Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 21 (Historical Fiction SI)

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The march south began with an army besieging Tripoli. With its flanks secured through diplomacy and the Emperor's presence, there was no fear of surprises to the rear. The supply trains meticulously prepared by Ouranos had proven their worth, ensuring the army suffered neither thirst nor hunger. Meanwhile, the Roman fleet sailed south from Antioch. One arm moved to engage and relieve Tyre from the Fatimid naval blockade, while the other hugged the coastline, ready to supply the army if necessary.

Tripoli's defenders attempted a sally but were swiftly checked by the Emperor and his generals. Their defeat left the city with a stark choice: surrender peacefully and avoid looting, or resist and face annihilation. Every Tripolitan would die, their properties confiscated, their names erased from memory. The gates opened, and with it, the Romans gained a naval base further south. Leaving a garrison behind, the army pressed on.

The local Fatimid governor, Jaysh ibn Samsama, sought to rally his forces, but the Roman advance proved a slow-moving juggernaut, impossible to provoke into rash action. Complications mounted for Jaysh when rival tribes began raiding his city, forcing him to divert attention from the Emperor's steady march.

All was proceeding as planned.

The Emperor of the Romans leaned back in his seat, a cowled figure standing before him. The man held a piece of parchment, which he soon withdrew.

"My nephew thinks himself ready for the responsibilities of state," Basil murmured.

The cowled figure nodded. "Yes, sire. Damian Dalassenos is preparing his officers to move as soon as the Purple-born gives his approval."

Basil knew everything. He saw everything. He had known of this plot long before Taronites's request for orders reached him. A scarred finger tapped the armrest of his chair before withdrawing to rub the underside of his beard. His nephew knew he was being watched; their correspondence had made that clear. Ambition was tolerable. Grasping, however, was not.

When Basil had chosen Taronites, it was because he had been a safe choice. A general was not required to serve as Domestikos of the West. The Princess Miroslava needed assistance, and Taronites's disposition suited the role. Under his leadership, Bulgaria and Moesia had been brought to order, becoming so quiet and stable that Rome could afford to send forces far beyond the Danube to fight in Pannonia. This stability had allowed Basil to shore up Mihály's position, requiring friendly vassals to facilitate swift transport of Roman forces in the region.

The Emperor's gaze fell to the map spread across his table.

"Bulgaria is ours now. Taronites is no longer needed," Basil muttered. It was true that Taronites's focus on Bulgaria had created the illusion that Rome was content within its borders, with no appetite for expansion. Basil intended to shatter that illusion. Taronites had fulfilled his duties under the parameters given, but removing him without an appropriate reward would be unwise.

"Send for my secretary. I wish to draft new orders," Basil commanded. The cowled figure bowed and departed.

The logical successor was Damian Dalassenos, a man with seniority and experience in the region. His offensive-minded tactics had earned the respect of the troops yet his aggressiveness posed risks. The position required someone capable of seizing opportunities without overextending, a leader with the charisma to bind the Illyrians to Rome without alienating them, yet able to inspire fear when necessary.

The only logical choice was his nephew.

At 19, he was young, but he had earned the respect of the troops and demonstrated administrative capability. His agricultural reforms spoke volumes. As Basil pondered, his secretary arrived, quill ready to transcribe the Emperor's will. Basil leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His eyes scanned the map, tracing the borders of the empire and its neighbors.

"Begin with this," Basil said, his voice low but firm. "Draft a letter to Taronites. Commend his service, his loyalty, and his achievements in bringing stability to Bulgaria. Inform him that his efforts have not gone unnoticed and that the empire shall reward him with new estates as well as the title of Nōbelissimos and shall be made Strategos of a yet to be decided Theme."

The secretary nodded and began writing, his quill scratching against the parchment. To Basil, that was reward enough. Taronites had done his duty, and in Rome, doing one's duty was met with appropriate recompense. A good servant was rewarded, and then the empire moved forward.

