Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 25 (Historical Fiction SI)

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With Serbia forced to submit, the Western Army pressed onward. As they marched, Constantine immersed himself in understanding the quirks and dynamics of his forces. Every army had its own distinct personality, shaped by the composition and culture of its many units. The Western Army was no exception, a microcosm of the Empire itself. At its core were professional soldiers, supplemented by provincial militia. This composition, like much in the Empire, was an inheritance of layered traditions. During the Dominate period, beginning with Diocletian, the old Legionary system had been split into two branches: the Limitanei border guards tasked with delaying invaders and the Comitatenses, mobile field armies of true professionals. Centuries had passed, and while the names and structures evolved, the principles endured. Just because they weren't all Legionnaries did not mean they were extremely low quality like a feudal levy. Some units could even surpass the quality of the mobile armies. The Opsikion Theme, for example, had a reputation for excellence.

Themes…

As the army snaked along the coastal roads, Constantine's thoughts returned to the Themes. He had often considered reforms to the system, concluding that while the Themes were not inherently flawed in what they were currently, they could be improved, particularly in recruitment. If memory served, a sort of mini-Themes system had emerged in Armenia: smaller, more localized districts with a tighter focus.

"You called for me, Domestikos?" Gregory asked, riding up beside him, the clinking of the officer's armor punctuating the steady march.

Constantine glanced over and hummed in acknowledgment. "Strategos, what can you tell me about the Armenian Themes?"

A flicker of confusion crossed Gregory's face before realization dawned. "The Themes in Armenia are smaller than the Greater Themes elsewhere in the Empire. Often, they consist of a single fortress and its surrounding heartland. They are more localized and tightly organized, sometimes out of necessity due to the rugged terrain and constant threats."

Constantine tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. "And what of their strengths and weaknesses, Strategos?"

Gregory straightened in his saddle, considering the question carefully before responding. "The advantages are clear, Domestikos. Smaller Themes are more flexible and responsive to local threats. Their compact size allows them to mobilize quickly without waiting for orders from distant commanders. In rugged regions like Armenia, where the terrain is harsh and invaders strike suddenly, this can mean the difference between holding a pass and losing an entire province."

Constantine nodded, gesturing for him to continue.

"Additionally," Gregory added, "smaller Themes are easier to sustain. They don't require the vast resources of the larger districts. A fortress and its surrounding lands can provide enough men and supplies to maintain a strong defensive force. They're also harder for an enemy to overwhelm. If one mini-Theme falls, it doesn't necessarily doom the entire region, as each operates with a degree of autonomy."

"Efficient," Constantine murmured, nodding again. "But what of their weaknesses?"

Gregory hesitated, then spoke carefully. "Their autonomy is also their greatest weakness. A smaller Theme lacks the manpower and resources to stand against a major invasion. If an enemy brings a large force, the mini-Themes can be crushed one by one before reinforcements arrive." 

Constantine nodded. This was essentially how the Thematic System failed in Armenia. When the Seljuks poured in, they were overwhelmed, incapable of punching above what they could do. While the Seljuks would still be a problem in the future, he was going to take steps to ensure the borders would not just be secure but ensure a greater pool of recruitment. 

Gregory glanced at him, curiosity flickering across his face. "Why do you ask these questions, Domestikos?"

Constantine's lips curved into a faint smile. "Curiosity, Strategos. Consider the Serbian Army. Imagine if the Serbs employed a recruitment system that guaranteed them a constant and large pool of recruits, despite their small size."

Gregory furrowed his brow, his expression shifting between thoughtfulness and unease. He glanced briefly at Constantine, then back at the road ahead, his fingers tightening slightly on the reins. The idea unsettled him not because he doubted its practicality, but because of what it implied. A system like that, if wielded by a determined enemy, could turn even a small power into a formidable threat. 

"We are fortunate then that they do not," Gregory admitted. 

"Yes. A power like that would be annoying," Constantine agreed. 

The Armenian Strategos considered Constantine again. He was clearly thinking on something. "Have you considered implementing such a scheme?" He prodded. He knew of the innovations that poured forth from his mind like water, that Gregory would not doubt. 

​Constantine shook his head. "Oh, no. I was merely asking. I had a thought exercise going on." He lied. 

Oh, he was considering it. The Roman Empire at this time faced a significant challenge in manpower. It could not reliably control further territory due to a lack of reinforcements. He was already trying to do something about that manpower shortage with the introduction of agricultural reforms that would not just preserve the Roman countryside but also ensure more food for people to consume. When the British introduced the Four Field System, alongside other innovations, Britain exploded population wise. Now, he was going to ensure that when it came down to it, the revised Thematic System would allow a higher pool of recruits.  

Necessity had forced his hand into this. He had no illusions that while his uncle trusted him to lead the armies, there was possibly another reason why. The Army of the West was greatly diminished of its power and therefore, no threat to the Emperor. What could a intrepid young man do with an army of provincials?  

