Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 9 (Historical Fiction SI)

+++

Three figures stood by a map on a table.

And all three smelled of blood.

Gregory Taronites sat with one leg propped on a stool, his armor unbuckled and pushed halfway from his shoulders, sweat slicking the undersides of his tunic. His face was drawn tight with irritation, his fingers rapping against the edge of the table beside a growing number of parchment.

"They just keep coming," he muttered, half to himself. "Thousands of the bastards. Do you know what that means? We don't have the rations. We don't have the space. Half the supply wagons were burned. I've got men eating roasted roots out of cooking pots and praying it's beef."

Across from him, Constantine leaned with both hands on the table, sleeves rolled past the elbow, arms still stained where blood had dried in streaks up his forearms. "You won a spectacular victory, strategos," he said, voice dry, eyes bright. "And you're complaining."

Gregory's jaw flexed. "Your victory, you mean. I am the Strategos of Thessaloniki but you are the Purple-born Imperial heir. The people will see you and they will acclaim you."

Constantine gestured with his hand dismissively. "No, this is your responsibility so I will be happy and frank to let you have the acclaim. All I did was merely give my input on strategies, my lord."

Teeth started to grind. "How humble!" Gregory made a sound in his throat, halfway between a scoff and a groan.

Ashot stood near the corner, arms folded, watching them both. His armor was still on, streaked with muck and horsehair. A thin cut ran down the side of his cheek, untouched by the surgeons, and his eyes were on the Purple-born Caesar.

What Caesar was doing wasn't humility.

By appearing modest, he was respecting the military chain of command. His father would be acclaimed for the victory with honors and all. By doing this, he was showing that he wasn't going to steal acclamation by using his position. Constantine the Younger was performing the ideal Roman prince. Competent, pious, deferential to his generals, handpicked by the Emperor himself. 

So gracious, so helpful. And when the word would spread, they'd mention him in passing. Bleeding in the charge, humbly declining praise. The perfect image. The soldier-prince with dust on his boots and nothing on his conscience. It wasn't bragging because he didn't have to. The soldiers would talk. The officers had seen.

The songs would basically write themselves.

"Now what?" Gregory asked, breaking the deadlock. "Do you have other suggestions, Caesar?" His tone was thick with sarcasm.

Constantine shook his head, scoffing. "It would be great if we charged north and stormed Bulgaria, but we do not have enough numbers nor the authority to do so. I suggest we rest until the Emperor decides what to do next."

The Emperor's orders were clear: protect Northern Greece. An invasion into Bulgaria would be overstepping his responsibilities. Such a move could only be undertaken without question if the Emperor himself decreed it or if someone was appointed Domestikos ton Scholon, the Domestic of the Schools. The most powerful military office in the Empire, second only to the Emperor himself, and the sole authority capable of commanding Rome's armies across the provinces.

The position, however, had been fractured. The office split between East and West, a division born out of distrust and necessity. The East, with its vast territories and dangerous wealth, had seen too many usurpers use the title as a stepping stone to rebellion. The Emperor distrusted the Anatolian aristocracy's ambitions, leaving the office for the East conspicuously vacant. Better to leave it unfilled than risk betrayal.

The West was different. There had been no need for a Domestikos in the West—no great campaigns, no existential threats requiring such concentrated authority. Until now.

The deaths of Samuel and his heir would mean the Bulgarians would be leaderless. Roman Moesia was now vulnerable and up for grabs. If they wanted to capitalize on this, they would need a Domestikos of the West to handle military affairs, as The Emperor was preoccupied in the East, his focus drawn to the Fatimids. 

Ashot's thoughts sharpened, his gaze narrowing as he studied Constantine. The younger man's face was calm, his demeanor measured, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of calculation, of intent. Ashot held his gaze, and for a moment, Constantine looked back.

Was this his plan all along?

Let his father achieve a victory so spectacular that it would earn him public acclaim—a victory so undeniable that Gregory would become the natural choice for Domestikos? But why not get it himself? Why go through all the trouble of letting his father hold it?

Unless that wasn't the real prize.

Say his father would become Domestikos, then he had the right and authority to move the armies, to march, to conquer, to burn new roads and carve out new cities. He would have the right to raise new tagmata, appoint governors, speak directly with the Emperor. But he wouldn't be spectacular in it. Ashot was no fool. His father wasn't exactly the sharpest of men. Capable enough to do one thing, but would get overwhelmed with further responsibilities. His abilities were stretched when faced with the multiple Bulgarian raids but he did good in the field.

