Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 3 (Historical Fiction SI)

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The thunder of hooves and the rattle of wagons slowed to a halt as the imperial army reached the outskirts of the fortress. Beroia, hunched behind its thick stone walls, bristled with defiance. Smoke curled from its chimneys, and the flutter of Bulgarian banners stood like a challenge against the summer sky.

Basil reined in his horse at the crest of the hill, the standard of the double-headed eagle snapping behind him in the warm wind. His face, as always, betrayed little. He studied the battlements, the corners of his mouth tightening with quiet satisfaction.

"They've sealed themselves in," murmured Gregory Taronites, riding beside him. "Good. That makes them easier to starve."

"They will not starve quickly," Basil replied. "But they will starve." His voice was like flint struck against steel—cold, sharp, and final.

Below them, the army moved into position with practiced efficiency. Siege lines were drawn. Trenches dug. Artillery—mangonels and ballistae—began to be assembled with the measured rhythm of an army that had done this before. The crimson and gold of the imperial banners glinted in the sunlight, a cruel promise to those watching from the walls.

It had begun.

Basil turned away from the fortress just as a courier thundered up the hill, mud-spattered and breathless.

"Sire," the man gasped, sliding from his saddle and dropping to one knee. "Urgent word from the west. Dyrrachium is under siege. Samuel has moved. His raiders struck two days past."

There was no reaction from the emperor—not a flicker. He had expected this. He had counted on it.

Gregory's brow furrowed. "Shall we send aid?"

"No." Basil said, his eyes still on the distant walls of Beroia. "He wants us to chase him. But we won't. Let him burn himself against Dyrrachium's stone. Let him take it, if he can. Every soldier he sends west is one less we will face here."

"But the city—"

"Is a sacrifice," Basil said curtly. "If it must be."

Silence fell between the generals as the siege engines groaned into position, their wooden limbs creaking like leviathans waking from slumber. The fortress would bleed. And if Samuel thought himself clever, if he thought this raid would draw the lion from its prey, he would find instead that the lion had already closed its jaws.

Constantine arrived just then, flanked by the silent shadow of Miroslav. He rode slightly apart, fur-lined cloak tight around his shoulders to guard against the mountain chill. Beside him, Miroslav sat motionless, axe across his saddle.

"Come," he said to the boy. "And watch closely, nephew. Watch how Rome reclaims her legacy."

And with that, the Emperor of the Romans turned to Taronites and nodded. Taronites, took out a horn, and blew into it. A deep sound echoed through the valleys and hills, stirring the hearts of the Romans and sowing terror into the Bulgars.

Rome had come. 

"LOOSE!" came the cries of the engineers.

As the first stone hurled from the mangonel slammed against the outer parapet of Beroia, a deep thud echoed through the hills. The siege was truly underway, and the sounds of war—shouts, creaking timber, the iron shriek of tools—began to rise around the encircling Roman camps.

But Constantine's gaze was fixed not on the walls, nor the soldiers below, but on the city itself—Beroia, ancient and defiant.

It had stood since the time of Philip and Alexander, and one of the first cities to fall into Roman hands after the Macedonian Wars. It stayed Roman until the Bulgars took it in days gone past. And now, it shall be Roman again. 

"Accompany me," the Emperor ordered. 

Constantine clicked his reins and urged his horse forward, falling in beside the Emperor as they trotted down the slope overlooking Beroia. The wind caught their cloaks as they moved

Around them, the imperial camp stretched like a living machine: lines of soldiers moved with mechanical discipline. Siege towers were being erected fast,engineers barked commands from elevated platforms. The mangonels groaned in rhythm, their great arms hurling stone after stone toward the stubborn walls of Beroia. Such engines would have taken weeks to build. 

Basil ensured that the parts were already made before, to assemble and re-assemble at will.

From horseback, the view was commanding. And brutal.

He was a conductor of war, one of the finest commanders and Soldier-Emperors the Eternal City would ever have. When he commanded it, stones were aimed. Mistakes corrected. His army was no legion of Trajan, but it might as well be like it from its speed and movement. 

