Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 17 (Historical Fiction SI)

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The winds that swept across the plains carried a biting chill, but Andorjas felt nothing of it. His blood burned hot as he gripped his bow, his calloused fingers guiding an arrow into place. The distant rumble of hooves shook the earth, a thunder that grew louder with every moment. Shouts in Hungarian and German echoed through the cold air, the names of God and King Stephan rising carried in the air. 

Andorjas glanced at his companions, their faces burned with defiance and spite. Loyal Hungarians one and all, sworn to the true king Koppany, who by all rights was the one that deserved to call himself their master through sacred law. Law that Stephan and the traitors were defying. 

"We live here!" Andorjas shouted, "We die here!" 

"Uurah!" his kinsmen yelled, bracing as the first wave of riders broke into view, the sunlight glinting off their polished armor. The Franks led the charge, lances glinting and faces locked in bloodthirsting lust. Andorjas raised his hand, signaling the archers. A volley of arrows arched into the air, darkening the sky for a moment before plunging into the advancing ranks. Some fell, horses crashing to the ground and riders tumbling into the dirt, but the enemy pressed on, their armour shrugging off the attack. 

A cry rose from the band as the enemy drew closer. Andorjas unsheathed his saber, the curved blade catching the light. The clash defeaned as the first riders met the line of defenders. Spears struck shields, swords bit into flesh, and the ground was slick with blood. Andorjas moved like a storm, his blade cutting down a rider who had broken through. He turned, parrying a strike from another, the force of it nearly driving him to his knees. But he would hold, he had to. Their families were fleeing on the boats with their treasures. He was not going to let the traitors and the Franks violate his wife and enslave his children. He would give them time for as long as he could! 

But reality was often different to the wants of men and their line was buckling. The Franks had crashed into them with a force that shattered shields and scattered men. Andorjas and his men did not fight like this but on horseback, using bow to harass and saber to pick off stragglers. But the traitors and their allies had defeated them on the field before and they had their families to think of. And so, here they were.

Andorjas shouted for order, his voice barely audible over the chaos, but it was no use. The band was in full retreat, running toward the river where their boats waited. Some of the boats had already sailed away, but many were still at the docks waiting, perhaps for their menfolk to join them. 

Fools!

Andorjas reached the docks, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He turned to see his comrades fighting to the last, their backs to the river as the Franks closed in. The boats rocked in the current, villagers shouting as they pushed off from the shore. The defenders began to jump into the boats, to the urgent cries of the kin. Andorjas stayed until the last moment, his saber clenched in his hand as he watched the Franks claim the land he had called home. But a shadow loomed.

Andorjas fell hard to the frozen earth, the breath knocked from his lungs as a Frank rider loomed over him. The horse reared, its hooves scraping the air, and the knight brought his blade high, ready to deliver the killing blow. Andorjas stared up, blood streaking his face, his fingers grasping for his saber just out of reach. The steel above him glinted in the pale light, the knight's cold eyes fixed on his target.

BYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!

The sound of the horn rang through Andorjas's chest, freezing him in place. Time seemed to slow, the din of battle fading into a muffled hum, his world narrowing to the single, deafening note that hung in the air. His head turned sharply toward the river, his lips parted in shallow breaths as his chest tightened.

Then he saw them.

Chi-Rho.

X and P, united in one, crimson letters on pristine white sails that billowed in the icy wind. The ships cut through the river's surface, their dragon-headed prows snarling as though alive, their oars moving in perfect unison. The water churned in their wake, flecked with frost and foam, glinting in the pale light of the winter sun. Andorjas felt his heart stop. The cries reached him next, foreign and strange, carried by the wind like an incantation. The voices of the rowers rose and fell in rhythm, their chant alien yet commanding, as if drawing power from the river itself. 

The fleet stretched farther than he could count, a moving wall of white sails and dark wood, each vessel larger than anything he had ever seen. These were no simple rafts or trading boats like the ones his people used. These were warships, their hulls sleek and deadly, their sails catching the wind like wings. The sheer size of them dwarfed the fragile boats his kin were fleeing to, making the vessels at the dock seem pitiful by comparison.

Andorjas's lips moved, but no sound came. He stared as though in a trance, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what lay before him. He had heard tales of the Romans and their might, of their empire that stretched to the ends of the earth. He also heard tell too of their city, magnificent and unlike anything on earth. The so-called Queen of Cities, the World's desire that was Constantinople. But the stories were old, spoken around campfires by men who themselves were told it from other men. Andorjas himself never met a Roman, faraway from their lands he was. Yet here they were, turning to the shore.

