Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 13 (Historical Fiction SI)

+++

The Army of the West entered Ohrid, whose gates had been thrown open to welcome its new masters. The city, perched on the edge of a shimmering lake and surrounded by rolling hills, was a jewel of the Balkans. Its white-stone walls gleamed under the afternoon sun, and its red-tiled roofs stretched out toward the water, broken only by the spires of churches that rose above the clustered houses. Narrow cobblestone streets wound through the city, bustling with uneasy inhabitants who watched the Roman procession with fear and resignation. Not a few weeks ago, the Bulgarian Empire was triumphant, burning and looting across northern Greece. But now...

Columns of infantry marched in perfect formation, their shields catching the golden light, spears upright like a forest of iron. Flags bearing the imperial insignia fluttered under the clear sky. The people of Ohrid stood in silence, their faces pale with apprehension. They feared that the Romans would sack their city for it was the capital as decreed by Tsar Samuel. It wouldn't be too far-fetched a fear for the Romans were not above looting and pillaging. But this was not a conquest against a hated foe nor did Ohrid try to outlast them in a siege. They came under the invitation of the Princess Miroslava, and these men were under orders from Christ's appointed Emperor to bring Ohrid back into the loving yet stern wings of the Roman Eagle.

No looting, to the disappointment of some of the men. 

At the head of the procession rode Gregory Taronites, clad in gilded armor, his expression calm as he accounted for the crowds. Behind him followed Damian Dalassenos, his face marked with the grit of battle, leading the soldiers who had broken the Bulgarian lines, and lastly, Constantine The Younger, his expression serene as if they were going for a walk and not retaking a city lost to Rome for generations. 

"Apologies, Porphyrogénnētos," Damian Dalassenos asked, his voice rough and soldiery, as his horse clip-clopped against the road. "I did not leave much glory for you to take." 

Constantine snorted. "I do not mind, Patrikios. To fight on hilly terrain with a heavy force of cavalry does not bring out their best. And besides, the Domestikos and I have been in this war long. We have acquired much glory. And now, with you accompanying us, we must let a comrade in arms gain his own glory as well." 

Damian laughed, belly-full and rowdy. "Haha! I think you and I are going to become the best of friends, O Porphyrogénnētos!" 

Constantine smiled good naturedly. Starting a working relationship with Damian Dalassenos would be important. The Dalassenos Clan was among the more prestigious dynatoi at the current era. Damian himself was an effective, if overly aggressive commander and in another life, he would be destroying Fatimid soldiers with utter speed, before getting himself killed by a lone Kurd, and in turn losing Rome's initiative in the east. The Dynatoi had been petitioning the Emperor for greater appointments in the field, eager to take in the good fortune of war, and his uncle had decided to appoint Damian for the job to placate them. A dynatoi appointment would have surely worried him, but Constantine knew that Damian was loyal to the dynasty. His sons however were questionable considering their conduct during the reign of Zoe and Theodora. But that future was not going to come to pass and Constantine was going to award those that would stand with them. Speaking of awards, as tourmarchēs, he now had a force of thousands. He would need someone capable and loyal to organize them. Thankfully, he already had that. 

"I look forward to it, Patrikios," Constantine professed. "Now, let us get to business and set this city to rights." 

The Domestikos gave a curt nod, steering his horse toward the city center. Orders were given, and troops marched off to occupy key positions. The city had to be secured, the garrison accounted for, grain counted, among other things. Logothetes marched forward, officials whose function was those listed before, as well as proclamations sent. Ohrid was not to be sacked, its dignity held intact. Most did not believe the loud men but considering the soldiers had not burned their homes, they were starting to believe them. This was to be quick, efficient, and without frills occupation. Even with the Emperor away, his presence was felt. 

As the soldiers did their work, the leadership began theirs as well. 

The Fortress of Samuel stood overlooking Lake Ohrid. Its walls were bright and thick, once a fortification in the days of Philip of Macedon, the father of Alexander the Great. It had seen numerous heights and lows through the centuries before Samuel restored it. The walls were bright under the sun, tall towers allowing the defenders views beyond. Banners flew from poles by the towers and gates, once flying Bulgarian colours, but now replaced with Chi-Rho ones. 

