Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 15 (Historical Fiction SI)

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Dimitar had been a farmer for as long as he could remember. His profession wasn't glamorous, like a cavalryman riding in the Tsar's armies or a courtier serving a powerful boyar. Yet, it was an honest, sturdy trade and one that had kept his family fed for generations. Everything he knew about farming was passed down by his father and grandfather. Wisdom rooted in the soil, like: Do not plant in a field twice, or it shall lose its fertility.

So when his boyar returned from the capital with tools from Constantinople, Dimitar couldn't help but feel a pang of scepticism. Dimitar joined his friend Ivan and the rest of the villagers at the square, where a crowd had gathered. They stood around a wooden dais where the boyar addressed them. With one hand, he gestured toward a wagon entering the square, pulled by…a horse?

"Behold!" the boyar announced, his voice ringing out over the murmuring crowd. "New innovations from Constantinople, designed by Caesar himself!"

Dimitar heard Ivan mutter beside him, "What nonsense is this? Horses pulling loads? They'll choke."

Dimitar nodded in agreement. Oxen had the strength and endurance for pulling heavy loads and horses simply couldn't manage it. Yet, to his astonishment, the horse hauled the wagon with ease, as though it carried nothing at all. That's when Dimitar noticed the difference: the collar around the horse's neck. Unlike the simple yokes used on oxen, this contraption was curved, wrapping snugly around the horse's shoulders. It seemed to distribute the weight of the load evenly, avoiding the animal's neck altogether.

"It's the collar," Dimitar murmured, more to himself than to Ivan.

"What?" Ivan asked, his arms crossed skeptically.

"The collar," Dimitar repeated, pointing. "It's different. It doesn't choke the horse."

Ivan squinted, and sure enough saw it. Then he nodded. "Huh, that's right."

The horse and wagon did not come alone. On it were men hauling down a contraption, another wagon like thing with a funnel above and blades below it. Then open boxes as well, heavy with longer blades, Dimitar thought. The boyar stepped forward, his voice loud and commanding as the villagers craned their necks to see the strange contraptions being unloaded from the wagon. He raised his hand to quiet the murmurs before pointing at the first device.

"This," he began, "is the seed drill. A marvel of engineering from Constantinople! No longer will you scatter seeds by hand, wasting time and effort. This machine plants seeds directly into the soil, burying them at the proper depth and spacing to ensure they grow strong and plentiful. It will save you hours of labor and greatly increase your harvest."

The crowd murmured in awe, though some exchanged skeptical glances. A few older men shook their heads, muttering to themselves about the old ways being good enough.

The boyar moved to the next device, a heavy wooden frame with long, gleaming blades fastened beneath it. He placed his hand on the frame as if to steady it, though it appeared firmly built.

"And this," he said, "is the heavy plow. Unlike the wooden plows you've used for generations, this one cuts deeper into the soil, turning the earth more effectively. It will break through the toughest ground, even those fields you've left fallow because they were too hard to work. With this plow, you can cultivate more land and ensure the soil is prepared for planting like never before."

The villagers leaned in closer, their curiosity growing. Dimitar couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement. The plow looked sturdy like it could cut through the rocky patches of his own fields with ease.

Finally, the boyar gestured to the horse collar, still wrapped snugly around the animal's shoulders as it stood patiently beside the wagon.

"And you've already seen the horse collar in action," he continued. "With this innovation, horses can now pull plows and wagons without choking or tiring as quickly. They will work faster than oxen and still leave the animals you've relied on free for other tasks. Together, these three tools will transform the way you farm: faster, stronger, more efficient!"

He paused, letting his words sink in, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. "But these tools are only as strong as the hands that wield them. I need volunteers. Brave men willing to test these gifts from Caesar in their fields. Who among you will step forward and embrace the future of farming?"

A heavy silence fell over the square as the villagers exchanged uncertain glances. Dimitar's heart pounded as he stared at the devices, his mind racing with possibilities. Could these strange tools truly change everything?

He raised his hand.

That was a year ago.

And now, Dimitar stepped out of his farmhouse, the wooden door creaking softly as the morning sun greeted him. He paused on the threshold, letting his gaze sweep over the fields. The land, once divided into uneven, tired patches, now stretched before him in a perfect, orderly quilt of green and gold. Four fields, each distinct in its purpose and growth, rolled out like a promise of abundance. To his left, clover and ryegrass blanketed one field in rich greenery, swaying gently in the breeze. It wasn't for harvest, but for the livestock, and he knew its roots would nourish the soil for the next rotation. Beyond it, waves of golden wheat shimmered under the rising sun, the stalks tall and heavy with grain. A third field, closer to the woods, was dotted with rows of turnips, their broad leaves bursting out of the dark earth. And the farthest field, where the plow had broken ground just last season, now stood proud with barley, its heads ripening in the warmth.