For a moment, Andorjas forgot the Frank above him, the blade poised to strike. He forgot the chaos of the battlefield, the cries of his comrades, the boats rocking at the docks. All he could see were the ships. Their sails seemed to glow in the sunlight, the Chi-Rho emblazoned upon them like a divine mark. The horn sounded again, deeper and more resonant this time, and it struck something primal within him.

His fingers trembled as they reached for his saber, not out of defiance but out of instinct, a need to hold something solid in the face of such overwhelming power. He felt no courage, no rage, no fire in his veins. Only awe. Andorjas's gaze shifted back to the knight, whose blade now hovered in midair, forgotten as his eyes fixed on the river. The Frank's expression, once cold and resolute, softened into something unfamiliar: hesitation. For the first time, Andorjas saw doubt ripple through his enemy.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone. The knight's jaw tightened as decision settled over him. He pulled hard on the reins, urging his horse to turn sharply away from the fallen warrior at his feet. The steed kicked up clods of frozen dirt as it wheeled around, its rider casting a final glance at the approaching fleet before spurring it into a gallop. Andorjas struggled to rise, his body trembling, as he looked past the knight. The others were turning as well. The Franks, so unstoppable just moments before, were retreating to the confusion of their allies. Their formations broke apart as they wheeled their horses and began to flee, their banners snapping in the wind as they rushed away from the riverbank.

The sight left Andorjas stunned. These were men who had crushed his people's defenses, who had driven them from the fields and pressed them to the edge of survival. Yet now, before the approach of the Romans, they scattered like startled deer.

Why?

His question was answered as one of the traitors rode up, curious as to the intentions of the Romans. But before he could say anything, he cried out in pain as an arrow struck his neck. He fell back onto the ground, dead. Another horn sounded from one of the ships, its deep, guttural note rolling across the river and through the trees. Shields rose in unison as the ramps of the ships dropped with a resounding crash onto the riverbank. The first line of soldiers disembarked with practiced precision, their movements fluid and disciplined. Their armor gleamed, their helmets crowned with crests, and their shields bore the same Chi-Rho that adorned their sails. They stepped onto the frozen soil as if they had done so a thousand times before, weapons drawn and ready. Then, they surged forward, their shields locking. Their spears thrust outward, their march steady and relentless. 

The traitors fled. 

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Ashot Taronites stepped down the planks, his iron boots echoing as his men secured the village. In the open field, trying to challenge steppe horsemen was suicide. But in a tight village with no room to manoeuvre? They were easy pickings. Shadows seemed to linger in the village as a man approached them. His guards lifted their shields but he bid them to lower it. 

The man's face was afraid but also filled with awe. A defender, Ashot judged, as he was bloody and sweaty all over. He spoke, his mouth moving but Ashot could not understand him. Ashot's lips thinned but then, someone spoke up quickly. 

"He wants to know who you are and what you are doing in his village," quickly translated Toldy, his Magyar translator. Toldy was not a commoner but a noble, one of the many sons that were sent to Constantinople to be converted. Cupan was desperate for their support, it seemed, and either through charisma or force, sent a sizeable number of nobles south. Some remained in the Queen of Cities, hostages and wards of the Empire, while others were on ships heading north. 

"Tell him that the Emperor Basil sent us here to support Cupan, his king, and that we are in need of his village as a base," Ashot said, and Toldy quickly translated. The man listened closely, and his face was bright with shock. He turned from Ashot and onto the other ships that were sailing past them. The fleeing Magyars on the boats watched with trepidation the exchange but when it was clear the man was unharmed, they slowly returned to the village. 

The man turned to them again, his mouth speaking quickly. 

"You are friends, then?" Toldy translated. 

​Friends seemed generous. But apt. Ashot met the man's gaze and nodded, to the man's visible relief. He pointed to himself. "Andorjas," he introduced. 

"Ashot," Taronites returned back. 

The plan for the Magyars was simple and without fuss. A series of bases were to be established along the Danube river as arteries of supply that could send men, material, and horses north quickly. Ashot did not want a particularly flashy campaign for that was uncessary and their presence here was awe enough. In fact, he did not even seem to think that his men would be seeing much battle, merely acting as transport for supplies. He still did not totally discount it however as from the distance, he had seen the Frankish cavalry run through the village. He too had a cadre of cataphracts to wield against the foe, he only needed an opportunity to use them. 