Basil raised a hand, signaling without words. Behind them, a small cadre of officers fell into formation, while scouts peeled off in bursts to update supply officers and commanders along the flanks.

"They've reinforced the northern gate more than before," Basil said, his eyes never leaving the battered fortifications. "They're expecting a direct assault."

"Do we?" Taronites asked. 

"No," the Emperor replied. "Make them look like we are going to breach them. Continue the bombardment, wear them down with intervals. Too long, they will get used to it." 

"Scaring them shitless then?" Taronites quickly understood.

"Yes. And at night, we attack." 

Constantine watched, absorbing every movement, every word. His uncle didn't pace, didn't bark orders—he dictated, like a mason sketching the future on a block of stone. His control was absolute. Terrifying.

And then Basil glanced at him.

"Tell me, Constantine," he said, tone smooth as polished obsidian. "What do you see?"

Caught off guard, the boy hesitated—but not long.

"I see pressure," Constantine said. "You're not breaking the walls. You're breaking the men behind them. So that when the breach comes, they've already lost the will to fight."

There was a beat of silence.

Basil stared at him for a moment longer than necessary. Then turned back to the map.

"Good."

The plan was simple.

Intimidate the garrison into surrender.

The mangonels were not yet weapons—they were words. Each stone hurled against Beroia's walls was not just meant to crack mortar, but to translate a message:

You do not want us to breach your gates.

It was a statement of intent. A carrot compared to the stick. And now it was only a matter of time until the defenders began to understand the grammar of Roman siegecraft. Basil's army didn't shout, didn't rush, didn't waste energy. It moved with the quiet confidence of something inevitable.

For the next few hours, Constantine rode with his uncle along the siege line, watching soldiers construct mantlets and dig zigzag trenches toward the wall. Officers barked in clipped Greek, interpreters relaying orders to auxiliaries from the eastern provinces. Smoke drifted from the forges where arrowheads were quenched. Battering rams lay in wait under canvas shrouds—still sleeping.

They stopped by lunch, the sun had begun its slow descent behind the distant hills, casting long shadows across the camp and for a brief moment, the battle stopped.

He sat beneath a canvas awning beside Miroslav, the scent of roasted lamb and ash curling upward from a simple iron pan. Bread, still warm from the ovens, sat on a shared wooden plate, and a skin of watered wine was passed between them without ceremony.

The sounds of the mangonels echoed in the distance. Looks like some enterprising siege team was taking initiative. 

Constantine tore a piece of bread, chewed, then said through a mouthful, "You ever seen a siege like this?"

Miroslav swallowed his bite of meat and leaned back against a wooden beam, one leg outstretched. "Yes."

Constantine raised an eyebrow.

The Varangian nodded. "Once, in my youth. It was loud, primal."

He gestured vaguely toward the Roman lines. "Here? If the sieges my people did were like a thunder, this siege would be like ice slowly gripping a river."

Constantine considered that. "It's deliberate."

"It is Roman siegecraft, no?" Miroslav said.

The boy glanced toward the distant figure of his uncle, now just a silhouette amidst officers and scouts. Even at rest, the Emperor seemed to radiate pressure.

"I've never seen anyone control so much with so few words," Constantine said quietly. "He commands like..."

"Like it's already done," Miroslav finished. "Because in his head, it is."

They ate in silence for a while. The bread softened the weight in Constantine's stomach; the meat helped him forget the scent of pitch and blood. The purple-born sat back and looked toward Beroia again. The fortress loomed beneath the setting sun, its shadow stretching long across the dry fields.

"I wonder if they're watching right now," Constantine said, chewing slowly. "Seeing us eat, seeing us not worry. Wondering when the rams will wake up."

"They are," Miroslav said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "And if they know what is best for them, they will open the gates."

"And if they don't?" Constantine asked.

Miroslav looked at him without hesitation.

