Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 23 (Historical Fiction SI)

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The Western Army marched north, purple Chi-Rho banners fluttering under the morning sun. The column was like a snake of glittering metal and flesh, alive and slithering along roads both ancient and new. Giorgios shivered as he adjusted the weapon against his shoulder, still trying to get used to its length. He was a skoutatoi, the backbone infantryman of the Empire, so named for the long conical shield they had carried. "Had" was the key word, for he no longer bore that shield. Instead, he carried a smaller U-shaped one. The loss of the larger shield, once his main form of protection, was offset by new equipment. He and his unit were now clad in lamellar chest plates and splinted greaves. Yet this was not the only change.

Certain men had begun to receive new weapons. The soldiers called them axe-spears or spear-axes, though Caesar himself referred to them simply as halberds. Along with these weapons came a novel way of fighting. When the army paused to set up camp, the soldiers were ordered to begin training. At the center of the camp, a clear space was marked out, and two forces prepared to face one another. Ahead of Giorgios' unit were formations armed similarly to the old ways. Skoutatoi and archers worked together, but they carried only simple sticks and training arrows. Giorgios' unit, however, was armed with the new style of weapons, albeit blunted for safety.

"Today, your training starts!" Caesar bellowed from atop his horse, drawing every eye and ear to him.

Giorgios' unit was the first to be trained. They were chosen to form the core of what would become a new method of war.

"You know how our armies fight," Caesar began. "It has carried our Empire since the days of old. But that does not mean we should shy away from something new!"

Behind Giorgios stood men carrying halberds, their weapons dull but unmistakably deadly. The real ones were safely stowed in storage.

Caesar urged his horse forward, positioning himself alongside them. "Rank, square!"

At the command, Giorgios and his comrades moved swiftly, stepping into a tight formation not unlike the traditional styles they knew. The front rank lowered their pikes, bracing the shafts against their hips, while the second and third ranks angled their weapons upward. Behind them stood the newly armed men, former recruits and militiamen who now held their weapons with growing confidence.

Ahead, the opposing skoutatoi formations advanced, shields raised and sticks thrust forward as if they were real spears. Giorgios could see the uncertainty in their eyes as they approached. Who would not be hesitant when faced with a wall of pikes taller than themselves?

"Hold steady!" Caesar shouted. "Pikes forward! Let them come to you!"

The command spread through the ranks. Giorgios tightened his grip on his pike, his palms slick with sweat despite the morning's cool air. The gap between the two forces shrank until the sound of the first clash filled the air.

The front rank of the pike square braced as the skoutatoi's shields slammed into the long shafts of their weapons. The pikes bent slightly under the strain but held firm. Immediately, the skoutatoi countered. Their spears darted out from behind their shields, probing for gaps in the formation. Giorgios felt a spear glance off the shaft of his pike, the vibration rattling his grip.

"Thrust!" Caesar roared.

Digging his feet into the ground, Giorgios thrust his pike forward, driving it into the shield of an advancing skoutatoi. Around him, his comrades did the same, their weapons forming an impenetrable wall that stopped the enemy advance. The skoutatoi pushed harder, slamming their shields against the pikes again and again, but the square held its ground.

"Pole-arms, forward!" Caesar's voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding.

The polemen surged forward, stepping through the ranks with their halberds swinging in wide arcs. The skoutatoi wavered as the axe blades crashed against their shields. The hooks yanked weapons from their hands and pulled men off balance. Giorgios watched as one of his comrades hooked a skoutatoi by the shield rim, dragging him forward and exposing him to a thwack.

The skoutatoi tried to regroup. Their officers shouted, barking orders to reform the line, but it was no use. The wavering men were met with precision as the pike square advanced. The pikes stabbed forward in a coordinated rhythm, while the halberdiers followed, thwacking their opponents on their helmets. If it had not been training, the skoutatoi ranks would have been slaughtered. 

As the last of the skoutatoi broke and fled, their shields discarded in the dust, a cheer erupted from Giorgios' comrades. Their voices rose in a victorious roar. The training continued, drill after drill, until the sun dipped below the horizon. By the end of the day, the training ground was a field of trampled dirt, splintered weapons, and exhausted men.

Giorgios barely managed to drag himself back to his tent, his arms trembling from the strain of holding the heavy pike all day. His legs ached, his shoulders felt like they had been torn apart, and his mind swirled with the memories of the day's training. He slumped onto his bedding, his eyes fluttering shut almost instantly. It was over, he thought. At least for today.

But then came the summons.

A messenger appeared at the flap of his tent, silhouetted against the deep purple of dusk. "Caesar calls for you," the man said simply before vanishing into the night.

