Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 16 (Historical Fiction SI)

+++

Gregory Taronites, Domestikos of the West, sat atop the Bulgarian Throne, his sharp gaze sweeping over the assembly before him. They were tall men, dressed in the rugged fashion of the eastern nomads, their garb adorned with subtle hints of Western influence. At the head of their delegation stood a man with a nearly shaved head, save for a single braid trailing down his scalp. Long whiskers framed his hardened yet dignified face, lending him a sense of quiet authority.

"I bring word from my master, Cupan, son of Zerind the Bald and King of Hungary," the envoy declared, his voice steady and deliberate. "He has heard of your glorious victory over the Bulgarian Tsar who dared to rebel against the might of the Emperor. My master sends both his congratulations and a plea."

At his signal, the guards behind him stepped forward, their arms laden with treasure. Chests spilled over with gold, gemstones, blocks of white salt, and rich furs. Yet what caught Gregory's eye most were the two falcons perched atop the gloved hands of the envoy's retainers. Their sharp eyes scanned the chamber, feathers immaculate

Gregory's face betrayed no reaction, though his curiosity was piqued. "What is your master's plea?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

The envoy bowed his head slightly before continuing. "Cupan faces rebellion from his vassal, Stephan, who seeks to overturn the sacred traditions of succession. By our law, it is the eldest of the dynasty who must rule; not the youngest. Stephan defies this, threatening Hungary's stability."

He straightened, his voice taking on a weightier tone. "My master pleads for the aid of Rome in quelling this rebellion and has much to offer in return." The envoy gestured toward the chests and falcons. "First, these treasures: gold to fill your coffers, gemstones to adorn your halls, furs to warm you in winter, salt from our mines to sustain your people, and these falcons, the finest of our land, trained to hunt with unmatched skill. Beyond these, we bring horses: light and swift as the wind, bred for endurance and war."

He paused, his voice steady but laden with significance. "More importantly, my master pledges eternal loyalty to the Emperor of Rome. He will bind Hungary to the cause of Constantinople, defending its borders and standing as a bulwark against the encroaching threats from the east and the north."

Gregory Taronites leaned forward slightly, his fingers brushing the armrest of the throne as he studied the envoy. The offer was tempting, but the Domestikos was no fool. Loyalty, even when sworn with gold and gifts, was often fleeting.

"And what assurance does Cupan offer," Gregory began, his voice calm but cutting, "that his loyalty will endure once his rebellion is crushed? Words carry little weight when power shifts."

The envoy met Gregory's gaze without flinching. "Cupan is no Tsar of Bulgaria, no petty ruler who forgets his place. He knows that Hungary's strength lies not in rebellion but in alliance. Should you aid him, he will swear fealty before the Emperor himself. He will send his eldest son to Constantinople as a hostage, ensuring his word is kept. Furthermore, he will open Hungary's borders to the Church, allowing your priests to spread the true faith among his people."

A murmur rippled through the chamber. A royal hostage and the promise of religious influence were no small matters. Gregory's mind raced, weighing the risks and rewards.

He leaned back into the throne, his expression unreadable. "You have delivered your message well, envoy. But such decisions are not mine alone to make. Your request will be sent to the Emperor, and he will determine the proper course of action. Until then, you and your men will remain as honored guests of the court."

The envoy bowed deeply. "We thank you, Domestikos. My master will await Rome's wisdom."

As the assembly dispersed, Gregory lingered, his gaze fixed on the falcons. The birds were sharp, watchful, and deadly. Symbols, perhaps, of the Hungarian king's ambitions. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, his thoughts turning toward the implications of the offer. Hungary, once Pannonia, had been a province of the Empire before succumbing to the nomads of the steppes. First were the Avars, and then the Magyars. At first glance, there seemed little to gain from an alliance. Pannonia was a land of wide, flat grasslands, and there was only so much plains could offer. Yet there were two he could think were worth the trouble. Those hardy steppe horses, famed for their speed and endurance, were a resource worth considering. The gold and gemstones were of little consequence, mere baubles compared to the wealth of the Empire. But the salt?

Salt was everything. It preserved meat and fish, ensuring survival through winter. Without it, famine would stalk the land. The blocks presented by the envoy were among the finest Gregory had seen, a treasure far more valuable than gold. And then, of course, there was the matter of conversion. It was the duty of every Christian to spread the Word to the farthest corners of the world, and Gregory could not deny the Church this opportunity.

Still, the decision was not his to make. Domestikos he might be, but this choice lay beyond his authority.