And it would come quickly. 

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Koppany knew sending emissaries south was a risk, but it was a necessary one. The Magyar chieftains were abandoning their heritage, drawn to Stephan's alliances with the West, to the power of the Franks and their cavalry. They were forgetting themselves: sons of Isten, keepers of ancient traditions. As Koppany deliberated, news reached him: to the south, the Tsar of Bulgaria and his son had fallen in battle. The Romans were victorious, their armies sweeping through the Balkans to claim the Tsar's lands.

And so, he made a gamble.

Why Constantinople?

Alone in his tent, Koppany held the plate aloft, the words inscribed on it gleaming faintly: REX UNGARORUM ET DUX TOTIUS PANNONIAE. King of Hungarians and Duke of all Pannonia. His mind went back to the Queen of Cities, its magnificence, the thousand banners that flowed in the wind, the incense from burners, and the throaty singing of priests as he and his nobles were baptized under the eyes of Christ Pantokrator. It was a moment that even in his old age of fourty seven that Koppany would never forget. 

If becoming Christian meant that he would rule Hungary, it was a sacrifice that he was willing to make. By law, it was he who was the Grand Prince and not Stephan, that upjumped little cur. 

​He smiled.

True, he had the support of the west, that insect. But he had the support of Constantinople. Even here, in far Hungary, even the lowest slave knew of Rome and its Emperor. To be acknowledged by Constantinople meant something no Magyar lord had ever achieved: a place in the world's oldest and most enduring order.  With the Emperor's blessing, Koppany was no longer a lord of the steppes but a ruler in his own right, one worthy of standing alongside the great powers of the world. 

He did not come back with empty titles, no. The Romans sent a force of men as well, heavy cavalry that could counter the Frankish knights that drove away his lighter horsemen. Furthermore, he brought priests to Christianize his people and officials to teach his lords better ways of securing their power. It...drove away some of his more zealous supporters for were they not fighting to preserve the old ways? But the more keener ones knew better and those, he would keep close. 

For now, he had the prestige and the force. All he had to do now was confront the usurper. He dropped the plate among the piles of treasures he gained and turned out of his tent. He had a war to wage.

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The air in Esztergom carried the scent of the surrounding forests: pine and oak mingling with the earthy aroma of the riverbanks. Smoke rose from low, timber-framed homes with thatched roofs, their walls reinforced with mud and stone. The narrow streets were little more than dirt paths, winding chaotically through the settlement, alive with the sounds of trade. Merchants from distant lands: Slavs, Bulgarians, and even the occasional Frank hawked goods from rickety stalls: furs, iron tools, bolts of dyed cloth, and pungent spices that hinted of lands even farther east. At the heart of Esztergom stood the great wooden hall of the Grand Prince. Its long, sloping roof was adorned with carved wooden beams depicting horses, wolves, and other symbols of Magyar strength. But now, such symbols were being covered or destroyed entirely. Crosses were in their place, Christ nailed in suffering to absolve the sins of mankind, and in this hall, voices rose. 

Amalric knelt on knee, his face severe, as the court bickered. 

"The Greeks dare to intrude on lands that are not theirs!" bellowed a lord, his fists slamming against the heavy oak table. His thick, fur-lined mantle shook with the force of his rage. "I say we take up our swords and meet them before they establish further!" 

​Roars of assent came with that declaration. Hungary was under Imperial protection and the purview of the Emperor. And the pretenders dare to intrude upon it? 

"Why didn't you meet them, Amalric? Are you a coward?" the same noble sneered, turning to Amalric. 

He did not rise to the insult. "To meet the Greeks at that village was a surprise. They carried heavy infantry with long spears. I am not so foolish as to fight such men in close quarters without room to charge," he returned bluntly. 

"Well, you could have done something! Anything! And you ran away just like that!" the noble bellowed, face pink with rage. 

​A staff hit the floor, silencing the screaming. Heads turned to its source. 

Stephan, King of Hungary, stood. At his side, his wife Gisella who looked upon her husband with worry. The young king turned to Amalric and smiled. "We thank you for returning to us, my lord. It was the right thing to do in such circumstances. I applaud you for your wisdom." 

Amalric bowed deeply. "Your Majesty," he murmured. 

Stephan then turned to the bellowing lord, his face still gentle. "But my lord Adalbert is also correct that something must be done against this new threat. Vecelin? What say you?" 

