Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 5 (Historical Fiction SI)

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

Now it came to pass, after Christ Pantokrator had delivered the city of Beroia into the most pious hands of our sovereign, the Emperor Basil, that His Majesty entered the city not with riotous clamor, as do the barbarian kings, nor with the licentious license of triumph, but with the order of a man possessed by divine purpose.

The leading men of the city—those who had once governed, or whispered to those who did—were summoned and brought before the Emperor. They came not in chains, nor were they cast down, for His Majesty had no need to humiliate those already conquered. They knelt, and though their faces bore the lines of exhaustion and fear, they raised their eyes when commanded to do so, and in them was no craven begging but the look of men resigned to what must come.

Yet in this moment, the Basileus, in his unsearchable wisdom, did not strike them down, nor demand recompense in blood. He received them with the solemn composure befitting one who speaks not for himself, but for the eternal city of Constantine. And though their defiance had forced siege and fire upon their walls, His Majesty, discerning the deeper law of governance, understood that their resistance had been not wickedness, but a duty—fulfilled nobly, and now ended rightly. Thus, he forgave them. Not with show or proclamation, but in deed.

For having proved themselves brave in resistance, and wise in submission, they had preserved the ancient dignity of their city, and through their supplication reaffirmed its place within the harmony of Roman order.

To ensure that this order would not falter again, the Emperor directed Gregory Taronites to assume charge of the city's administration, both civil and military. Taronites, a man of probity and seasoned temper, was granted full authority over Beroia's walls, its garrison, its taxes, and its courts. He was instructed to restore the city's eastern defenses, supervise the disbursement of grain, and oversee the reconstitution of its civic register. The aqueducts and their adjoining cisterns were immediately placed under his control, that no faction might sabotage what the army had labored to preserve.

There were no parades. No blood-soaked theaters of retribution. The Emperor did not linger to bask in the subjugation of a city. For what glory is there in punishing the broken? Instead, he left in his wake the quiet machinery of order: scrolls inked with new names, keys turned over to imperial hands, and sentries posted at the once-defiant gates. Such was the manner in which the city of Beroia was restored to Roman peace. Not with wild exultation, nor with destruction, but with judgment rendered, duties rebalanced, and governance renewed. For in Basil, even conquest bore the dignity of silence. With the city secured, the garrison established, and its governance entrusted to the capable hands of Gregory Taronites, His Majesty advanced.

It was then that the Emperor, ever mindful of the careful dispensation of command, and wishing to placate the Armenians, appointed the youthful Ashot Taronites, son of Gregory, to accompany the imperial train. Though not yet thirty, Ashot was tempered by battle in Anatolia and Iberia, and bore already the signs of serious mind. He was assigned no title of great pomp, but his proximity spoke volumes. By this time, Constantine IX Porphyrogennētos, blossomed under the Emperor's eye. He woke before dawn. He marched without protest. He studied ledgers beside quartermasters, read siege geometry beside engineers, and took his meals among the officers, not the eunuchs, and his language had shifted to the rough peasant bluntness that the Emperor shared, to the dismay of his domestic staff who tried to coach him to keep the cultured ways of his father. 

But the Emperor's will could not be denied, and he kept his nephew close.

Through all this, Constantine Porphyrogennētos and Ashot Taronites met. 

In the third month following the submission of Beroia and the reordering of that province to the Roman yoke, the Emperor convened his councils with increasing regularity, not to discuss strategy, but to coordinate efforts in combating constant Bulgar raids. It was during one such council that a scout was admitted into the presence of the Basileus. The man bore word of a Bulgar raiding party no more than three days' ride from the Emperor's position.

The Emperor did not make frantic panic-stricken plans. He simply turned his gaze to the map, as though already seeing the trails those riders had taken—the ravines, the goat-paths, the ford where they'd cross. He made no movement, save to ask among his officers who would take a company of riders and deal with the threat.

Then, from among the circle of officers, stepped forth one who had remained quiet for most of the gathering: Ashot Taronites. His quick ascension to the side of the Emperor had raised questions about his ability, and deigning to prove them wrong, volunteered. He asked no favor. He made no flourish. He simply requested permission to pursue. And then a second voice rose, the Porphyrogennētos. Constantine had risen from his place and declared his wish to accompany the force. He asked it not with arrogance nor petulance, but with that steel-edged resolve he had lately come to wear like armor. He did not plead. He did not presume. He simply offered his service.

