Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 20 (Historical Fiction SI)

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"What the hell is taking them so long?" Varda, Ban of Croatia, muttered.

He and his party had been waiting on their side of the Danube for thirty minutes, yet the Romans still hadn't descended. His irritation grew with each passing moment.

"Maybe they want us to come to them?" one of his riders suggested.

Varda clicked his tongue in annoyance. "We already traveled half of Croatia to meet them, and now they want us to cross the damn river just to talk?" He gestured sharply. "Jovan, signal the Romans to come to us."

"Yes, my lord," Jovan replied, dismounting his horse. He glanced around for something to use to gain their attention. Finding no better option, he strode forward and began shouting.

"Hey! Over here!" he bellowed.

That did the trick. The Romans aboard their ships noticed him, pointing in his direction. Eventually, one of the dromons lowered a dinghy. Varda exhaled in relief as sailors and an important-looking officer began making their way toward shore. They weren't alone. Alongside them sat a fur-clad Magyar.

The dinghy made landfall, and the sailors disembarked, forming a line between the Romans and Varda. He urged his horse forward. The officer blinked as the Croatian leader saluted him and introduced himself.

"I bring word and greetings from my king, Svetoslav Trpimirović," Varda began. "He appreciates Rome's swift arrival, but the dromons are on the wrong side of his kingdom." His eyes flicked toward the Magyar, who translated the statement for the officer. The Roman, after a brief pause, responded.

"The Emperor Basil did not send us north for such purposes. He seeks clarification on what you mean by reinforcements," the Magyar translated into Croat.

Varda frowned, his confusion evident. "Did the Emperor not receive the King's message about the raids on our coasts by his loathsome vassal, the Doge of Venice?" 

In the previous year, the Venetians stopped paying their taxes to the previous king, Stephen Držislav, for safe passage across their waters. And with his death, had taken to raiding their coasts and even took some islands. In response, Svetoslav organized an army to repulse them as well as sent a messenger south to Constantinople for assistance. It was his right to ask for aid for was he not Reges Dalmatie et Chroatie, a friend of Rome? And not just that, a Patrician as well?

The Magyar translated for the officer who listened to the request with a quiet disarming look. To Varda, that only made him look aloof and unreadable. The man then locked eyes with Varda and spoke deliberately, the Magyar translating for him. 

"Our presence here is apart of a wider plan. Send word to your King that the Emperor has a response for his vassal, the Doge." 

The reply was unhurried, in control of the situation. But Varda needed something more. "My King needs to know that Roman support is assured in punishing the Venetians." 

The officer did not blink. His hands rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, his voice carrying no hint of urgency as the Magyar rendered it into Croat.

"The Emperor remembers all who dwell within his order. The Venetians will be weighed in that balance."

Varda's brows knit. "That is not a pledge."

"Rest assured, my lord, that considerations are being undertaken and that the Emperor shall have peace between his vassals," the Magyar translated. 

They were getting nowhere, that was clear to Varda. Whatever the Romans had in store, they were going to reveal it at the appropriate time. 

Varda straightened in the saddle, his expression smoothing into the polished neutrality of a man who understood when a door would not open further.

"Then I shall convey your words to my king," he said evenly, his voice carrying just enough for the sailors to hear.

The officer inclined his head, the faintest shadow of a smile still at the corner of his mouth. Varda returned the gesture, neither warm nor cold, then wheeled his horse. His riders fell in behind him as he led them back toward the Croatian bank, the rhythmic clop of hooves and the river's low murmur filling the silence.

Only once the dromons were half-hidden by the bend of the river did he speak, low enough for his men alone. "Fucking Romans," he muttered. 

"What did he mean, my lord?" Jovan asked. "Will the Romans fight with us?" 

Varda didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the winding path ahead. The Danube glittered faintly in the late afternoon light, but the sight did nothing to ease his mood. Finally, he exhaled through his nose.

"The Romans don't speak plainly unless they're giving orders," he said. "What he meant was that they will act when it suits them, not us. I am quite sure that the Romans will step in, though." 

"What makes you so sure?" Jovan asked, brows furrowed. 