Ashot blinked once. Slowly.

​So that was his game.

Let the generals squabble over positions. Constantine would simply be standing behind them, whispering and smiling. Placing the right men where they needed to be. And when the time comes for him to become Emperor, the transition would be so seamless it would be as easy as breathing.

He had almost forgotten about that.

The Emperor.

Nikephoros Phokas. Bardas Skleros. John Tzimiskes. They were too flashy, and they became a threat. The Emperor was a jealous man. A powerful jealous man who nearly lost his throne to usurpers or had seen his predecessors thrown off by usurpers. 

The tent flaps parted, and a man entered. Middle-aged, with a thick black beard framing a square jaw, his steely eyes swept the room with measured precision. He moved like a man accustomed to command, his gait steady, his bearing unshakable. A crimson cloak draped his shoulders, its edges frayed and stained, and his lamellar armor bore the marks of recent battle—dried blood crusted in the grooves, faint indents where weapons had struck and failed to pierce. In his hand, he carried a helmet, its plume singed and battered.

Nikephoros Ouranos.

The room shifted subtly at his presence. Gregory straightened, his irritation briefly forgotten, though the tension in his shoulders lingered. Constantine tilted his head, the faintest flicker of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Ashot remained still, his arms folded tightly, his eyes narrowing as he watched the man approach the table.

"Strategos," Nikephoros said, inclining his head toward Gregory who straightened slightly. His voice was low and steady, the kind of voice that carried authority without needing to shout. "Caesar," he added, his gaze flicking to Constantine with familiarity. 

Constantine returned the gesture with a slight nod, his smile sharpening ever so slightly. "My lord. Welcome. Is there something here you have to report?"

"Yes," Nikephoros replied, his tone clipped. He stepped closer to the table, his boots grinding faintly against the dirt floor. "The final count of prisoners has been tallied. Ten thousand, two hundred, and thirty-four." He placed the helmet on the edge of the table, his fingers lingering on it for a moment before withdrawing. "A staggering number."

Gregory groaned, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. "Ten thousand prisoners," he muttered, his voice heavy with frustration. "Do you know what that means? I don't have the men to keep them all contained. Not enough food, not enough guards. What am I supposed to do with them?" He gestured sharply toward the map, his fingers brushing against the carved figurines. "We can't march with them, and we can't afford to leave a garrison behind just to watch ten thousand starving prisoners."

Nikephoros' expression remained impassive, his gaze steady. "The decision is yours, strategos."

Gregory's jaw flexed, his teeth grinding audibly. "Of course it is," he snapped, his frustration spilling over. "And what happens when they escape? When they regroup and come back with another army? Do you think the Emperor will applaud me for letting ten thousand Bulgarians live to fight another day?"

Constantine's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Then don't let them."

The room fell silent. Gregory turned to face him, his brow furrowing. "What are you saying, Caesar?"

Constantine straightened, his hands finally leaving the table. He clasped them behind his back, his posture calm, almost leisurely. "I'm saying that you have ten thousand prisoners who are a liability. You can't feed them. You can't guard them. And you can't let them go." His tone was even, his expression unreadable. "So you do what must be done."

Gregory stared at him, his mouth opening as if to argue before he closed it again. He glanced toward Nikephoros, who met his gaze but said nothing. Then he looked back at Constantine.

"You're suggesting," Gregory began, his voice faltering, "you're suggesting I slaughter them?"

Constantine said nothing for a moment, letting the weight of the words settle over the room like an unspoken threat. Then he smiled faintly, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm suggesting you make a decision. One way or another."

Gregory didn't respond. His fingers drummed against the table, faster now, as his gaze darted back to the map.

Nikephoros broke the silence. "If I may, strategos," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "There are ways to ensure the prisoners are… neutralized without resorting to outright execution. I suggest we take the willing with us to serve in the East, in the Emperor's army. Others, we distribute. The further away, the better. As for the nobility, we keep them prisoner in the capital. I've seen many such men fold when their families are at stake. If we keep the boyars in line, the re-conquest of Bulgaria will be far easier. No lord will rise if it endangers his own kin."

Constantine tilted his head slightly. "You're going east, my lord?"

Nikephoros nodded. "Yes. The Emperor has elevated me to Doux of Antioch. After finishing here, I'm to head east and assume my post."

