Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 8 (Historical Fiction SI)

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The sun pressed down on their backs, relentless and searing, like a brand hovering just above the skin.

Gavril Radomir's breaths came heavy and strained as he fumbled for the waterskin strapped to his pack. He popped the cork free, tilting it eagerly to his lips. Relief surged through him as the cool water spilled forth, quenching his parched throat. From atop his horse, he cast a glance back at his countrymen, their faces etched with the same fatigue under the merciless heat and the weight of their labor.

"We should cut loose some of the booty," Gavril suggested, his voice measured but firm as he turned to his father. "It's slowing down the train."

Beside him, astride his own steed, Samuel raised an eyebrow. "And why would we do that?" he replied, his tone edged with incredulity. "These spoils were hard fought and hard won. The Emperor's armies are still entangled in the far east, and the coward Taronites can't challenge us with their meager forces."

Gavril shifted in his saddle, undeterred. "I think we've wandered far enough south as it is," he pressed. "We're fully loaded. It would be wiser to turn back now, before something—"

Samuel snorted, cutting him off. "The Romans lack the strength to defeat us, Gavril," he said dismissively. "What can they do?"

Gavril frowned but said nothing. He took another sip from the waterskin, letting the silence stretch between them. Behind them, the long caravan creaked and groaned under the weight of gold, silks, and other treasures looted from the south. The horses pulling the carts were beginning to falter, their heads drooping as they trudged forward.

Ahead, the landscape was unforgiving. The dry plains stretched endlessly, broken only by the occasional jagged hill or cluster of scrubby trees. The air shimmered with heat, and even the wind seemed to carry no relief, only the taste of dust.

Samuel eventually spoke, his voice quieter but no less resolute. "You worry too much, Gavril. Victory requires risk. We cannot appear weak by discarding what we have earned."

"And if the Romans surprise us?" Gavril asked, his tone sharp. "We are stretched thin, and the train is too slow. If they strike while we are still burdened, even a small force could do damage."

Samuel's jaw tightened, but before he could reply, a scout galloped toward them from the front of the column, his horse lathered in sweat and his face pale. He pulled up sharply, saluting as dust swirled around him.

"My lords," the scout said, his voice hoarse. "There is movement ahead. A detachment of Roman cavalry is approaching."

Samuel straightened in his saddle, his eyes narrowing. "How many?"

"Two hundred, perhaps more," the scout replied. "They are keeping their distance for now, but they are shadowing us."

Gavril shot his father a pointed look but held his tongue. Samuel, for his part, seemed unfazed.

"Two hundred," he said, scoffing. "Hardly a threat. They are testing us, nothing more. Send riders to the rear and the flanks. Make sure our men are ready, but we will not stop. Let them follow if they wish."

The scout nodded and wheeled his horse around, galloping back toward the column.

"You see?" Samuel said, glancing at Gavril. "This is exactly what I meant. The Romans bark, but they have no bite. They would not dare attack us outright."

Gavril remained silent, his grip tightening on the reins. He could feel the tension growing, not just in himself but in the men around him. The Romans were watching, waiting, and though his father dismissed the threat, Gavril could not shake the feeling that danger was closer than it seemed.

The caravan pressed on, the creak of wheels and the clink of armor filling the heavy air, and the overbearing weight of the golden sun.

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"They are fully loaded," Ashot Taronites observed, his voice measured.

"Told you," Constantine IX snorted. "The Bulgarians are so weighed down with impedimenta that they'll slow to a crawl. They might be masters of hit-and-run, but they need speed for that."

Despite the full-faced cataphract helmet he wore, Ashot could tell Constantine was grinning beneath the polished steel. "And now they've burdened themselves with dead weight. That will be a surprise we can exploit later."

Ashot's thoughts drifted to his father, who had never been comfortable allowing the Bulgarians to raid so freely across northern Greece. It was the duty of a strategos to protect his jurisdiction, to use the forces under his command to defend the land and its people. To stand by and not act wasn't just an affront to his father's instincts, it also called his abilities into question. And since the elder Taronites had been appointed by none other than the Emperor himself, that inaction could also lead to uncomfortable questions about the Emperor's judgment.

No, that would not do. That would not do at all.

But the Caesar had made his intentions clear, effectively encouraging the elder Taronites to hold back through sheer force of will. Ashot could still recall the death glares his father, the former Prince of Taron, sent Constantine IX every time fresh reports of raids arrived. Yet Constantine had taken it all in stride, seemingly unbothered.