"Because Ragusa on the coast is also their city too. Surely, the Emperor will not abandon those he considers his?" Varda pointed out. 

As the horsemen rode away, the Droungarios Andreas inwardly sighed in relief. In truth, he had no idea what the Croats meant. Venice raiding their coasts? His orders were to sail up the Danube, deploy Ashot Taronites and his men, then maintain control. The Danube was a long river to travel, difficult with sometimes narrow confines and potentially hostile tribes. But they had managed to navigate, helped by the returning Magyars who went with them, and many in what was old Illyria trembled at the sight of Rome. Power as as much theater as well as action. Their swift and forward travel made it seem that Rome was here in force with a great fleet instead of second-rate ships and river barges travelling up the river. Andreas then turned, ordering the men to get back on the dinghy. A message had to be sent downstream. 

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Gregory Taronites set the letter down on the table. Around him, faces flickered with intrigue.

"So now it's not just the Magyars petitioning us, but the Croats as well," he muttered.

"How come we didn't hear about this sooner?" Damian Dalassenos asked, his brow furrowing.

"Because if the Croats only just sent their messenger, it's likely the envoys have only now arrived in Constantinople," Constantine chimed in, tapping the table with a finger.

Ever since his appointment, Gregory had found his duties far more administrative than military. The Bulgarians were exhausted from their prolonged conflicts, and the other Balkan lords had submitted. The tedium of his position was compounded by the Purple-Born adding even more administrative issues on his plate. He did not expect to be at the receiving end of petitions from the Collegia of all people but such as it was. 

"So, what do we do, then?" Damian pressed. "We help them?" 

"I already know my uncle would never pass up an opportunity to flex Roman power," Constantine said with a wry smile. "I say we go west and secure the coasts."

Gregory shot him a sharp look. The Domestikos and Damian exchanged glances. "The Emperor has not ordered us to do so," Gregory reminded, his tone firm.

"Yes," Constantine countered, leaning forward, "but you are the Domestikos of the West. You were put in charge of the Western armies for a reason. Use them."

"My orders are to secure Bulgaria and Moesia, not to respond to every conflict that arises," Gregory replied, barely keeping his irritation in check.

"With respect, Domestikos," Constantine said, his voice measured but pointed, "as the Commander-in-Chief of the Western forces, you are also charged with defending our territories and vassals. The Croats are under our suzerainty; you are obliged to act. And let's not forget, the Serbs in the mountains have yet to descend and renew their oaths to Rome. We must address that as well."

Gregory's jaw tightened. His gaze flicked to Damian, who remained silent but clearly wrestling with the arguments. Finally, Gregory spoke, his tone deliberate. "I will not act rashly. The Emperor entrusted me with the integrity of the West, not with throwing armies at every problem without consultation. If action is required, it will be done with deliberation and purpose. Not because of pressure or impatience."

Constantine opened his mouth to respond, but Gregory raised a hand to silence him. "Protocol must be followed, Porphyrogénnētos, and even you are subordinate to it. Until then, we will maintain vigilance. If he commands us to act, we will act. Not before."

And with that, Gregory left the room, leaving Damian and Constantine alone. The Dalassenos Patriarch glanced at the Purple-born and saw him impatiently tapping the table. Damian had been in the Western Army for a year, mostly beating down some rebellious Bulgarians and bandits that thought themselves unconquered. He only had met the Purple-born a few times throughout his service for the man had thrown himself into administrative work with reckless abandon. 

"In one hand, an unimaginative Domestikos ensures he will never rebel," Constantine muttered, his voice light but edged with critique. "On the other hand, an unimaginative Domestikos will need a guiding hand every few minutes."

Damian caught the underlying message, clear as day. "Then perhaps the Domestikos ought to be led by an officer who seizes the moment?" he replied, his voice deliberately neutral.

Constantine turned his head, side-eyeing Damian with a faint curl of amusement playing on his lips before shaking his head. "Perhaps such an officer would thrive in the ancient days of the Empire, when swift aggression was often the answer. But we no longer have the luxury of the world that was. I understand the Domestikos's hesitation."

