Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 4 (Historical Fiction SI)

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The following days were a slow blur of movement. The Bulgarians refused to crack, not even with the constant bombardment. The Purple-born did his duties as a dutiful nephew should, shadowing the Emperor and learning. Servants such as them did not belong in the company of highborns, however, and so they busied themselves with their new home. Stephanos found his utility in ensuring they never ran out of certain things. He had attached himself to the logisticians, made friends with them, and always secured for the Purple-born those rare delights that would normally be attained at the forum but were now battlefield luxuries. She, on the other hand, did her work as a maid ought—ensuring everything was clean and orderly, that meals were prepped and tested, and the young noble's household ran as smooth as a well-oiled lamp.

Despite the seeming Spartan nature of the Purple-born's lodgings, he never shied away from bringing parchment and books. Far too many, in Nestan's opinion—boxes filled with everything from medicine to war, from siegecraft to agricultural treatises. It was during one of these book-cleanings, sleeves rolled and fingers smudged with dust, that something caught her eye.

She leaned in, breath catching. The script was unmistakable—old Kartvelian, flowing and hard-angled, the ink browned with time. Her heart throbbed, all at once filled with a strange, aching nostalgia. The title alone was enough to strike her still.

John Zosimus.

One of her homeland's finest literary minds. This was no mere copy. The parchment bore the grain of age, the tooth of a monk's labor. Roughened, worn by oil and thumb. She turned it gently and—

"I find the works of John Zosimus to be rather creative," came a bemused voice. "Despite being obsessed with sources. You'd think he would sacrifice that for the sake of clarity. But no. Respectable."

Nestan froze. She turned.

The Purple-born had returned. He stood just inside the tent flap, sweat still slicking the curve of his jaw, his outer tunic tossed over one shoulder. Behind him, Miroslav glowered, arms crossed, expression carved from disapproval. Nestan's pulse leapt. She opened her mouth—

"I—" she began.

"You were simply cleaning it, no?" he said mildly.

She nodded quickly, aware that her fingers still hovered far too close to the relic, inwardly ignoring the fact that she'd been snooping through the contents of his tent only nights ago.

"As you were," Constantine said, already turning to Miroslav. "See? Told you nothing was wrong."

Nestan bowed, stepping aside with graceful efficiency, but something inside her twisted. There had been no heat in his voice, no reprimand—but neither had there been warmth. Not even curiosity. Just observation. Dismissal. The quiet flick of princely judgment she couldn't quite slip beneath.

He passed her without another glance, unstrapping his sword belt, letting it fall with a soft thud against one of the travel trunks. His tunic clung to him in folds of dust and effort, but his face remained calm, infuriatingly composed—eyes too old, mouth too quiet. He had begun to carry himself like a man with iron poured behind his ribs.

Nestan hated it. Not because it frightened her.

Because it reminded her of Basil.

Miroslav lingered by the entrance a moment longer, his presence thick as a stormcloud. Then, with a grunt, he stepped out into the open light and let the canvas fall closed behind him.

Nestan exhaled. She turned back to the book, this time gentler. The Kartvelian script had not changed. The oil-stained edge still bore the touch of the monk. This wasn't just a copy. This was a relic. A piece of her.

Envy gnawed at her. He, a Roman, had that which she—a Georgian—had only dreamed of holding. Of course. The Romans took what they wanted. They always—

"Do you want it?"

Her breath caught.

"Eh?" she blinked.

"Porphyrogénnētos?" she whispered, stunned.

"I can see you staring at it with such intensity," he said, voice light. "If you want it, I can offer it to you. Or at least let you keep it. It's not as if I'll be reading it again any time soon."

She didn't move as he reached for it.

She looked at the book in his hand, then at him, then back again. Her thoughts reeled. Books were precious. Books like this were sacred. She had watched old abbots bow before such things. And here he stood, sweat-wrinkled and unceremonious, offering it like a biscuit from a plate.

He held it forward.

Then—he paused. Drew it back.

"In exchange for a favour," he said, that faint smile curling like a slow blade. His eyes sparkled with something unreadable.

There it was.

Of course. Of course.

The price. The hook. The same old game played sweet for a heartbeat before the trap was sprung. So what was it going to be? To sit and sigh, to laugh at his jokes, to undress in the lamplight and let him pretend the cold was love?

She braced.

"I want you to teach me Georgian."

"…M-Master?"

"You heard me," Constantine said, adjusting the cuffs of his tunic with calm precision. "Georgian. You're fluent. Clearly educated."