Perhaps it helped that Constantine had spent most of his time preparing the city, rallying the people with visits and supplies, and drilling relentlessly with his bandon, the elite cavalry unit of 200 men under his command instead of partying or being a hedonist. That at least showed he was taking this seriously, and implied that there was a larger strategy. 

"When we defeat them, and we will defeat them," Constantine IX said, his tone brimming with quiet confidence, "we must identify their loot and return it to the owners, if it can be returned. If not, it will serve as fair compensation for the families who have suffered."

"Agreed," Ashot nodded. It was only just, especially since the peasantry had borne the brunt of the Bulgarians' wrath.

"And after we win," Constantine continued, his voice gaining strength, "we should push our advantage. We cannot waste this opportunity."

"Push our advantage? How far?" Ashot blinked, caught off guard.

Constantine turned to him, his eyes sprinkling with glee. "We push forward. We reclaim what was lost. We restore the world, my lord."

He raised a gauntleted hand, gesturing toward the distant line of marching Bulgarians. "And these men, these barbaroi, will pay for it in blood. On their defeat, the world shall be remade."

Ashot stared at Constantine, the words hanging in the air like a challenge. Reclaiming lost territories? Restoring the world? It was the kind of dream spoken of in hushed tones by scholars and zealots, a vision of the empire at its height, when Justinian's armies marched across the Mediterranean and Rome itself bowed to the purple. For a moment, the world seemed to fall silent, save for the whisper of the wind and the unrelenting heat of the sun pressing down on them.

But that was centuries ago, and the world had changed. Ashot could not help but feel the weight of reality pressing down on him, heavy and immovable.

"My lord," Ashot began carefully, his voice steady, "Justinian's empire was built on the backs of countless legions and the coffers of a treasury far deeper than what we possess now. Do you truly believe such a dream is possible?"

Constantine turned his head slowly, his gaze meeting Ashot's. Beneath the polished faceplate of his helmet, his expression was unreadable. For a moment, the only sounds were the distant clinking of arms, the faint rustle of the plains' dry grass, and the rhythmic creak of saddle leather.

"You think I am a fool," Constantine said at last. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, firm and unyielding. "You think I am chasing ghosts, reaching for something beyond our grasp."

Ashot hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. "I think you are ambitious, my lord. But ambition must be tempered by caution. The empire's strength is not what it once was, and a single misstep could unravel everything we have worked so hard to preserve. The world is not as it was in Justinian's time."

Constantine chuckled softly, the sound muffled by his helm. "You are wise, Ashot, and your counsel is valued. But there are times in the affairs of men when we must fight for more than survival, more than just defending what we hold." His voice grew quieter, yet sharper, as he leaned forward slightly in his saddle. "Such is the burden of men whom God has blessed with reason. If we resign ourselves to simply staying where we are, then we might as well be beasts. Is that what you would have us become?"

Ashot's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Constantine pressed on, his voice lowering to a near-whisper, though it carried the weight of a command. "Do you know what I see, Ashot? I see an empire that has grown complacent, content to defend scraps of land while enemies press in from all sides. I see a people who have forgotten what it means to be Roman, who have forgotten that this empire once ruled the world. If we do not reclaim what is ours, others will take it from us. And then we will be nothing."

Ashot held his gaze, his mind racing. Constantine's words were bold, even reckless, yet there was a fire in them that was impossible to ignore. He turned to glance at the men nearby, and to his surprise, they were staring too. Their eyes were wide, their faces marked with something he could not quite name—determination, perhaps, or hope. Against his better judgment, Ashot realized he was listening too, drawn in by the sheer force of belief behind Constantine's words.

"Our enemies surround us," Constantine continued, his tone sharpening, "ready to seize by force what they cannot take by right. They claim our legacy, our lands, our culture, as if it were theirs to take."

Dangerous words. Reckless words. Yet the utter certainty in them made everyone listen.

"Now or never," Constantine declared, his voice rising, "we will show the world that through these arms, Roman blood still flows." His gauntleted hand slashed through the air as his voice thundered across the plains. "In our chests, we still proudly bear a name!"

The wind stirred suddenly, tugging at the banners above them. Sunlight gleamed off the golden embroidery of the Chi-Rho standard, the symbol of Christ flashing in the noon light as it snapped and danced in the breeze.