"Good form," Constantine commented, seeing the flags. 

"If they knew what was good for them," Damian muttered. "I would not be surprised if they were flying stolen banners. Thieving bastards." 

Constantine thought to remark that Bulgarians were not Romanians. But Romanians weren't even a thing yet. At this time, they would be Vlachs, tending sheep and getting raided by steppe horsemen. He had no plans for them other than vague notions of getting them organized and making them a bulwark against raiders from the east. He shook his head of those musings as they rode up, and spotted a small welcoming party awaiting them by the gates. At the forefront stood a woman, draped in a dark woolen cloak befitting the chill in the mountain air. Her face was pale but composed, her sharp features betraying no emotion. And she looked young. Far too young. 

"That must be Miroslava," Constantine blinked. "She is younger than I thought." 

"No one is young today," Damian harumphed. 

Behind her stood a handful of nobles and officials, their expressions ranging from wary to resigned. Some avoided eye contact with the approaching Romans, while others watched them intently, as if trying to gauge the character of their conquerors. Flanking the party were two priests in simple robes, each carrying a censer that released soft trails of incense into the air. 

Miroslava took a breath, then she stood forward, greeting them in accented Greek.

"My lords, Ohrid welcomes you. May this city find peace under the wings of the Roman eagle."

Her words were formal, her tone carefully measured. She gestured toward the gates, which creaked open under the effort of the guards stationed nearby.

Gregory Taronites inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "You have done well, Princess. Peace will come, but only with order and loyalty. Both will be expected."

Miroslava nodded, her gaze steady. "You will find no resistance here, Domestikos. The city is yours."

Gregory Taronites, Damian Dalassenos, and Constantine the Younger dismounted. Taking off his helmet, Gregory stepped forward. "Let us begin." he intoned.

+++

The Bulgarian Throne sat before two marble columns, red bricked walls flanked them all, and on the ceiling paintings of saints and scenes of battles. The guards laid their weapons low, servants and other officials stood mutedly as the Romans marched in. This, Miroslava watched carefully, her face serene but her heart pounding like a hyper active drum. She was sixteen, barely a woman grown, and she was handing over the Empire her forebears had took at swordpoint. 

When news came of her father and brothers' deaths, she had despaired. She locked herself into her room, and wept, leaving only when word had come that her cousin was coming with an army. At that, something inside her awoke. She was a young girl, yes, and inexperienced. But she was still Princess. In her blowed flowed nobility and dignity that humbled Rome. And so, she took command, barring the gates to the usurper, and defended her House.  

Her father would surely hate her inviting the Romans to their home. They were his enemies after all. But between the Romans or getting usurped, he would understand her actions. She could only pray that when she would die, and meet him in heaven, he wouldn't be too angry...hopefully. 

Iron boots echoed, then stopped as Greogory Taronites sat at the Bulgarian throne, his fingers gripping the arm-rests like a conqueror. She could see herself reflected in his cuirass: small, black-cloaked, barely a silhouette. She eyed the other leaders, Dalassenos who stood at the left, and the purple-born Caesar who sat at the right, where the kavkhan would have sat. 

Inexperienced as she was, her mind grasped to the dynamic quickly. She took a breath, then she strode to the throne. She felt the eyes of those in the room upon her, and anxiety sparked in her belly. But for Bulgaria, she pushed on. Following her, the officials and clergy that stood. The Kavkhan Theodor would have joined her, but upon asking for his status, it was revealed that Theodor had passed at the battle outside, personally slain by Ivan Vladislav in his final moments. She had to admit relief at that. A kavkhan well-versed in intrigue would have made negotiations difficult. In this difficult time, she had no one else to rely on by herself and the Patriarch here. 

Their procession stopped, all in their finest clothes. Miroslava wore a form fitting dress not too different her peers in Constantinople wore, a dress with large sleeves and tight by a belt at the waist. It was red, with animal embroidery and the symbol of her house at her chest. A similarly coloured cloak was around her shoulders, and bright red boots clung to her feet. Then, she supplicated to the Domestikos, but her eyes were set on Constantine whose eyes brightened with intrigue. The Domestikos lifted his hand, and Miroslava rose, her expression serene. He spoke. "The Emperor accepts Bulgaria's submission. He promises you and your people this." 