"You want… language lessons?" she said, dumbfounded.

"Yes."

She stared, unblinking. He didn't elaborate. He didn't look smug. Just… open.

He stepped around her and set the book gently back atop the trunk it had come from, arranging it with more reverence than she expected. Then he returned to the table, unrolling a new scroll. He did not look back as he spoke again.

"Rome doesn't only rule by sword or gold. Any fool can burn a house and buy a man. But if you want to conquer someone's heart—you start with their tongue."

That lingered. Too long. She felt heat bloom against her cheeks before she could contain it.

Conquer someone's heart…

Was—was he trying to seduce her?

She wasn't going to lie—it would be one of the more romantic attempts she'd heard. Learning a language, just to understand her better. Not just a few phrases to flatter. All of it. Grammar. Syntax. Form.

Goodness, was the mountain air always this hot?

"Porphyrogénnētos," she said, voice crisp, forcing steel into her tone. "Why me? You can summon a tutor. You're the Emperor's kin."

"I've had tutors," he replied. "Monks. Court linguists. All very proper. All very dull. They spoke like every word was weighed by a Patriarch. You don't. You speak like someone who learned it first in her bones, not from parchment. That's what I want. Full fluency. Do you understand?"

This was a great deal of trouble for a man just trying to get between her legs.

Constantine continued, matter-of-fact. "I think knowing how to speak to a man in his own soul makes it easier to rule him. If you speak like a conqueror, they obey. But if you speak like a brother, they die for you."

She exhaled, slowly, through her nose. Her heart was still racing.

"I… I shall do as Caesar commands."

It was frustrating. She had expected posturing. Vanity. Even cruelty. Anything but this strange calm—this cool, clear-eyed calculation. She still couldn't tell if he was sincere or simply playing a game too far ahead of her to follow.

"When it is just us two," Constantine said, voice softer now, almost conversational, "please. Just call me Constantine."

Oh, he was seducing her!

The thought flared through Nestan's mind with sudden, shocking clarity, slicing through the haze like a blade catching firelight.

She blinked, aghast. "I would never, Porphyrogénnētos! That would be—"

Her words caught. Protocol dictated tone, distance, hierarchy. There were forms, lines, barriers that existed for a reason. Even her flustering had its place. But this—this was something else. His voice was too easy. Too warm. Too deliberate in its casualness.

He looked at her with the same calm expression that had not faltered since he entered the tent, but now it was paired with something else. Something older. Measured. As if he'd already seen this moment in his head a dozen times and was now watching her reaction like the final piece of a tactical formation.

"In places like these," he said, unhurried. "Where we do not have to impress anyone, I would rather just be casual."

He lifted his gaze to hers fully, and in that gaze there was no order, no rank—only weight. "No titles. Just a man and a woman."

Nestan felt her spine straighten, her chest tighten. Her mouth went dry. He stepped toward the table, fingertips brushing across a rolled scroll absently, as though giving her a moment to collect herself.

"You'll still do your duties," he said. "And I'll still command what must be commanded. But when we speak—when you teach me—I don't want 'Caesar' and 'maid.' I want Nestan and Constantine."

She struggled to find her voice. "That's—" She swallowed. "That's improper."

​Constantine walked, smiling. "Good thing it will just be our secret, then."

Nestan's pulse thudded against her ribs like a fist on iron doors. It did not stop pulsing even as she was dismissed and left.

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Miroslav stood waiting, arms folded, axe resting on his shoulder like a shepherd's crook of war. His pale blue eyes followed the retreating figure of Nestan as she emerged from the tent. Her pace was steady, but her cheeks too flushed, too vivid for the cool mountain air.

He watched her pass in silence—the tilt of her head, the stiffness of her spine, the way her hand hovered near her hip, unsure where to settle. That was no maid leaving duty.

That was a woman who had just been seen.

And not by accident.

Miroslav's gaze narrowed. He turned slightly, head tilting toward the tent behind him.

A moment passed.

Then another.

He rapped the haft of his axe twice against the ground. "Permission?"

Inside, there was a pause—long enough to make it clear the prince had anticipated the question.

Then: "Granted."

Miroslav slipped inside with the quiet authority of a man who never needed to announce himself. The canvas fell shut behind him, soft and heavy.

Constantine was seated at the table, one hand lazily scrawling notes onto parchment, the other spinning an ink-pot in slow circles. He didn't look up.

"Well?" he asked, voice light, almost indifferent.

Miroslav stood firm, unmoving. "Are you trying to seduce the maid?"