The Emperor looked at the youth—not as an uncle, nor even as a teacher, but as one tests the weight of a sword still forging in fire. He said nothing for a time, letting silence measure the room. And then, with the barest narrowing of the eyes, he nodded.

Permission was granted. But as always with the Emperor, permission was not without preparation. He did not show warmth, nor betray concern. His face remained as it ever was: unbent, unreadable, wrought in the shape of command. Yet before the council was adjourned, he gave instruction—quietly, to trusted captains—that a second detachment of veterans, drawn from the tagmata and kept under cloaked movement, should trail the younger company at a distance. Their task was not to join the engagement, but to watch, and only intervene if the tide turned ill.

Such diligence was characteristic to the Emperor who left nothing to chance. Chance however, blessed the Romans and its young Caesar, for in those days, the party of Taronites and the Porphyrogennētos had moved to intercept was none other than the raiding force of Bulgaria's Tsar, Roman.

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Trying to catch people unawares despite having hundreds of heavily armoured men was not an easy task. Not just with the fact that hooves would thunder across a world where noise pollution was limited to very few things. But still they managed, letting the thunder and rain mask their zeroing in on the Bulgarian ambush. Constantine rode on in silence, his cloak flying as they rushed through underneath the cover of swaying trees and dropping rain. He felt cold as ice, and the drumbeats of his heart thudded plain into his ears. Unlike the earlier engagements where he sat safe and far from the enemy, he would be coming in close and personal. Miroslav gave no words of comfort. It would be wasted and needless. If he deemed himself ready to go and join in a skirmish, then the Varangian would judge his conduct afterwards.

He knew of this ambush because it had happened by literal comedic chance. Chroniclers of Basil had recounted that during the early stage of his Bulgaria campaign, they had somehow captured the Tsar of Bulgaria, Roman. Now what was this? Was Samuel not the Tsar of Bulgaria? No, the truth of the matter was that while Roman may have been Tsar, it was only nominally as he had been turned into a eunuch and Samuel held all actual power. Roman's capture wasn't exactly significant as Samuel merely took on full powers and continued to be a thorn, with Roman himself either dying in comfortable captivity in the Queen of Cities or getting granted a governorship somewhere in Anatolia, according to multiple sources. 

Either way, this would be significant for him. Because a ruler was still a ruler, whether he held the real power or not. 

Ahead, Ashot Taronites rode at the head of the column, his figure steady and unyielding even as the rain lashed at him. He had given the orders with calm precision, his voice carrying over the storm like the toll of a bell. He and Constantine exchanged nothing more than pleasantries and a agreement to let Ashot conduct the battle. Between the two, Ashot had actual battle experience whilst Constantine only had hours spent in Medieval 2: Total War and Crusader Kings 2. 

Not exactly equal skills. 

The forest began to thin, the trees giving way to a clearing where the Bulgars were lounging. Light-riders, their horses tethered and hidden beneath the leaves. They were not many, perhaps fifty or sixty. But they were enemies of Rome, and as such, would have to be dealt with. Ashot raised a hand, signaling the column to halt. The riders came to a stop, their horses restless beneath them, snorting and stamping in the mud. The younger Taronites turned in his saddle, his eyes meeting Constantine's. There was no question in his gaze, no hesitation—only expectation.

He was to watch, he was to be Caesar, he was to command. 

And command he did, with a single nod.

The column surged forward, a wall of steel and thunder that tore through the clearing like a storm unleashed. The Bulgar riders barely had time to react, their cries of alarm drowned out by the roar of charging horses. The Roman horsemen did not shout, nor cry. They were utterly quiet, focused in the killing blow, staring and stoic. When the usual man would cry and scream, they were like ghosts, unnerving and still. If anything, that only made them more eerie, and the Bulgars tried to flee. 

But none would be granted that opening for Rome's way of warfare had changed. 

Bulgars died from steel arrows lodged in their chests, in their backs, by the Ippotoxotai. Mounted-archers trained in the ways of Steppe horsemen, armed with the same composite bows, and the bloodthirsty focus of their nomadic brethren. As the horse archers attacked, the lancers followed, the legendry Cataphract. Iron-skinned, iron-willed, with long lances and heavier bows, they showed no mercy, the cream of Eastern Roman warfare. Rome had learned from fighting the Goths, the Vandals, the Sassanids, and so many more. No longer were they deploying heavily armoured legionnaires in this battlefield, no, cavalry was the king here. The lancers struck hard, crashing into the disorganized Bulgar riders with a force that sent men and horses alike sprawling in the mud. Constantine's gaze caught on one lancer in particular, his blade gleaming as he cleaved through an enemy rider with a single, fluid motion. The column pressed forward, driving the Bulgars back. Some tried to stand and fight, their swords and spears flashing but they were no match for the discipline and training of the Roman riders. 

