Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 14 (Historical Fiction SI)

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I have arrived at Ohrid in Late Fall. Despite ideas that Macedonia is cold and wintry like the Lands of Varangians, it is not. The weather is cool and slightly damp, and even as I write, I see many families partaking in the cool waters of the place. Ohrid is not a city that just came out of nowhere but an inheritance upon an inheritance. The Bulgarians have maintained the city well and even built good Christian structures out of old places though echoes of the ancient world linger. There I strode upon the paths that Philip, the Father of Alexander, walked, and even saw the old Theaters that the ancient playwrights would give their performances at. 

The Reconquest - Constantine The Younger. 

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The wind swept into Constantine's face as he stepped out of his room and onto the balcony overlooking Lake Ohrid. The lake shimmered, a deep, clear blue, awakening something in his mind. His host had provided him and the other leaders with villas to reside in. Constantine had considered staying at Samuel's Fortress, but what kind of man refuses a classic Roman-style villa by one of the most beautiful lakes on Earth? No man. No man at all.

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts. His ears perked, and he turned away from the breathtaking view. Heading back inside, he passed his bed, where Nestan lay asleep and naked, and made his way to the door. Opening it, he found Stephanos standing there, robe-clad and burdened with far too many parchments. The man bowed slightly, his gaze flickering briefly toward the bed before returning to Constantine.

"Apologies, purple-born. Have I come at an inconvenient time?" Stephanos asked, his tone measured.

Constantine shook his head. "No, it's the perfect time. Come in," he said, gesturing. "Besides, Miroslav here has heard worse."

The Varangian guard outside grunted. Constantine flashed him a grin before shutting the door. Stephanos stepped inside, his soft shoes tapping lightly on the floor as he moved to a nearby desk and set down his stack of documents. He turned back, clasping his hands beneath his silk robes.

"I have the latest reports from your other investments, purple-born," Stephanos informed him.

Constantine grunted in acknowledgment, walking over to sit behind his desk. The early morning light spilled through the windows, painting the room in gold. "Summarize the key points while I read," he commanded, picking up the topmost parchment.

"The machines you requested from Constantinople have arrived. All that remains is their distribution," Stephanos reported, his voice soft and melodic.

Constantine smiled. "Excellent. That will make everything easier."

"Farming, you mean," Stephanos said with a faint titter.

"Exactly. Moesia is blessed with some of the finest soil God has given us, Stephanos," Constantine replied, his tone bright with enthusiasm. "The plow's function is to dig deeper into the soil. The deeper the soil, the richer it is."

Chernozem, black, humus-rich soil, was among the most fertile on Earth. High in phosphorus and ammonia compounds, it might as well be swimming in fertilizer. Only a few regions in the world could boast such a treasure: Ukraine, the American Midwest, and here: Moesia and Dacia, or modern-day Bulgaria and Romania. The Romanians or Vlachs were under the Bulgarian domain but were likely fighting off what remained of their old masters. If there was any place to turn into a breadbasket, it would be Moesia.

"Something you've explained to us many times, purple-born," Stephanos remarked, glancing over his shoulder as Nestan stirred awake, groaning softly.

"Right," Constantine said, brushing it off. "And the drills?"

"They've arrived as well," Stephanos replied. But Constantine was already on his feet, striding out of the room, excitement in his step. Stephanos watched him go, then turned briefly to the bed.

"Are you alright?" he asked the maid.

"Chemi akt'ivebi," she groaned in her native tongue.

Stephanos took that as a no. Instead, he left the maid to her own devices and stepped out of the room. He did not have to look far, merely following the sound of clinking metal as Miroslav trailed after the Roman prince. Stephanos quickened his pace to catch up. Of all the employers he had served, Constantine was the strangest in an eccentric sort of way. The Basileus was overly strict and distrustful. The Symbasileus was too lenient and more concerned with indulging himself. The Caesar, Constantine the Younger, was something of a balance. He was strict in his demand for competence from his subordinates, like his uncle, yet generous and magnanimous, like his father. All in all, a fair employer, Stephanos thought. While other eunuchs might have used their positions as stepping stones to climb higher, Stephanos was a rare exception: content. He enjoyed luxuries and treasures as much as any self-respecting eunuch, but he already had a good position working for the Caesar. He had no intention of risking his job security for ambition. Besides, Constantine was a genuinely pleasant master, and Stephanos had no desire to see him dead. That alone made him stand out among their society's elite.

He could count on one hand the number of people who treated their juniors with decency. Stephanos had seen what happened to those who gambled everything to rise to the top, and he had no interest in such earthly punishments.