Dimitar adjusted his hat and stepped forward, the crunch of the hard-packed dirt beneath his boots grounding him in this new reality.

It was a astonishing thing, he had to admit, when he first used the new machines. Their land had always been fertile and much could grow there. He and his fathers knew it came from the soil, black as night but returning yields that were unheard of in other places. But with the new ploughs, they dug deeper and into richer earth. And the seed drills had allowed for faster planting that work that would have taken him hours was cut significantly.

And then came the other innovations.

An important official arrived from the capitol, the Logothete, bearing new knowledge on everything from planting to the rearing of animals. There was some awkwardness to it as the man barely spoke his people's language and relied on a translator but they made it work. Dimitar and many others were quick to accept him for the man had come from Caesar and Caesar had gifted them marvelous engines.

The sound of hooves drew his attention to the pasture, where his horse, Dobri, grazed lazily on clover. The horse collar hung nearby on the fence, still bearing the marks of the morning's work. Dimitar smiled faintly. Dobri had become an indispensable partner, pulling the heavy plow with strength and speed that no ox could match. The plow itself leaned against the barn, its iron blades caked with dried soil, a testament to the hard labor that had transformed even the most stubborn fields into thriving farmland.

He sighed, hands on his hips, and surveyed the scene again. The wheat would need harvesting soon, and the barley not long after. Last year's bounty had been almost overwhelming, forcing him to work from dawn to dusk to keep up. This year? He muttered under his breath, a mix of pride and exasperation:

"I might have to hire more farmhands than last harvest."

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Manuel Erotikos Komnenos saluted.

"You called, Purple-born?" Manuel asked, his voice steady, though his mind churned with questions.

"Yes. Try this," the Purple-born replied, holding up a cup filled with a clear liquid that carried a faint, fruity scent. Constantine's eyes gleamed with a mix of mischief and curiosity, as though this small cup held the key to some great revelation.

Manuel hesitated, his thoughts a tangle of unease and obligation. Every act within their society had a double-meaning to it. And he tried to think of what this could mean. But no, Constantine was looking at him expectantly, eyes wide and bright. He truly only wanted him to try out whatever was inside that cup. Had someone told Manuel he would one day be plucked from obscurity and asked to drink some mysterious concoction in a dimly lit room filled with copper machines, a Saracen, a Varangian who was collapsed in the corner, and Caesar himself, he would have called them mad. But he wasn't about to complain not when both his sons were being educated by the monks of Studion, and he had been summoned by name to serve as deputy to the Purple-born himself. Such opportunities were rare as gold coins, and rarer still for men of his station.

Manuel took the cup with cautious fingers, the weight of the liquid heavier than it should have been for such a small thing. He sniffed again and found it sweet, almost innocent. Until he brought it to his lips.

The first sip burned. It was not the fire of a hearth, warm and comforting, but a fierce, biting flame that clawed its way down his throat and bloomed in his chest. He coughed, his eyes watering, and for a moment felt as though he had swallowed pure lightning. Yet, beneath the fire, there was something else: a subtle sweetness, a ghost of fruit that lingered on his tongue.

The Saracen observed him, his expression inscrutable, though a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes.

When the heat subsided, Manuel exhaled sharply, blinking away the sting. "By the Virgin," he rasped, his voice hoarse. "What is this?"

No wonder the Varangian was out cold. His gaze flicked to the corner where the hulking figure lay sprawled, snoring softly.

"Arak," replied Nasrallah ibn Khalil al-Mizan, his hands folded into his robes, a bemused expression on his lips. "Or as the Emir insists, rakia." The Saracen's tone was calm, measured, but there was an unmistakable pride beneath his words. Let the Romans mock us as barbarians, yet they eagerly lap up what we create.

"Accept it, my friend. One day, your invention shall be like fire to the dry forest in these lands," Constantine laughed, a note of triumph in his voice as he turned towards the copper contraptions that lined the room. Manuel's eyes followed Constantine's gesture, landing on tubes that coiled and twisted like serpents, gleaming faintly with the reflection of the oil lamps that sputtered overhead. Bulbous chambers sat atop spindly legs, their surfaces dimpled and pocked as though from long years of toil. A thin wisp of vapor curled its way through one of the pipes, vanishing into the darkness above, while droplets of liquid gathered at the end of a spout, falling rhythmically into a waiting glass jar.

Manuel frowned. How much time and resources had the Purple-born poured into this…alchemy? And for what gain? "Soon enough, we shall spread the good word of rakia around, and fetch a mighty fine price with it," Constantine declared, rubbing his hands with glee.