Constantine's hands curled into fists, his voice ringing with conviction. "Triumphant in battles, the name of Trajan!"

The men did not cry out. Romans did not shout and scream like in the Frankish armies. No, what they did was sit at attention on their saddles, their lances raised to attack. Ashot said nothing, his thoughts swirling in chaos. Constantine's dream was reckless, dangerous, and yet for a moment Ashot could almost believe in it. 

Then, a great sound!

FHWOOOOOOM!

The earth shook with the galloping of a thousand hooves. It began as a low rumble, distant, like the growl of a slumbering beast, but it grew quickly, swelling into a deafening roar that rolled across the plains. The sound was joined by the clinking of iron, the creak of leather, and the rhythmic pounding of the ground, each strike growing louder with every heartbeat.

Ashot twisted in his saddle, his head snapping toward the horizon. There, emerging from the shimmering heat of the distant plain, came the main army of Taronites the Elder.

Thick ranks of cataphracts moved as one, a wall of steel and flesh bearing down on the Bulgarians. The sunlight caught on their armor, transforming the mass of men and horses into a tide of molten silver. Each rider was encased in lamellar plates, their helmets gleaming, the tassels of their banners streaming behind them like tongues of fire. Their lances were lowered, the tips glinting like stars, a thousand points of light aimed forward with deadly intent.

The ground trembled beneath their charge, the vibration coursing through Ashot's bones. Dust rose in great clouds around them, billowing like smoke, as if the very earth itself was warning of the storm that was about to break.

At the forefront of the charge, his father rode tall and unyielding. Taronites the Elder was a figure carved from stone, his crimson cloak billowing behind him like the wings of an avenging angel. His horse, a massive destrier clad in barding, snorted and foamed at the mouth, its muscles rippling with every stride. The elder Taronites held his lance steady, the golden eagle standard of his house fluttering at his side, a symbol of imperial authority and unrelenting discipline.

Ashot could not tear his eyes away from the charge. Ashot was brought back to reality as Constantine rose in his stirrups, he cried in a loud voice, more clear than any there had ever heard a mortal man achieve before: "NOW! IN THE NAME OF TRAJAN!" 

He reached for a horn around his belt and he blew such a blast upon it that it burst asunder. The blast of the horn shattered the air, its echo a ghostly wail fading into the plain. It was the signal. The cataphracts surged forward, their speed increasing, their formation tightening. What had begun as a disciplined canter became an all-consuming charge, the sound of hooves crashing like a thunderstorm rolling across the earth. The shimmering wall of lances seemed to stretch endlessly, an unbroken hedge of death bearing down upon the struggling Bulgarian formation.

Ahead, the Bulgarians scrambled to meet them. Their soldiers, weighed down by mail and shields, moved sluggishly, the heat and the suddenness of the attack robbing them of coordination. Shouts in their guttural tongue rang out as officers bellowed orders, trying to form a proper line. Spears and shields were hastily raised, a bristling barrier of wood and iron. But it was imperfect—gaps yawned like open wounds in their ranks as men tripped, collided, or faltered, their courage flagging at the sight of the oncoming tide. The two forces collided with with force, and the wet crunch of flesh and bone, and the anguished cries of men and beasts. The lances of the cataphracts struck home with brutal precision, shattering shields, piercing armor, and throwing men backward as if they were dolls. Horses screamed as they slammed into the Bulgarian line, their sheer weight breaking through the hastily-formed ranks. The front line of Bulgarians crumpled under the impact, their spears snapping like twigs, their bodies crushed beneath the hooves of charging destriers.

The Romans, their lances spent, drew swords and maces, hacking and smashing through the chaos. The Bulgarians fought back desperately, their axes and swords biting into the armored riders where they could find a gap. Blood sprayed into the air, mingling with the dust and sweat, turning the battlefield into a swirling haze of red and brown. Men screamed and cursed, their voices rising above the din of battle, only to be silenced by the relentless advance of the imperial cavalry.

Through the blood and pounding in his chest, Ashot saw it.

Constantine, his cloak now stained with the blood of his enemies. Under the light of the sun, he shone. His sword flashed like lightning, cutting down any who dared to stand before him. Around him, his men pressed forward, their discipline unbroken, their momentum unstoppable. The Bulgarian formation, already imperfect, began to collapse entirely. Pockets of resistance formed here and there, but they were surrounded, cut off, and annihilated one by one.