Being posted in Bulgaria, despite what others might think, was quite agreeable. It lacked the flash and chaos of campaigns in Syria but provided a perfect setting for Constantine to hone his administrative skills. Soon, the Caesar was scheduled to meet with the local boyars. That reminded Stephanos of something important. He needed to ensure Constantine looked presentable. The boyars would arrive by lunch, and showing up as a robe-clad farmer would not leave the impression they needed.

"There they are!" Constantine's voice boomed ahead. Stephanos turned and spotted him standing near a curious contraption. Workers strained as they unloaded a wooden cart-like frame with wheels. Stephanos stopped a few paces short, taking it in with a mix of curiosity and mild unease. The workers continued to lower the wooden frame carefully, their foreheads glistening with sweat as the wheels creaked under the strain. The box at the top, with its funnel and strange metal fittings, gave the entire structure an alien appearance. For a moment, Stephanos hesitated. He remembered seeing this contraption as a sketch in one of the purple-born's drawings.

He called it a seed drill.

"Look at it, Stephanos! Just look!" Constantine exclaimed, his voice brimming with excitement. "Do you see what this is? This... this is the future of agriculture!"

Stephanos folded his hands neatly in front of him, his expression cautious. "It is certainly...unique," he offered, unsure what else to say as his eyes darted over the unfamiliar device.

"Unique? Unique?" Constantine barked a laugh, slapping the side of the machine with the reverence of a priest handling a relic. "This is no mere oddity, Stephanos. This is revolution! With this, a farmer can plant seeds in rows, perfectly spaced and perfectly buried. No more scattering seeds to the wind and hoping for the best. No more waste. No more inefficiency!"

Stephanos tilted his head slightly, trying to envision how such a device might work in practice. "And...it truly functions as you say, purple-born? It seems rather delicate for the fields."

Constantine turned to him, his expression alight with conviction. "It will work. It came to me in a dream, and the craftsmen of Constantinople followed my instructions to the letter. Every cog, every piece of wood, every nail was crafted with precision. And with that hip new collar the Seres (Chinese) designed, we might not even need Egypt to feed the Queen of Cities."

For all his supposed modesty, Constantine was never shy about ambition.

Stephanos stepped closer, inspecting the contraption more thoroughly. The funnel at the top seemed to lead into a series of narrow tubes, which presumably deposited seeds into the soil as the wheels turned. The wooden frame looked sturdy enough, though he suspected it would need careful handling to endure the rough terrain of the countryside. "It is certainly ambitious," he admitted, his tone neutral. "Though I imagine the farmers will require more than just words to be convinced."

"I intend to start with the boyars," Constantine proclaimed, gesturing to the workers who lingered nearby, uncertain of what to do next. "They will see it first, through a renting scheme. I'll provide them with instructions on how to implement my agricultural reforms, and the seed drills will be rented out alongside the expertise needed to maintain them."

"And if they refuse?" Stephanos asked, his voice calm but pointed.

Constantine shrugged, an easy confidence in his posture. "Their loss. I don't expect them to be convinced immediately, not without proof. That is why I am here. They will see the results of my work, and when they do, they will envy it. Envy is a powerful motivator."

Stephanos allowed himself a faint smile. "You do have a way of making envy work in your favor, purple-born."

Constantine grinned, his attention already returning to the seed drill. "Envy, Stephanos, is just another tool. Like this machine. Properly wielded, it changes everything."

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By the time the boyars of Ohrid arrived, the sun had climbed to its afternoon duty, casting a golden glow over the gathering. They came adorned in their finest robes, rich silks and brocades shimmering under the sunlight. Each man wore his wealth proudly: heavy chains of gold and silver draped across their chests, fingers glittering with rings encrusted in precious stones. Their ladies were no less resplendent, clad in silks of deep reds, vibrant blues, and emerald greens. Jewels caught the light in dazzling flashes as they moved. Some brought their children. Sons, no doubt in hopes they might be taken into the Caesar's service, and daughters…

He was, after all, unmarried. Though there was only one woman there that had rank enough to marry him.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of dust and horses as the Bulgarians dismounted, their expressions wary but curious. They had been instructed to dispense with the usual Imperial protocols, to treat this meeting as an informal outing though the very idea of rubbing shoulders with Caesar himself as though it were mundane defied belief. Yet their stiff movements betrayed the tension they carried.

Princess Miroslava stepped forward, her ladies-in-waiting trailing behind in flowing gowns of yellow and red: colors chosen to signify her royal house. She moved with purpose, her chin held high. The Romans had promised the Bulgarian nobles they could keep their titles, and Miroslava intended to ensure no one forgot hers. She was still a princess, and she would hold that title as firmly as a sword.