Gregory's eyes widened slightly, and Ashot cast him an impressed glance. Antioch. The gateway to the Levant and Syria. A forward base for campaigns into the Empire's lost eastern lands. The region oversaw vast revenues from its own production capabilities and its position on the fabled Silk Road. It was also home to one of the most ancient seats of their faith, alongside Rome, Constantinople, Alexandria, and Jerusalem.

In essence, Nikephoros Ouranos was about to become one of the most powerful men in the Empire.

"I see," Constantine murmured, his tone composed, though Ashot noticed a flicker of interest in his eyes. "The Emperor does not make such appointments lightly. Congratulations, Doux. I'm sure you'll serve admirably. Do be sure to give my uncle my greetings."

Nikephoros inclined his head. "I shall, purple-born."

"Are you leaving now, kanikleios?" Gregory asked, using the man's old title. "I could use some help with the prisoners."

Nikephoros nodded again. "Proceed with my suggestions, strategos. I will gather men to assist before I depart."

Gregory waved him off. "Go. The sooner you leave, the less strain I'll have feeding them."

Nikephoros saluted crisply, then turned to leave. Constantine watched him go, his eyes glinting with something Ashot couldn't quite place.

"Something on your mind, purple-born?" Ashot asked.

"Nothing," Constantine replied simply, as if stating a fact. "I think the East will be in good hands."

"Do you know him?" Ashot pressed. As far as he knew, Ouranos had been a bureaucrat in the early years of the Emperor's reign.

"I do," Constantine nodded. "I met him once or twice in the Palace. He kept the Emperor's inkstand."

"A secretary?" Ashot asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.

"Ashot," Gregory cut in, his tone sharp. "One does not become Keeper of the Imperial Inkstand without the Emperor's complete trust. Men like him are dangerous if underestimated. Do not make that mistake."

Constantine interrupted smoothly, his voice cutting through the tension. "Ultimately, this is a good decision. Ouranos is a cautious man. I doubt we'll need to worry about the East under his stewardship." He paused, glancing between father and son. "Now, if there's nothing else, I'll leave you to it. I'm tired, and I'd like to rest."

And with that, he left the tent.

Ashot's eyes lingered on the flaps as they fell closed behind him.

"Be careful of that one, Ashot," Gregory muttered in their tongue, his voice low and wary. "Their ambition is a double-edged blade."

Ashot turned to his father, his expression neutral. "And yet here you are, going along with it."

Gregory sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "He will be Emperor, sooner or later. If I opposed him now, he'd remember. And there go our chances of advancement in the Empire. Besides…" His voice trailed off for a moment before he continued, his tone more reflective.

"In hindsight, his plan makes sense. Engaging the Bulgarians at their strongest would have been disastrous. We only won here because they were tired, overburdened with loot, and caught off guard. If they had been at their prime...this battlefield would have been our grave."

+++

Ouranos was going to become Doux of Antioch soon.

Such thoughts lingered in Constantine's mind as he stepped out of the command tent into the silent, waiting form of Miroslav. The Varangian straightened, the setting sun casting a golden glow across his face.

"Come, Miroslav," Constantine said, turning toward the road leading to his tent. Miroslav followed without a word, a hulking shadow trailing closely behind.

This decision would have significant ramifications for the future, Constantine thought. In the timeline he remembered, Michael Bourtzes would soon be replaced by Damian Dalassenos. Damian, an aggressive field commander, had successfully fought the Fatimids. However, his recklessness had led to disaster. Constantine recalled how Damian had won the Battle of Apamea but died carelessly afterward. While touring the battlefield, he had allowed a Kurdish warrior to approach under the pretense of surrender, only to be speared. His death had turned victory into defeat, forcing the Emperor to rush east to stabilize the crumbling front.

But with Ouranos appointed instead, the future would shift. Like Damian, Ouranos was aggressive. However, he was also calculated and unlikely to rush headlong into danger. If the Battle of Apamea still occurred, Constantine was confident Ouranos would approach it methodically. A victory would solidify Roman control in the region and limit Fatimid influence. The Levant, a contested frontier between Rome and the Fatimids, could finally fall under Roman dominance again. Their defeat would shatter their prestige, making re-conquest of further territories possible.

A low sound rumbled in his chest, and it took Constantine a moment to realize he was laughing.

