Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 6 (Historical Fiction SI)

+++

It had been four years since he had started his campaign.

Four years of hardship and endurance.

Four years of nothing happening.

Oh, there had been reports, cries for help from Greece, of Samuel's raids as far south as Thessaly, burning and pillaging as he went. But Basil had not moved his army. Not when the fortress-cities of what had been Moesia fell, one by one, to his methodical advance. Beroia, Ohrid, and so many others, now under the yoke of their true master—Rome.

Compared to his first attempt at re-conquering Bulgaria, his second campaign was mundane, devoid of the drama that had marked the earlier years. No hidden ambushes. No Samuel rushing out in defiance with his armies to challenge the young, inexperienced Emperor. No, Basil was wise now, and he was not going to fall for Samuel's trickery again.

Slow, steady, and methodical. And it was already paying dividends.

There was one thing that kept Basil entertained throughout, as much as he allowed himself to be entertained.

Constantine the Younger was not a total disappointment, unlike his father. The boy had grown well—not just taller, but sharper in mind as well. The capture of Tsar Roman, who now enjoyed the dubious comforts of captivity in Constantinople, had earned Constantine prestige. His men nodded to him when he passed, a sign that he was gaining their respect. Basil took note of such things. His soldiers did not follow fops; they followed leaders. And Constantine the Younger was beginning to meet that standard.

Somewhat.

He was still showering that maid of his with far too much affection. Miroslav and the other spies had confirmed it. A degenerate indulgence, perhaps, but Basil reminded himself often: the boy was the son of his brother. Some things simply did not go away, despite careful planning. At the very least, Constantine was not lavishing his attentions on eunuchs. That would have required Basil to intervene. Eunuchs were a scourge on their history, a plague he himself had wrestled with when he forced Basil Lekapenos out of office and into retirement.

The family already had one embarrassment in the form of his brother. Basil would not allow his nephew to tarnish future prospects further by earning a reputation for such degeneracy. The only reason Basil had not sent both the maid and the boy back to their rightful master was that Constantine had proven himself competent. And, at the very least, his nephew's other hobbies were neither sinful nor shameful.

His gaze fell to a neat parchment lying on his table—a curious document his spies had intercepted and copied before sending it on to Constantinople. At first glance, it seemed harmless. Letters to his father and sisters, filled with pleasantries and some continuation of a fanciful tale Basil quickly realized was Constantine's own invention. He had even combed through imperial records to identify what a "hobbit" was, only to find nothing. But there was more to this letter than idle storytelling. Constantine had written to his father requesting some land for an experiment. And appended to that was something addressed to him.

"Dear Uncle, if you are reading this, and I am quite sure you will be, I ask that you at least consider testing out these ideas. I have other ideas, other plans, that will be of benefit to the Empire. You can trust these ideas as they are nothing more but idle observations during our campaign. The current system of farming we are doing is just so inefficient.

I speak plainly to you because you don't want your time wasted and frankly, I am tired of all this cloak and dagger bullshit, and I would rather get to the point.

With Loyalty,

Constantine IX."

Basil sat motionless, his hand resting on the edge of the parchment. His sharp eyes scanned the words again, his expression giving away nothing. The Younger had adopted a bluntness that was not entirely unwelcome—it even mirrored his own. Yet even in private correspondence, one must tread carefully when addressing the Emperor, and Basil noted the lack of proper deference. But then again, these were private words, not official ones. He was willing, for now, to give his nephew some leeway. He despised sycophants and their endless posturing. He had no patience for empty courtesies or veiled insinuations. Constantine's forthrightness, though crude, was refreshing.

Still, Basil's mind returned to the content of the letter. If Constantine's claims were true, if this so-called four-field system could truly increase agricultural yields without exhausting the soil, it was a weapon of a different sort. Not one for the battlefield, but one that could strengthen the Empire from within. Supplies, logistics, and the ability to sustain his armies over long years were the lifeblood of Basil's conquests. Food shortages had undone emperors before him. He would not repeat their mistakes. Implementing this system across the Empire was impossible without proof however. The great landlords of Asia Minor and Thrace would resist any change unless it was forced upon them.