"The Church will disapprove of such a measure, Purple-born," Manuel reminded him, his tone cautious. It was not his place to question, but someone had to raise the issue of the Imperial Heir making spirits.

"Bah, it will be fine. Besides, this whole thing will not just produce spirits but…show him, Al-Mizan." Constantine ordered. The Saracen nodded and reached for a vial, holding it up between his fingers. The clear liquid caught the faint glow of the oil lamps, casting shimmering patterns on the walls. Al-Mizan studied Manuel for a moment, a faint smile playing on his lips, as though amused by the enormity of what he was about to explain.

"Al-kuḥl," he began, his tone patient, like a teacher addressing a curious student, "is the essence of transformation. It is born when fruit ferments, when the sweetness of grapes, dates, or figs is consumed by invisible forces, and in return, they give us this-" he gestured to the vial in his hand, "A substance that burns brighter than oil, cleanses wounds better than vinegar, and warms the soul like the fire of a hearth."

Manuel squinted at the vial, his lips pressing into a thin line. Why must these scholars always speak in riddles? "Yes, yes, but what is it? What does it do, in plain words?"

Al-Mizan's smile faded, replaced by a flicker of irritation. He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath in Arabic before fixing Manuel with a pointed look. "It cleans," he said curtly, his tone clipped. "It kills what makes you sick. It stops rot. That simple enough for you?"

Manuel blinked at the sudden sharpness, a flash of indignation going through him. These foreigners might have knowledge, but their arrogance was unbearable. "You should have started with that," he murmured, his tone faintly reproachful.

"Al-kuhl will be most useful to us," Constantine added, stepping in. "Not just for the armies but also for the hoi polloi. Have you ever noticed, Manuel, when surgeons treat men with mild wounds but the men die off later?"

Manuel nodded, his expression darkening. "I do, Purple-born. When I defended Nikea from the usurper Skleros, I had men who were young and hearty, suffering from minor wounds, but they died off quickly."

"That is because their tools were not cleansed by Al-kuhl," Al-Mizan chided. "It is known among my people that unwashed tools and hands worsen the condition of the sick. It would be most wise for you Romans to do the same."

Manuel's jaw tightened at the rebuke, though he could not deny the logic. The Saracen had a way of making wisdom feel like an insult. "I trust Al-Mizan's word, Topotoretes," Constantine nodded firmly. "We shall save countless lives with their knowledge."

Al-Mizan bowed. "The Porphyrogénnētos is wise. If only many of his peers were the same."

Constantine beamed. "They're just suspicious. Well, I know when to see something and realize its benefits. Perhaps I should open an Academy in the Queen of Cities."

Manuel coughed. "That would be unwise, Purple-Born. We are at war with the Saracens. If you become their patron, the zealous will hate it." Manuel did not particularly care for the ramblings of scholars. He admired education, yes, but proper Roman education. Not whatever these barbarians offered. He was not going to say that out loud however, courtesy of his patrons apparent love of Arabic learning.

"They can take a hike," Constantine rebutted. "We are at war with the Caliph at Cairo, yes. But that isn't stopping the Empire from profiting from trade with them. Don't we still accept their dhows into our ports, their traders in our street? For as long as they do not spread Islam and only teach their arts, that is acceptable enough."

Constantine stepped forward, gesturing towards Al-Mizan. "Besides, what the Arabs know also came from us. Did the Caliphs of Baghdad not ask use for our texts on Plato and Aristotle? On our treatises of medicine? I see no issue in us offering our knowledge to them and for them to return what they have learned to us."

Manuel stiffened at Constantine's words. He respected the Pruple-borns intellect, but to suggest parity between Roman wisdom and the learning of the Arabs felt like a slight. The thought of Roman knowledge being filtered through foreign hands before returning to the Empire left a sour taste in his mouth. Yet, he held his tongue, knowing better than to openly challenge the Purple-born's vision.

Al-Mizan, on the other hand, inclined his head slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. He recognized the Purple-born's argument as both shrewd and flattering. Constantine's acknowledgment of Arabic contributions was rare among rulers, and while the Roman's phrasing carried an undertone of superiority, Al-Mizan chose to let it pass. A man who could see the value in knowledge, regardless of its origin, was one to be admired if cautiously.

"Regardless, my uncle, the Emperor, has brought glory once more to Roman arms. It falls to me to supply what is still lacking: patronage of the arts and the advancement of scholarly works," Constantine declared, his voice resolute. "Pax Romana is not merely about putting our enemies to the sword; it is about enlightening the mind and spirit. As our Lord above has gifted us with knowledge, it would be a grave folly not to partake in His divine gifts. The Empire shall become a beacon of learning, so radiant and enduring that future generations will look to our works for guidance and inspiration!"

