoughts. Otto turned to see a familiar figure approaching.

"Your Imperial Majesty," said Siegfried, the Bishop of Piacenza, bowing low. With his godfather's treachery, Siegfried had risen to fill the vacant seat.

"Lift your head, Your Excellency," Otto replied, concern flickering across his face as he noticed the bishop's troubled expression. "What is it?"

"Bad news, Your Imperial Majesty," Siegfried said gravely. "We have received reports that the Western Army has been mobilized. The Domestikos from Constantinople is set to land at Bari today."

Otto's mouth fell open, though he quickly recovered. Siegfried's grim demeanor spoke volumes.

"What do we do?" the bishop asked quietly.

Otto's mind raced. 

"Summon the council," Otto commanded firmly. "We must plan our next move."

"By your will," Siegfried replied, bowing before departing swiftly with his guards.

Otto remained alone, his thoughts heavy, as he considered who was coming. 

The Domestikos or rather, the Caesar Constantine. Otto admired the man, though he would never admit it openly. The Purple-born general's martial prowess was legendary, his personal slaying of the Bulgarian prince a tale told across Europe. His piety, too, was exemplary, a model of devotion to his imperial uncle. But admiration had no place in the face of war. Otto would not let his respect for the Domestikos cloud his judgment.

He walked to the Imperial Pavilion, where his council awaited. The grand tent was richly adorned, its colors vibrant and its banners flying high. The air inside smelled of candles, books, armor, and perfume. As Otto entered, the gathered nobles and advisors rose to greet him.

"Sit, my friends," Otto commanded, and the gathered council obeyed, their faces tense with anticipation. He wasted no time.

"Grave news has reached us. An army from Constantinople marches upon us. The question is: what shall we do?"

Heribert of Cologne, Otto's chosen Chancellor for Italy, was the first to speak. "We cannot abandon the siege. If we do, it will expose our backs to Crescentius, Your Imperial Majesty."

Eckard II, Margrave of Meissen, leaned forward, his deep voice rumbling with quiet authority. "Crescentius does not have the forces to mount such an attack. Nor does he hold the full support of his nobility."

"If that were the case, Margrave," Heribert countered, his tone soft but resolute, "then the city would have opened its gates to us by now."

Otto raised a hand, silencing the brewing debate before it could escalate. "Let us not be distracted by tangents," he said firmly. "What matters is the situation before us."

He straightened, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Now we besiege the Eternal City. Now our flanks are secure. What is to be done with this new threat?"

"I say we leave behind a token force to maintain the siege," Eckard proposed, his voice steady and confident. "The rest of the army marches to meet the Domestikos. If we act swiftly, we can force him onto Lombard lands, far from Bari or any ports he might retreat to. Once there, we call upon the Lombards to join us. When our armies clash, the Domestikos will find himself surrounded, with no escape."

Heribert shook his head, his expression troubled. "Our supply lines would be stretched too thin, my lord. I caution against such a move. The last time the Empire marched south, it ended in disaster."

The council grew silent, the memory hanging heavy in the air. They all knew the disastrous campaign of Otto the Second. His army had been decimated at the Battle of Stilo, bishops and nobles slaughtered by the Muslim forces of Sicily.

But Otto was quick to respond, his voice firm. "I am not my father, Chancellor. And the Emirs of Sicily are not allied with the Emperor in Constantinople."

Heribert inclined his head, acknowledging the rebuke, but he was not finished. He raised his gaze, his voice steady. "Your Imperial Majesty, I have served as Italy's Chancellor for years. It is because of that experience that I urge caution. The Emperor in Constantinople and his court are not to be underestimated."

He placed a hand gently on the table, his fingers splayed as if to underscore his point. "With firm confidence, I suggest we make our stand here. Prepare the field. Let the Domestikos come to us on terms we control, not his. We fortify our position, and in the meantime, we send envoys to the Lombards and the Sicilian Emirs to stir unrest. Force the Domestikos to divide his attention. Eventually, he will be compelled to withdraw to address those threats."

