Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 7 (Historical Fiction SI)

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

It is the year 996 and not wishing for the Fatimids to gain ground in the East, the Emperor Basil marched to surprise them, leaving behind his heir Constantine IX The Younger under the tutelage of Gregory Taronites, Doux of Thessalonike. It did not take long for the Bulgarian Tsar, Samuel, to take advantage of the Emperor's absence. While he had heard of the youth's capture of Tsar Roman, he had chalked it up to pure luck on the youth's part. That besides, it had granted him the opportunity to fully centralize further power to himself for he and the former Tsar had been co-rulers though Samuel did more of the ruling and Roman was a mere figurehead.

And thus, with confirmation that Northern Greece was empty of Basil shaped threats, Samuel picked up the pace in letting Rome feel his wrath. It had been a few years since the Emperor started his campaign and while he had raided and pillaged many a Roman town or village, it did not exactly stop the Romans from taking important Bulgarian fortresses and cities in a brutal campaign. Samuel found no chances to lure the cautious Basil 2 into the field when the Emperor was in command. But perhaps a younger and less tested Caesar might be more eager.

Unfortunately for Tsar Samuel...Constantine IX would not suffer his own Trajan's Gate.

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Smoke curled behind them in long, greasy ribbons that clung to the hillsides. Livestock lay butchered in the road. Fields salted and ruined under trampling hooves. His men laughed, drank, wiped blood on their sleeves, their spears sticky with Roman screams. The scent of scorched stone and ruptured flesh clung to everything.

It gave him no pleasure.

He would never feel pleasure until the Romans would well and truly bleed in the battlefield. He was not some low Scythian, content with smoking ruins and slaughtered peasants. This was hollow work, a necessary evil in the grander scheme of things. It weakened the Romans, yes, but it was a pale substitute for the true victory he craved. Until the Romans were utterly defeated in the field—their pride torn down, their standards trodden underfoot, their generals routed—Bulgaria would never be safe.

"You look upset, father," a voice joined him.

Under their banners, Samuel turned to see his son approach on his own horse.

"You know why," Samuel spat.

Gabriel Radomir did not look far too different from him. His face bore the same sharp lines, the same fierce eyes that seemed carved from flint. But where Samuel's expression was worn with age and years of war, Gabriel's still had the fire of youth, tempered by the shadow of his father's legacy.

"But how do we draw out an enemy that refuses to sally out?" Gabriel asked, tilting his head. 

​Samuel thought about it. Perhaps the reason why the Romans were refusing to go was due to manpower reasons? The Emperor and his armies had left east after all. If there was a force left behind, it was likely enough to keep him out of the cities though Samuel was not delusional enough to believe he could totally siege and hold them so far away from his power base. His objective here was not conquest but to keep the Romans out of the homeland. 

"The reaping of their countryside is not moving them," Samuel hummed. "So we must offer them a temptation far too alluring to resist." 

​Gabriel leaned in with interest. His eyes flickered with understanding. "A royal temptation, then?"

Samuel nodded. 

Gabriel saluted. "I shall go with my riders. We are faster and younger." 

"Go," the Tsar commanded. 

And so, the Bulgarians raided.

Northern Greece burned.

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"It is obviously a trap," Constantine IX declared, his voice sharp. Though his tone carried the authority of command, his youthful face betrayed a hint of confidence—a far cry from the silent boy Gregory last remembered. The Caesar stood at the head of the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, staring intently at the map spread across the table. Flickering candlelight danced off the polished wood, illuminating the jagged lines of mountains and valleys that marked the contested lands.

"Obviously," Gregory Taronites sighed, rubbing his temples with one hand. The Doux of Thessalonike, usually calm and measured, now seemed frayed at the edges. The raids had taken their toll. "Trap or not, we cannot sit idle while the Bulgarians burn the land and slaughter our people. If we do nothing, they will lose faith in me, and our revenues will suffer."

"But we only have seven thousand men," Ashot Taronites pointed out, his voice measured but firm. He stood near the window, his sharp eyes gazing out at the bustling city below. The noise of Thessalonike—carts rattling over cobblestones, merchants shouting their wares, the occasional bleat of livestock—filtered faintly into the room. "Samuel has twelve thousand. The numbers are against us. If we sally out and fail, Thessalonike loses its garrison, and the city itself is at risk."

Gregory's frown deepened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the armrest of his chair. "And if we do nothing, what then? Samuel grows bolder with every raid. His men move through the countryside like wolves among sheep, and every day we sit here debating, more villages burn. It's not just the land he destroys, but the trust of the people. If they believe we cannot protect them, they will lose faith in Rome."

Constantine turned from the map, his dark eyes meeting Gregory's. "And what would you have us do, my lord? March out with seven thousand men to chase Samuel into an ambush?"