"Next," Basil continued, "draft a second order. My nephew is to return to Constantinople immediately. He is to be raised as Domestikos of the West with a full procession. Once he assumes command, his orders are clear: prepare for a campaign to bring Illyria and Dalmatia into Rome's embrace. Consolidate the loyalty of the local magnates, ensure the steady provision of supplies, and ready the armies for the offensive. Make it explicit, this campaign must be swift and decisive. The Adriatic must be secured before the year's end."

Basil's tone left no room for doubt. He also was quite sure that his nephew planned this. What other purpose was the agricultural reforms other than to have a steady steam of supplies to use? His paranoia had gnawed at him with the ideas his nephew presented him. Only consistent service, the obvious benefits to the dynasty, and a willingness to subordinate himself to men like Taronites had convinced Basil that Constantine would not be a threat to him. The secretary paused briefly, then resumed his writing.

As with all things in the empire, there were protocols to follow. Every rank carried its rituals, its ceremonies, and its symbols of power. Taronites had been entitled to such a ceremony in Constantinople when appointed but the situation in Bulgaria at the time had demanded urgency. There had been no time for pomp when stability was hanging by a thread. But now, for his nephew, there was no such haste. The urgency lay not in the timing of his appointment but in its presentation. The Illyrians could not perceive Rome's arrival as a desperate act. They needed to know that Rome came on its own terms, not when summoned. Prestige mattered now more than ever. This mission was not just about stabilizing a frontier: it was about awe. Awe to shock their enemies, bind their allies, and secure the legacy of the empire. His nephew would need every ounce of legitimacy to carry out this campaign and leave a lasting impression.

"By the year's end, sire?" the secretary ventured cautiously.

"Yes," Basil replied, his voice steady. "It will be critical for what comes after." And that, he left hanging.

Securing Illyria and the Adriatic would do more than stabilize the region. It would deliver a clear message to the grasping Venetians, reminding them of their place. A stable Adriatic would also ensure secure naval lines into Italy. The Catapanate of Italy had long been requesting reinforcements to deal with the Sicilian Emirs whose raids ravaged the coasts. With the western flanks secured, Rome could finally turn its attention south to Sicily.

Sicily would be brought back into the fold. And once it was secured...

Basil's gaze drifted across the map. His finger traced the southern edge of the Mediterranean, stopping at the distant shores of North Africa.

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Basil II - The Emperor who restored the power of Rome (ALL PARTS) 2 hour documentary - History Marche

In the mid-year of 997, Emperor Basil campaigned in the Levant. The accession of Al-Hakim brought chaos to the Fatimid court, preventing the Egyptians from mounting an effective resistance to the Roman advance. As the Emperor prepared to push further south, news arrived of troubling developments in the West.

The Domestikos Gregory Taronites had focused so intently on Bulgaria and Moesia that he had neglected the western frontier, allowing former vassals to challenge Roman authority. In Illyria, Doge Pietro II Orseolo of Venice launched an offensive against pirates based along the Neretva River. While this action had a respectable casus belli, the Venetians had gone further, refusing to pay customs fees to the Croatian King, Svetoslav Suronja, and attacking coastal towns. They had even seized several islands, extending their influence over the Adriatic.

Matters escalated further when Pietro II assumed the title Dux Dalmatianorum, or Duke of the Dalmatians, a direct affront to Roman claims over the region.

In response, the Emperor has deigned to replace Taronites and entrusts his nephew, the future Emperor Constantine IX, as Domestikos.

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[SPOILER="Map"][/SPOILER]

In the Great Palace of Constantinople, there hung a map of the ancient Empire. It stretched from West to East, North to South, a testament to a bygone era. The map had been commissioned during the reign of Justinian, whose dreams of Renovatio Imperii, the restoration of the Empire, had shaped an age. Over the centuries, it had been meticulously preserved by succeeding generations, cherished as both a symbol of prestige and a relic of nostalgia. Even when emperors came to terms with the fact that the world it depicted was irretrievably lost, the map remained, a silent reminder of what once was.

And what will be again.