"Jesus Christ," Constantine muttered, earning a raised eyebrow from Miroslav. 

"So early and you blaspheme?" Miroslav asked.

Constantine gestured across. "Do not tell me that sort of thing does not instil fear in you?" 

Miroslav turned. "It does," he admitted. "But I grew up in the Rus, Purple-born. It is not unusual for us to fight Scythians."

Constantine hummed. Miroslav did not mean the ancient tribe that gave the Persians grief. No, Scythian was a blanket term for Nomads the same way Frank was blanket term for anyone from the West. 

"And how does the Rus fight against Scythians?" Constantine asked.

​"Carefully," Miroslav replied simply. 

Prick. 

"Caesar," Miroslav's voice cut through suddenly. The Varangian pointed with his axe toward the treeline on the far side of the clearing. Constantine turned, following the direction of Miroslav's gesture. At first, he saw nothing but the swaying branches and the gray curtain of rain. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he caught sight of movement—shadows darting through the trees, the faint glint of armor reflecting the dim light. A group of Bulgar riders, perhaps a dozen, slipping away into the forest under the cover of the chaos.

Escapees.

Constantine's grip on his reins tightened. He turned to look at Ashot, who was still cleaning up the Bulgars. There was no time to call for reinforcements, no time to wait for orders. But, there was him, Miroslav, and the remaining cavalry-men that were to be his guard. Caesar does not get into the thick of it, that was expected, yes. But did Plutarch not write of Caesar donning a shield, and hurling himself at the Barbarians to motivate his troops? 

He needed experience. 

He needed to earn his spurs. 

Now was the time. 

"Miroslav," his throat was dry. "We'll go after them."

He expected the Varangian to rebuke him, to tell him that this was a foolish idea. But no, the Varangian held his axe close. 

"Caesar commands it," he intoned. "It shall be done." 

Constantine turned to the rest of his guard. He thought to give a speech, then decided against it. These were soldiers of Basil Makedon, they do not move for grand speeches, they move forward with clear and straight commands. And so he gave them one.

"Follow me!" he shouted. "We're cutting off their escape!"

They gave no great cries like a Frankish or Norman knight would. Instead, they unsheathed their weapons as one body, steel glinting underneath the rain. 

"Charge!" Constantine roared. 

The Roman riders surged forward, their horses pounding through the earth, their weapons gleaming. The Bulgars were clearly not expecting the Romans to be there, thinking that most of them were busy with the others. But seeing that there was only a few of them, and carried someone of importance which was him, they turned for a counter-charge.

​Time slowed.

His heart drummed.

But his mind focused.

A beat. 

Then a clash!

Like two opposing forces, they hit each other in a cacophony of rage and steel. Constantine's guard hit the Bulgar riders like a hammer, their heavy armor and disciplined technique overwhelming the lighter, more chaotic resistance. Constantine himself was in the thick of it, his sword flashing as he parried a spear thrust and drove his blade into the shoulder of an enemy rider. The Bulgar cried out, tumbling from his saddle as Constantine turned to face another. His movements were clumsy, his strikes lacking the practiced fluidity of a seasoned warrior, but he fought with determination, his mind focused on survival. Miroslav roared in bloodthirsty glee, his axe finding purchase on their lightly armoured foes. 

It was over as quickly as it begun. When it did stop, the forest went still save for the sound of labored breathing and the distant roll of thunder.

Constantine lowered his sword, his chest heaving as he looked around at the carnage. His men were battered but alive, their armor dented, their horses exhausted. The Bulgar riders lay scattered around them, some dead, others groaning in the mud. He felt like dying from exhaustion, his thighs and rear hurting from the saddle's action. But he felt something else too. A wicked sense of satisfaction and glee at the defeated enemy. 

He had lead his first charge.

And he won. 

Miroslav rode close, his axe resting against his shoulder, and dripping wet with Bulgar blood. His expression was still. Still trying to catch his breath, Constantine turned to him. 