Yet, for all her people's finery, their robes and jewels might as well have been coarse peasant's garb compared to what awaited them.

Pavilions lined the shores of Lake Ohrid, their silken canopies rippling gently in the breeze. The banners of both Rome and Bulgaria flew side by side: purple fields bearing golden Chi-Rho crosses and double-headed eagles of the Empire, blending with the vibrant greens and blues of the Bulgarian nobility. Inside, cushions and richly woven rugs sprawled across the ground, surrounding low tables laden with gilded pitchers of wine, platters of ripe fruit, honeyed nuts, and golden fritters.

Servants moved among the guests with practiced grace, their silk sashes swishing faintly as they walked. They smelled faintly of flowers and mint, their skin gleaming, their hair polished to perfection. By contrast, the Bulgarians felt rough-hewn, as though the dust of their journey still clung to them. Miroslava caught sight of a few noblewomen discreetly sniffing their own garments, their expressions betraying faint embarrassment.

Informal gathering, they said. This will be a simple lunch, they said. Yet the wealth on display could have bankrupted her father's court five times over.

As Miroslava stepped further inside, her gaze landed on the seating arrangement. Instead of the rigid hierarchy so common at such gatherings, the Romans had opted for a circular layout beneath the pavilion. No seat held greater prominence, no guest was relegated to the fringes. Every cushion was adorned with equal care: fabrics of the finest weave, low tables inlaid with gold. At the heart of it all, a slightly raised dais stood, its purpose unmistakable.

Miroslava's own was directly across from the Caesar's dais, ensuring she remained in his line of sight and in full view of everyone present. It was a calculated gesture: acknowledging her royal status without overstating it. As she lowered herself onto her cushion, she noticed the servants weaving through the pavilion, their trays laden with chilled wine, steaming bread, and fragrant herbs. Every movement, every detail reinforced the same silent message: You are valued. You are seen. You are part of something greater.

And all of it under the watchful gaze of Rome.

She offered fleeting glances toward the boyars. Already, some had relaxed, their tension melting as they indulged in Rome's generosity. Yet Miroslava's instincts bristled. What is Rome really offering? What are they taking in return?

Then, a ripple.

The Caesar had arrived.

He stepped into view with quiet authority, his presence commanding the space effortlessly. His hair was combed neatly, and he wore a free-flowing purple sticharion robe embroidered with golden leaves, a gold-and-red sash at his waist, and tall brown boots. The only ornament he bore was a single ring on his finger. Compared to the opulence of the boyars, his attire was almost austere but that simplicity spoke volumes. He had no need for lavish displays; the wealth surrounding them was proof enough of his power.

The circular pavilion seemed to shift as he entered, all attention naturally gravitating toward him. Without a word, the gathering began to orbit him, as planets do a sun. His gaze swept the crowd, lingering briefly on Miroslava. She felt a flash of heat but quickly masked it with a composed expression. As he approached the dais, the nobles rose as one. But with a single raised hand, Caesar bid them sit.

"Welcome, noble lords and ladies," he began, his voice deep and steady, cutting through the murmurs like a blade. "Today, we meet not as strangers but as allies. Not as conqueror and conquered, but as partners, bound by purpose and destiny." His tone lightened, a touch of wry humor creeping in. "I know many of you are eager to discuss matters of state. But I will not be so dry as to insist on business before pleasure, not when we are by glorious Lake Ohrid. So, sit, feast, and enjoy the fruits of Rome."

And like that, he sat down, and music began to flow and so did the food. Servants entered, each carrying a tray that seemed impossibly large that it took two or three of them to bear its weight. The trays gleamed with polished silver, their edges etched with intricate designs of vines and laurels, and atop them rested an overwhelming array of bowls, plates, and platters. Miroslava blinked, unsure of what she was looking at. The servants moved gracefully, placing the massive trays on the low tables spread throughout the pavilion, revealing a dizzying variety of dishes all at once. There was no order to it, no sequence of courses as she was accustomed to. Instead of one or two dishes arriving to mark the start of a meal, as was customary, everything seemed to arrive at once. The tables were suddenly laden with steaming bowls of thick stews, platters of roasted meats dripping with juices, dumplings that smelt faintly of soup, colorful mounds of spiced rice, and baskets of freshly baked bread still warm enough to send curls of steam into the air. Bowls of olives, cheeses, and fruits, and tortes and other treats she did not even know about.