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Basil II - The Emperor who restored the power of Rome (ALL PARTS) 2 hour documentary

Growing impatient from the constant shadowing of the Bulgarian armies, the Stategos of Thessalonike, Gregory Taronites, finally ordered an assault on the heavily laden Bulgarians. Bearing a force of four thousand cavalry, the Romans charged ahead into the flanks of the travelling Bulgarians. Through it all, the purple-born, Constantine IX, had been scouting in the area with Greogry's son, Ashote, and saw the incoming attack and joined in.

Hemmed from the back, Samuel was quick to rally. He ordered gaps to be plugged into the lines and for his spearmen to march forward and deal with the riders. In most cases, the Bulgarians could quickly regain the momentum and surround the Romans. The fields around Spercheios were flat and they could easily manoeuvre around the numerically inferior Romans. But the Bulgarians had been marching under the hot Greek sun, carrying loads of equipment, and were tired from the mid-day march. The Romans could coordinate better, were mostly-cavalry based, and heavily armed compared to the lighter Bulgarians. 

And through the fighting, Constantine saw an opportunity. 

As Samuel and Gavril were reforming their lines, a gap opened.

The purple-born took it.

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The air was thick with dust and the acrid stench of sweat and blood. Samuel's voice rang out over the cacophony, raw and desperate. His face, weathered by years of war, was twisted in fury as he rode along the wavering Bulgarian lines. His cloak flew behind him like a specter, and his sword was raised high, gleaming in the sun.

"REFORM THE LINES! REFORM THE LINES!" he bellowed again, his voice cutting through the din like a whip. Around him, his officers scrambled to obey, shouting orders to the exhausted men.

The Bulgarians, laden with gear and worn down by the relentless march under the cruel Greek sun, struggled to obey. Spears were raised, shields interlocked, and gaps in the line hastily plugged. But it was chaos. Dust choked the air, men stumbled over one another, and the cries of the wounded and dying punctuated every moment. Gavril Radomir fought like a man possessed, hacking and slashing until his sword was chipped, brought about by the cataphracts thick armour. 

Gavril's horse reared, its nostrils flaring, as he swung his blade in a wide arc, cutting down an advancing Roman rider. His breathing was ragged, his arms trembling from the strain of constant motion, but he pressed on. The dust and blood were in his eyes, but he could still see the Tsar, at the center of the chaos, issuing orders with the authority of a king and the desperation of a man holding his world together by sheer will.

Then he heard it—a horn blast cutting through the din like a knife through fabric. It was shrill and clear, a Roman signal. Gavril's head snapped around, and his blood ran cold.

Through the haze, he saw a cataphract, resplendent in his shining armor and fluttering cloak, charging at the head of his bandon. His lance was leveled, its tip gleaming like a needle of death in the sun. Gavril took two and two together as he saw where the rider was charging.

"FATHER!" Gavril roared, his voice cracking with urgency. He spurred his horse forward, his heels digging into its sides. The beast surged beneath him, its muscles straining as it barreled toward the oncoming Romans. Samuel, still shouting commands, turned too late. His eyes widened as he saw the rider bearing down on him, his lance aimed squarely at his chest. The Roman cavalry followed close behind, their formation a wedge. Gavril's heart thundered in his chest. He leaned low over his horse's neck, urging it forward with every ounce of strength he possessed. The wind whipped past his face, mingling with the screams and the clash of battle. His father was right there, vulnerable, unaware of how close death was.

With a final cry, Gavril thrust himself into the path of the oncoming lance. The world slowed as the rider's weapon pierced his side, the force of the impact lifting him from his saddle. Pain exploded through his body, white-hot and consuming, but Gavril had no time to think of it. For a moment, his eyes and the cataphract's met.

They were an ice blue.

[SPOILER="The Pale Death of Bulgaria"][/SPOILER]

The lance snapped under the strain, its splintered shaft still embedded in Gavril's body as he fell to the ground, his horse tumbling beside him. He hit the earth hard, the breath knocked from his lungs, but even as darkness crept at the edges of his vision, he turned his head.

His father was running away, spurred on by loyal officers, their own cavalry men rushing to meet the Romans and protect their Tsar. Gavril's vision blurred, the sounds of battle fading into a distant hum. But before the darkness claimed him, he caught one last glimpse of his father's face: hardened with determination, yet etched with the unmistakable pain of a father watching his son fall.