Thus, he returned to his office, and frowned at the sheer volume of parchment around and there was only one man he could blame for all this. In little more than a year, Constantine had transformed Bulgaria. The boyars he bound to him through machines, methods, and results. Grain and meat had started to accumulate in mass locally, sending food prices down a notch. Bad for the Boyars initially but exporting it had seen profit both materially and physically. Gregory had seen the local children grow stronger now from the excess food and he wasn't blind to families having more infants now. It was thanks to this that Gregory had to admit that Constantine's innovations were something to truly consider. The rotation systems for crops improved yields, and the taste of Bulgarian livestock had grown noticeably richer. If this continued, Bulgaria could become an agricultural powerhouse, ensuring that the Empire's heart would never go hungry. 

Now, the Purpleborn was reported to be in Moesia proper, touring the Danube river and other waterlets. Gregory already could tell the man was trying to see what he could do with water power. If anything, Gregory was happy to let Caesar do that. Let him be distracted with stewardship duties rather than trying to irritate him on matters with the army. Gregory had to admit that Caesar also had his uncle's military sense but being told what to do was a mark against any man's pride. He was Domestikos of the West now, damn it, not a puppy. 

Now, the letter. He wrote it simply and bluntly. The Emperor wanted important information easy to digest to make swifter decrees.

+++

[SPOILER="Phos Hilaron"][URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:HPcg65jRbQo"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPcg65jRbQo[/URL][/SPOILER]

Antioch. Ancient and glorious. It glimmered under the shadow of Mount Silpius, sprawled along the banks of the Orontes River, a shimmering artery that fed both its lifeblood and its legend. Once a crown jewel of the Seleucid Empire, and later a prized stronghold of Rome, Antioch still thrived under the banner of the Empire. Once lost to the Arabs, it was reconquered under the Emperor John I Tzimiskes, and kept still under the Roman eagle. Inside, the streets were alive with activity. Merchants from distant lands hawked their wares in the bustling markets, their goods a kaleidoscope of silks, spices, and precious metals that had traveled the length of the Silk Road. Trade was not just its heritage however for inside the city stood its past. Theatres from the ancient Imperium, houses bright and yellow from even older Persia, and soaring Hellenic columns. Once, it had many temples, but such places had long since been destroyed or converted into churches. Its greatest had been The Great Church of Antioch, constructed over an old Seleucid Palace and expanded by Constantine the Great. It was lost to time and nature however, a great earthquake at 588 AD destroying it. 

Replacing it was the Church of Cassian, domed, tall, and gleaming under the desert sun. 

And it was due to open.

The preparations began early, while the sun still climbed the horizon. A grand procession moved through the streets of Antioch, its participants clad in ceremonial skaramangia, their robes shimmering like liquid gold under the light. A procession of magistroi, proconsuls, patricians, and other high dignitaries marched in stately rhythm, each carrying candles that flickered faintly in the sunlight. The steady clip-clop of horses' hooves echoed through the streets and at the head of this display rode Emperor Basil II, his Bulgar-Slayer epithet whispered in awe by the crowds. Gone were his battle-worn garments of war; instead, he wore a simple robe, though the sword at his belt was a silent reminder of his authority. Beside him rode his trusted officials, including the Strategos of Antioch, Nikephoros Ouranos.

As they reached the towering bronze doors of the Church of Cassian, the procession came to a halt. The sons of the archons rushed forward, planting seats for the Emperor and the Strategos, but Basil did not sit. With a gesture, he summoned an official and accepted a candle. Then, with deliberate steps, the Emperor ascended the steps of the church, pausing before its great doors.

There, the most powerful man in the known world bent his knee in triple obeisance to Christ. With each bow, the candle in his hand flickered as if answering the gesture. When the final obeisance was complete, the great doors of Cassian swung open with a slow, deliberate grandeur. Basil strode forward, candle in hand, into the sacred space.

The air inside was thick with incense, its fragrant smoke curling upward toward the mosaic of Christ Pantocrator that dominated the apex of the dome. Eternal and unyielding, the figure of Christ gazed down upon the congregation, His eyes a reminder of divine authority. The soft hum of chanting filled the vast space, the voices of the choir weaving a tapestry of sound that resonated against the marble walls and gilded icons. No instruments accompanied the liturgy, for in this sacred place, the human voice was the only instrument deemed worthy of God. The Divine Liturgy began, solemn and ancient. The Emperor stood motionless, his candle casting a faint glow upon his serene, unyielding face. The voices echoed beneath the dome, rising and falling in perfect harmony, a reflection of the celestial order. Time seemed to stand still as the faithful offered their prayers, their voices joining the choir in a unified act of worship.