The court took a breath. 

"The Bulgarian Church shall remain autonomous," The Domestikos declared, his voice drawn, speaking as if Basil himself. "It will be reorganized as an archbishopric, its seat remaining here in Ohrid. Its rites, its language, and its clergy shall not be altered."

By her side, the Patriarch, no, Archbishop sighed but bowed his head. The loss of the Patriarchy would be felt but not severe. At the very least, they had autonomy. 

"Your laws and customs shall be preserved," he continued. "The nobility shall retain their titles and estates, and may even receive Roman ones provided they swear loyalty to the Emperor. Their lands will not be seized, nor shall their households be disturbed. Your people shall be subject to the same taxes as all provinces of the Empire. No exceptional levy shall be demanded. The logothetes shall assess your towns and villages according to the imperial register. Any previous debts incurred under your kings are considered closed." 

A wave of stillness passed through the chamber. Miroslava caught a nobleman's fingers twitch near his belt. These were generous. Far far too generous, a surprise considering the wars that her people had waged against the Romans. Her father himself was a scourge, one that had almost ended the Emperor's life at the Gates of Trajan many years ago!

"No Roman garrison shall be stationed in excess of what is required for order," Gregory went on. "The fortresses shall host troops, but the countryside shall not be burdened with billeting. Those who maintain peace shall not see the face of a soldier. The Emperor grants amnesty to all persons who now submit. No reprisals shall be permitted against those who laid down arms. These terms are offered in full by Basil, faithful in Christ, Emperor of the Romans. Do you accept?" 

"Christ Conquers, Christ Rules!" she acclaimed, and the court repeated her cry three times. "May Christ Guard the Emperors, Basil and Constantine, Great Emperors and Sovereigns!" 

"Many years for the Christ appointed Emperors, Many years for the peace-making, wealth-creating Emperors!" she continued, with passion. A show of loyalty was what needed for these absurdly generous terms. Every time she gave her praises, she would always meet Constantine's eyes. It would continue, until finally, she finished her acclamations, then prostrated again.

​The Domestikos rose, and raised his hand. "Long Live the Emperor!" 

"Axios!" the court cried. "Axios!"

It was then, the Domestikos bid the court over. He went into another room to set up his office. Damian Dalassenos marched with him, no doubt to make plans. But the purple-born, he walked out of the room, a tall Varangian following him. 

Miroslava made sure to follow. 

+++

Theater was everything. Leadership, after all, was as much about performance as it was about action. To set the tone for the reconquest, Constantine needed to present himself as a ruler who respected the customs and traditions of the people he was about to rule. Rome would eventually subsume the Bulgarians into its fold, but for now, every gesture, every decision, and every word he spoke had to serve as part of his carefully crafted performance.

There, beneath the painted eyes of saints, angels, and Christ Pantokrator, he stood in the sacred silence of the Church of Hagia Sophia. Though it was not as grand as its namesake in Constantinople, it was no less holy. Incense swirled in the air, its rich scent filling his nostrils as his hands clasped in prayer. Behind him, Miroslav stood at attention, his axe resting against his shoulder, a silent guardian over his master. The priests had vacated the church at his request, granting him full use of the space. And he made use of it.

It would have been a scandal of epic proportions if the people knew their Caesar had, in a previous life, belonged to the Latin rite. He had been a Catholic once, though never devout in the sense that religion dictated his every action. He had respected the rituals of his faith and held its mysteries sacred, but now, in the body of a Roman purple-born, transplanted into this time by God Himself, he had to admit that his Catholicism felt distant. Here, in this age, the Church was still united. There was no Orthodox, no Catholic, no Protestant. True, there were the Copts and the Apostolics, but Christendom as a whole remained one.

He wondered if this was part of his mission. Was his purpose not only to restore Roman greatness but also to keep Mother Church united? To ensure the oikoumene, the universal Christian world, did not fracture? The thought weighed heavily on him, for he was no theologian. He could see the cracks forming, but how could he stop them? How could one man hold together something so vast, so fragile?