And forcing them would require more than a theoretical treatise.

No, this idea would need to be tested quietly, on a smaller scale. His eyes flicked to the maps on the table, settling on the reconquered regions. These were lands still under imperial control, recently reclaimed and not yet fully resettled. Their fields, ravaged by war, were unproductive and neglected. If there was a place to test Constantine's ideas, it was there. The peasants, loyal to him for their liberation, would follow his orders. If the experiment failed, the losses would be negligible.

Still, Basil hesitated. Testing this idea would take time, resources, and careful oversight. Years, perhaps, to see results. But Basil was a patient man. His success had been built on patience, on grinding down his enemies fortress by fortress, piece by piece. Perhaps this, too, would be a campaign of sorts. A campaign against famine.

The Emperor leaned back, his hands resting on the table. If nothing else, this would measure his nephew's worth. If Constantine had written this out of more than idle curiosity, if he truly understood the implications of what he proposed, then he would need to take responsibility for it. Basil would ensure that the boy oversaw the experiment himself.

The Emperor's lips tightened into a thin line. Yes, he would test it. Quietly, deliberately, and without fanfare. If it failed, Constantine would learn the cost of failure. But if it succeeded…

Basil allowed himself the faintest flicker of a smile, though it vanished as quickly as it came. If it succeeded, it would be another tool in his arsenal, another means of securing the Empire's future.

Farming was not a refined hobby, but then again, neither was their family. Their founder, Basil I, had been a peasant himself.

Some things, it seemed, did not change, despite careful planning.

+++

Nestan tried to breathe. To focus.

In. Out.

In…

Out…

O-out...

Her mouth opened, as a deep protesting moan left her lips. Her fingers clawed uselessly into the sheets, desperate to grasp something, anything, and her thighs trembled under the iron grip of Caesar's arms. His tongue moved with precise intent. He tasted every inch of her, buried so deep between her legs she swore he could feel her heartbeat from the inside. He licked as if he'd been starved for weeks and now the feast was her, like no other flesh or flavor could satisfy him. The only light in the tent was the low flicker of a single scented candle—gold licked the canvas, painting dancing shadows with every jolt of her writhing body. Her back arched sharply against the bed, her breasts bare, flushed and heaving, her dress wrinkled and forgotten around her waist. Her skin gleamed with sweat, glistening like oil under the candlelight, rising and falling with every failed, stuttered breath.

She couldn't think, or move, as her dignity was mercilessly and intimately tortured.

His tongue slid over her clit again and again. Her hands flew down, fingers digging into his hair, as she bucked under him, thighs locking around his head. His grip only tightened, dragging her further down his mouth like he meant to bury himself inside her with nothing but tongue. Her entire body shook under the gentle intimate attack, sucking and devouring her. 

It wasn't supposed to be this way. She was supposed to have him wrapped around her finger. She was supposed to be dictating this, to have him hang around her word like a puppy, not th-

Her cries grew louder, ragged and mewling. Her voice tore loose from her like cloth ripping in the wind. She called to heaven. She called to God. But heaven was silent. Only the wet sounds of his tongue working her over—suckling, flicking, plunging, dragging her apart by the nerve endings. Her thighs flexed, squeezed tighter around his head. Her breath came out as broken sobs. Her eyes fluttered, half-lidded and glazed. The pressure built. The dam inside her core trembled. Her belly clenched, her toes curled, and her whole body went taut as she shattered. 