Constantine stood before it, the weight of history coursing through his veins. That he had been summoned back to Constantinople by the Emperor was no surprise to him. In fact, it was inevitable. Taronites was ill suited for expansion, he was too limited. Was his ascension really a surprise? Hence, he waited and focused on moulding himself. His uncle would never have tolerated him overstepping or throwing his weight around prematurely. The only viable path forward was to earn his endorsement through competence. As Tywin once said, "Any man who must call himself king is no true king." True power came through acclamation, the recognition of authority by others. In the old Republic, they had called it Imperium.

Authority.

And now, Constantine was poised to claim even more.

The Venetians would be the first to be humbled and swiftly. Allowing them their unchecked ambitions had already proven to be a costly mistake. Next, the Illyrians would be brought to heel, their loyalty restored to Rome. A strong West would ensure that the Queen of Cities would never be threatened. From there, the path southward would open. Sicily would come next. With Sicily secured, new opportunities would emerge: the subjugation of Sardinia and Corsica, perhaps. They were weak, unaffiliated, and ripe for conquest. And then there was North Africa, all waiting to be seized from the Zirids and brought back into the fold.

He had prepared for this. The armies would have food to fill their bellies, spirits to warm their bodies, and the alcohol used would be vital in patching up wounds. There was no better time to sally out.

"Porphyrogénnētos?"

He glanced up.

"It is time."

And thus, Constantine turned away, and faced the logothete. The logothete stepped forward, his rich garments shimmering in the light of the great hall. His voice, steady and formal, broke the silence.

"Come," he said, gesturing toward the golden doors of the Chrysotriklinos.

Constantine took a breath, then nodded. They entered from a side door, and his eyes were nearly blinded by candle-light and mosaics. The Chrysotriklinos was filled to the brim with courtiers, ofificals, archons, senators, and guards. The air was heavy with incense, its sweet and smoky aroma mingling with the faint scent of beeswax candles. The murmur of voices was subdued, a reverent hush falling over the assembly as Constantine entered. He strode forward, face severe, as the logothete led him towards the throne. His father awaited, standing in for his uncle, and clad in his own Imperial robes. He struck a respectable figure, if he wasn't a total hedonist most of the time.

Still, Constantine did not focus on such things as he fell to the ground in obeisance, pressing his forehead to the floor. Rising to his feet, he stood still, his head slightly bowed as the logothete stepped aside. Constantine VIII could never have been prouder. His son, his firstborn, would become Domestikos. Still, he had to maintain Imperial dignity. For once in his life, he spoke with authority.

"Constantine, you are entrusted with a great responsibility. You will command the armies of the Empire, protect its borders, and safeguard its people. Conduct yourself with the fear of God, with truth and justice. Show no favoritism, remain incorruptible, and act impartially toward all who are subject to you. These are the marks of one worthy of authority."

These were not his words but the words of his brother, sent from the East by messenger. Constantine VIII had no advice to give his son what his boy did not already know nor was he going to pretend he had any. Constantine VIII paused, letting his words settle, before continuing.

"And as you take on this role, remember also what stirs men to courage and valor. Inspire them, lead them, and prove yourself worthy of their loyalty."

Constantine the Younger inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, his voice steady as he replied, "I will serve with all my strength, in fear of God and for the glory of the Empire."

Constantine VIII raised his hand in blessing and said, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, our imperial power from God appoints you Domestikos of the divinely-guarded Scholai."

At these words, Constantine the Younger once again fell to the ground, bowing low in reverence. Rising, he approached to kiss the feet of the Emperor. He rose again, his eyes meeting his fathers. He saw nothing else in there but pride and joy. But for the Elder, he saw cold ambition flicker in the eyes of his son. Protocol in mind, the logothete stepped forward, gently gesturing for him to turn and bellowed,

"Our holy emperors, guided by God, have appointed this man Domestikos of the Scholai!"

The assembled men bowed their heads in deference, murmuring prayers for the Emperor's reign.

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[SPOILER="Great Palace of Constantinople"][/SPOILER]

Women had their specific places in the palace. Not even someone like Zoe could avoid this reality. Her recent stunt had done her no favors. Upon her return, her allowance was reduced, her attendants were halved, and new ones replaced the old. It was painful for Zoe, but she endured. She was still a Makedon. The founder of their dynasty had survived countless schemes, her uncle was a mighty Emperor fighting in the Levant and bringing glory to the Empire, and her brother had just been named Domestic of the Schools.