A man stood, tall and armoured. His face was weathered from years of campaigns, his dark eyes sharp and calculating as he surveyed the gathered nobles. One hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, the other gesturing as he began to speak. "My king," Vecelin addressed Stephan, his voice measured and steady, "the situation demands caution as much as it demands action. The Greeks are not mere raiders or undisciplined brigands. They are a highly trained force, their tactics honed over centuries of conquest."

He took a step forward, his boots echoing softly on the wooden floor. "Their heavy infantry, as Lord Amalric has already observed, fights as a cohesive wall of shields and spears. Not only that, they too have heavy cavalry as well, armed not too different from us. To engage them head-on in open ground would be bloody, not unlike fighting the Pagans." 

The hall fell silent, the nobles listening intently. Vecelin's words, though unflinching, carried the weight of experience.

"But," he continued, his tone sharpening, "the Greeks are not invincible. Their strength is also their weakness. Their formations are rigid, their movements deliberate but slow. In the forests and hills of Hungary, they will struggle to maneuver. If we choose the battlefield wisely, we can neutralize their advantages."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall, though some of the more hot-headed nobles still shifted restlessly. Vecelin's gaze swept across the room, landing briefly on Lord Adalbert, who scowled but said nothing.

"And what of Koppány?" one of the nobles interjected, his voice tinged with unease. "If he has the Greeks' support, his forces will be emboldened. Perhaps even draw some of the clans to his side?" 

A cry of indignation came from the Hungarians. "You dare question our loyalty to our king?" a Hungarian noble cried. 

"Not you," the noble quickly defended himself. "But there are those clans who still dither on who to support. Doesn't his Majesty Stephan have an uncle who refuses to come to court and pay homage to his rightful king?" 

Gyula controlled a region inside Transylvania. He too had many Magyars under him. While an Arpad, he did not try to claim the title of Grand Prince of Magyars. 

"My uncle would not support Koppany for the same reason he would not support me, my lord," Stephan answered quickly. "He would rather be on his own, independent and free to do as he wishes." 

Stephan's calm reply momentarily doused the tension, but the unease in the hall was palpable. The gathered nobles shifted in their seats, their expressions a mixture of doubt and determination. The mention of divided loyalties and rogue clans had struck a nerve. Vecelin, ever watchful, allowed the murmurs to settle before continuing.

"It is still a valid concern, sire," Vecelin said, his voice cutting through the uneasy silence. "Koppány's alliance with the Greeks may embolden dissenters, even if they do not openly declare for him. A divided Hungary is a vulnerable Hungary. We must act decisively to demonstrate that neither the Greeks nor Koppány can exploit these divisions."

Stephan nodded thoughtfully, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest of his chair. "And how do you suggest we address this, Vecelin?"

Vecelin's lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his response. "We must deal with Koppány first. His forces are closer, his rebellion more immediate. If we crush him swiftly and decisively, we send a message to the clans: rebellion will not be tolerated, and Hungary will remain united under your rule, Majesty." 

Stephan regarded Vecelin for a long moment. At his side, Queen Gisella spoke finally, her voice carrying a quiet strength. "A swift victory against Koppány will also weaken the Greeks' faith in him as an ally. There are lands that are occupied by him and his lords, no?. I suggest that the armies march forth and deal with those. By retaking this lands first, we project an image of strength. The Greeks would still be trying to establish themselves now and would not be able to muster their forces well." 

The king gave a small smile at his wife's words, then turned back to the hall. "Very well. Vecelin, you will oversee the campaign against Koppány." 

The Frank nodded, a closed fist against his chest. "Let your will be done," 
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Stephan's gaze swept the hall, his voice firm as he addressed the gathered nobles. "Hungary stands at a crossroads. If we falter now, we risk losing everything: our lands, our freedom, our future. But if we stand united, no Roman or rebel will break us. Let it be known: this court will not tolerate disloyalty. The clans must choose now: stand with their king or face the consequences."

The hall erupted in voices, some shouting their agreement, others whispering among themselves. Vecelin's sharp eyes caught the furtive glances exchanged by a few of the Magyar lords, their loyalties unclear.

Stephan rose to his full height, his young face hardened with resolve. "We march against Koppány within the fortnight. Prepare your men. This rebellion ends now."

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A/N: Butterflies be flapping. 

Anyway, according to sources, the German knights were instrumental in trying in Stephen's victory against Koppany. But with cataphracts in the mix, the German knights have their match. So, they got to be cautious here instead of lightning fast OTL. They are correct however that the Romans will need time to get established.