Her climax hit like a whipcrack, her scream cutting the tent in half. Her hips lurched violently, but Constantine held her still. Her vision exploded into white, her nerves caught fire as a sudden, hot gush pulsed from her, her body jerking, twitching, spilling over his mouth, his chin, his throat. It splashed across the bed, his chest, her own thighs. She screamed again, louder, losing all shape and shame as her body convulsed against his face, helpless and leaking, hips bucking, muscles clenching, everything inside of her giving.

Nestan collapsed back into the sheets, arms splayed, legs twitching. Her throat was raw, her face wet with sweat and tears, her chest heaving. She tried to speak and found her voice gone. He rose, his face slick, mouth red, eyes dark and unreadable, the only sound in the room her desperate, broken breathing. He reached for a nearby hot towel and wiped himself. 

Then he sat beside her.

She whimpered. A high, soft sound, the sound of a woman opened. Her fingers twitched on the linens. She tried to curl into herself, her thighs still trembling, but she was too weak to close them fully. Her body, glowing under candlelight, remained spread and twitching, wet and undone. He said nothing. But his hand was gentle. It moved first to her hair, smoothing damp strands from her face, brushing them back with surprising care. His fingers were rough with sword-callus, but he touched her like she was glass. One thumb stroked the arc of her cheek. Another followed the trembling line of her jaw.

Her lips parted again. Nothing came but whimpers. Nestan wanted to cry, to sob, but nothing happened. 

He took another towel—this one warm, soaked earlier from a basin—and carefully pressed it between her thighs. Nestan flinched, a small cry escaping her lips, but his other hand caught hers, squeezing it lightly in reassurance.

He dabbed her slowly, wiping away the slick, the shine of her pleasure, the proof of what he had done to her. He worked with the patience of a man tending a wounded animal, and in a way, that was true. 

Nestan whimpered again and turned her face away, but she didn't pull her hand from his.

"Shhh," she breathed, though he hadn't said anything. "Shhh, don't…"

He shifted beside her. She felt the bed creak under his weight as he leaned in, pressing his mouth—finally, softly—against the crown of her head. Her stomach blossomed with flowers and butterflies, such soft effeminate things that she did not know she could express. She was raised to be a dagger and not...not....

"You did well," he praised her gently, cooing her as if she were a babe. 

She flushed in mortification and embarrassment. This was not the first time he did this but she never got used to it.

"I...was?" she whispered, inwardly recoiling in deeper mortification with how weak she sounded, and how her stomach fluttered some more as he planted another soft kiss on her forehead. 

"You were," he praised her again. "You sounded so hot, I loved how you tried so hard not to moan. You were so good, Nestan," 

"A-h...ah-" her fried brain could only muster out, her cheeks burning red with a fire that only could be started by the Anathema himself. She wanted so desperately to dig into a hole and cry. She needed flowers, and a hot towel, and perhaps a hug. 

"Did you enjoy it, Nestan?" he asked her with infuriating intimacy.

"U....uhuh," she stammered. Where was her control? Where was here dignity? She wanted to kick herself for replying like a new blushing maid that just laid with a man for the first time!

​Then he planted his lips on her forehead, again, and she wanted to vanish into the wind. 

This was supposed to be his language lesson. She had been teaching him since he first asked her. Armenian at first, because she figured it would be most useful for him, then Georgian. He took to his lessons with dignity and at a decent progress. His education from the court was formal, stiff. But with a little refinement, he could speak without the flowery language of the Court. 

She glanced up at him, smooth-faced yet chiselled by war. Not soft, well, not totally, but well enough. His eyes, they seemed to pierce into her soul, sincere in the desire to please her. 

This was unfair, she bemoaned. Why did her Master send her off to such a beast?

And then she felt it.

Her breath hitched before her mind caught up. Between her thighs, against the inside of her leg—warm, heavy, unmistakable. Her eyes widened just slightly.

Nestan swallowed hard.

Her thighs twitched. Her hips shifted, an instinct more than a thought, and when she moved, she felt it press back—more certain, more real.

Her heart pounded against her ribs like a drum for war.