Heribert's voice grew measured. "Unlike us, the Domestikos will have no luxury of secure supply lines or nearby allies. Let him come to us, where the terrain and our preparations will decide the battle. Let him come, so that we may surround him."

"Would the Lombards or the Sicilian Emirs stir?" Otto asked. 

"The Lombards in the South wish to be free of the Emperor in Constantinople. They would welcome any opportunity to rebel, provided they have support," Heribert reported. His expression grew sour as the topic of the Muslims come. "The Emirs in Sicily...I am quite sure they would welcome an opportunity to avenge the loss of Jerusalem. The Muslims see the city sacred as we do." 

"You wish for us to ally with apostates, Chancellor?" Eckard raised an eyebrow. 

"Not ally in the traditional sense, Margrave, but share an enemy," Heribert returned. "That is if we fully commit to a military option. Perhaps the Domestikos could be persuaded to leave?" 

"He is the Caesar to the Emperor in Constantinople. He is not a mere man that you can bribe. If the Emperor in Constantinople is sending his nephew, then it is clear there is some interest here that the Emperor wishes to procure," Eckard retorted. "That interest I think is Crescentius and the false Pope. You cannot simply convince him to leave, not without the Domestikos facing the Emperor's wrath." 

"I concur with the Margrave. There is no other way this shall end but with blood," Otto said mournfully. 

"And how shall blood be spilled, Your Imperial Majesty?" his chancellor asked. 

Otto thought carefully. True, he could order the siege lifted then march south to confront Constantine. "If we do meet him, where are the paths we could cross?" he asked. 

A map was quickly produced. Eckard pointed two possible routes. "He could stick to the coast. Land at Bari, then march north, and pivot west through the Apennines. Or instead, he can march inland. Bari, then Naples, then up the Via Appia." 

Otto leaned in, as did the others in the tent. Sticking to the coastal road would allow for his forces to be supplied. A part of Otto bemoaned the lack of ships in the Adriatic. But going inland meant they would march faster. "I think the Domestikos would be swift coming to us. From where he stands, he likely thinks we would be rushing to take the city," Otto mused. He watched the map some more, taking note of the features. 

"I do not think we should utterly penetrate the south that we cannot supply our own forces...nor should we stubbornly stay in Rome, and let the Domestikos gain ground. I am of the mind that we must block off the Via Appia in the middle." 

His court muttered among the themselves. Heribert then pointed to a few spots on the map. "If such is the case, then there are places we can block them. The Imperium called it Minturnae. Now, we known it as Minturno. It offers advantages to us with many hills to the east and the Tyrrhenian Sea to the west. If the Dometikos marches north, we can block access for he must cross the Garigliano River." 

"Was there not a battle there in days before?" Otto quizzed. 

"Correct. At 915, we fought the Saracens," Heribert nodded. "And our forefathers won it." 

"How auspicious," Otto smoothed. Though this time, they would be fighting fellow Christians and Romans. What insanity the world had come to. Otto however shook that thought away. If they fortified Minturno, they could do as Heribert suggested. They could dig in there and force the Domestikos to an upward battle or make him find alternative routes. 

"Do we have avenues of retreat, should the Domestikos force his way? I want an alternative position where we can dig in and force casualties on the Domestikos," Otto asked. 

An uncomfortable look went upon the Court. The idea of defeat was not something they liked to hear. However, the Margrave Eckard thought differently. "Tarracina. We can pull back from Minturno and dig in there. The Crescentii possess castles there that are now ours. We can lock Rome from the Domestikos's grip with a strong defence." 

Otto smiled. "Then we have a plan." 

The court nodded, muttering their assent. 

"Let us move fast, my lords. A small force shall be left here in Rome to continue the siege. The rest of our forces must march. Send word to other lords for additional troops!" Otto proclaimed, then yelled. "My lords, assemble the army!" 

A cry went out in the tent. 

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[SPOILER="Greek Fire"][URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:vx_cuGWmawI"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vx_cuGWmawI[/URL][/SPOILER]

As the Franks marshalled, so did their enemy. 