Manuel's expression remained carefully neutral, but inwardly he bristled. Patronage and enlightenment were noble ideals, but Constantine's grand ambitions often felt detached from the harsh realities of ruling an empire. Glory and knowledge were fine pursuits, but what use were libraries and academies if the Empire's borders bled from constant threats? Still, he nodded respectfully, unwilling to challenge the Purple-born's vision outright.

Al-Mizan, in contrast, regarded Constantine with quiet admiration, his lips curving into a faint smile. Few rulers spoke with such conviction about the pursuit of knowledge, and fewer still understood its true power. Yet, beneath his respect lay a flicker of skepticism. The Purple-Born's lofty goals were inspiring, but again, they lived in a time of constant war. Time will only tell if he could live out his vision without the need to fight.

"Anyway, Al-Mizan, we have the process sorted out. I expect a production of rakia and al-kuhl going within a month or two. Do you understand?" Constantine asked.

Al-Mizan bowed. "Yes, Purple-Born."

Constantine smiled, then marched out of the room, leaving behind a bemused Al-Mizan and Manuel, and the still sleeping form of the Varangian. Manuel sighed, shaking his head. The Purple-born's eccentricities were a source of both admiration and frustration. "He does not lack for boldness, I'll give him that," he muttered, watching the empty doorway.

Al-Mizan chuckled softly, his amusement evident. "I admit, when I received a letter asking for my services, I thought it was a lie." He folded his arms, his dark eyes glinting with humor. "Then the money arrived, and I knew for certain it wasn't."

Manuel turned to Al-Mizan, his expression hardening slightly. For all his apparent wisdom, the Saracen was still an outsider, a potential threat. "You have not been trying to convert him, have you?"

Al-Mizan snorted, the sound sharp and amused. "I like my head attached to my shoulders. And besides, he is firmly a Christian man, albeit rather...strange."

Manuel raised an eyebrow. "Eccentric," he corrected, though his lips twitched with the faintest hint of a smile. He could hardly argue with the Saracen's assessment.

"Both mean the same," Al-Mizan replied with a sly grin. "One is merely for the rich."

"Still, you mustn't call your patron and Caesar strange," Manuel replied firmly, though he could not help but agree in part. It was dangerous to speak so openly, even in jest. "I do not condone calling him names, but you are right in the sense he is…eccentric. I was ready to leave for the East when summons arrived for me to join him here."

Manuel's thoughts drifted back to that moment, the memory vivid. He still remembered Constantine's smiling face, greeting him with warmth and familiarity as if they had known each other for years.

"All you had to do was open up the gates to the usurper Skleros, but you did not," Constantine had said, his tone brimming with admiration. "I recognize when men loyal to the Empire give their life for it. I would like you to be my deputy, Patrikios, if you feel you wish to serve the Empire once more."

To refuse such an offer would have been unthinkable, akin to spitting on divine providence. And so, Manuel had accepted, rising to the rank of Topotoretes, the second in command to the Purple-born's thousands. Though there wasn't much opportunity to showcase his skills in battle. The Bulgarians had submitted quietly, and many Boyars had laid down their arms.

"Exciting as it is to speak with you, Topotoretes, I must return to my work," Al-Mizan said, breaking Manuel's reverie. "The Purple-born expects a fabricae and I will not fail him."

"A fabricae, here?" Manuel blinked. "I suppose only the Purple-Born can afford the cost."

Only the Empire could authorize the creation of a fabricae though it primarily made weapons for the armies. But a fabricae for spirits and now, al-kuhl?

"Indeed," Al-Mizan nodded, gesturing to the copper contraptions scattered across the room. "I was worried about the expense of production too, but your Purple-born is no dullard. The costs of..." He waved his hand at the machines. "...these were halved significantly. He had a novel process for it."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Al-Mizan replied, his voice tinged with respect. "He called it the assembly line."

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A/N: My good brothers and sisters, it is to my delight to find out that fucking Avicenna is not just alive by this time but still very, very young. And not just him but other great Persian and Arab scholars too. We are going to have our classical dream-team teaching their secrets to Constantinople or bust. And amazingly, the Patriarch of Constantinople at this time would probably not mind having an Arab school that taught medicine among other things provided they do not try to spread Islam. At this time, contact in that regard was common. Like fuck, the Islamic Golden Age is still on-going. It would be very very foolish to miss out on that.

According to the histories of John Skylitzes and Joannes Zonaras, he was extremely well educated, particularly in medical matters, and had been honoured with the office of magistros.[1]

Al-Mizan does not exist as a historical character but an stand-in for the contact Rome had between Baghdad. And yes, the Arabs were instrumental in the processes of distillation and production of alcohol.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jabir_ibn_Hayyan

Again, we are NOT missing out on the Golden Age of Islam. Nothing is more Roman than stealing people's shit and making it our own.