"Something funny?" Miroslav asked, his deep voice breaking the quiet.

Constantine shook his head. "No, no. Just..."

He paused, inhaling deeply. The evening air carried the stench of blood, sweat, metal, and smoke, a battlefield's perfume.

"...just enjoying the smell of victory," he finished.

"You like the smell of human shit?" Miroslav replied, deadpan.

Constantine rolled his eyes. "No. You'll see."

They kept walking, passing soldiers who now regarded Constantine not with indifference but with respect. Despite his earlier claim of needing rest, Constantine lingered. He stopped to listen to stories, offered words of encouragement to the wounded, and murmured prayers for the dead. His steps eventually carried him to his corner of the camp, where his men tended to their wounds and gear.

Miroslav had observed Constantine and his bandon long enough to know their dynamic: practical, almost impersonal, like a craftsman and his tools. Constantine led in name, but until now, he had deferred most battlefield decisions to his officers.

As Constantine approached, a hush fell over the group. His sharp blue eyes swept over them, lingering briefly on each face.

"You have done well," he said.

The soldiers did not cheer or salute. They simply nodded, the nod of men who had bled together, who understood their efforts were recognized but needed no fanfare. One adjusted the bindings on his arm. Another wiped dried blood from his cheek with the back of his gauntlet. Miroslav stood silently behind Constantine, watching.

"Rest," Constantine continued. "But do not eat yet. I am throwing a feast for everyone, and a bonus for your performance." 

There was nothing more to say but the men did flash grins. He turned and left them to their recovery. Miroslav followed as always, a step behind. "That was your speech? You had an inspired one before the battle."

"It's about timing, Miroslav," Constantine said with a snort. "The men are tired and hungry. The last thing they need is me shouting in their ears."

"Fair enough," Miroslav muttered after a moment's thought.

"Now," Constantine grumbled, his tone lightening, "I need a bath. Where the hell is my eunuch?"

Not long after, Constantine sank into a steaming tub, an appreciative sigh escaping his lips. The soothing warmth of the water, scented with lavender and other soaps, filled his nostrils. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to relax. He was alone now, well, relatively. Nestan and Stephanos were working themselves tired preparing food for himself and the men. Outside, Miroslav waited, with a broad axe in hand. 

With this, the Bulgarians were likely going to face chaos soon. Ohrid, their capital, would be leaderless. As far as he remembered, Gavril Radomir had a cousin who poisioned him and tried to take the Bulgarian throne for himself but he had lackluster support. Vladislav something. It is likely the man would try to usurp the throne now that both Samuel and Gavril died. Now, would Ohrid accept them? 

No, that would mean continued resistance against Rome and only Samuel had the charisma and capacity to keep that going. To accept Vladislav would invite the Emperor's wrath. Why prolong a fight they were going to lose? Historically speaking, many among the boyars had accepted Roman dominion in exchange for lighter sentences. Now, all that was needed was for the Emperor himself to come here or the more likelier scenario, the appointment of a Domestikos of the West to see things done. Historically speaking once more, the appointment of a Domestikos would be likelier as Nikephoros Ouranos had in the original timeline. But now that he was headed East, the likely candidate would be Taronites. 

Now, why not try and reach for the position himself?

Firstly, that would be such a massive overreach of ambition and the Emperor would punish that. No, boldness was not going to win him any points here but humility. Augustus did not need to demand and proclaim things, but rather, let other people do it for him. So yes, let Taronites take the office. He was not in a hurry and he would be able to grow quietly, letting his own prestige rise. A unique position to let things happen, but get none of the blame, which in his mind, was great. Easier to move when the spotlight wasn't on him.

And besides, his plans needed time to mature. The cake must be baked before one can eat it after all. 

Then, as he submurged himself into his tub, the smell of herbs filling his nostrils, he relaxed some more...then sat straight as he heard a great cry leave his tent. 

His eyes snapped open. He stood up, rushing, wrapping a towel around his body, then reaching out, to see Miroslav looming over a figure. Constantine froze in his tracks as his gaze fell upon the figure crumpled on the ground before Miroslav. At first glance, the figure seemed unremarkable, a soldier clad in armor, the dull sheen of the metal marred by dust and scratches from travel. The dent on the chest plate, left by Miroslav's heavy blow, warped the armor slightly, making the figure's small frame even more apparent.