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Constantine IX - Balkan Campaign - HistoryMarche 

With the Serbs brought into the fold, Constantine IX dispatched Damian Dalassenos ahead with the vanguard to secure the coasts and ensure safe passage for the advancing army. Dalassenos, a seasoned and aggressive commander, carried out his mission with zeal. City after city opened its gates without resistance, gripped by the fear of Dalassenos unleashing his Bulgarian auxiliaries upon them. Memories of the Bulgarian Empire and its devastating raids still lingered in Illyria, haunting its people. Yet this time, the Bulgarians were not there to raid, they marched under the banners of Rome, tasked with maintaining peace.

As the land army pushed northward, Emperor Basil authorized the deployment of dromons to sail ahead and intercept the Venetians before they could clash with the Croats, who had already camped and prepared for battle. The Roman fleet arrived just in time, with three dromons blocking the Venetians from landing their marines on the coast. Positioned between the Venetians and the Croats, the fleet, under the command of Nikephoros Xiphias, proved to be an effective deterrent.

The Venetians, unwilling to provoke a conflict with Rome, refrained from advancing, while the Croats, lacking warships of their own, were unable to challenge the Roman fleet. Despite this success, Xiphias grew increasingly anxious. He knew that the longer his fleet lingered, the greater the risk of becoming a target for Venetian ire or a sudden escalation from the Croats. The situation, though stable for now, was a fragile balancing act. 

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The fleet floated together on the Adriatic's restless surface, the waves lapping gently against the hulls. Pietro inhaled deeply, his gaze fixed on the Croats camped ashore. Their banners fluttered insolently in the breeze, campfires trailing smoke against the hills. They were so close. Just right there. All it would take was one command, and his army could land, sweeping the Croats aside in a brutal, decisive clash. Victory would be swift. He knew Suronja's character well enough to anticipate the outcome. Victory would secure Venice's fortunes, elevate his house, and carve his name into history.

But victory had been stolen from him.

Stolen by the black-prowed dromons, their sleek forms bobbing in a thin, deliberate line. Their oars dipped lazily, as though they owned the waters themselves, while the red Chi-Rho, sewn proudly onto their sails, seemed to mock him.

The longer he kept his men aboard, the more it cost him: wages, rations, and the morale of his soldiers and mercenaries. This campaign had begun so promisingly. They had punished the Narentines who dared to pirate Venice's trade. It had been easy, almost laughable. Then they arrived. Just three ships. Sleek, but aged. Their dragon-prowed hulls gleamed under the sun, a quiet display of Roman arrogance. Three ships, as though they alone could cage Venice.

Pietro imagined his fleet surging forward, the oars pounding the water, marines storming the decks with axes and hooks, stripping the ships bare, leaving the Adriatic dark and crimson with Roman blood. He could almost hear the cries, feel the pride of victory swelling in his chest.

But he could not.

Rome's power was still too great. The mighty Bulgarian Empire had fallen in a single day, its Tsar and Prince skewered on Roman lances. Constantinople seemed ascendant again, and the memory of that resurgence lingered in his captains' minds. None dared to challenge the dromons, fearing the wrath of the Emperor. In theory, Pietro could gamble, strike now, seize control of the Dalmatian coast, and fortify it before the Emperor's armies could respond. After all, the bulk of Roman forces were tied up in the East, battling the Saracens.

But no. Pietro knew better. The Emperor was no simple man. Stories abounded of his armies moving from the West to the East in no more than ten days when the Saracens began attacking their territories there. And there was still a formidable Roman force in the West, led by the Porphyrogénnētos.

Pietro had been alerted to this by his spies in the Queen of Cities. The Porphyrogénnētos was a copy of his uncle but bore the charm of his father. Pietro had poured resources into learning more about him, and what he uncovered left him uneasy. Not because of the man's bloodline, blood was blood, after all. Men were only men, no matter how high their station, but because of what this young man was capable of.

Pietro understood economics. He understood administration. An army's strength depended not just on its soldiers but on the machinery of logistics and order behind it. And this Porphyrogénnētos had thrown himself into administration with a fervor that no ordinary noble would display. Reports suggested that he had restructured agricultural production, his methods already surpassing a fever pitch. Pietro's contacts complained bitterly about this disruption, though he saw no immediate threat. Venice thrived on transport, not production. Their ships carried the goods of Constantinople to Italian markets, not the other way around. Yet, the Porphyrogénnētos's hands-on involvement in such matters revealed something unsettling.

All accounts agreed: it was the Porphyrogénnētos who personally speared the Bulgarian prince. Such an act would have sent any other man into a frenzy of ambition. If Pietro himself had achieved such a feat, he would never stop speaking of it. One would expect a young man to rise high on such glory, to grasp at power immediately. But no. This one subordinated himself to lesser men, seemingly out of humility. Pietro knew better. This was no act of humility. It was calculated theater. If a man so young could resist the intoxicating allure of glory, it revealed a mind of dangerous discipline.

He needed to plan.

The Romans would likely demand he surrender his title of Dux Dalmatianorum and return the captured islands to Suronja. He was willing to restore the islands, after all, it wasn't their possession that angered him, but the Narentines who had dared to use them as bases. Yet to relinquish his title after such a swift and decisive campaign? That was something he could not accept. The other cities on the coast had called for Venice's aid, and he had sailed out not only for his own ambitions but for their cause as well. He had proven himself a far better protector than Suronja, who had allowed pirates to ravage the coasts unchecked. He deserved that title, damn it. The future of the Adriatic belonged to Venice. The Franks were not as powerful in the days of Charlamagne and had no fleet there. Constantinople was distracted at times, hell, they had ignored the West and let the Adriatic be. He simply stepped in to fill the blanks. 

​But as he thought and schemed, he paused, as a horn was blown. 

He turned. 

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Disaster had been narrowly averted.

Amid the haze of smoke and salt, with white and red banners fluttering in the wind, Svetoslav Suronja exhaled a deep sigh of relief.

The Narentines had been a persistent thorn in his side. As King of Croatia, it was his duty to punish them. Yet, he couldn't. They were vassals of his vassals, and any move against them would have driven those vassals straight into the arms of his brothers. Family, he thought bitterly, the word leaving a sour taste in his mind. They were serpents, ungrateful and ambitious, younger brothers who dared to presume he should share power with them. Why should I? he fumed. I am King. I was chosen by God to rule our people, not them.

And so, he let the issue fester. The Narentines plundered as they pleased, unchecked, until inevitably, the Venetians could no longer tolerate it and mobilized against them.

Suronja had dreaded that moment, fearing it would be his undoing. The Venetians pressed from the west, while his brothers, ever scheming, plotted with their supporters in the east. His kingdom felt like a fragile thread stretched too tight. Then, one ordinary day, Chi-Rho bearing ships sailed up the Danube. They were not there for him, but for the Magyars across the river. Still, their presence disrupted his brothers' plans, forcing them to delay any schemes until they could determine the Romans' true purpose.

To Suronja's even greater relief, the Romans then sent a fleet to prevent the Venetians from landing.

This, he thought, is surely a sign from God. How else could he explain such fortune? The arrival of the Romans had saved his reign, their intervention a divine blessing.

And now, the Porphyrogénnētos was on his way to settle matters once and for all. His vassals, seeing the third in line to the throne arriving in their lands, now believed Suronja had the favor of Constantinople itself. He wasted no time in exploiting this belief. Outside, his soldiers whispered of Imperial favor, and Suronja was determined to maintain that illusion until he could formalize it. Now, what could he offer that would make the Domestikos see things his way? 

His father had earned recognition for his loyalty decades ago, and the same benefits had passed down to him, the King of Croats and Dalmatians. Perhaps another public reaffirmation of his oaths to Constantinople would ease tensions? No, his brothers would likely attempt the same ploy, offering their own allegiance to the Domestikos.

A marriage, then? That would be ideal. But he had no daughters to offer forif he had, they would have been given by now. Nor did he believe the Emperor would allow his nieces to marry him or his sons.

No... there was one thing he could do, one thing his brothers would never consider.

He was a good Christian. He believed in Christ and the Gospel. But he was also pragmatic.

Perhaps Constantinople could resolve the doctrinal disputes in Croatia.

He drew a deep breath. For his throne, he would offer that.

A horn sounded in the distance.

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Both Suronja and Pietro stood, the former on his ship, the latter out of his tent. Both saw it. 

The horizon shimmered with the glint of steel and gold, an unbroken line of discipline. Chi-Rho banners fluttered high above the ranks, their golden threads catching the light like divine fire. Behind them soared the unmistakable standard of the double-headed eagle, its gaze fixed on both the east and west as if to remind the world of its eternal dominion. Bulgarian light cavalry circled the army, their banners snapping in the wind as they moved with the precision of a single thought. Then, emerging like a tide of iron, came the cataphracts, Armored from head to hoof, their polished lamellar armor gleamed with an almost otherworldly brilliance, and they moved as one, their massive warhorses snorting clouds of steam in the cold air. Infantry moved, with their massive shields and spears, their ranks perfect and orderly, a wall of men that seemed immovable. To their flanks, archers with bows strung and quivers full, their expressions calm and unreadable, as if they already knew the victory was theirs. To the interest of both, some of the infantry were sporting long pole-arms with heavy axe heads, sharp pike points, and a pick. 

A new weapon? 

And at the head of this splendor, beneath the Chi-Rho standard, rode a solitary figure. A young man in gilded armor, his shoulders draped in a cloak of imperial purple, the color of emperors. His helmet, adorned with a golden crest, caught the sunlight like a crown. His gaze was steady, unreadable, and yet it carried the weight of centuries. His very presence seemed to demand submission, to remind all who beheld him that Rome still ruled, and its shadow loomed over all who dared defy it.

Constantine Porphyrogénnētos Makedon, Domestikos of the West, Caesar of Rome.

In his tent, Suronja felt hope. 

On his ship, Pietro snarled. 

Rome had come.

[SPOILER="Rome Cometh"][/SPOILER]

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A/N: Hail Caesar.