She glanced down, just once, and her breath caught. He was still clothed, his own personal preference was to rut with their clothes on, but with layers undone just enough. But what was there, brushing against her inner thigh, was unmistakable. 

"Wait," she whispered, more breath than sound.

Caesar waited, watching her. She searched his face for hunger, for impatience, and found none. He leaned down instead, his hand still warm in hers, and kissed her again—this time on the cheek, soft as a feather. Her lips parted, a whimper escaping without her permission. And then—slowly, so slowly it made her shake—he shifted over her, and he planted himself between her. She felt the head of him slide against her folds, hot and firm and torturously patient. Not pushing. Not demanding.

Just… waiting.

Her hands clutched the sheets again as he leaned in, and whispered his intent. 

She meekly gave her assent.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he entered her.

Nestan's eyes flew wide open.

He filled her like a drawn breath—careful, constant, with a pressure that built and stretched and burned in the best way. Her lips parted, but no sound came, only a faint tremble in her throat. He moved inch by inch, sinking into her with devastating gentleness, as if she might break beneath him and he refused to let her shatter again without his permission.

Her legs, already weak, curled slowly around his waist.

She didn't remember commanding them to.

A moan escaped her, strangled, as her fingers found his back, his shoulders, anything. His skin was warm, taut over iron. He smelled like cedar oil, steel, and her. The tent was silent except for their breaths—hers shallow and gasping, his deep and steady.

He bottomed out with a quiet grunt, and her body quivered underneath him.

Her head turned, cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes shut tight. She didn't want to look. She couldn't. This was too much.

Too intimate.

She tried to speak—to curse him, to whimper, to tell him to stop or never stop again—but her lips only managed:

"…Caesar…"

He didn't answer. He just drew his hips back—slow, so slow—and pushed into her again.

And her world went white.

He eased back, just a little. Then forward again, filling her in that same gentle, patient rhythm. His hands braced at either side of her head, the mattress shifting beneath them, but his weight never crushed her. He hovered above like he feared pressing too deep might unmake her.

And in a way, he already had.

Nestan's arms found his shoulders, weakly at first, then clutching, anchoring. Her thighs trembled again, not from tension but from the unbearable softness of it all. He was moving inside her with care, with reverence—not claiming, not taking, but being with. Her body, already ruined by his mouth, now wept around him. He slid against her soaked warmth with no resistance at all, each motion stirring aftershocks deep in her core. She whimpered—soft, dazed sounds that trembled out of her lips like wind slipping through silk curtains. 

Her head turned again, to hide. Her cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes shut tight. The heat in her face was unbearable. He leaned down, chest brushing hers, and kissed her temple. A sound escaped her throat. Not speech. Not quite. Just breath that meant something. His lips didn't stop there. They found her brow next. Then the edge of her eye. Her cheek.

All while he kept moving inside her—slow, unrelenting, tender.

Her body arched once, barely. Her breath caught. Her hips lifted to meet him, just a little, like some part of her couldn't bear the thought of not being fully joined. Her fingers brushed his jaw, his neck. She wanted to say something cruel. Something sarcastic. Something clever.

Instead she whispered, broken: "Don't stop…"

And he didn't. He rocked into her, again and again, wrapped in the quiet, candlelit silence of their tent. Only the sounds of skin and breath filled the air. Only the warmth of her slick, trembling body welcoming him with every tender thrust. She blinked up at him once, finally daring to meet his gaze. And the way he looked at her—unshaken, calm, utterly focused—made her chest ache.

No man had ever looked at her that way. She didn't know whether to cry or kiss him.

So she did neither. She held onto him tighter, and let him love her.

Loving her with a steady, rhythmic ache that bloomed deeper with every soft, tender thrust. Her nails scraped gently down his back. She didn't mean to do it, just needed to feel something real under her hands, something to keep her tethered from letting her brain float away. Her breath hitched as he bottomed out again, the slow grind of his hips pressing deep. Her toes curled. Her lips parted in a soft, endless moan. She buried her face in his neck, shaking her head slowly against his skin.