The soldier's helmet had been knocked to the side, revealing a cascade of dark, sweat-matted hair that clung to a face pale with fear. The person clutched their stomach, their trembling hands attempting to steady themselves. The armor was too large for their slender build, and their movements were hesitant, almost awkward, as if they were not accustomed to wearing it.

Then Constantine's eyes caught something, a flicker of familiarity. Beneath the grime and shadow of the tent, the delicate features of the soldier's face stirred a memory. The high cheekbones, the faint curve of the lips, and the way those wide, terrified eyes darted between Miroslav and himself. It was a face he knew, though he could hardly believe it.

"Step back, Miroslav," Constantine commanded, his voice growing sharp. Miroslav hesitated, his broad form towering over the figure, the axe still gripped in his hand.

"My lord," Miroslav said, his voice low and cautious. "They came unannounced. thought—"

"I said step back," Constantine interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Miroslav finally relented, taking a step back but keeping his weapon ready. Constantine moved closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied the trembling figure. The soldier flinched as he crouched down, but Constantine reached out, his hand steady. With a sharp tug, he pulled the helmet fully away.

His breath caught in his throat.

The soldier's disguise was clever, the loose armor, the dirt smudged across their face, the unkempt hair, but it did not hide the unmistakable truth. Before him, cowering and trembling was a girl no older than he was.

She stared up at him, her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she clutched the dented armor tighter, as though it could shield her from his gaze.

"Zoe," his lips thinned. 

"H-Hello....b-brother," she shivered. 

"You are in such trouble, you little-" he spoke before his lips caught him. "Get up," he muttered as he turned to Miroslav. "And find Stephanos please. She needs some help." 

+++

"SHE IS WHAT?!"

The roar echoed through the chamber, rattling the gilded mosaics and silencing even the faintest whispers. The eunuchs flinched, their heads bowed so low it seemed they might collapse under the weight of his fury.

"The Porphyrogenita is missing from the Gynaeceum, oh Basileus," the head eunuch repeated, his voice trembling as if expecting a blow.

Constantine VIII rose from his silk-draped couch, his towering figure casting a long shadow across the chamber. He was half-naked, a heavy fur-lined robe hanging loosely from his shoulders, the golden embroidery catching the flickering lamplight. His chest, broad and muscular despite his years of excess, heaved with barely contained fury.

The women around him, five shapely maidens who had been attending to their emperor's whims, shrank back into the corners of the room. They clutched at their thin robes, their eyes darting between Constantine and the unfortunate head eunuch.

"Since when?!" Constantine demanded, his voice booming as he stepped forward. His robe slipped slightly, revealing more of his bare chest. He barely noticed, his entire focus locked on the eunuch.

"Since the fleet left to reinforce Gregory Taronites," the eunuch stammered, his hands trembling as he clutched the scroll he carried. "One of the maids confessed that she disguised herself and left with them...to see the Purple-born."

"To see Constantine?" The emperor's tone shifted, less enraged and more incredulous. His pacing slowed, and for a moment his anger flickered with something else—pride.

Constantine the Younger. His firstborn and namesake. The boy had grown into a man, a warrior, and from the reports he had received, a damn fine one. Every letter from the frontlines brought news of his victories, his valor, and his growing reputation among the troops. Constantine VIII had puffed with pride every time, knowing that his son was proving himself worthy of his lineage.

He could almost see it now: his boy standing tall in his armor, leading men into battle, the blood of emperors and warriors coursing through his veins. Constantine VIII had always been a man who savored indulgence and pleasure, but when it came to his son, he could not deny the swell of paternal pride.

And now, Zoe wanted to see her brother.

For a fleeting moment, he almost smiled. There was nothing wrong about that...but the reality of the situation sank in.

"She disguised herself as a soldier?" he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. "Left the palace? Left Constantinople? To join the fleet?"

The eunuch nodded, flinching as if the emperor might strike him.

"Does she not understand what she has done?" Constantine growled, his fury returning. "She is the Porphyrogenita, the daughter of the emperor! She cannot simply run off like some common girl chasing after her brother! What madness is this?"

He began pacing again, his robe trailing behind him like a storm cloud. He could not decide what angered him more: the insult to his authority, the danger she had placed herself in, or the sheer audacity of her actions.