And so he prayed. He prayed for wisdom, for strength, for clarity. When he finished, he raised his hand and made the sign of the Cross. Three fingers to his forehead, to his chest, then to his right shoulder.

"Amen," he said softly, his voice echoing faintly in the empty church.

The sound of the great doors opening pulled him from his thoughts. His ears perked, and he turned slightly, his brow furrowing. "I thought the priests had given me use of the church," he remarked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

The echoing footsteps that followed answered him before words did. A young girl entered, her steps crisp against the stone floor, her movements composed yet hesitant. Behind her was a single handmaiden, silent and watchful.

"Princess Miroslava," he greeted her as she stopped before him. She was delicate, barely a woman, but her posture carried the weight of a ruler's dignity.

His Varangian guard straightened, his looming form tense, his sharp gaze fixed on the princess and her companion. Constantine stepped forward, placing a hand on the Varangian's shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. "At ease," he said quietly, and the man relaxed, though his eyes never left the two women.

Constantine turned his attention fully to Miroslava, his expression softening. "To what do I owe the honor, Princess?" he asked, his voice steady, though his curiosity burned beneath the surface.

"I thought it proper to welcome you," Miroslava said, her voice steady but soft, carrying the melodic cadence of her native tongue. "You are, after all, a guest in my lands."

Constantine studied her for a moment, her words carefully chosen, her tone neither cold nor warm. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped the edges of her cloak. This was not a meeting of equals, and they both knew it. Yet she spoke with the dignity of a sovereign, a young girl clinging to the last vestiges of her authority.

"You are gracious, Princess," he replied, inclining his head slightly, though he made no effort to hide the hint of amusement in his voice. "But I am more than a guest. Soon, I shall be your comrade, your kinsman. I would prefer then, that you call me Constantine, and I call you Miroslava." 

Miroslava's lips pressed together briefly, her expression unreadable as she absorbed his words. Her dark eyes flicked up to meet his, searching for the intent behind his suggestion. For a moment, the faintest crack in her composure seemed to show, but it was quickly masked by the practiced calm of a ruler.

"My people have long been taught to address their betters with proper titles," she said, her tone polite but cool. "It would not be fitting, Caesar, to abandon such customs so easily."

Constantine allowed a small smile, though his gaze remained steady on her. "Fitting, perhaps not. But necessary. Titles are for the court and the battlefield, Princess. Between us, I would prefer honesty. Neither formality nor pretense will serve us as we move forward. And besides, you asked the Emperor, my uncle, for aid. You are now his ward, for the better. In such a case, you are kin, not by blood, yes, but by law."

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak, the only indication of the turmoil beneath her calm exterior. Then she sighed. "Very well... Constantine," she said, the name unfamiliar on her tongue.

He smiled. "That's better," he nodded. Then he turned to the handmaiden. "And you are?" 

The handmaiden blinked, not expecting the attention. Her cheeks flushed. "K-Katerina, Purpleborn." 

"Greetings, Katerina," Constantine offered, inclining his head toward the handmaiden. Then, with a closed fist, he patted the shoulder of the Varangian towering beside him. "This is my rough protector, Miroslav. He may look scary, but I assure you, he is the softest, gentlest man you will ever meet."

Miroslav grunted, his expression as stony as ever, though the faintest twitch of his lip betrayed his disapproval of the comment.

Constantine clapped his hands together, a spark of energy lighting his expression. "Now," he said, his tone shifting to one of measured authority, "I must admit I look forward to my time here. The Emperor has commanded that Bulgaria be brought into the fold of the Empire, and we cannot do that as rapacious, murdering spirits of vengeance. The terms he offered were not lies but the truth. The Emperor commands that Bulgaria return to the Light of Rome, and it shall be so."

Miroslava's brow furrowed slightly at his words. She hesitated before speaking, her tone cautious. "Is that why the terms were so generous, Pu-Constantine?" She corrected herself, the name still unfamiliar on her tongue.

He nodded, his expression softening. "Yes. Far too much bloodletting has happened already. There is no point prolonging a conflict when there is more to be gained by cooperation. A broken people are no use to Rome."

"I... must admit surprise," Miroslava said after a pause, her voice steady but laced with uncertainty. "We all expected harsher terms. Perhaps humiliation, if not outright destruction."