Giorgios groaned as he forced himself upright. His body cried out for rest, but the summons of a purpleborn could not be ignored. Outside, he saw other men from his unit gathering as well, their faces as worn and weary as his own. They exchanged silent, tired glances but said nothing.

When they arrived, they were greeted with a veritable feast. The Purpleborn stood tall at the head of the gathering, his hands clasped behind his back. His armor had been removed, replaced with a simple purple tunic trimmed with gold. Behind him loomed a tall Varangian, silent and watchful.

"You worked hard today. You deserve to eat hard as well. Go, and earn your reward," Caesar commanded.

The men needed no further encouragement. They quickly sat and began to eat, the rich aromas of roasted meat and fresh bread lifting their spirits. When the feast was over, Giorgios felt a sense of satisfaction despite the weariness in his body.

"Are you satisfied, men?" Caesar asked, his voice cutting through the hum of conversation.

"Aye!" they cried in unison.

Caesar smiled. "Today, you fought in a way that no Roman army has fought before. You stood in a pike square. You wielded weapons your fathers would not recognize. You faced an enemy trained in the old ways. Tell me, what do you think of it?"

The tent fell silent. The men exchanged uncertain glances, each waiting for someone else to speak. Giorgios felt the weight of the question pressing down on him. He wanted to say something, to share his thoughts, but fear of saying the wrong thing held him back.

Caesar seemed to sense their hesitation. He stepped forward, his expression softening. "I do not ask this to test you," he said. "I ask because I value your perspective. You are the men who will fight with these weapons. It is your hands that will carry them, your lives that will be risked in this new way of war. I cannot improve what we do if I do not know what you feel. Speak freely. I will hear you."

The encouragement loosened the knot in Giorgios' chest. Before he could overthink it, he spoke up. "It's different, Purpleborn."

Caesar tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Different how?"

Giorgios hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "The reach of the pike keeps the enemy at bay. Against the skoutatoi today, we held the line and broke them. They couldn't reach us. But…" He paused, glancing at the other men for support before continuing. "If the pikes break, we lose our reach and become vulnerable. The shield is smaller too, and we don't have the same protection. If the line falters, if the enemy gets past the pikes, I am not sure we could hold."

The tent remained silent for a moment. Giorgios felt his heart pounding in his chest. Had he gone too far? Had he insulted the new tactics?

Caesar nodded slowly, his face calm and unreadable. "That is true. But that is the point of the new pole-arms. Your longer pikes are your protection. The enemy cannot kill what it cannot reach. While the enemy tries to reach you, the polemen press forward and deal with what lies ahead."

The men nodded, their expressions reflecting their shared experiences from the training. The effectiveness of the halberds was undeniable.

"The new weapon, sire, is what made this formation effective," one of the younger men added. "I do not think pikes alone would be enough to win."

Caesar's lips curved into a faint smile. "You observe well. The new weapons are not the only change in store, brothers. There is more. This is merely a taste of what is to come. You will be fighting with better bows, lancers. Combined arms to clash against the enemy. Remember today, men. You are the start of a revolution of warfare. Men will look back today and see you as the fathers of modern war."

Giorgios felt his exhaustion fade as his back straightened. Fathers of Modern War. 

That had a good ring to it. 

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Constantine lay back on his bed, staring at the roof of his tent as the dim light of the camp lantern flickered.

The day's performance had surpassed his expectations, though he credited much of that to the men already accustomed to fighting as pikemen. Still, the vulnerabilities of the new formation were evident. The lack of large shields had made them susceptible to arrow fire. Returning the shields? No, that wasn't the answer. It would make the men too cumbersome, less maneuverable. The halberds, however, had performed exactly as expected. The weapon's versatility added a much-needed edge to the new tactics, but there simply weren't enough of them yet. The manufacturing process was slow, the design still too new to be produced en masse. Constantine was confident he'd eventually solve this bottleneck, but for now, the supply lines were limited.

Training remained the priority. Without a solid core of veterans to spread the techniques and maintain discipline, the new formation would crumble in a real battle. And truthfully, Constantine had no desire to test the army's mettle in open combat yet. His forces were still a patchwork of thematic troops and militias. That was fine, however, he told himself. He had a whole bag of tricks to use should it come down to it and he still had a formidable force of regulars to field.

Once he did though, he would have to himself a Pike-and-shot army (without the shot) at his disposal. Realistically, his enemies would find a way to counter it, humans were not robots however. But that would take time.

He turned on his bed, his expression still, and closed his eyes. But sleep eluded him. A dull, bothersome throbbing between his legs kept him awake, and his frown deepened.