The words dropped like the swing of an axe, blunt and deliberate. No dancing, no euphemism.

Constantine's quill paused.

His brow furrowed—not in offense, but in thought. He seemed to weigh the question as if it had merit. For a moment, Miroslav expected a princely quip, some polished denial.

Instead, Constantine looked up, the faintest tilt at the corners of his mouth.

"Yes."

Miroslav clicked his tongue, slow and sharp. "Foolish."

"Probably," Constantine agreed, unbothered.

"Your uncle will disapprove."

"I have no doubt."

"And women—" Miroslav leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping low "—are a distraction."

"I'm aware."

The big man shook his head. "Then why risk it?"

Constantine leaned back in his chair, setting the quill down. His gaze drifted toward the edge of the tent, where lamplight flickered faint shadows across the fabric.

"Because I'll do my duty," he said, voice quiet but steady. "As heir. As a Roman. I'll conquer cities, hold borders, serve my uncle, crush rebellions, marry who I'm told."

He looked back at Miroslav, and now there was iron behind his words.

"But I'm still my father's son."

Miroslav's expression didn't shift, though his fingers curled tighter around the axe haft.

"A good man," he said simply. "But weak."

"Loyal."

"Too loyal."

"I haven't said I'll love her," Constantine replied. "Only that I see her. That's more than most men offer the women they bed."

Miroslav didn't answer immediately. When he exhaled, it was slow, heavy.

"If you want your uncle to see you as an emperor, not a child playing at crowns, you'll need more than books and charm."

"I know."

"Then prove it."

Constantine raised an eyebrow. "How?"

Miroslav's grip shifted, knuckles whitening against the axe's dark haft.

"Training."

A beat of silence.

Constantine smirked faintly. "I've been attending drills."

"Not enough."

"Would you prefer I scream and flail like a Varangian?"

"I'd prefer you sweat," Miroslav said. "And bleed. And limp. And earn the right to flirt with maids like a man who can hold a shield for more than an hour."

Constantine stood, his chair scraping faintly against the ground.

"Fine," he said. "Tomorrow. Before sunup."

"Not tomorrow."

Miroslav turned, pushing the tent flap aside, letting light spill through the slit.

"Now."

And without waiting for assent, he stepped outside.

The sun had passed its zenith, flattening the camp beneath a white, punishing glare. The air shimmered—off bronze fittings, leather harnesses, and the curve of mailed shoulders. Tents sagged like wilting leaves under the weight of heat. The stench of pitch, boiled onions, horse sweat, and iron clung to the camp in an oily veil.

Through it all, Constantine walked.

No entourage. No banners. Just the steady thud of boots on dry earth as he approached Miroslav at the edge of the engineer's quarter.

The Varangian stood by a groaning oxcart, shirt open to the chest, his torso crisscrossed with scars like pale ropes stretched over weathered stone. At his feet lay a soldier's pack—one of the heavy ones, loaded with stones.

Miroslav didn't speak. He nudged the pack forward with his boot.

"Put it on."

Constantine crouched, grabbed the pack, and slung it over his shoulders. His knees nearly buckled, but he steadied.

Miroslav gave a single nod.

"Time to march, Caesar."

They set off without ceremony.

No fanfare. No trumpets. Just the two of them, trudging past mangonels and smith tents, through the humming heart of the camp. They passed the quartermaster lines, the surgeon's flaps where groans leaked through linen, and the drill fields where spearmen turned like gears. The ground grew rougher as they left the siege lines, a patchwork of wagon ruts and half-cleared brush replacing the camp's order.

The pack dug into Constantine's back before the first mile was done.

He said nothing.

Miroslav set a soldier's pace. Not cruel. Not swift. Just... endless. A pace that didn't kill you outright—just waited, patiently, for your body to betray you. Mule drivers and camp followers spared them only a glance. Flies swarmed the latrine trenches they passed. The sun burned everything equally.

By the second mile, Constantine's thighs ached.

By the third, his shoulders screamed.

Still, he walked.

Miroslav glanced back once. Just once.

"You can throw it off."

"No."

"Pride weighs more than lead, Purple-born."

"Then I'll carry both."

"Keep this stubbornness," Miroslav said, "and you'll lose."

"No," Constantine replied, voice steady. "I'll win."

They crested a ridge.

Below them, the western siege lines sprawled like a bronze vine coiled around the city's base. Men dug trenches, hauled stone, and drove sharpened stakes into the dirt. Fires smoldered in braziers. Oxcarts groaned under loads of pitch and timber. There was no music, no speeches—only the hum of organized fatigue. An empire's patience, made visible in dirt and sweat and blood.