Gregory opened his mouth to respond, but Ashot interjected, his tone cautious but resolute. "The Caesar is right, Father. Samuel has been fighting this way for years. We cannot afford to gamble—not with what little we have."

Gregory exhaled sharply, his frustration evident. "Then what do you suggest? That we simply let him burn and pillage as he pleases? That we stand here and watch while he mocks us?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Constantine's lips, though it held no humor. "Yes," he said simply.

Both Taronites turned to him, their surprise evident.

"Let me explain," Constantine continued. "Samuel defeated my uncle at Trajan's Gate because the Emperor retreated with poor planning, walking straight into an ambush Samuel had prepared. Samuel thrives on forcing his enemies to fight on his terms. Right now, he's betting that I, a youth, will act impulsively—either by leading an attack myself or urging you to do so. But I say, let him raid. Let him push deeper into our lands. He wants us to respond, to meet him in the hills where he controls the terrain. If we deny him that satisfaction, he will grow impatient. And when he does, he will overreach."

Ashot tilted his head, intrigued. "You think we bait him by doing nothing?"

Constantine nodded, stepping back toward the map. "Exactly. If we refuse to engage on his terms, he will push further than he should. When that happens, we will strike—not in the hills where his ambushes wait, but on the open plains, where Roman discipline will crush him."

Gregory leaned forward, his brow furrowed in thought. "But in the meantime, Caesar, more will suffer. Every day we wait, more villages will fall, more lives will be lost."

Constantine's expression softened slightly, but his resolve remained unshaken. "I know, my lord. I do not make this suggestion lightly. Every Roman life weighs on me. But the alternative is worse. If we march out now and fail, Thessalonike itself could fall. Thousands more would suffer, and Samuel would have a path into the heart of the Empire. We must think of the greater good."

Gregory's jaw clenched, his frustration palpable. He knew Samuel's penchant for ambushes and trickery. Trajan's Gate was a bitter reminder of what could happen when pride overtook strategy. And yet, the thought of watching his lands burn without response gnawed at him.

Before he could reply, the door to the chamber burst open with a loud bang, startling all three men. A young messenger, his tunic damp with sweat and dust clinging to his boots, strode in hurriedly. He bowed quickly, his voice urgent and trembling.

"My lords!" he exclaimed, struggling to catch his breath. "The Bulgarians! They've raided the outskirts of Thessalonike! Smoke rises from the villages to the north. They've set fire to the granaries, and their horsemen have been sighted near the river! They are within a day's ride of the city walls!"

Gregory shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His expression, already strained, twisted into barely contained fury. "Damn them," he growled, slamming a fist against the table. He turned to Ashot, who had straightened at the news, his face grim. "We cannot allow this to stand. Ashot, send riders immediately—two hundred men should suffice to drive them off. We must act now before they grow bolder!"

Constantine, who had remained still as the messenger spoke, now stepped forward. "No. We do nothing."

Gregory froze mid-movement, his hand gripping the edge of the table. Slowly, he turned to face the young Caesar, his eyes narrowing. "Caesar," he said, his voice dangerously low, "this is no time for hesitation. The Bulgarians are at our doorstep. If we do not respond, they will think us cowards."

Constantine met his gaze without flinching. "And that is exactly what Samuel wants, my lord. This is a deliberate provocation. If we send riders now, they will not return. Samuel has ambushes waiting for them, just as he always does."

"Trap or not," Gregory countered, his voice rising, "we cannot sit idle while our people burn! What will they think of Rome then, when their own Doux refuses to protect them?"

Ashot stepped in cautiously, his expression torn. "Father, Caesar may be right. If Samuel is baiting us, sending a small detachment could cost us those men and embolden him further."

Gregory rounded on his son, his frustration boiling over. "And what would you have us do, Ashot?"

Constantine raised his voice, steady but commanding. "What happens when those two hundred men ride straight into an ambush, my lord? What happens when Samuel learns we are so desperate to respond that we waste soldiers for nothing? Every step he takes deeper into our lands is a step away from his strongholds, his supplies. He thinks he is weakening us, but in truth, he is exposing himself. If we strike now, we play into his hands. If we wait, he will overreach."

Gregory's fists clenched, his knuckles white. "So your answer is to do nothing? To let him burn our lands while we cower behind these walls?"

"Yes," Constantine said firmly, stepping closer to the table. His eyes locked onto Gregory's, his youthful face set with an authority that belied his years. "Because this is not about pride, my lord. It is about winning the war. Every step Samuel takes deeper into our lands is a step away from his strongholds, away from his supply lines. Every raid he launches costs him men, horses, and time. He thinks he is weakening us, but in truth, he is exposing himself. If we strike now, we play into his hands. If we wait, he will overreach."

Gregory's breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling as anger burned within him. His gaze bore into Constantine, searching for some weakness, some hesitation in the young man's plan. But there was none. The Porphyrogénnētos eyes were unwavering, his posture rigid with conviction. It was not the face of a boy unsure of his words—it was the face of a commander who had already made his decision.