Zoe watched with pride as her brother offered obeisance to their father, the Junior Emperor to their uncle. In his absence, their father bore the responsibility of maintaining the court's dignity. Perhaps it was the added pressure, or perhaps it was because his son was rising in prominence, but he had spent an entire week ensuring everything was perfect.

"He looks impressive," Theodora remarked. Her sister had been silent until now, but she finally spoke.

"He will achieve great things," Zoe replied, preening slightly. A part of her felt envious. He was receiving honors while she and Theodora remained in the shadows. Yet it was not a shameful thing. Unlike most women of the court, she and Theodora had roles to play in the future, or so their brother promised them. When the ceremony ended, the court prepared to move to the Hippodrome where the common people would witness the elevation of the new Domestikos. Zoe and Theodora traveled together. The women of the court formed their own procession behind the senators and other officials. Veiled and flanked by eunuchs carrying bright banners, they moved with quiet grace.

The roar of the crowd greeted them as they entered the Hippodrome. The noise reverberated through Zoe's body. In the boxes above, the leaders of the Blue and Green chariot factions stood tall, ready to receive the procession. Senators, rectors, and other men of note paraded around the Hippodrome, drawing cheers and cries from the masses. When the circuit was complete, a booming voice proclaimed, "Our holy emperors, guided by God, have appointed this man Domestikos of the Scholai!"

The crowd erupted, shaking the ground and rattling the statues. Zoe felt her whole body tremble. She glanced at her brother, calm and resplendent in his skaramangion. He looked every bit the Emperor.

[SPOILER="Typical clothes"][/SPOILER]

Zoe caught herself. Not yet, she reminded herself. Their uncle still ruled, and her brother was not the type to scheme or claw for power. Honest, fair, and sincere, he was unlike the men she knew. Her legs trembled slightly, but she told herself it was the cold. When the procession returned to the palace, her brother and father disappeared into the Magnaura, the family's private residence. Zoe sighed, her legs aching from the long walk. Theodora, in contrast, looked perfectly composed. "How are you not exhausted?" Zoe asked.

"I exercise," Theodora replied without elaboration, walking away.

"Where are you going?" Zoe called after her.

"To see our new Domestikos."

Zoe hurried after her. The Porphyrogénnētē were followed by their attendants as they made their way to the Magnaura. Varangian guards, clad in heavy helmets and chain mail, saluted them as they passed. Inside, they found their father and brother lounging on couches. Constantine rose when they entered, a broad smile spreading across his face.

"Oh, angels have descended from heaven to take me away," he teased.

Theodora rolled her eyes, but Zoe struggled to hide her blush. "Congratulations, brother," Theodora said formally. Constantine gestured for the attendants to leave, leaving only his personal Varangian behind. Zoe suppressed a shiver at the sight of the hulking guard, remembering how his fist dented her borrowed armour. 

Constantine stepped forward and pulled Theodora into a bear hug. "Let me go, you oaf!" she protested, squirming. Zoe felt a pang of jealousy flare in her heart but the sight of her ever unflappable sister breaking composure was worth it. 

"Enough, both of you," their father said, his tone firm, tying and failing to keep decorum as Constantine turned. 

"Forgive me, Symbasileus," Constantine said, addressing their father. "It has been years since I last saw my sisters. With your permission, I would like to embrace them both."

Their father snorted, eyes flickering with indulgnece. "Since you asked, go ahead."

Zoe and Theodora yelped as Constantine swept them into a crushing hug. When he finally released them, the family settled onto the couches. Zoe smoothed her rumpled dress, though she did not truly mind.

"As much as I would like to stay longer," Constantine announced, "I must leave tomorrow. The Western Armies await my command."

"But you just got here!" Zoe protested.

"Duty comes before pleasure," he replied. "The longer I delay, the more emboldened our vassals in the west will become. Already, the Doge of Venice styles himself Dux Dalmatiae,"

"Grasping merchants," Zoe muttered. "Moneylenders, the lot of them."