Miroslava's eyebrows knit together in confusion. What is this? she thought, glancing around. She wasn't alone in her bewilderment. The boyars exchanged furtive looks, their expressions a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. The younger nobles leaned forward eagerly, their eyes wide with curiosity and hunger, but the older ones hesitated, their pride keeping their hands at their sides for the moment.

"This is...unusual," one of the boyars muttered under his breath, his tone caught between awe and suspicion.

"A feast poured out all at once?" another whispered, shaking his head.

"I think the Varangians enjoy this style of food, they called this smorgasbord," another muttered.

Miroslava remained silent, her gaze scanning the scene as servants continued to fill the tables with more food. The sheer abundance was overwhelming. There were no clear instructions, no herald announcing which dishes were to be taken first or which were of greater importance. It was as though the Romans intended for the guests to help themselves, to choose what to eat and when to eat it. The concept was alien to her, and judging by the stiffened backs and furrowed brows around her, it was to the others as well.

"Do they expect us to..." one of the noblewomen began, her voice trailing off as she gestured vaguely toward the bowls and platters.

"Serve ourselves?" another finished, her voice laced with disbelief.

One of the younger boys, perhaps no more than thirteen, reached for a piece of bread, his face lit with excitement. His mother slapped his hand down sharply, her cheeks flushing red as she hissed, "Wait!"

The boy looked chastened, but his hunger was plain as his eyes darted back to the food.

Miroslava fought the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The tables were heaving under the weight of food more than enough to feed everyone three times over and yet no one moved. The boyars and their families sat stiffly, their confusion and pride locking them in place. They glanced furtively at one another, silently waiting for someone to take the first step, to break the unspoken rule of etiquette that had not yet been written for this strange display.

And then, the Caesar himself reached forward. Calmly, without ceremony, he took a piece of bread from the basket before him, tore it in two, and dipped it into a golden bowl of olive oil. He ate it with deliberate ease, as though the act were the most natural thing in the world. The pavilion seemed to exhale all at once.

The message was clear: there was no shame in indulgence. Not here, not today. What the Romans offered was abundance, unrestrained and unapologetic.

The tension broke. Slowly, hesitantly, the boyars began to follow his lead. One reached for a roasted leg of lamb, another for a bowl of figs and honey. The younger nobles, emboldened, dove in enthusiastically, their laughter breaking the solemnity of the moment. Even the older ones, though more reserved, began to partake, their movements careful but no longer hesitant. Miroslava however hesitated.

What is Rome trying to say here? 

She glanced back to her tray. She was quite sure many of the dishes here were regional varieties. A show of the amount of peoples under the sway of the empire, how Constantinople could summon forth riches and treats from any corner of the world. Her eyes turned from the food and back up to Caesar. He sat at ease, his movements unhurried, his expression unreadable as he ate alongside them. Yet every gesture felt intentional. A showman, Miroslava thought, as she went to enjoy the food herself. Conversation flowed, and wine. Lots and lots of wine.

Questions were asked, and Constantine answered each with a smile. Could their sons serve in his retinue? Could their children be sent to Constantinople to study? Social questions a boyar would ask as a measure to find what he could profit from something. He replied to each inquiry deftly, his tone warm but never revealing too much. He gave just enough to satisfy, while holding back enough to remind them of his control.

And then his voice broke through the hum of the feast, a sharp blade cutting through the haze of wine and chatter.

"Does the Princess have a question?"

Her thoughts froze, and she realized with a jolt that she had been staring at him. Since the feast had begun, her gaze had lingered on him, studying him, dissecting every motion, every word. Now, all eyes turned to her, and a flush of heat rose to her cheeks. Embarrassment coursed through her, quick and sharp, as though she had been caught in a trap.

Thinking quickly, she straightened her posture, her voice steady though her mind raced. She would not let him catch her off guard. She would not let him see her falter.

"Yes, Caesar," Miroslava said, her tone light but deliberate. "When this feast is over, what do you intend for Bulgaria?"

The question hung in the air. The hum of conversation died. Constantine did not flinch. If anything, he seemed to welcome the question, his lips curving into the faintest ghost of a smile.

"The Emperor is wise," he replied. "He has decreed that Bulgaria be a friend, not a conquered people. I share his vision, for in peace, we both can prosper. And that is my honest intent, Princess. I am happy to prove my words."

With that, he stood, goblet in hand, and stepped off the dais. Miroslava blinked, startled, as did the rest of the assembly. The boyars murmured, their low voices a mixture of curiosity and unease. What was he doing? Slowly, they followed him outside, where they were met by two unfamiliar contraptions.