And then, something shifted.

For a moment, it was not Constantine IX standing before him. The flickering candlelight in the chamber seemed to dim, and Gregory's vision blurred, as though the weight of years pressed upon his mind. It was not the youthful Caesar who stared him down but the Emperor.

Gregory blinked, the image fading in an instant, and the young Caesar returned before him, still watching, still looking.

As the Doux of Thessalonike, he had operational authority here. While the Purple-Born could theoretically command him not to act, it was still up to his own discretion. But with the way the Purple-Born was speaking, he was outright commanding him not to lift a hand. The Emperor has tasked him to teach the young man but beyond his authority as a teacher...

The room fell silent, tension thick as Gregory stared at Constantine. Finally, the Doux exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging. "Very well," he said quietly. "We will do it your way, Caesar. But if you are wrong, Thessalonike will not forgive you. And neither will I."

Constantine inclined his head. "Understood, my lord."

Ashot, sensing the tension, stepped closer to stand beside his father. "I will ensure that the garrison remains alert," he said softly. "And that the people know we are not idle. If we are to wait, we must at least appear strong."

Gregory nodded, his gaze still fixed on the map. "Do it," he said curtly. Then, without another word, he turned and strode toward the door, his footsteps echoing across the chamber.

As the door closed behind him, Constantine turned to Ashot, his voice quiet but firm. "Your father will not forgive me if this plan fails. Neither will the Emperor."

Ashot lingered near the table, his eyes still on the map. His expression was troubled, a mixture of doubt and concern. Folding his arms across his chest, he finally turned to the young Caesar.

"No, Caesar," he said carefully, his tone low but respectful. "He will not forgive you. But it's not just my father you should worry about. The people—they won't forgive you either. If they see us doing nothing while their homes burn, their faith in us will shatter. And when the people lose faith, even the strongest walls cannot hold a city together."

Constantine nodded slowly, acknowledging the point. "I'm not blind to their frustrations, Ashot. But I also know that action for the sake of appearances can be disastrous. If we waste soldiers on a futile raid, Samuel wins without needing to fight. This is not the old Empire, where we could lose ten legions and raise another ten. The days of Illyria filling our ranks with reliable men are over. Egypt no longer feeds us with its grain. When we fight now, we must fight to win—absolutely."

Ashot stepped closer, his tone sharpening slightly. "I understand the strategy, Caesar. But the people won't see it that way. To them, it will look like cowardice. And a city that believes its leaders are cowards is a city ready to revolt. We must do something, anything, to show them we are not idle."

Constantine exhaled, clasping his hands behind his back as he paced around the table. He stopped near the window, glancing briefly at the city below. The sounds of Thessalonike—the creak of cartwheels, the distant shouts of merchants, the faint laughter of children—filtered faintly into the chamber. It was a city alive, but also a city on edge. He could feel it in the air, the tension that came with every Bulgar raid, every plume of smoke on the horizon.

As cold as his suggestion had been, the Taronites were right—inaction, even strategic inaction, would make them look weak.

"You're right," Constantine said finally, turning back to face Ashot. "Then what do you suggest? How do we balance this?"

"First, we keep the garrison strong," Ashot said. "Strengthen the city's defenses. Double the patrols on the walls, fortify the gates, and ensure the garrison is visible and ready. Let the people see that we are preparing for a fight. That alone will reassure many of them."

"And the countryside?" Constantine asked.

Ashot hesitated. "We cannot save every village," he admitted, his voice heavy with discomfort. "But we can show we have not abandoned them. Send messengers to the affected areas with promises of aid and protection. Distribute what supplies we can spare to those who have fled to the city. It won't stop the raids, but it will show the people we care about their suffering."

Constantine allowed himself a faint, humorless chuckle. "We should get the Doux back here for this," he said. "But he's left it to you to carry out his will, hasn't he?"

Ashot tilted his head. "There's more," he said. "The raids themselves—"

"Station scouts along the main roads and in the hills," Constantine interjected thoughtfully. "If the Bulgarians push too close to the city, we strike with a small, mobile force—enough to drive them back, but not enough to risk a major engagement. The goal isn't to defeat them outright, but to keep them from growing too confident."

Ashot frowned slightly. "A fine line to walk, Caesar. If we strike too lightly, the people will see it as weakness. If we strike too hard, we risk falling into Samuel's trap."

"That is why we rely on discipline," Constantine replied, his voice firm. "The men must know their orders clearly. No pursuit beyond safe ground. No overextension. If Samuel tries to bait us into the mountains, we fall back immediately. No exceptions."

Ashot hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I see the wisdom in it, Caesar. But it will still be difficult to convince the people that this is the right course. They want vengeance, not patience."