Her father shot her a glance, not harsh, but the kind that reminded her that this was the talk of men. Zoe had been too used around her brother's tolerance that she forgot her place. She bowed her head but paused as Constantine spoke up. 

"They protect our western coasts and carry our goods, sister," Constantine reminded her while eyeing his father. He would tolerate her and Theodora's presence. 

Zoe scowled and muttered. "But to call himself Duke of the Dalmatians? Only Uncle or Father can bestow such a title..."

"Precisely why I must remind both Venice and Croatia of their place," Constantine affirmeded. "Suronja, the Croatian ruler, has failed to deal with pirates along his coast and may even profit from them. Venice, on the other hand, attacked without our permission and claims an unsanctioned title."

"What will you do?" their father asked. What was unasked was what the Emperor wanted. Constantine supplied them. 

"Uncle has objectives in mind. Firstly, we must reassert control over the Adriatic and ensure both vassals remember their allegiance. A show of force by the Western Army should suffice." 

"And the Doge's self-styled title?" Theodora asked, her eyes flickering with amusement.

"He will relinquish it," Constantine said. "But he must be compensated or he will resent us. Venice is grasping but he did do the Empire a service by ridding us of pirates."

"An honor, then." their father suggested. "It costs us nothing and reaffirms our authority."

Zoe wrinkled her nose, muttering just loud enough for Theodora to hear, "Giving him a title feels wrong. We are rewarding ambition."

"It will make them feel included in the wider Empire and costs us less than a fleet showing up at their door," Constantine pointed out before he continued.

Zoe still felt affronted at giving an Italian anything. Grasping ambitious snivelling cretins, they were. She loathed at the idea that they might even be related thanks to their shared ancestral homeland. "What do you propose in giving them, then?" father continued, ignoring his daughter's comments.

"I suggest Protospatharios," Constantine replied. "This would elevate his status among the Venetians as a servant of the Empire, while making it clear that his power derives from us. He must not gain any titles involving the region or land or he will twist it to mean he can enforce his authority there."

"Protospatharios?" Zoe asked. "You wish to hand him a title belonging to the Palace Guards?"

"I will petition the Emperor for it among other things," Constantine said. "It is a fitting reward for ridding the Adriatic of troublesome pirates. He can flaunt such a title as much as he pleases, but it will always underscore his position as our vassal."

"And what of Suronja?" their father asked, his brow lifting slightly.

"Suronja must be reminded of his obligations as a vassal," Constantine replied, his voice firm but measured. "His failure to address the pirates along his coast reflects poorly on him. It suggests either that he profited from their presence or that he is too weak to control his own domain. Regardless, we must handle him in a way that reinforces his authority as a king while making it clear that his power ultimately rests on our favor."

"So, present him as a strong ruler to his enemies at court but one who depends on the Empire for his strength?" Theodora asked, her tone thoughtful. "But why rely on such a weak ruler?" 

"Precisely. The most effective solution, one that secures the Adriatic for the Empire and stabilizes his rule, is to establish a permanent naval base in the region. In Ragusa, perhaps. Ragusa is our city, but our neglect has allowed it to drift from us. Reaffirming imperial presence there will bind it more securely to Constantinople while acting as a shield for Croatia. The Adriatic has been overlooked by the Empire for too long, and it is time to correct that neglect," Constantine surmised. "And well, a weak ruler is easier to influence, dear sister. Having one with opinions complicates things." 

Father hummed. "Do you believe Suronja will accept such a measure? A naval base so close to his kingdom might be seen as a threat." 

"It will be framed as a benefit," Constantine explained. "The base will protect his coasts, deter future piracy, and strengthen trade routes. It will also provide him with a visible sign of imperial support which will quiet his rivals and enemies at court. If he refuses, it will expose his weakness and justify further imperial oversight. He will have little choice but to accept."

Their father leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly. "A naval base in Ragusa...it is a bold move. If it is done correctly, it will remind all our vassals that the Empire is still the master of the seas."

Constantine inclined his head. "That is my intention. A strong imperial presence in the Adriatic will not only stabilize Croatia but also remind Venice of its place. Both vassals will see that their ambitions are futile without imperial favor."