And yet, beneath the anger, there was something else. A flicker of reluctant admiration. It took courage to pull off such a stunt, to defy the rules of the imperial court and risk everything just to see her brother. It reminded him of the fire he had seen in his own bloodline—his brother Basil's unyielding determination, his son's fearless leadership, and now, it seemed, his daughter's boldness.

But admiration meant nothing in the face of the chaos she had caused.

"What would people say if they knew?" Constantine muttered, half to himself. "That the daughter of the Basileus sneaks out of the palace, dressed as a soldier, to chase after her brother on campaign? They would laugh. They would mock. They would call her reckless—and they would call me weak."

He could not allow that. His pride, his authority, his dignity as emperor demanded that this be dealt with swiftly and decisively.

"Send word to Taronites," Constantine ordered, his voice cold and commanding. "Tell him to find her and ensure her safety. She is to be returned to Constantinople immediately, unharmed and unnoticed. No one outside this room is to hear of this."

The eunuch bowed deeply and began to back away.

"And tell my son," Constantine added, his voice softening slightly, "that his sister acted out of love for him. But this is the last time she will do so. The next time she disobeys, I will not be so forgiving."

The eunuch hesitated, unsure if this was meant to be passed on. Constantine narrowed his eyes, and the man fled without another word.

Alone again, the emperor sank back onto his couch, the anger draining from him. The maidens crept closer, but he waved them away.

"Zoe," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "You are your brother's sister, that much is clear. But you are still my daughter. And you will learn your place, one way or another."

She would have to be punished. This was a stupid move. 

"A reduction of allowance," Constantine VIII muttered. "I'll just say we are testing a new budgeting scheme." 

Despite himself, he did love his family and kept careful tabs on their money. His boy rarely touched his allowance, not unless it was for some contraption he found himself enamored about. For example, his boy ordered the manufacturing of ploughs whose purpose Constantine the Elder had no idea about. Theodora, his youngest, barely touched her money as well, save for some light purchases. But Zoe on the other hand...

He apologized to his daughter in his mind. She will have to make do with 200 solidii instead of the usual 500. 

+++

The tent was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of the fabric as the evening breeze swept through the camp. Constantine stood near the center, his posture rigid, his arms crossed over his chest. He was still damp from his interrupted bath, his hair slicked back, and his shirt—a thin, translucent linen tunic—clung to his skin. The faint outlines of his muscular frame were visible beneath the fabric, though he hardly seemed to notice or care. Nearby, Gregory Taronites and Ashot stood, their stern expressions betraying faint amusement as they fought to keep their composure.

Zoe sat on a low stool, her arms folded tightly, her chin tilted defiantly upward. Her dark hair was loose now, no longer tucked under the ill-fitting soldier's helmet, and she had changed into simpler clothes borrowed from one of the camp servants. Despite her small frame, she radiated an air of stubbornness that matched her brother's.

"What were you thinking, Zoe?" Constantine's voice was sharp, his frustration evident. "Sneaking out of the palace? Disguising yourself as a soldier? Do you have any idea how reckless that was?"

Zoe glared up at him, her brows furrowing. "I knew exactly what I was doing," she shot back, her tone biting. "I wanted to see you."

"See me?" Constantine scoffed, gesturing broadly with one hand. "You could have written a letter. I send you letters. Was that not enough?"

"I'm not a child, Constantine," Zoe snapped, rising to her feet. "I can handle myself."

"You're not a soldier either," Constantine retorted. "You don't belong on a battlefield. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is here? One wrong move, one careless step, and you'd—"

"And I'd what?" Zoe interrupted, stepping closer to him. "Die? Be captured? Be hurt? Is that what you're so afraid of? Or is it that I'm embarrassing you?"

Constantine's jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring as he fought to keep his temper in check. "This isn't about me," he said through gritted teeth. "It's about you. About keeping you safe. You have no idea what you're playing at, Zoe. No idea what it means to be out here, surrounded by blood and death and—"

"I do know," Zoe cut in, her voice rising. "I've heard the stories. I've read the letters. And every time, I wondered if I'd lose you. Do you know what that feels like? To sit in the palace, waiting, not knowing if your brother is alive or dead?"

Constantine's expression faltered for a moment, the anger in his eyes giving way to something softer, something more vulnerable. But he quickly masked it, shaking his head. "Zoe, that's no excuse for what you did."

Before he could continue, Gregory Taronites cleared his throat. Both Makedons turned to him.

"If I may," the Strategos of Thessaloniki began, his tone measured. "I can charter a ship first thing in the morning, and the Porphyrogenita can be returned quickly."

