Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 11 (Historical Fiction SI)

+++

[SPOILER="CONSTANTINOPLE: QUEEN OF CITIES!"]​https://youtu.be/Ya3PjVbhuro?t=188​​​[/SPOILER]

The icy wind blew off the Sea of Marmara, tugging both at Basil, and at the red sagion of the tribune who stood at the edge of the quay, waiting. His posture was rigid, his head bowed slightly in deference as the imperial ship drew closer. Behind him, assembled archons stood in pristine white robes, the faintest glimmer of gold embroidery catching the weak winter sunlight.

The dromon's hull groaned as it docked, and a silence fell over the gathered crowd. Basil stepped forward to the prow of the ship, his figure framed by the gilded dragonhead at its helm. He was clad in hip-length klibanion and splinted leg and arm graves. Under his klibanion. a lamellar cuirass, was a purple tunic with gold embroidery, and a light blue cloak and trousers. Tzangia red leather boots decorated with pearls made comfortable and warm travel, and a red scabbard with gold trim sat on his belt. His expression was carved from stone, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with the weight of authority.

The gangplank was lowered, and the tribune stepped forward first. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head deeply, his cloak pooling around him like spilled wine. Basil descended the plank with deliberate steps, his boots ringing against the wood. When he reached the tribune, he extended a hand, lifting the man to his feet. The tribune murmured a greeting, his words lost in the sound of the waves, and then turned to escort the emperor. As they stepped onto the quay, the kometes of the consistory and the tribunes stepped forward next, their movements synchronized. They bowed low, their white robes billowing slightly in the chill breeze. Basil inclined his head in acknowledgment, and they fell into step behind him, forming an escort as he moved along the quay.

Further down the procession, the eparch of the City waited with a group of consulars. Among them stood a patrician, his stature marked by the intricate ornamentation on his belt and cloak. When Basil reached them, they too bowed deeply, and the eparch stepped forward to present a golden crown. Basil accepted it with a solemn nod, then handed it back, signaling the customary gift of nomismata to follow. Winter's chill bit at the air, but the moment was warmed by the thick clothes.

Many citizens lined the roads, cheering and tossing garlands of flowers onto the procession's path. None dared impede his path as he visited the Church of St Stephen and St Bacchus, and was met by senators bearing white candles. Together, they entered the Church, then left, the procession headed towards The Gate of the Lion, its towering arches framed against the pale winter sky. The Gate of the Lion marked the threshold of the imperial heart of Constantinople, a symbolic passage into the sanctity and power of the Great Palace. As Basil approached, the massive bronze gates groaned open, their surfaces etched with scenes of imperial triumphs from ages past. The lions carved into the stone above seemed to watch over the emperor's return, their regal gaze a mirror of his own.

The senators, bearing their white candles, walked ahead in solemn procession, their flames flickering and casting faint halos of light against the cold stone walls. Their presence was both a reverent homage and a symbolic reminder of the emperor's divine authority, bestowed and protected by God. The procession paused just before the Gate, where a cohort of the Varangian Guard stood at attention, their polished axes catching the dim winter sunlight. Their loyalty was unquestionable, their silent presence a show of strength to all who watched.

Basil dismounted here, his boots crunching against the frost-covered stone. The eparch of the City, flanked by a pair of high-ranking officials, stepped forward once again. This time, they knelt together, presenting another laurel wreath, its leaves glistening with dew. The emperor accepted it, holding it aloft for a brief moment before handing it back. It was a gesture that spoke volumes: acknowledgment of their loyalty, but also a reminder of their place beneath him.

Inside the gates, the streets of the Great Palace complex were lined with more archons and functionaries, their ranks impeccably ordered. Some held banners displaying the imperial insignia, while others tossed handfuls of rose petals onto the ground before the emperor's feet. The air was thick with the mingling scents of flowers, incense, and the faint tang of salt from the sea breeze that had followed him inland. The procession wound its way toward the Chrysotriklinos, where upon Basil turned to the crowds that had followed him. He lifted his head, then bowed slightly, to acknowledge the crowd, before turning and striding into the Chrysotriklinos. Inside, the light of countless candles reflected off gilded mosaics and marble columns, casting a warm glow over the assembled court. Dignitaries stood in silence as his boots echoed in the vast chamber, Basil stopping before the raised Imperial Throne. There, Constantine VIII stood, wrapped in a heavy purple chlamys, edged with pearls and golden diadem around his head.

While most would pay him obeisance, only those in the Imperial family were exempt from such a thing.

"Welcome home, conquering Basileus," intoned Constantive VIII, his voice loud and clear.

Basil nodded.

The day unfolded with unending precision, the protocols of Basil's return dictating every moment. Together with Constantine VIII, Basil attended further ceremonies, receiving the homage of nobles, generals, and officials who came to pay their respects. In the days of his predecessors, such events would have been grander, a dazzling spectacle of wealth and power meant to awe both citizens and foreign dignitaries alike. However, Basil had little patience for ostentation. The health and stability of the empire came first, and such displays, though essential to maintaining imperial prestige, were tempered under his reign.

When the ceremonies concluded, the brothers retreated into the inner palace, the air heavy with the scent of incense and the faint hum of the day's proceedings still echoing in the distance. Constantine VIII, visibly relieved, collapsed onto a couch with an exaggerated groan.

"Ugh, ceremonies," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"They serve their purpose," Basil replied simply, his tone clipped as he moved toward his desk. He sat down, his posture straight, his expression unyielding, as if he were still seated on his throne. His gaze turned to his reclining brother, and after a moment of silence, he spoke.

"Constantine."