Theodora crossed her arms, thinking. "And what of Venice? Will the Doge not see this as a challenge to his influence in the region?"

"He may grumble," Constantine admitted, "but the Doge is a pragmatic man. He desires prestige, not conflict. With a naval base in Ragusa, he will also see that the Empire is serious about maintaining order in the Adriatic. It will serve as a reminder that his place is as a servant, not a rival."

Their father steepled his fingers, his expression contemplative. "It is a delicate balance you propose but it is sound. If both Suronja and Pietro are handled correctly, we will reassert our dominance over the Adriatic without the need for open conflict."

"Something which Venice will welcome ultimately. They are traders first and foremost. Making money shall be their primary interest. I will be personally offering Venice some profitable business opportunities that will make them accept. As for Croatia, Suronja simply wishes to survive. He must accept." Constantine ended.

"What if Venice does not accept?" Zoe asked. That always was a possibility.

"Well, dear sister," Constantine smiled, eyes twinkling. "Then we can punish the Italian to what matters the most to him: trade. We can raise the other trading cities with lucrative offers. Perhaps first rights to silk and spices?"

"Oh..." Zoe said before grinning. "That must hurt."

"It will. Venice must be reminded, firmly, that its wealth exists because we allow it. It can also end if we demand it," Constantine smiled. "Whatever dreams of empire it has cannot be made to stand for it belongs to one already, the Roman Empire. One God, One Emperor, One Empire."

Constantine VIII cleared his throat.

"Sorry, father," Brother apologized.

"Apology accepted, son."

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The dinner that night was nothing short of magnificent. It was held in the Akkubita, the Hall of the Nineteen Couches, a space steeped in tradition where diners reclined and ate in the ancient Roman fashion. Zoe found herself seated beside Theodora, their father and brother positioned on the most prominent couches, as was customary. The flicker of golden lamplight danced across the mosaic walls, bathing the hall in a warm glow that seemed to amplify the grandeur of the occasion. Music played in the corners,

As servants moved gracefully between the couches, bearing platters of roasted meats, honey-soaked pastries, and bowls of exotic fruits, Zoe allowed herself a moment to savor the atmosphere. The scent of spiced wine and freshly baked bread mingled in the air. It was a feast fit for an Emperor, a reminder of their family's enduring wealth and power.

Yet beneath the splendor, Zoe's thoughts churned. The conversation from earlier in the day lingered in her mind. Constantine's plans for the Adriatic were bold and decisive, but she could not help wondering whether they would be enough to quell the ambitions of men like Pietro. Her gaze drifted to her brother, who was speaking animatedly with their father and other dignitaries. Even here, in the comfort of their own hall, Constantine carried himself with the calm authority of a commander. His words were measured, his gestures precise. He had a way of making even the most audacious strategies sound inevitable.

Zoe stared at him, so confident, so sure.

Her legs rubbed a little closer.

"He's convincing, isn't he?"

Zoe froze. Theodora had leaned in a little closer. Quickly composing herself, Zoe purged her mind if impure thoughts as she kept her expression neutral. "Our brother always is, Theodora. But convincing words do not always make for easy outcomes."

Theodora arched an eyebrow, her tone sharpening just slightly. "Do you doubt our brother?"

Zoe bristled, though she hid it behind a sip of wine. "The Doge of Venice may chafe at being told to relinquish his title. Men like them do not take kindly to reminders of their place."

Her sister's lips curved into a faint smile. "And yet, they will have no choice. That is the point. Brother will ensure that their only path forward is to comply. It is not about what they want, it is about what they must do."

Zoe glanced at Theodora, momentarily struck by the steel in her sister's voice. "You sound so certain."

"Because I am," Theodora replied simply. "The Empire has endured for centuries because it knows how to bend men's ambitions to its will. This is no different."

Before Zoe could respond, the room fell quiet. All eyes turned to Constantine as he rose from his couch, his commanding presence drawing every gaze. He clapped his hands once, a sharp sound that echoed through the hall.

"I would first like to thank my uncle and father for their endorsement of my rank. Without their guidance, I would not stand where I am today."