"Did I play my part well?" he asked, sweat and rain dripping down his face.

Miroslav's then sat straighter, and drummed his axe against his chest-plate, once, then raised it up high. "Hail, Caesar! Hail, Porphyrogénnētos!" 

The cry was quickly picked up. Swords against shields, and raised voices.

"Hail, Caesar!" 

"Hail, Porphyrogénnētos!"

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Extract from Michael Psellus during the Bulgarian Campaign of His Imperial Majesty, Basil II Porphyrogénnētos

And it was at this time, when the Bulgar ambush had been scattered and the Emperor's younger kin, Constantine Porphyrogénnētos, had pursued those who sought escape, that a moment most curious and telling occurred. For when the last of the enemy had fallen, their bodies strewn like withered stalks in a storm, and the rain continued its relentless descent upon the blood-soaked earth, the Caesar, Constantine, turned to his Varangian, Miroslav, and asked:

"Did I play my part well?"

It was not the question of a man seeking praise, nor the boastful declaration of the vain. No, it was spoken with the trembling weight of one who had stepped into the fires of conflict for the first time, who had tested the steel of his spirit against the chaos of war and sought now to know whether that steel had held.

Miroslav, a man of the Rus, unflinching in the presence of kings and emperors, did not answer lightly. He did not offer the hollow comforts of courtiers or flatterers. Instead, he straightened in his saddle, his axe—still stained with the blood of those who had fallen—resting heavily in his hand. With great solemnity, he struck his chest-plate with the haft of his weapon, once, the sound resonating like the toll of a bell. Then, he raised the axe high above his head, its edge gleaming in the dim light, and called aloud:

"Hail, Caesar! Hail, Porphyrogénnētos!"

And as if by some divine orchestration, the cry was taken up by the men around him, those who had followed Constantine into the forest, who had fought and bled by his side. Their voices rose in unison, a thunderous chorus that drowned even the ceaseless rain.

"Hail, Caesar!"

"Hail, Porphyrogénnētos!"

The sound echoed through the trees, a proclamation not merely of loyalty but of recognition. For in that moment, the men who had watched him, who had fought under his command, saw not just a boy born to the purple, nor a nephew of the Basileus, but a man who had faced the crucible of battle and emerged, if not unscathed, then unbroken. It was said that Constantine, still astride his horse, did not speak further, but sat in silence, his face pale, his breath heavy. Yet even in silence, his bearing changed. His shoulders, once uncertain, seemed to square themselves beneath the weight of their acclamation. His gaze, once wavering, now held a glint of something deeper—resolve, perhaps, or the first stirring of what would one day be called majesty.

When Taronites and the Porphyrogénnētos returned to camp, they did not just bring to the Emperor news of victory, but two great things which delighted him. One, they brought before him none other than Roman, Tsar of the Bulgarians, shivering, wounded, but alive. And two, news that his own nephew had been the one to unseat him in battle. The Emperor, being a man who did not value acts of valour, deemed to criticize his nephew, but in the midst of Taronites, the officers, and the shivering Roman, he instead begrudgingly gave his assent, but warned the young Caesar not to risk himself again. 

Still, the Emperor of the Romans had to admit that while it was risky, this was still an achievement for one so young. And he thus deemed it necessary to advance the education of his young nephew who had shown nerve in fighting. Thus it was, he decided to reward him with further battlefield commands, albeit still a student, and leaving most of the fighting to Ashot Taronites. 

In time, such a thing would blossom into a great friendship. 

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A/N: This actually happened, like fr. 

In 991, Tsar Roman got captured by the Romans during one of the many battles. Here, I just adapted to Caesar being the one to do it for the sweet prestige. Not much, yes, but a Tsar is still a Tsar.  Now, we are going to enter into a crossroads because pretty damn soon, the Fatimids are going to attack and get the Emperor far away. Now, I would like to let ya'll decide the story's direction.

Should Basil go and take Constantine with him campaigning to the east? Or should he let Constantine instead stay with Gregory Taronites and learn campaigning under him?

If Constantine goes east, he will gain experience in fighting the Fatimids and Emirates, plush e can go and influence the events there (Saving Bourtzes or Dalassenos, establishing earlier connections for a future Eastern campaign)

Or he stays here, in the West, saving Gregory Taronites from getting killed by Samuel, and making connections for a campaign west. I will make a poll. Do decide, fr.