"Hm?" Constantine replied without looking up, his head resting comfortably on the plush cushions.

"What has my beloved niece done now?"

Constantine's lips thinned, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Do you really need to ask that question?"

"I want the details," Basil said, his tone brooking no argument.

Constantine sighed, sitting up slightly. "She doesn't want to marry the Frank," he said plainly.

"That is not her choice to make," Basil growled, his voice low but firm.

"Can you really blame her for running away?" Constantine snorted, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated.

Basil's eyes narrowed. "No, I suppose not. But she is purple-born, and she must do her duty regardless. Do the Franks know?"

Constantine hesitated, his silence drawing Basil's sharp gaze.

"Their bishop knows there was...a commotion," Constantine admitted finally. "He doesn't know the full details, but he is suspicious. He suggested they return in a year, hoping Zoe might change her mind or that Theodora might be old enough by then."

Basil exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. "Control your children, brother, before a scandal ruins us."

Constantine snorted derisively. "You speak as if Theodora is a troublemaker. Or as if Constantine is some useless fool like me."

"Your son is troublesome," Basil said flatly. His voice carried no humor, only the weight of unflinching judgment. "And now, with Bulgaria in chaos, I am presented with a new set problems."

The death of Tsar Samuel, followed swiftly by the demise of his heir, had unravelled the last threads of organized resistance to Roman domination. The great victory at Thermopylae had been a turning point, and the reconquest of Bulgaria was no longer a distant ambition but an immediate reality. Yet, as always, victory brought complications.

He could not attend to the reconquest himself. The East had its own issues, and while Ouranos kept pressure on the Fatimids, they were far from weak. Al-Aziz, their caliph, had died, and Basil's spies had informed him that the new caliph, Al-Hakim, was but a boy. This was an opportunity sent by God, and he would be remiss not to take advantage of it. Before leaving for Constantinople, he had ordered Ouranos to prepare for a decisive strike: to sweep south and aid Tyre, which had risen in revolt against the Fatimids. His presence in Constantinople was temporary, meant only to set the agenda for Bulgaria, gather a fleet and troops, and coordinate a pincer attack against the Fatimid besiegers.

"I am sure you can figure it out, you always do," Constantine yawned lazily. Basil's lips thinned at his brother's insolence, but he redirected his irritation toward something more productive.

"I do," Basil replied curtly. "I will appoint Taronites as Domestikos of the West. He will be responsible for retaking Bulgaria."

"The Armenian?" Constantine huffed. "Are you sure? You do know he held back while the Bulgarians raided northern Greece freely."

"It was a sound strategy," Basil countered, his brows furrowing. "The Bulgarians fight by luring their enemies into the field, then ambushing them. If Gregory Taronites had sallied out at the first sign of a burning village, he would have lost the war."

"And the rumors that he and my son argued over that strategy?" Constantine asked, his tone pointed.

Basil, of course, was already aware of the tensions between Taronites and Constantine the Younger. Nothing escaped his ears. "He is capable," Basil said simply. "Hence why I will reward him with prestige. For his part in the battle, he shall be acclaimed Kouropalates and made Tourmarches."

Constantine's eyes widened slightly at the announcement.

The title of Kouropalates, or "guardian of the palace," was a prestigious honor. While the day-to-day responsibilities of the Great Palace were handled by staff, the title symbolized immense trust and rank within the empire. As Tourmarches, his son would command a force of two thousand four hundred men at most.

"That is a generous promotion, brother," Constantine said as he stood. "Why?"

Basil's reply was swift and resolute. "He has distinguished himself at the battle. It would be unseemly not to award him a high honor, risky and foolish as it was," he grumbled. "He should have ordered Ashot Taronites to do it in his stead. If he had died, the morale of the troops would have been gone."

"But he did not die," Constantine pointed out, and in defense of his son. "And it contributed to the Bulgarians running away. You are too cautious sometimes, brother."

"That caution has kept me alive. I was careless at Trajan's Gate, I shall not be careless again," Basil retorted. He took in a breath. "I shall expect him to earn a name for himself in Bulgaria. He will need more than two hundred horsemen in that regard, as well as his own officers to command. I already have men in mind for that."

"And speaking of Bulgaria, the letter?" Constantine asked.

Ah.

"The letter from the Princess," Basil noted. "What do you make of it?"

Constantine VIII hummed thoughtfully, reclining once more. "It sounds promising," he said, his voice nonchalant. "But really, what would such a marriage even accomplish?"

Basil fixed his brother with a cold stare. "If her letter speaks the truth, it would tie Bulgarian nobility to our dynasty," he said, his voice measured. "It legitimizes our rule in their eyes. With such a union, the war ends symbolically, not merely militarily. It becomes easier for the Bulgarians to accept us as rulers."

It had been checked, then triple checked again, and it was found genuine.

Constantine raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking in faint amusement. "You make it sound so simple. And what if she is lying? What if it is a trap?"

Basil's expression did not waver. "Then we deal with it. But if her offer is genuine, it would be foolish to ignore it."

Constantine shrugged, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press the matter further. "Well, whatever you decide, brother, I am sure it will be something," he said with a lazy grin. Then, he paused. "Are you recalling them for the ceremony?"

​"No," Basil replied, turning back to his desk. "Time is short and the longer we delay, the longer the situation in Bulgaria slips from our fingers. Now leave me. I have work to do."

+++

A/N: The business of state.

Shoutout to Constantine VII Makedon for leaving behind a complete list of how the Eastern Roman court operated in the hit book and series, Book of Ceremonies.

Next chappie be dropped tomorrow