Laughter rippled through the room, goblets raised in salute. 

"As much as I appreciate this celebration," Constantine continued, his voice steady and resonant, "duty calls me back to the field. But I give you my vow: as I rise, so too shall we all. Our power in the West will be secured!"

The hall erupted in applause, the sound reverberating through the mosaic-lined chamber.

"And yet," Constantine continued, raising a hand to quiet the applause, "before I go, I wish to leave you with something more than words. A song to mark a new beginning." 

A murmur of intrigue rippled through the room as Constantine gestured as doors opened and in came men who could only be singers. 

Constantine turned back to the gathering, his expression softening. "This composition is one I have commissioned myself, inspired by the triumphs of our history and today. I hope it stirs in you the same pride I feel for our Empire."

Zoe sat straighter as a low hum echoed around. The lead singer, a younger boy, sang. "Firmly, I pledge. My loyalty..."

As the singers' voices rose in unison, their harmonies cascading through the hall like a wave, the room fell utterly silent. The melody was haunting, stirring, and triumphant all at once. That was Rome. That was who they were, descendants of the mightiest Empire that could ever exist. Zoe's mind brought her back to Justinian's map of the Imperium. Britannia, Gallia, Hispania, Italia. The world at their fingertips, at their feet. She got herself out of it, then glanced around. The notaries had their gazes fixed on the performers with expressions ranging from awe to reverence. Some exchanged furtive glances, their admiration evident, while others seemed lost in the music, their faces softened by emotion. Others began to cry.

As the final verse echoed through the chamber:

"And across the fatherland

our song will resonate

A time of joy and pride

for Eternal Rome!"

The singers held the last note, their voices blending into a powerful crescendo before fading into silence. For a brief moment, the hall stood suspended in time, the weight of the performance lingered. Then, as if released from a spell, the room erupted into applause. The sound was thunderous, an orgy of clapping, stomping, and cheers that reverberated against the mosaic walls. Some of the dignitaries leapt to their feet in an uncharacteristic display of enthusiasm, their goblets raised high. Theodora sat back, her expression carefully neutral, though her eyes gleamed with approval. Beside her, Zoe clutched her goblet tightly, her face unreadable. She could feel the energy in the room, the way Constantine had captivated them all. It was then, Zoe realized what her brother was doing.

The song, so haunting and triumphant, was a calculated move, a tool to inspire not just loyalty but unity. It spoke of Rome's glory, of its might and endurance, of its unshakable destiny. Zoe glanced around the hall and saw its effects unfold. Those in the court often were at odds to one another, it was simply natural in a place of vipers. But now, they were united in their awe and admiration. Even the most cynical among them couldn't hide the spark of emotion in their eyes. Constantine had brought them to a place beyond politics, beyond personal gain. For this moment, they saw only Rome, its grandeur, its legacy, its future.

And Constantine had positioned himself as its champion. In the context of their vassals in disarray, he was portraying himself as performing something holy and sacrosanct. She had no doubt that he would be spreading this song around to the plebes who, ever fickle, would latch onto it. The dynatoi themselves would hesitate if they would try to interfere with his plans. How dare they interfere with the Domestikos's holy mission? 

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A/N: Ya'll gooners, rejoicem, for inceinso has arrived. Now, why now? Well, they have not seen each other for awhile now and the heart grows fonder of things that go away. Funnily enough, it is very Eastern Roman to do mental gymnastics about stuff like this. In A Cabinet of Byzantine Curiosities, Kaldellis wrote down many such instances of Romans trying to say "Nu uh, we did not do the nasty'' Read it. It's legit fun. 

Anyway, things are looking up. We are now going to setting the West into order. Constantine may plan one thing but Pietro might react differently. He will not take to standing down lying down. Now, realistically, is there really anything stopping from the Emperor in promoting him? No, nah. He has been so quiet and unproblematic that there is literally no one else better to replace Taronites. They've fought with each other since he was a snot-nosed teen. Basil knows his nephew and trusts him at this point.

EDIT: Removed the nasty part. I will have to find a way to put it in QQ.