Constantine chuckled, shaking his head. "No, my uncle is perhaps the most humorless man I have ever known, but he is also shrewd. Would your people accept our rule if we came as butchers?"

She shook her head, her hands tightening slightly around the edges of her cloak. "No, we would not," she admitted.

"There we go," Constantine replied, his laughter warm, though his sharp eyes studied her reaction carefully. "It is the simplest truth. A ruler who demands obedience through fear and cruelty is a fool. I look forward to exploring your city, Miroslava. Your food, first and foremost."

"Our...food?" Miroslava blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She cleared her throat quickly, regaining her composure. "I must warn you, then, that our fare may not be as varied or refined as what you are accustomed to in the Queen of Cities."

Constantine raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smile. "And? That matters little to me. Delicious does not recognize borders, Miroslava. A meal is not lesser because it comes from a simpler table. How am I to know the hearts of the Bulgarians if I do not partake in their customs? Food is a language of its own."

Miroslava hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. She was searching for insincerity, for mockery, but found none. He seemed genuine, even earnest, in his interest. He was not guarded. He was absolutely sincere in what he said and she did not know how to feel about that. Her lips parted slightly, caught between retort and reflection, before she tucked her hands behind her back and straightened.

"I will see to it that the best of our fare is prepared for you," she said, her voice carefully measured. "Though I doubt it will match the splendor of the palaces you've known."

"Splendor is meaningless without soul," Constantine replied easily. "I have tasted dishes prepared by the finest chefs in Constantinople, yet I have also eaten bread baked by a farmer's wife in the provinces. Both have their place, and both tell a story."

Miroslava's lips quirked, almost imperceptibly, into the faintest ghost of a smile. "You speak as though you are a philosopher, Constantine," she said, her tone slightly lighter and braver before she caught herself. Etiquette, she reminded herself. This man, this infuriating man, was disarming her and he wasn't even trying.

"Perhaps I am," he replied with a grin. "Or perhaps I am simply hungry."

His remark earned a smile from her despite herself. "Then I will ensure your hunger is satisfied," she said, her voice soft but firm. "The Fortress has rooms prepared but I have also prepared a villa by the lake for you, the Domestikos, and the Patrikios." 

"Thanks you, Miroslava," he inclined his head. "I look forward to the villa, and your company, then." 

"Of course, Constantine," Miroslava said, before bowing then turning, gesturing for Katerina to follow. The girl, who had been silent and staring at him, flushed at his attention then turned away, joining her mistress. He waved them off, his gaze lingering. She was guarded, careful, but there were cracks in her armor. He could see them now, small and fleeting, but they were there. She was beginning to soften, if only slightly. Progress, he thought to himself.

Behind him, Miroslav shifted, his axe tapping softly against the stone. "She has courage," the Varangian said gruffly, breaking the silence.

"She does," Constantine replied, his eyes still fixed on the fading figure of the princess. "So young and already doing well." 

The Varangian eyed him. "Are you going to marry that?" 

Constantine snorted. "The only one who can marry me to anyone is my uncle, my good man. If he says I marry her, I will." 

"Do you think he would?" 

He shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not. One thing I do know is that Lake Ohrid looks beautiful, and I want to take a dip. Let's go."

"Tch."

For Miroslava however, her steps were steady as she moved toward the door, but her mind lingered on his words. Delicious does not recognize borders. How am I to know the hearts of Bulgarians if I do not partake in their customs?

His words unsettled her, not because they were threatening, but because they weren't. He was not what she had expected, and that made him all the more dangerous.

She thought to come and see for herself what he was like. She expected arrogance, as was typical for most Romans. They were after all inheritors of a long and glorious Empire. That was what she prepared for because at least, she could deflect that. Not...not whatever the hell that was. 

God above, what the hell was she going to do?

+++

A/N: There was a reason Bulgaria folded to the literal slayer of their people and it was because Basil was extremely generous in victory. He punished those that resisted, yes, but the ones that did not became supremely loyal to Rome. The only ones that fucked it up were later Emperors. For the meantime, Bulgaria will be quiet. 

Again, shoutout to the Book of Ceremonies for the acclamations. 

Next up, Roman slice of life.