"Good thing we have soldiers trained under the Emperor," Constantine said, a faint smile playing at his lips as his tone lightened. "We've won worse battles because we kept our heads cool and our blood focused. We will win this, Ashot."

"You speak as if it's fact, not possibility," Ashot pointed out, his tone measured but skeptical.

"Because, my lord," Constantine replied with quiet confidence, his smile widening just slightly, "it is."

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The wind had picked up by the time Gabriel returned. Dust clung to the sweat along his jaw, trailing him like smoke. His mount descended the slope, lathered and snorting, its steps heavy with exhaustion. Samuel stood alone beside the half-collapsed shrine where they'd made camp, staring out at the pale ridgelines shimmering beneath the early heat.

Gabriel dismounted without ceremony, his movements stiff. He offered a quick bow before straightening, his voice clipped. "Nothing happened."

Samuel didn't respond. His jaw tightened, grinding silently. The breeze tugged at the hem of his cloak like a petulant child, but still, he said nothing.

Gabriel pressed on. "No movement from the city. Not a single sortie. The walls are manned, the gates sealed. No reinforcements. No pursuit. But our men saw signs—the Romans aren't idle. They've begun reinforcing the walls with double patrols. We were chased out but not far; they stopped halfway."

Samuel stood motionless, listening. A sharp exhale escaped him as he dragged a hand down his face and planted his palm against his forehead, fingers spread as though to press the thoughts from his skull.

"My Tsar?" Gabriel ventured.

"They're entrenching," Samuel said at last, his tone sharp with disdain. "The rotten bastards are entrenching."

Gabriel said nothing, waiting.

Samuel's nostrils flared as he turned to regard his heir. "And what do you make of this?"

Gabriel's eyes narrowed subtly, though he kept his head bowed a fraction longer than needed. When he finally straightened, his voice was low but steady. "They've chosen to wait."

"Obviously," Samuel shot back, derision thick in his voice. "But what else?"

Gabriel hesitated, then answered slowly. "They won't be baited."

Samuel inclined his head, lips curling into a grim smile. "Exactly. They're disciplined. They're patient. They're keeping their eyes on the prize—our destruction—and they'll do it slowly, methodically. They know they can outlast us." His frown deepened as he considered the implications. Was this the Emperor's strategy? Hold out until his return from the east? Likely. The Emperor was a man who valued control above all else.

"What do we do then?" Gabriel asked. "Return to the homeland?"

Samuel was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate. "We don't."

Gabriel frowned. "We accomplish nothing by staying here. The Romans will remain turtled behind their walls."

"And we're not staying here," Samuel replied, rising to his full height. "We're marching south."

Gabriel blinked, the surprise evident in his expression. "South? The further we are from Bulgaria, my Tsar, the riskier it will be to escape."

Samuel's gaze hardened. "Do you propose we simply return to Bulgaria and do nothing? While we have the freedom to move without risking the Emperor's armies on us, we can strike further into Greece. We do that, the poor folk of Greece can blame no one for their troubles but their Emperor who started this war. Enough anger flows and even Basil the Purpleborn must listen to his people." 

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

Seeing that the Doux of Thessalonike would not take the bait, and unwilling to let his army grow stagnant in hostile territory, Tsar Samuel ordered his forces south into the heart of Greece. Petra, Larissa, Lamia—these cities and the lands between them would taste Bulgarian steel. With fire and sword, Samuel sought to make a statement: to inflame resentment against the Emperor Basil for initiating a war he would not finish, for abandoning his campaign while his subjects burned. The Tsar had hoped his raids would pressure the Empire into a truce, or at the very least provoke a call for cessation.

But as the Bulgarians marched away, the young Caesar Constantine IX sent urgent dispatches to Constantinople. The Bulgarians had driven deep into Greece. Their path of retreat narrowed with each passing league. There was only one way back north. It was the moment to strike.

Constantine VIII, gave his support after the Emperor gave his assent. Reinforcements were dispatched: three thousand men under the command of Nikephoros Ouranos, including five hundred newly arrived Varangians—fresh from their northern homeland and hungry for battle.

At the same time, Gregory Taronites, never one to leave an insult unanswered, assembled a punitive force and began pushing south. The Bulgarians, believing the Romans remained idle behind Thessalonike's walls, had overreached. They were traveling through central Greece, laden with plunder, unaware that Roman steel was now behind them.

The reinforcements sailed from Constantinople with haste. But as the docks trembled with the clamor of departure, panic rippled through the capital.

The cause?

Theodora Porphyrogenita, second-born daughter of Constantine VIII, had vanished.

Incidentally, at the same time the fleet left the Queen of Cities.

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A/N: Apologies for the silence. Ate salmon tartare and it gave me the shits. I am still massively dehydrated now but I am well enough to write. Hope you enjoy, sportsfans.