Constantine gestured toward the first: a strange wooden machine, its polished frame catching the sunlight. His expression was alight with the same excitement Miroslava had glimpsed earlier during his speech. The murmurs grew louder as the boyars eyed the device with suspicion. It stood tall and solid, its wheels sturdier than those of a cart. At its top was a funnel-like opening, and below it, a series of narrow tubes jutted toward the ground.

The second device, larger and more robust, was hitched to oxen. Its heavier frame suggested a greater, more laborious task.

"Behold," Constantine declared, spreading his arms as if unveiling a treasure. "This is a seed drill, a personal invention of mine and a marvel of ingenuity from the artisans of Constantinople. It is no mere cart, my friends. It is the future of agriculture and my gift to you."

Caesar designed it?

A voice broke through the murmurs. "What does it do?"

Constantine smiled, his enthusiasm unshaken. "This device ensures that every seed is planted at the perfect depth and in neat even rows. No waste. No guesswork. With it, your harvests will surpass your forefathers. More work can be done with less effort, and the fields will be cleaner, more orderly. Moesia's soil is rich; you all know the abundance it can yield. Now, imagine doubling it. Tripling it. And I even have devised a new way of farming, to quantify it some more!"

Miroslava studied him carefully as he spoke. His voice was like honey: sweet, smooth, and persuasive. And utterly confident. She watched the boyars lean in slightly, their skepticism giving way to cautious interest.

"And if mere words do not suffice," Constantine continued, his tone rising, "let proof speak louder." He gestured toward the workers standing nearby, their hands resting on the reins of the horse and oxen. "Bring it forward."

At his command, the workers led the smaller seed drill to a patch of tilled earth beyond the pavilion. Constantine followed, his movements confident, his presence commanding. The boyars hesitated, glancing at one another, before trailing after him. Miroslava joined them, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

They gathered around the patch of earth, where Constantine directed the workers to attach the horse to the seed drill. With a flick of the reins, the horse began to move, pulling the machine smoothly across the field. The crowd watched in silence as the seed drill sprang to life. Its wheels turned with precision, and from the funnel at its top, seeds streamed into the tubes, disappearing into the soil below. Behind the machine, the earth was left marked with perfect, parallel rows, each seed buried at an even depth.

The boyars broke into murmurs, their voices a mix of astonishment and disbelief. Miroslava narrowed her eyes, studying the device. It was efficient, undeniably so. The precision of its work far exceeded anything human hands could achieve. Yet, beneath her admiration, a question lingered: What is the true cost of such a gift?

Constantine turned to face the crowd, his smile broad and his arms outstretched. "This," he declared, "is what peace with Rome means: innovation, prosperity, and a future of abundance and more. Heavier ploughs to dig deeper soil from the earth, a new innovative way to plant crops, new methods for birthing, ensuring more children and less deaths! This is the fruits of peace."

Roman Peace.

PAX ROMANA.

The words hung in the air like a proclamation from on high.

"And what does Rome ask in return for such...generosity?" Miroslava's voice cut through the murmurs, sharp yet measured.

The wind seemed to still, and Constantine's smile faded as he dropped his arms. In that moment, he was no longer the showman, no longer a merchant peddling treasures. He stood tall, Imperial dignity radiating from him as he met her gaze.

Then, with a single word, he answered, softly, that all strained to hear.

[SPOILER="Road to Power"]

[SPOILER="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vYSSKlhWbPk"][/SPOILER]

[/SPOILER]

"Loyalty."

One word, yet vast in its demand. For a moment, Miroslava's chest tightened with indignation. Did he think her blind to his intentions? Did he believe that her people would trade their freedom for a glimmer of Rome's wealth? Her mind raced, a dozen responses forming and dying on her tongue. She could call his intentions into question, challenge him here and now. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she dismissed it. The boyars were already awed by the feast, enamoured by the riches, the glories. It did not take much for her to realize that all the money spent on the festivities could have been spent on armies.

There was nothing else here to do.

Slowly, Miroslava dipped her head.

"Caesar," she said softly, "Bulgaria hears your words. And we are grateful for Rome's generosity."

When she lifted her head, Constantine's eyes were on her. He studied her for a moment, his own expression calm, inscrutable. Then he gave a small, satisfied nod, as though her response had been exactly what he expected.

"Long live the Empire," he intoned.

The cry was returned.

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A/N: Long live the Empire.

Inspiration for this chapter: [URL unfurl="true" media="youtube:nGPwt5SonWg:10"]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nGPwt5SonWg&t=10s[/URL]

The Strategikon even urged strategists to focus on flexing. Flexing was unironically less expensive than war. And so, we flex. After this, we have a little timeskip forward.