What had happened should have never come to pass. By any metric, he ought to be disgusted with himself. But he felt the opposite. He wanted it to happen again. He had admired Zoe in his past life, and now she had become his most fervent supporter. The concept of normalcy had long since faded for him after living two lives. To him, Zoe wasn't a sister in the traditional sense. He chuckled bitterly at the irony. Here he was, Caesar to one of the most devout and formidable emperors in Roman history, and he was a freak. Well, there were just some things that do not change with Roman nobility and doing such things was a fine tradition...not that he would announce it to the world. 

Zoe's willingness to go along with it didn't surprise him. He had seen the way she looked at him, her gazes anything but fraternal. Still, he shook the thoughts from his mind, pushing the distracting ache aside to focus on something more practical: logistics.

The establishment of the four field system was a success. Food and meat were plentiful, but transportation was an ongoing challenge. The new collar designs had made it somewhat easier to move supplies via oxen and carts, but this was the Middle Ages, there were no trucks, no railways to carry massive stockpiles across great distances. Living off the land was always an option, but over-foraging would render the countryside barren and uninhabitable. That was one reason medieval armies were so small: the land simply couldn't sustain large forces for long.

Beyond food, there was the issue of protection. Many soldiers had voiced concerns about the lack of shields. Swiss pikemen enjoyed the advantage of advanced plate armor, but his men did not. He was already working to address this, establishing a British-style mill along the Danube to produce better equipment, the methods already supplanted in the minds of trusted men. But there were setback of fuel. Coal had to be transported from Anatolia then sent towards the Danube, a move that was absurdly expensive, coupled with ships of the era capable of transporting only so much. 

His thoughts turned to ships. Caravels, perhaps? Or something even more advanced? Newer ship designs would need to be commissioned, but for now, the idea would have to wait. God, then there was the mass production of ships. Rome needed an Arsenal. It already had a monopoly on producing weapons, why not ships? His mind wandered further, back to the challenges of logistics, until finally, exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into sleep.

When he awoke, the camp was already breaking, and the army began its march. He stepped outside, taking in the sights. The march was grueling, but in a world untouched by industry or pollution, the unspoiled beauty of the land was breathtaking. For a brief moment, Constantine allowed himself to enjoy it for there was only labour ahead. 

The first on the hitlist were the Serbians who were divided into different Principalities at the time. The strongest was Duklja ruled by Jovan Vladimir and also the closest. Getting Duklja under the Roman umbrella was going to be important for his future plans in the region. The coast had to be cleared and made ready for a future Sicilian campaign. At the moment, ships had been sent north to get the Venetians and Croatians from killing each other. It would take some time for the Western Army to actually get to Dalmatia proper and he did not want them to turn a volatile situation even more complicated with blood-letting. People tended to be harder to reason with when blood was on the line.

Once the Balkans was pacified, he would have to bring the Army over to Italy. If he remembered correctly, Otto the III was fighting the Slavs in the East before he switched south for a second Italian Expedition. The reason being was that Rome had thrown off the German Gregory V and the current pope was John XVI, a Greek,

That was an opportunity that he could not just ignore. In the original timeline, Basil couldn't support John as he was still fighting the Bulgarians at the time. Otto the III was able to bring his forces to bear and retook Rome. But presently, the West was clear minus the Balkans being a headache. But what if John XVI was preserved? What if he was made legitimate? Barring that aside, he also did have other reasons to get to Italy and it was to remind the Lombards who ruled them as well as prepare an expedition into Italy.

His thoughts were tossed aside however when the clopping of hooves entered his ears. A rider was coming, and his eyes spoke of urgnecy. Constantine stared as the rider imparted to him news.

"They what!?" 

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Constantine IX - Balkan Campaign - HistoryMarche

In the summer of 997, the newly appointed Domestikos of West, Constantine Porphyrogénnētos, lead the Western Armies from Ohrid to bring the Serbs to order. Since 996, the Serbian Principalities had failed to swear allegiance to Constantinople. Looking to correct this, Constantine marched first to the strongest among them, the Duchy of Duklja which controlled most of the Balkan Coast. It's original name was Doclea, named so after a city established by the Emperor Diocletian who hailed from Romanized Dalmatia. Subsequent centuries found it changing hands before the Slavic tribes settled there. 

Now it was to be Roman once more. 

But the Serbs were not one to surrender their independence easily especially in the face of a young Porphyrogénnētos. Right as the Western Army was due to enter Duklja's borders, the Serbs had mobilized their army and blocked the way. 

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A/N: This isn't going to be easy, lmao.