"Caesar..." she whispered, voice high and frayed, "I can't—"

He kissed her jaw. She clenched around him.

"I—please—"

Another thrust. Deeper this time. Slower. As if he wanted her to remember every second.

She cried out—quietly, not out of pain but from the unbearable feeling of it all. Her legs trembled violently, and she tightened around him again, her body pulsing with need.

"I can't take it," she gasped. Her hips jerked without permission. "I can't—I'm—"

Her voice broke. Her eyes welled.

He kissed her again. And her body gave out.

She came again—silently at first, her back arching, her mouth open in a voiceless cry. Then louder, a strangled sob torn from her throat. Her whole frame shuddered under him, muscles clenching around his length as she bucked and shook and trembled like a bowstring snapping.

Her orgasm ripped through her, second and sharper, a quake that left her gasping, twitching, clutching at him as if he were the only real thing left in the world.

+++

Nestan's soft breaths filled the tent, her heavy-set breasts bare, her eyes closed in deep sleep.

Constantine stood silently nearby, a damp towel in hand, dabbing himself clean.

At seventeen, he had grown comfortable exploring the limits of his body. The Elder Constantine had been a strikingly handsome man—tall, athletic, and charismatic—and those traits had passed on to him. Admittedly, he intended to enjoy every bit of the attention they afforded him. He had, after all, a peculiar fascination: historical women. To his shame, such fantasies were rare in his modern life. Here, however, in this time, he could indulge freely.

Still, there was logic in his indulgence. Looking ahead, Constantine knew the quiet days were nearing their end. Soon, word would arrive of the Doux of Antioch, Michael Bourtzes, meeting his fate in battle against the Fatimid general, Manjutakin. The Roman East would be in peril, and the Emperor himself would ride out to reinforce it. Constantine suspected his uncle might bring him along—introduce him to the strategoi and continue his education in the art of war.

But did he want to go East?

Michael Bourtzes would be replaced with Damian Dalassenos. A loyal and capable man who would have likely carried the fight if not for his death in battle. If he went East, he could go and save him, earn a loyal Strategoi, and prepare some groundwork for a future campaign into the East. The Roman Empire suffered much from losing the Levant and Egypt after all and pretty soon, the Fatimid Caliph would order the destruction of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. That sent a wave of irritation around Constantine who while a nominal sort of religious, did not really think that desecration of sacred places to be acceptable by any metric. 

But if he stayed West, then it was likely he was going to save Taronites the Elder from dying in battle from Tsar Samuel, preventing the Younger Taronites from getting captured, and starting groundwork for a further expansion in SIcily. Looking back, the Normans were going to be coming thanks to one Lombard noble whose name escaped him at that moment, but the treacherous cunt would start an avalanche that would cascade in the Latins capturing Constantinople in the Fourth Crusade. 

A growl escaped his lips.

No way. No way in hell was he going to allow that.

​No, he was going to stay here, in the West. Help Taronites, and possible Nikephoros Ouranos when he arrives, finish up the reconquest of Bulgaria early, then urge for a further stengthening of their Italian holdings. 

Now to get things mo-

His ears perked as shouts came outside his tent. Raising an eyebrow, he quickly dressed himself in a robe and strode out of the tent where Miroslav stood. 

"What is going on?" Constantine asked.

​"Messenger," the Varangian said simply. 

"About what?" 

"I don't know. I have been standing outside your tent listening to your degeneracies, Caesar," Miroslav replied. 

​Constantine scratched his cheek. "Does it ever bother you?" 

Miroslav shrugged. "I have guarded nobles before, Caesar. Rus ones. They are louder than you."

​"I see," Constantine coughed. He turned. "Well, let's go find out then." 