Constantine breathed through his teeth and marched on.

They turned east, toward the supply node. Scribes barked names and weights over the clatter of coin-chests and grain tallies. The sun bore down with ancient malice. His legs shook. His shoulders burned. Sweat poured from him like spilled wine.

At last, Miroslav stopped beneath a crooked olive tree. Its sparse shade offered no real comfort.

"Drop it."

Constantine let the pack fall. It struck the dirt with a dull, lifeless thud. He dropped beside it, arms trembling, lungs clawing for breath. His tunic clung to his body, soaked through. His lips were cracked. His hands shook.

Miroslav crouched beside him, elbows on his knees.

"You carried it."

"I said I would."

"You hate me yet?"

"No."

"You will by the fourth day."

Constantine spat into the dirt. "Then you're not trying hard enough."

Miroslav laughed—a dry, splintered sound, but not without a grain of approval.

"Good. You're learning."

For a while, there was only the faint clink of picks striking stone, the groaning of siege timber under strain. Constantine's breath steadied, though the fire in his limbs did not fade. The ache was constant now, a hum beneath his skin. He let it sit there, unspoken.

Miroslav broke the silence.

"Do you know why we march?"

Constantine blinked sweat from his eyes, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate effort. "To endure hardship. To master pain."

"And why should Caesar learn pain?"

He exhaled through his teeth. "Because I am not a Frank, charging ahead to die with his chest open. That is not the Roman way. That is not how Caesar leads."

Miroslav's face remained unmoved, carved from stone. "Say more."

"Caesar doesn't fight in the front. Caesar marches. Caesar commands."

"More."

"Rome doesn't fight like the West," Constantine said, his voice sharpening, each word heavier than the last. "Caesar doesn't waste men on glory. Caesar doesn't praise boldness that shatters the line. Caesar doesn't celebrate victories bought by chaos."

His gaze shifted downhill, to the gray scaffolds of the siege. The trenches. The fires smoldering in braziers. The endless rhythm of tools against stone. Men hauling timber. Mules groaning under loads of iron. He turned back to Miroslav.

"Rome has no room for champions. No time for poets singing of battlefield deaths. The Emperor does not return to Constantinople unless every objective is met—rain, famine, or rebellion be damned. He knows the miles of roads. The yield of every province. The weight of every grain sack."

He straightened slightly, despite the burn in his shoulders.

Miroslav remained silent, but his eyes sharpened.

"Espionage. Deception. Patience," Constantine continued. "These are Roman virtues. A feigned retreat can be a masterpiece. A bribe, a weapon. Rome doesn't win because she is righteous. She wins because she outlasts. Outmanoeuvres. Outthinks."

His voice dropped, steady and cold.

"Rome wins because she is inevitable."

Miroslav studied him for a long moment, the shadow of the olive tree splitting across his scarred face. Then he stood, saying nothing. He didn't need to. Constantine understood the lesson.

By the time they circled back to their quarter of the camp—his legs numb, lungs raw, the pack dragging behind him like the weight of a province—the banners of Beroia were gone.

Smoke rose in their place. Not in chaos. Not in riot. But in solemn, deliberate plumes. Dark columns rising against the gold-bleached sky, slow and calm as incense at a funeral rite.

And then it came.

The cry.

Not from trumpets. Not from heralds. But from men. From foot soldiers and archers, mule drivers and scribes. From every trench and every ridge, from every mouth along the siege line. One voice became ten. Ten became a hundred. A roar, low and rumbling, swelling into the imperial chorus.

It rolled like thunder over the hills and trenches.

Greek. Armenian. Georgian. Slavonic. Syriac. Different tongues, different peoples. But one.

All beneath the Double-Eagle. All beneath the Orthodox Cross and the eyes of Christ Pantokrator

"Beroia has fallen!"

Constantine stood beneath the smoke, shoulders burning, blood thudding in his temples, the taste of sweat and dust bitter on his tongue. Yet he felt nothing but calm. Not pride. Not joy. Just a quiet, dawning recognition.

This was Rome.

Not a city. Not a people. But an engine. A machine of iron, fire, and perfect control. This was what it meant to inherit the legacy of a City with Seven Hills.

Inevitable.

Invincible.

Eternal.

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A/N: Unashamed romaboo writes more roman things and I will offer nothing here but moments of hype and aura.

Miroslav is reminding Constantine that Rome is eternal. Constantine knows that. But girls are nice, and soft, and sweet too. Why not have both?