Zoe's eyes widened in panic. "No!" she cried. She turned to Constantine. "I don't want to go back!"

"Zoe," Constantine began, clicking his tongue in warning, but Zoe pressed on, desperation creeping into her voice.

"They're going to make me marry the Unholy German Confederate!" she blurted.

The three men blinked in unison.

"The... what?" Ashot asked, completely baffled.

"What is an Unholy German Confederate?" Gregory ventured cautiously, glancing between the siblings.

"She means..." Constantine said slowly, the word dripping with distaste, "the German Emperor, Otto."

Understanding dawned on Gregory and Ashot's faces, and they both flinched slightly. Constantine remembered then that during the same year, she was one of the many women considered as a bride for the current Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. In 1001, a second attempt would be made and sure enough, the match had been secured and she had even landed at Italy, but turned back when news broke that Otto had died. 

The idea of marrying into the pretenders wasn't new. Theophano Skleros married Otto the Second, the previous Emperor. Though now, both Taronites had no idea that the true Emperor was considering in marrying off his niece. Though for what purpose, they did not know. It wasn't the first time either as the Emperor of Rome had offered his sister to the Kievan Rus but that had given immediate advantages. Now though...?

Gregory was the first to speak. "I must admit, I do not understand why the Emperor would marry the Porphyrogenita to the pretender."

"Exactly!" Zoe beamed, seizing the opportunity. "Why would I marry into a lowly house of Germans who pretend to be Roman? They... they!" She struggled for a moment, frustration flickering across her face. "If I must be married, I'd sooner marry a lowly Bulgarian swineherd than even think of marrying a... a German!" She spat the word with such venom that it sounded like a curse.

"Z-Zoe," Constantine stammered, clearing his throat. "That's a bit—"

"What, too much?" Zoe blinked innocently. "You're the one who called them the Unholy German Confederate, brother."

Constantine's face flushed in mortification. "That was in private! You do not say such things when others can hear them!" he hissed.

"And you called them other things, too," Zoe continued, undeterred. "You said they were neither Holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire."

Constantine's flush deepened as Gregory and Ashot both coughed, poorly disguising their laughter. "Zoe!" he snapped, his tone a mix of embarrassment and exasperation.

She grinned, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "What?" she said, her voice sweet and innocent. "Am I wrong?"

Constantine pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. "You will drive me mad, I swear."

Despite his irritation, there was a flicker of something else in his expression—something almost like pride. Zoe sat back down, her grin fading into a softer smile. For all her antics, she had missed him, and deep down, Constantine knew it.

"Fine," he muttered at last, sighing heavily. "You're not going anywhere tonight. But we'll discuss this again in the morning. And don't think you've won, Zoe."

She tilted her head, her smile widening. "Of course not, brother," she said sweetly, though her tone made it clear she thought otherwise.

+++

A/N: Asides from missing Constantine, at the same year, Zoe had been considered to marry Otto 3. And considering Constantine has been feeding her utter Roman propaganda since birth, she's had a fairly resonable crashout. 

Ngl though, I have no fucking clue why Basil would consider marrying Zoe off to Otto and I haven't found sources explaining why. If people know, please do tell. 

​Anyway, this is how things will be moving forward with the soft reboot. 

Now as for the dislike of the inceinso, what will come out of here and what I have said to someone is that historians will note that Constantine and Zoe shared a close familial relationship. They won't be public about it because that would be suicide for both of them. If anything, Constantine's plans for his sisters are going to be fitting to their personalities.

He plans for Zoe to basically function his own Murasaki Shikibu as in she will be in charge of the cultural scene for the Empire. Trying to marry her or Theodora off to any of the local nobility will grant the motherfuckers a claim to the Imperial Throne which will not happen on our watch and presently, there would be zero benefits in marry either of them out of the Empire either.

Zoe had been selected to marry Otto 3 but the guy died when her ship arrived in Italy, and she rejected to marry Conrad when she found out that he was 10 at the time.

So at this case, the best thing for Constantine to do, as both her brother that loves her and you know, doing the Jamie (Words I never thought I would write) is to use her hyped up extrovert energy to be the dazzling star Princess of the Makedonian dynasty, our Anna Komenene.

Theodora on the other hand who is very Basil-like in personality will be likely to use in political marriages. To whom, that will be decided.