"Clean up before you do," Miroslav added, one eyebrow raised.

Constantine paused. Glanced down. The damp towel had caught only so much.

He sighed. "Noted."

​+++

The messenger's brow glistened with sweat as he gave his report, his words tumbling out in clipped breaths.

"Michael Bourtzes…defeated in battle near Apamea. The Fatimid general, Manjutakin, routed his forces. The Doux fell in retreat. Apamea burns, and the East is in peril."

Ashot Taronites stood rigid among the gathered officers. The Emperor's war council had been hastily assembled. The braziers flickered, casting wavering shadows across the walls, as if disturbed by the weight of the news. The silence that followed was suffocating. Ashot's eyes darted around the table, watching the officers process the report in their own ways: some steely with resolve, others grim and uncertain. Ashot stepped forward, his voice steady but urgent. "The East cannot hold without reinforcement. If the Fatimids press further into Syria, they will threaten Antioch itself. We must act swiftly."

"Michael Bourtzes was reckless," came a sharp voice from the shadows. Ashot turned but couldn't identify the speaker. "He should have fortified his position instead of engaging Manjutakin in the open field. Now we pay the price for his arrogance."

"Enough."

The Emperor's voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. Basil II, clad in a dark military cloak, stood at the head of the table. His piercing gaze swept over the council, silencing dissent before it could take root. Ashot studied him carefully. Basil's face betrayed no emotion, but the tension in his shoulders and the firm set of his jaw revealed the gravity of the situation. From the back of the room, Constantine the Younger cleared his throat. "It is my opinion that what has happened no longer matters. What matters is that the East is in peril. The Arabs will press their advantage, threatening Antioch and our holdings beyond."

The officers exchanged glances, a ripple of agreement spreading through the group.

"We must march East with haste, sire," an officer agreed. "Reinforce the border and stabilize the region before the Fatimids consolidate their gains."

"I concur, sire," Ashot said, stepping forward again. "But I must caution that if we move the bulk of our forces East, the Bulgarians will see it as an opportunity. Tsar Samuel avoids open battle because he fears the armies we have here. With fewer men, he may finally strike."

The room fell silent once more, all eyes turning to the Emperor. Basil paused, his expression inscrutable as he weighed the options. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but resolute. "Your father is capable, Ashot. He will hold the line in the West until we finish in the East. We cannot afford to lose Antioch."

Ashot inclined his head, though unease lingered in his chest. Basil's gaze swept the room. "Prepare the men. We march East and swiftly. What we can afford to leave, we leave. The future of the Empire depends on it."

The officers gave their assent and dispersed, but the Emperor was not finished. "Caesar," he called out. "Attend me."

As the last of the officers filed out, their murmurs fading as the tent flaps closed. Basil remained at the head of the table, his piercing gaze fixed on Constantine. His nephew lingered near the back, his posture relaxed, though his sharp eyes betrayed readiness.

Constantine straightened slightly when Basil addressed him. "Uncle," he said, stepping forward and inclining his head.

Basil gestured toward a chair near him. Constantine obeyed, lowering himself into the seat. He leaned back slightly, his arms resting on the armrests, a picture of calm composure. The Emperor placed his hands on the table, fingers interlaced, and studied his nephew in silence. Constantine met his gaze evenly, though curiosity flickered in his expression.

"You're thinking about something, Uncle," Constantine finally said. "What is it?"

"The East is a different beast," Basil said at last. "You know this, don't you?"

Constantine nodded, his lips tightening into a grimace. "Yes."

The Arab armies, at a glance, seemed laughable compared to the iron discipline of the Roman tagmata. But appearances were deceiving. These raiders had devastated the Roman Empire and destroyed the Sassanid dynasty. Though the Arabs were no longer the unstoppable force they had been centuries ago, their warfare remained dangerous. The Fatimids, in particular, assembled armies drawn from countless nations: swift desert tribesmen, fierce Nubian spearmen, disciplined Turkish lancers, and legions of slave-soldiers. Each faction brought its own strengths to the battlefield, united under one banner.