And then Gavril's world went black.

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Basil II - The Emperor who restored the power of Rome (ALL PARTS) 2 hour documentary

Constantine, seeing a gap in the Bulgarian lines, spurred his bandon forward with unrelenting determination, aiming to finish off the Bulgarian Tsar. Samuel, preoccupied with the chaos of his disintegrating army, remained unaware of the imminent danger. But Gavril Radomir saw it. Without hesitation, he urged his horse forward, riding with all the strength he could muster. In a single, selfless act that would echo through history, Gavril threw himself into the path of Constantine's lance. The weapon struck him with brutal force, lifting him from his saddle, blood spraying as the lance pierced deep into his side. Gavril fell to the ground, lifeless, his sacrifice ensuring his father's survival. It is because of this act that Gavril Radomir is remembered among the Bulgarian people as a hero—a symbol of ultimate patriotism and unyielding love.

Back to Samuel, however, the battlefield was lost. The Tsar had lost control of his army as the Romans pressed their advantage. Taronites the Elder, a seasoned and ruthless commander who had borne the brunt of earlier Bulgarian raids, showed no mercy. With grim determination, he drove his troops forward, cutting down all who stood in their path.

The Bulgarian forces broke, scattering in every direction. Exhausted, disorganized, and overwhelmed, many fled south, the only path they saw as clear. But unknown to them, reinforcements from Constantinople, led by Nikephoros Ouranos, had already arrived. The fresh Roman troops, disciplined and ready, waited for the fleeing Bulgarians. At the head of the column stood the Varangians, armed with broad axes, waited. The Bulgarians, desperate and broken, ran straight into them. What followed was a slaughter. The Varangians struck with the force of an avalanche, their axes cleaving through armor, shields, and flesh alike. The tired and demoralized Bulgarians stood no chance. They were cut down to a man, including Samuel. 

And thus, in the shadow of Thermopylae, the Bulgarian Empire was ended, its Tsar and its Prince, killed in battle. The heads of Gavril Radomir and Samuel would be sent to Constantinople, where Constantine VII presented them to the Senate. The Emperor on the other hand, upon hearing the news, went into Roman Antioch, and celebrated mass in the Church of St Peter, with the Antiochan Patriarch. It was also then, a most curious delegation was sent into the Queen of Cities, bearing a royal seal.

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To His Imperial Majesty Basil the Second, Born of the Purple, Emperor of the Romans, Sovereign Defender of Christendom, Light of the East

With humility befitting those defeated, and in trembling hope of your divine mercy, we write to Your Majesty in this hour of darkness.

The Lord has given you triumph. The armies of my father are scattered. The Lion of Bulgaria is dead, as is its scions. 

The field is yours, as is the future. We do not deny what Heaven has ordained.

Yet the world does not fall silent with the death of kings. Even in ruin, there are those who would set fire to the ashes.

Vladislav, kinsman by blood yet serpent in ambition, has raised what few boyars still cling to arms. With threats and bribes he has turned the remnants of the nobility to his cause. Now he lays siege to Ohrid, claiming the city as his by right and by sword, as if war has not already exacted its full toll. The people starve behind the walls. The soldiers grow restless. The priests prepare to die at their posts.

But I will not yield it to him. Nor will the Church.

I, Miroslava of Ohrid, remain within these walls. I have no army. I wear no crown. Yet I remember the words whispered in my childhood: that the Emperor of Rome is not only mighty, but just. And that the purple-born does not punish the fallen when they kneel with open hands. Therefore I, and the Patriarch of the Bulgarian Church, implore Your Majesty: extend your protection over this city, as a father shields his wayward children and I as your very own flesh and blood.

Let it not fall to another usurper's torch. Let it not descend into a second slaughter. Receive us, not as enemies, but as those who have seen your strength and recognize in it the will of Heaven.

We do not bargain. We entreat.

The Church will bend its neck to your peace. The people will welcome your banners over their gates. And I, who have known courts both proud and perilous, will place myself under your authority.

Should Your Majesty choose to answer this call, you will find the people eager to serve, the clergy prepared to submit, and myself willing to bind my fate to the fortunes of the Empire, in whatever manner Your Majesty deems fitting.

I await your answer in the palace of my father, where the halls echo only with ghosts.

In hope, and without deceit,

Your Daughter,

Miroslava of Bulgaria

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A/N: I have returned.