When the liturgy concluded, Basil moved to the center of the church, standing upon the solea, the platform before the holy doors of the bema. There, he accepted a second candle from the praipositoi and repeated the triple obeisance. The Emperor then stepped into the sanctuary itself, approaching the holy altar, its surface a shimmering expanse of gold and marble. Reverently, he kissed the altar-cloth, a gesture of submission to God's will. Taking the censer from the hands of the praipositos, Basil added unguents to the hot embers with his own hand. The fragrant smoke rose in thick spirals as he censed the altar in slow, deliberate movements, sanctifying the sacred space. When the ritual was complete, he returned the censer to the praipositos, his actions precise, almost mechanical, as though the weight of centuries of tradition guided his every move.

As the Emperor exited the church, the sunlight poured through the open doors, momentarily blinding. Outside, the crowds erupted into cheers, their voices a wave of adoration that rolled across the square.

"Cheers for the Emperors, Basil and Constantine! Cheers be to the Christ-Appointed Emperors! Cheers be to the God-Blessed Emperors! Christ Conquers! Christ Rules! Axios! Axios! Axios!" 

Much later, under cooler shade, the Emperor of the Romans sat as men stood before him. He listened quietly, as Nikephoros Ouranos droned on as a map of the east was unfurled before them. Many eyes glanced down at what was once Pars Orientis, the Roman East, now chipped away and a shadow of what it once was. Briefly, the whole of the Levant was reconquered under his distant predecessor, John, but he had failed to reconquer Jerusalem. Further disturbances back home had also gotten John to abandon his conquests but now, now was different. 

His Co-Emperor was a fool, yes, but he was a loyal fool that liked to indulge. And his heir was performing with competence and loyalty under an even more loyal Domestikos. And the Caliph at Cairo was a boy.

It would be utterly foolish of him to not capitalize on this chance. 

"Our preparations to sweep south are complete, Sire," Ouranos began, his finger tracing a careful path on the map. "Sources of water have been identified along our route. If we stay within these paths, our army will not suffer from thirst."

"But to rely on the locals for such provisions would be folly," interjected Theophylaktos Botaneiates, another officer, his tone edged with caution.

"Indeed," Ouranos replied, undeterred. "Which is why I have ensured water-wagons for the army. Furthermore, a series of bases and depots will be established along the route south to secure a steady supply chain. Men have already been allocated to guard these lines. Additionally, ships will sail parallel to us along the coast, prepared to provide supplies from the sea should the need arise."

"How did you get the Droungarious of the Fleet to get you ships?" Botaneiates asked, curious. 

"I didn't. I chartered vessels from local merchants," Ouranos answered. "I made all the preperations, Sire. Packs, feed for the the animals, food for the men." 

A murmur of approval rippled through the gathered officers, heads nodding in agreement. Basil's fingers drummed once more, his expression unchanged. "Good," he said simply. "What else?"

Ouranos leaned forward, his stick hovering over Antioch. Slowly, he dragged it southward, tracing a line along the coastline to Tyre. "Our route begins here. We shall march first to Tripoli, where my forces are sufficient to lay siege to the city. With your command, Sire, you can push further south to Tyre and relieve the city there. From Tyre, the path to Jerusalem will open."

The Emperor's eyes lingered on the map, his mind already calculating the risks and rewards. The faint sound of distant market chatter drifted in from the streets of Antioch, but here, in this shaded enclave, the air was heavy with the weight of decisions that could reshape the future of the Empire. How the oikumene would rejoice with Jerusalem once more in Christian hands. 

"Tripoli first," Basil said, his voice cutting through the silence. "We move swiftly. Tonight." His eyes flicked upward, meeting those of his officers. "The Emperor Heraclius may have bid Syria farewell but I am not him, nor is this the Empire beset by barbarians. We are no longer on the defensive, gentlemen. God has granted us an opportunity to reclaim the Levant. We cannot be found wanting." 

​Grave looks came upon the assembled men. Each man knew his duty, and he would serve it well. His Muslim vassals feared him, and promised to protect his eastern flanks. Such as it was with the presence of the largest Roman army ever assembled since the days of Heraclius. 

He nodded. It was time to start. But then, a messenger entered the assembly with urgency. His face was flushed, though not from fear, but from the weight of the scroll he carried. He approached the Emperor who accepted it.

+++

At His Majesty's command I continue to hold the city of Ohrid and its surrounding territories in order and fear of Rome, and I write now not of the Bulgarian remnants, who are broken and subjugated by your Legates but of word from the North. An embassy from the Magyars.

He named himself the servant of one Cupan, son of Zerind the Bald, who proclaims himself Rex Ungarorum, though I have it on fair authority that his claim is contested. Cupan's message is as follows, conveyed in clear terms. He wishes for your power and support in his fight against Stephen, his rebellious vassal and kinsman. In exchange, he vows to recognize Your Majesty as his suzerain and superior in earthly matters, pledging annual tribute. He vows to be baptized, and open his people to the true faith and prohibit the Latins from entering his lands. To prove his sincerity, he has promised to send a son to the Queen of Cities as a ward and hostage. 