"Hesitation wins us no favors," Damian countered bluntly. "Italy is a stone's throw from Illyria. If we send a message to the Emperor, it will take days to reach him and days more for a response. By then, the Croats will be reeling, and Roman authority will be diminished."

Constantine arched a brow. "And how sure are you that the Croats will be defeated? Or that the Venetians will get away with more than they can handle?"

Damian shook his head. "I'm not. But I know the Serbs have had a year to swear allegiance to the Emperor and have not, despite being closer to us. I know the Croats are asking for our help now. And I know the Venetians, who are supposedly loyal to the Emperor, are raiding a fellow vassal without consequence. And I know why."

Constantine leaned forward slightly, curiosity glinting in his eyes. "And what reason might that be?"

Damian's tone sharpened. "Taronites. He has failed to secure the allegiance of the Serbs. He has neglected the Croats. He has allowed the Adriatic to spiral out of control, and that neglect has emboldened the Venetians to act with impunity."

To openly criticize the Domestikos was dangerous for that would be akin to criticizing the Emperor. But the Purple-Born was criticizing him as well and so, he felt safe enough to voice his concerns. His cautious, unimaginative leadership had left a vacuum of authority, and now the Empire's enemies and vassals alike were exploiting it. 

"But he was also correct that the Emperor ordered him to secure Bulgaria and Moesia," Constantine countered. 

"He is Domestikos of the West," Damian returned, arms crossed over his chest. "Not Domestikos of Bulgaria. I ask forgiveness, Porphyrogénnētos, but last I checked, Illyria is in the West." 

Constantine snorted then erupted in a short fit of laughter. He shook his head. "You are quite right, Patrikios. But what do you suggest we do, then?" 

"You are Purple-Born," Damian said sharply. "The West needs a hand that can seize the moment. If that hand is not the Domestikos's…perhaps it must be another's."

Constantine's brows shot up, and for a heartbeat his mouth hung open in a show of disbelief. "Another's hand?" he echoed, leaning back. "Patrikios… what could you possibly mean by that?"

Damian met his gaze without hesitation. "I mean, Porphyrogénnētos, that if the Domestikos will not act, then someone else must. And that someone is you."

The initial spark of feigned offense in Constantine's eyes dimmed into something sharper, more calculating. His fingers tapped the table once, twice, before stilling. "Ah," he said quietly, as though tasting the thought for the first time. "So that is what you mean."

"Yes," Damian grunted quickly. "Why not you?" 

"That is..." Constantine breathed in softly. "That is quite an endorsement, Patrikios." 

"You are Porphyrogénnētos," Damian pointed out again. "It is beneath you to serve a man like Taronites. You have worked hard as well, turning this land productive. It is by your hand that the Bulgarian prince died." 

Constantine fixed his gaze on Damian, letting his words settle, before he replied, calmly. "Patrikios, I share your concern, I do. But the Domestikos is in his office because the Emperor deigned it so. To take the Domestikos's place now would be to invite division in the West, and I will not be the cause of that." 

Damian blinked, disbelief in his eyes. His jaw tightened. "Porphyrogénnētos, with respect, that day may never come if you wait for it to be handed to you." He leaned forward, voice low but fierce. "You should take his place. Now. You have the name, the will. Rome needs you."

For a moment, the only sound was the slow tap of Constantine's finger against the table. Then he asked softly. "I have your support, then?" 

Damian nodded quickly. "The Dalassenoi have only ever been loyal servants to the Emperor. If you wish to rise to his office, you have our support." 

​Constantine nodded gravelly. "Then your support, I gratefully accept." 

Damian beamed. Finally! "For Rome." 

Constantine smiled softly, and replied slowly. "For Rome." 

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A/N: Gregory had his uses. Sadly, his services are no longer required. 

So by this time, Venice and Croatia were both vassals of Constantinople, at least nominally. But when the Croatian King died, Venice began to raid the shit out of the coast. Mostly to deal with pirates and raiders there as well as to flex his muscles. OTL, Basil let it slide because he needed Venice more than Croatia. But with the West mostly secure, there is a full field army just waiting to be used. 

Gregory has also kept to his orders stubbornly. Talk about a lack of imagination.