The Adriatic Sea bubbled blue and white, the cries of seagulls high in the air. It was sunny, casting gold upon Bari. The city sparkled, white marble, blue tile and bronze domes caught the sun like polished shields. The harbor, half-crescent in shape, was alive with noise: the clang of iron, the rhythmic creak of oars, the cries of sailors calling out in Greek, Georgian, Armenian, the harsh voices of Slavs. All leaving dragon-tipped dromons bearing white sails, and simple red Chi-Rho crosses sewed upon it. 

Cataphracts led their horses down from the ships, lamellar glinting like scales. Skoutatoi and Mourtatoi followed, spears long and thick, and archers carrying composite bows favoured by the Eastern nomads and barbarians, famed for its power. Curiously, too, were the men bearing Rome's newest weapon, the halberd. Much like the famed Great Axes of the Varangians, but with a spear tip and polehammer with them. The famed men of the North were there as well. A line of Varangians marched through the city streets to the rhythm of drums, their axes glinting in the noon sun, faces hidden by steel helmets. 

They all watched, citizens all. Watched and stared in silent awe for the Emperor's hand had reached across the sea and beheld them a mere glimpse of the splendour that was the most vibrant city on Earth. 

All of it, under the command of one man. 

Constantine watched from atop a horse, purple-cloak wrapped around his body. At his side, his strategoi, all brilliant in their own armour. Gregory was absent however, half of his forces were still in the other side of the Adriatic, and he had tasked Gregory to march with further reinforcements from his uncle. To make up for his lack of numbers, he had sent out a messenger for the Catapan of Italy to come with his armies. While he still had speed, he was going to take full advantage of it. 

First, he would bring the Lombards to heel, then bring their men to him. From there on, he would march north. His spies had yet to return with news from the North regarding Otto's armies but he was sure that Otto would not resist going forth to fight him. When news would reach how only half of the Western Armies was here, the young Kaiser would pounce upon him. But if he did, he would not find a rabble. No, he had the creme of the crop would him. Veterans from his campaigns, a contingent of Varangians who hauled ass from the East, halbediers, archers, and his very own cavalry. He too brought with him a contingent of Croatians, perfect skirmishers he could use to harass the Franks. And, with approval of his uncle, a perfect little gift. A surprise that the Franks would find out later. 

Deep inside, Constantine knew that he was making history here. He had to win. It was here, his future to the Imperial throne was tied. Sure he had done a great service in the Balkans. But smashing the Kaiser and his armies before Rome? That was going to earn him more than enough brownie points to last a life time. Taking a breath, and fully aware that generations in the future were watching, he turned to his generals, and spoke. 

"We are now in Italy, our sacred homeland, gentlemen." 

Xiphias, Dalassenos, Prince Stjepan of Croatia, turned to him. 

"Let us make history. Let us give those that will come after us a good show," he grinned. "Today, South Italy...and tomorrow...Rome!" 

And thus, when the army was assembled, he gave the order. 

Thus began, the march. How beautiful, and resplendent. It began with trumpets blaring from the harbor walls and Bari trembled beneath the thunder of boots. Standards caught in the sun, and they snapped in the wind. Double-headed eagles in purple fields, golden Chi-Rho crosses in red. The army was Rome reborn, marching out under the ringing of Church bells, and the blessings of priests. Constantine lead it, his cloak fluttering, an image of majesty that hearkened to Imperial glory. To the peasants, it was as if the Emperors of old had come. 

​He would not stop. He would not relent. There was no going back from this. Rome would be theirs once again. And from there, the world. 

From the city started by boys suckling at the teats of a she-wolf, to them building upon seven hills. For the esteemed men that suffered then overthrew a tyrant. For the many who died before Carthage, Gaul, Syria, and the countless places, named and unnamed. For Caesar, Augustus, Trajan, the Emperors who fought and died for that one glorious dream that men like Stilicho and Aetius suffered and died for. For the one glorious majestic dream that stirs the hearts of men in ancient days, and future eras. For the dream that shall never die. 

FOR ROME.

ROMA INVICTA. 

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A/N: LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOO