Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 24 (Historical Fiction SI)

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"What are they doing?" Constantine demanded.

The Purple-born had ridden to the front, standing atop his saddle, surveying the Serbian army ahead.

"Well, they clearly don't want us to pass," Dalassenos muttered. He turned to Constantine. "Should we attack?"

Constantine hesitated, weighing the suggestion.

"If the Serbs intended to ambush us, they wouldn't have made their presence known," Taronites interjected. "I advise we send a messenger to ask their intentions."

Constantine nodded. "Do it."

Dalassenos grunted, signaling to a boyar, who barked an order at one of his men. The rider spurred his horse forward, crossing the distance swiftly. From afar, they saw the Serbs greet him. Words were exchanged, though too distant to be heard.

The rider returned moments later, breathless.

"Well?" Dalassenos prompted. Constantine watched silently, his lips a thin line, as a chain of translation unfolded: the rider spoke to the boyar, who relayed the message to Dalassenos, who then addressed Constantine.

"The Serbs have blocked the path," Dalassenos reported, "and demand to know why we've brought an army to their gates."

"I see," Constantine replied, his tone unreadable. As Taronites said, the Serbs had not attacked them. The lack of an attack now did not necessarily mean that the Serbs were not totally hostile. If he had remembered correctly, the Serbs were still close to Rome. Jovan Vladimir was a Roman ally and shit, his father's seal was totally in Greek. There ought to be no issues as far as he knew. But Jovan Vladimir was a young boy at this time. So someone else must be making decisions around. 

"Orders, Domestikos?" Dalassenos asked again. 

"No, send a rider again. I wish to talk with them." 

Constantine paused. "But before that...Dalassenos?" 

The Strategos paused. "Yes, Porphyrogénnētos?" 

"Send for your fastest riders, please."

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The men under him watched with trepidation, but Dragomir, Prince of Travunia and Zachlumia, showed none. If he felt fear, he hid it well.

The Serbs had long endured the burden of living beside the Bulgarian Empire. Parts of their homeland had been conquered, while other regions were subjected to relentless raids. Under Samuel, the raids intensified, and life grew harsher. Then, suddenly, it all stopped. At first, Dragomir did not understand why. But as the days passed, the truth became clear: the Romans had decisively defeated the Bulgarians. The accursed Tsar and his heirs had fallen to Roman lances. Serbia exhaled a collective sigh of relief, turning inward to recover from its wounds.

Dragomir had anticipated that the Romans, victorious and emboldened, would march into Serbian lands, demanding submission and allegiance in exchange for protection. But no Roman envoys came. Mot to him nor to his nephew, Jovan.

Watching events unfold carefully, Dragomir realized that the Romans were far more focused on absorbing the former Bulgarian territories into their empire than seeking Serbian loyalty. This suited him perfectly. Freed from external pressures, Dragomir threw himself into rebuilding his lands with vigor. Then, on an otherwise ordinary day, troubling news reached him: Roman dromons had been sighted sailing up the Danube, passing through the Iron Gates. Dragomir hadn't even known dromons could navigate that far upriver. But seeing them was not what brought Dragomir to gather his people together. Rather, it was because the Roman ships passed by his lands. 

Going upriver meant that Rome was projecting its power deep into the interior. It meant the Romans were nearing the completion of or had finished their incorporation of the old Bulgarian lands and were now prepared to extend their influence westward. Constantinople was stirring, and Serbia would soon find itself in its path.

"My prince! Rome summons you to speak with Her representative!" came the cry in Bulgarian. "You may bring a party of men for your protection, but no more than five!"

Dragomir concealed his frown. Summoning him as if he were some whimpering pup. But he reminded himself. These were Romans. Arrogance ran in their blood.

"I will meet them," Dragomir muttered, barking orders to his men.

"This could be a trap, my prince," said Dragan, his chief bodyguard, his voice low with concern.

"It is always a trap when dealing with Romans," Dragomir replied. "They are scheming, secretive creatures who speak in riddles." He spurred his horse forward, and together with his small party, crossed the field to meet the imperial delegation.There they were, resplendent in their lamellar armor, their polished steel gleaming in the sun. Then, a booming voice rang across the field:

"You come before the attention of the Domestikos of the West, Constantine Porphyrogénnētos! Halt, and offer your respects!"

Porphyrogénnētos? Dragomir's alarm deepened. Every prince who dared to style himself a ruler had to be educated on his neighbors. Rome was Serbia's most ancient one, an empire that had once ruled the very lands his people now called home. For the Purple-born himself to lead this force was no minor gesture. The Domestikos of the West was traditionally a seasoned general, an aristocrat from one of the great military families. But for Emperor Basil to appoint Constantine Porphyrogénnētos, third in line to the throne, meant something far more significant. Rome wasn't merely policing its borders now. It was asserting dynastic authority over the western frontier. Serbia was no longer a peripheral ally or a buffer state; it was now considered worthy of direct imperial attention.

Dragomir measured his words carefully.

"I am Dragomir, Prince of Travunia and Zachlumia," he said, his voice steady. "I speak for myself and my nephew, Prince Jovan Vladomir of Duklja. Why has Rome come to our lands with an army?"

​His words were translated quickly. The Domestikos received it with unnerving calm before replying. 

"Rome's vassals, Croatia and Venice, are locked in a struggle. Rome intends to put their struggle to order and restore peace in the Adriatic," the translator replied. "The Domestikos also asks why the Serbs did not offer their allegiance to Constantinople when suitable time was present?" 

Dragomir's jaw tightened, though he kept his face composed. Allegiance. That was the word he had dreaded. Not alliance, not friendship, but allegiance. Rome was not asking why Serbia had not celebrated her victory over Bulgaria, nor why no envoys had come bearing gifts of goodwill. Rome was asking why Serbia had not bent the knee when the opportunity was offered. The fear in his heart worsened. 

The language that the Romans used in diplomacy tended to err on gentle prodding, a plan within a plan. For the Romans to totally and utterly set that aside meant the velvet glove had come off, and only the iron hand remained. To abandon nuance and veiled suggestions meant Constantinople no longer felt the need to cajole. 

Dragomir however was not going to let the fear in his heart outweigh the pride of his people. The freedom they had tasted after Bulgaria's fall was intoxicatingly sweet and he was not going to surrender that newfound independence so easily. 

Dragomir inclined his head slightly, enough to show courtesy but not subservience, his voice measured and calm as the translator spoke.

"Tell the noble Domestikos that Serbia has known too many masters in too few years," he said, each word uttered with utter care. "The Bulgarians pressed us hard, and we bore their yoke unwillingly until Rome's victorious arms cast it aside. In that relief, our people turned inward, seeking only to bind their wounds and restore their homes. If no envoys came to Constantinople, it was not from disregard, but from exhaustion. We have longed for peace, and peace alone."

He let his gaze linger just a heartbeat too long on the Purple-born, the faintest gleam of iron under the polished surface of his courtesy.

The Purple-born met his gaze and the translator caught up as he spoke. "The Domestikos finds your explanation acceptable. At that time, peace and stability was most needed and he finds no fault in your reasoning." 

Dragomir inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. 

"But that was then, and this is now. Serbia has recovered well within its time, has it not?" the translator asked. "The Domestikos is ready to accept Serbia's friendship in arms and the acknowledgement of its Princes." 

Dragomir's fingers curled tight against the reins, leather biting into his palm, though outwardly he betrayed nothing but a polite nod. What did the Romans want from them? Their utter submission? Dragomir would rather die first. But before he could answer, the Domestikos trudged his horse forward, its hooves clip-clopping against the earth. The Serbs tensed but the Domestikos said something to his translator who in turn yelled. 

"The Domestikos invites Prince Dragomir to speak with him briefly, and in private." 

Oh, now this was a trap. To refuse would be taken as an insult, a sign of distrust, perhaps even a declaration of hostility. To accept means stepping into a space where Constantine can press demands without the cushion of diplomacy. 

Dragomir exhaled. 

"You mustn't, this is a trap!" Dragan whispered urgently.

But there was no choice. Dragomir urged his horse forward, closing the distance to meet the Domestikos. To his surprise, the helmed Porphyrogénnētos removed his helmet, revealing a face far younger than Dragomir had expected. Bright, warm eyes met his. Without the imposing helm, the young man appeared far less menacing.

And then, to Dragomir's greater astonishment, the Domestikos spoke.

In Serbian.

"Hail and greetings, Prince Dragomir," he said, dipping his head slightly. The gesture caught Dragomir off guard. He knew their language.

He knew their language.

"Forgive me if my Serbian sounds strange. I am still practicing," the Domestikos continued, his tone polite and measured.

Dragomir blinked, momentarily disarmed. "Uh...er...your Serbian is fine, Porphyrogénnētos," he stammered, regaining his composure. What did this mean? Where was this going?

"You are kind," the Domestikos replied with a slight smile. "Now, with that out of the way, let us speak plainly without theater or pretense. Would you like that?"

Dumbly, Dragomir nodded. 

Constantine beamed, though the smile did not reach his eyes. "I am tasked to restore order in the West. Rome's friends ought not to fight one another when things can be settled without bloodshed. In your case however, Serbia has dithered too long and must be held into account." 

Dragomir's confusion gave way to wariness again. "Serbia will not surrender its independence. We have tasted its fruits and found it sweet, Porphyrogénnētos." 

Constantine received his reply with grace. "I understand your commitment to your people, Prince Dragomir. But there is an order to the world, an order which was charged to my people by God. It is not in me or the Emperor to deny the Lord's call." 

A flash of frustration surged through Dragomir. This arrogant, pretentious pri-

"But it seems," Constantine interrupted smoothly, "there has been a miscommunication. I blame the translators."

"Porphyrogénnētos?" Dragomir blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

Constantine pressed on, his tone calm yet persuasive. "Rome does not intend to make your people submit as one conquers. Rome intends to make the brave Serbs its friends. For years, you have all suffered under the yoke of Bulgaria. That yoke is now broken, and with it comes an opportunity for both our peoples to prosper."

"Prosper, how?" Dragomir asked warily, shielding himself from whatever game Constantine was playing.

The Domestikos smiled, his confidence unwavering. "Return to Rome's friendship, my prince. We do not seek to change Serbia's rulers or its customs. What we seek is your cooperation. We want your products, your gold, and, in times of war, your arms. Gifts exchanged at agreed intervals."

A tributary and its suzerain. Dragomir's refusal was on the tip of his tongue, his pride flaring, but Constantine continued before he could speak.

"There will be practical benefits to this arrangement," the Domestikos added, leaning forward slightly. "Serbian merchants may establish their own district in Constantinople, if they wish, and Serbian goods will face reduced tariffs in our markets, to be negotiated however. Your people will gain access to our roads and trade networks. And, most importantly, those who make Serbia their enemy will not face you alone, they will face us, in commonwealth." 

Dragomir's mouth was dry, though he forced his face into the same mask of steadiness he had worn since this meeting began. His pride howled at him to refuse, to tell him to take his offer and shove it. Serbia trading its independence for money? Serbia was not a whore to spread its legs for gold. But another voice whispered, colder and quieter, the voice of a ruler whose concern was survival for his people. 

This offer was rather unusual. In fact, it was incredibly generous. A district in Constantinople and reduced tariffs? If the boyars and merchants heard him refuse the offer, he could not fault them if they were upset. Then again...Dragomir glanced up to meet the Porphyrogénnētos. From what he had heard from merchants and travellers, the Romans had treated Bulgaria with incredible generosity, a surprise considering the Bulgarians had given nothing but grief to them. 

But if he accepted this, he was essentially signing off their realms to be dependent on Rome. He was not slow. He saw the trap ahead, how their economic lifeline would be connected to that of Constantinople. Their money on their hands. This was a poisoned chalice, Dragomir felt. He wanted to curse the Purple-born for putting him in this bind, for making the choice appear so practical, so reasonable, when he knew it was a slow path into Rome's embrace. And to make it even more irritating, the Domestikos was looking at him with utter gentleness, as if regarding a friend. 

​"I must...consult with my nephew and fellow princes. This sort of decision is not something to be made on my own," Dragomir replied. 

"Go. Take your time," Constantine smiled. 

Dragomir turned around and rode back to his retinue, his expression carefully neutral. Dragan rode up beside him, his face etched with worry.

"Well?" Dragan pressed, his voice low and urgent. "What did he say?"

Dragomir gestured for them to ride with him. His retinue followed, their hands never far from the swords at their hip. He spoke quietly, that only Dragan may hear. "A partnership. He has offered us partnership." 

Dragan scoffed. "A partnership? With the Romans? A wolf does not partner with the lamb it means to devour. You know this."

"I do," Dragomir snapped, his frustration slipping through his calm facade. "But this wolf is clever. He offers gifts. Imagine it, Dragan. A district in Constantinople for our merchants. Reduced tariffs. Trade flowing freely through Roman roads. And their armies standing with ours, should we face enemies."

Dragan's brow furrowed, his distrust plain though his eyes flickered with the sheer economic advantage that could offer. "And what does he ask in return?"

"Our independence," Dragomir said bitterly. "He dresses it as friendship, but it is servitude, Dragan. A slow erosion of everything we are until there is nothing left but another Roman province."

Dragan shook his head, his voice rising slightly. "Then why hesitate? Refuse him. You said yourself you would rather die than see Serbia bow to the Romans."

Dragomir's jaw tightened, his voice low and cold. "I do not hesitate for myself. I hesitate for our people. Do you not see the trap? If I refuse, we face Roman hostility. If not today, then tomorrow. And Serbia cannot stand against them alone. Not yet. Bulgaria is broken but Rome stands mightier than ever. The nobility grow restless, always hungry for more wealth and power. And our merchants…they will hear of reduced tariffs and a district in Constantinople, and they will demand we accept."

Dragan's hands tightened into fists. "So we trade our independence for their approval? Is that what you're saying?"

"No," Dragomir said firmly, his eyes narrowing. "I am saying we must tread carefully. Constantine is no fool. He offers just enough to tempt, to make refusal seem like madness. If we reject him outright, we risk losing more than we gain. If we accept, we risk being swallowed whole. The question is how to navigate these waters without drowning."

Dragan was silent for a moment, his anger simmering beneath the surface. Finally, he said, "So what will you do?"

Dragomir exhaled deeply, his gaze turning toward the horizon, where the Roman banners swayed in the breeze. "We need time. Time to formulate a strategy. Outright resisting the Romans will end with our defeat. We must be strategic and gather our forces."

"And if they demand you accept outright?" Dragan asked, his tone grim.

Dragomir's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then I must make them see the trap. And if they refuse to listen…" He glanced at Dragan, his voice hard. "Serbia cannot be made into slaves again."

Dragan nodded, his expression resolute. "Good. Whatever path you choose, my prince, know that I will stand with you."

Dragomir placed a hand on Dragan's shoulder, grateful for his loyalty. "Thank you, old friend. We will need every ally we can muster in the days to come."

As the two men returned to the waiting army, Dragomir's mind churned with plans and schemes, searching for a way to protect Serbia's independence without plunging his people into unnecessary war. The Domestikos had played his hand well, but Dragomir was determined to find a way to play his own. 

"MY PRINCE! MY PRINCE!" a rider cried. Blinking, Dragomir turned to see one of his riders approach. To his alarm, he had blood on him. "What is it?" Dragomir demanded. 

In his saddle, Constantine watched with quiet satisfaction as the Serbs stirred. 

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Constantine IX - Balkan Campaign - HistoryMarche

Seeking to protect his people's independence, Prince Dragomir, Archon of Travunia and Zachlumia, organized the Serbian princes into a confederation and prepared. The sudden freedom granted to them with the demise of the Bulgarian Empire had made the Serbian Princes jealous of their newfound freedom. Paganija, Zahumlje, Travunija and Duklja, all prepared to defend themselves from Roman advancement. Thus when news came that a Roman army was gathering and setting out from Ohrid, Prince Dragomir sought out to meet them. 

​The Serbian Army was smaller but it enjoyed significant advantages. They were on a narrow pass, with mountains to the left of them and the Adriatic to the right. If a battle was forced, the Roman army would be narrowed into a killzone. But the Domestikos was not going to throw his army to battle when he could help it. Thus utilizing diplomacy and guile, he forced Prince Dragomir into negotiations. As they did, the Purpleborn had sent Damian Dalassenos around the field and found a hidden path that sent them around the Serbs and into another force Prince Dragomir had held in reserve. The Serbs, surprised, sought to meet them but a mix of Hippo-Toxotae and Light Bulgarian skirmirshers made quick work of them and the Dragomir found himself surrounded on both sides. 

When Constantine summoned Dragomir again, he repeated his offer. Seeking to preserve his life and that of his men, Dragomir had no choice but to accept. And thus, the Serbs entered into the Roman orbit, however unwillingly. Dragomir's decision to surrender his people was met with scorn at first but the surrender meant access to the Roman Imperial Trade Network, bringing in luxury goods to the boyars and safety for the Serbian peasant, alongside the innovations that were now being exported in Roman Moesia. 

But that was something the future would bring for Constantine gathered his army, and headed north. 

Right between the confrontation of Pietro the Second, Doge of Venice, and Svetoslav Suronja, King of Croatia. 

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A/N: Yeheyyy

So basically, Constantine is starting to pave the ground for a formalization of a Roman Commonwealth, centred on Constantinople. For the most bestest and loyalest friends, they get the bestest benefits as friends do. First trade pick, no tariffs, district in the Queen of Cities. Going down, the benefits lessen which makes playing nice with Constantinople preferable than war. Basically, a Roman style Mitteleuropa/ASEAN/EU. 

Direct military action ought to be avoided at all costs which is exactly the Roman MO. Constantine is merely expanding it further.