Unlike the Bulgarians, whose warfare—while troublesome—remained conventional, the Fatimids were dangerously unpredictable. Of all Rome's enemies, they were the most formidable.

Basil's thoughts lingered on this reality. Constantine would inevitably face the Arabs one day; better for him to learn their ways now, in the crucible of war. Yet the Emperor hesitated. He had made a promise to his brother—a promise that Constantine would serve only in the West, against the Bulgarians. That promise now weighed heavily against the needs of the Empire.

Basil's gaze sharpened. Testing his nephew's resolve, he asked suddenly, "Tell me, if you were to remain in the West, what would you do?"

Constantine hesitated, then answered carefully. "I do not think I have enough experience to hold independent command, Uncle. I would rather serve under Taronites."

"That is correct," Basil said, his tone measured. "You do not yet have the qualifications. But you are Caesar. You stand above them—and in time, you will stand above them all."

He leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze fixed on Constantine. "So tell me, Caesar: where do you wish to serve? The West, with Samuel and the Bulgarians, or the East, where the Fatimids press against us?"

Constantine straightened, his uncertainty evident. "I thought you had decided for me."

"I have," Basil replied with a solemn nod. "But you are now a man grown, and I want you to decide for yourself. Consider it carefully. Now, decide."

The air grew heavy with silence, the weight of Basil's words pressing down on his nephew. Constantine's eyes lowered briefly, his thoughts racing. Finally, after much deliberation, he raised his gaze.

"West," he said firmly, though hesitation lingered in his tone.

"And why?" Basil asked, his voice low and deliberate, testing the strength of Constantine's resolve.

Constantine drew a steady breath. "Because staying West will serve the Empire better. The Arabs are dangerous, and you need seasoned men to fight them. I am not yet seasoned enough to take them on. I will learn in the West and prepare for the day I must take full responsibility for our lands. The West is where I can grow without jeopardizing the Empire."

Constantine leaned back slightly, his tone steady but resolute. "If you take me East, I will follow. But I believe I am better placed in the West."

Basil listened in silence, his piercing gaze fixed on Constantine. When he finally spoke, his tone was devoid of praise, but not of approval.

"You have chosen wisely," Basil said. "A fool leaps into fire thinking himself invincible. A wise man hones his blade before he faces the flames. But do not mistake caution for weakness. Too much caution, and Samuel will pounce on you. Do you understand?"

"I do, Uncle," Constantine replied.

"Good." Basil rose, towering over his seated nephew. "You will remain in the West. I will raise you as a Komes. You shall command two hundred men under the guidance of Taronites. Prove to me I made the right choice."

Before leaving, Basil paused. "One more thing. Your correspondence—do not be too familiar. You sacrifice decorum, nephew."

Constantine's mouth opened, then he nodded with a weak smile. "Yes, sire."

+++

Extract from Michael Psellus during the Bulgarian Campaign of His Imperial Majesty. Basil II Porphyrogennetos

And such as it was, in the year 995, the Emperor Basil took his army west and into the East. Such was its speed that the Arab, Manjutakin, was forced to halt his plans. The Emperor deigned to leave his nephew Constantine under the command of Gregory Taronites. Then called Porphyrogennetos as was custom. In time however, he was callled something else, especially when the Bulgarian king Samuel saw the Emperor leave. Thinking the younger Constantine to be impulsive and brash, as was Basil in his younger reign, he would try and capitalize on it. 

It would be a mistake, however, for Samuel's decision would pave the way for Constantine to earn his name, one that would define his reputation for years to come:

​

Constantine IX, The Pale Death of Bulgaria 

+++

A/N: Hippity hoppity, Bulgaria shall be our property. Also, next update, we might get...a visitor.

A special one.

I think the weebs call that imouto?