I feel that while Hungary is not rich in the traditional sense, the salt mines they own are to be considered especially now that Caesar had begun the transformation of Bulgaria to serve the Empire's needs. They are rich in it, and have offered blocks of salt as tribute. While such things can be gained from trade should Cupan lose to his kinsman, I feel better terms can be gained from a vassal who is loyal, true, and Christian. 

I await Your Majesty's will and wisdom in this matter. 

- Surviving letter of Gregory Taronites, Domestic of the West to the Emperor, Basil the Second.

THE PANDIDAKTERION, 7534 (By Roman Calendar) 2025 (Gregorian Calendar)

+++

Silence befell the assembly as Basil finished reading out loud. The reaction was swift. 

The officers murmured amongst themselves, their expressions a mix of intrigue and scepticism. Nikephoros Ouranos was the first to speak, his tone cautious. "Sire, the Magyars may be of some use, but their lands are distant, and their internal struggles could entangle us in distractions from our primary goals. Our focus must remain on the Levant.

Theophylaktos Botaneiates interjected. "True, but consider the salt mines. Salt is indispensable, not just for preserving food for our armies but as a commodity for trade."

"You are asking for something that will need time to bear fruit," Ouranos retorted. "We will not see immediate benefits and worse off, he is locked in a civil war against his kinsman, no?" 

Basil listened intently, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he raised a hand, silencing the men. "Let me think on this."

The officers bowed, their murmuring dying as he contemplated the Magyar offer. The Empire's interest in Pannonia was non-existent. It was too far, had too many nomads, and poor. Except for the horses and salt. Then there was the matter of converting the Magyars to Christianity. He had heard that the Pope in Rome was attempting to Christianize the Magyars but under him, and not Constantinople. A Magyar kingdom under Constantinople's spiritual and temporal influence would bolster the Empire's position in the Christian world. The offer of Cupan's son as a hostage provided assurance of his sincerity and loyalty. A boy raised in Constantinople could be molded into a future ally. However...

"Is this Stephan not married to a Frankish Princess?" Basil asked, remembering some news about the Frankish Emperor's kinswoman marrying a barbarian. 

Nikephoros Ouranos nodded, having served as Chamberlain at the Great Palace, and knew of details abroad and at home. "Yes, Sire," he confirmed. "Stephen, Cupan's rival, is indeed wed to a Frank princess of the Ottonian dynasty. It is said that their alliance has brought him support from certain Frankish lords, though the extent of that aid is unclear."

Basil's fingers resumed their rhythmic drumming on the table. "So, if we back Cupan and he fails, we not only lose resources but potentially strengthen a Magyar ruler allied with the Franks. And if he succeeds..." He paused, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. "We gain a vassal but risk provoking Frankish ire if they perceive our support as meddling in their sphere of influence."

But then again, they were already at odds. The Pope in Rome was his creature, Johannes Philagathos or now known as John XVI. Furthermore, the current ruler of Rome, Crescentius II, relied on him for support. If he took the chance to support Cupan, it would give the Franks another headache to deal with. 

"Does Cupan have the strength to win?" Basil asked finally.

"That, we do not know, sire. But considering he has turned to you, it is likely he doesn't." Ouranos pointed out. "But support from us is power on its on. Perhaps he is hedging on Roman recognition, and letting the rest follow?" 

Basil could not help but laugh. A harsh sound. His officers cracked a smile as well. They all knew what recognition from the Emperor meant too. Finally, the Emperor leaned forward, his voice calm. "Send word to Ohrid," he began, speaking with deliberate precision. "Order Taronites to convey this to the Magyar emissary: Cupan and his nobles must first be baptized into the faith, publicly and unequivocally. Only then will we recognize his claim."

He paused, letting the gravity of his words settle before continuing. "If Cupan agrees, he shall receive a title from me, one that binds him to Constantinople as a vassal. In addition, he will be granted gold to fund his endeavours and a contingent of troops from Taronites' forces. No more, no less."

The officers exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of approval and relief. Basil's terms were shrewd, calculated to exact the highest benefit for the Empire while minimizing its risks.

The Emperor's voice hardened. "Make it clear that this is not a gift but an opportunity. If Cupan falters, he will find no further aid from us. And if he dares turn against Rome after he is enthroned, he will find no refuge from our wrath."

​The messenger and officers bowed. 

​+++

A/N: Yeah, we're going into the AU territory now. While significant for the Magyars, this is not much from the Empire. Further south, the Fatimids are not blind to the fact there is a Roman army north of them and they will resist. However...we all love court politics, don't we?