"Then we sack the city, kill its inhabitants, rape their women, and sell their children into slavery," he said simply, like listing ingredients in a stew.

There was no malice in it. No performance. Just fact.

Constantine paused mid-chew.

"...That was blunt."

Miroslav took a drink from the wine skin and shrugged.

"It's what happens when gates stay shut too long."

He tossed a bone into the fire.

"I've seen it done. I've done it. The men will expect it. The officers will allow it. The Emperor will turn a blind eye." 

Constantine set his bread down.

He didn't flinch. But he didn't smile either. He had already accepted that he was in a time when human life was a suggestion but to hear it put so forward so bluntly...it was rather sobering. 

"I used to read about sackings," he said quietly. "The books always made it sound cleaner."

Miroslav nodded. "Books lie."

The fire crackled between them.

After a moment, Constantine picked up his bread again. "I do not think the Emperor will let such a thing happen," 

"And why is that?" Miroslav asked, expecting a soft answer from a prince so compassionate. 

​Constantine shrugged. "Because he wants to reclaim these lands for the Queen of Cities. 

Miroslav raised an eyebrow. "So?"

"So," Constantine continued, setting the bread down and speaking more clearly now, "The Emperor doesn't just want to win. He wants to rule. My uncle is not like Alexander where he will conquer then move on, no." 

The Varangian watched him, chewing slowly, eyes narrowing.

"These cities," Constantine went on, "these towns, these rivers and fields—they are to be Roman again. Seen as Roman again. They must feed Constantinople, pay taxes, supply men, raise banners."

He leaned forward slightly, voice low but steady.

"You don't rebuild an empire by burning every stone that resists you. You do it by showing the next city what happens to those who don't resist."

Miroslav leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. "So you say there won't be a sack."

"There will be blood," Constantine said, tone now unnervingly like the Emperor's. "There always is. But my uncle is too clever to let the army go wild. A limited slaughter, yes. Executions, yes. But rape and pillage? That weakens control. It feeds rebellion. It creates martyrs."

He gestured toward the fire. "A city is a tool. Once taken, it must be sharpened and turned on your next enemy. The Emperor won't ruin his tools. He'll break their spirit, not their usefulness. You served with my Uncle, you know I am right." 

Miroslav studied him in silence.

Then, at last, he nodded once.

The firelight danced in his pale eyes, flickering like something caught between admiration and unease.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before—lower, less certain.

"You've thought this through."

"Yes," Constantine replied. "I have."

Miroslav exhaled through his nose. He stared into the fire for a long moment, then reached for another piece of meat, chewing without urgency.

A few days ago, he'd watched this boy kneel beside a dying soldier, whispering comfort, promising remembrance. He'd seen a heart too gentle for war—and assumed he'd need to protect him from the vultures that circle power.

But now…

It was clear the boy didn't need protection.

He needed sharpening.

And he was doing it himself.

Looks like this was going to be an exciting posting after all. 

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The mangonels resumed their bombardment.

In the command pavilion, the air was heavy with the scent of wax, ink, and oiled leather. A breeze stirred the tent flaps just enough to ripple the imperial standard hanging over his campaign table.

The Emperor of the Romans stood over a fresh map, studying the contours of Beroia's walls while Gregory Taronites read aloud from a courier's scroll—one of several newly arrived from the capital.

"Petitions from the clergy in Nicaea," Gregory droned. "An abbey is requesting tax relief. A minor noble claims a provincial governor has been grazing horses on his vineyards. Something about a dispute in the mint over the shape of the new coinage—"

Basil didn't look up.

"Forward them to the logothetes. If it is not important, I don't want to hear about it."

Taronites set the scroll aside. "There's more."

He unfastened a tightly wrapped packet bearing a wax seal smeared in an almost excessive amount of perfume. Basil's jaw tensed before Gregory even broke the seal.

"Give it to me," he ordered.

The parchment was handed over.

He broke the seal then read it. Then a sound halfway between a snort and a sigh let him.

Basil closed his eyes.

"Degenerate idiot," he muttered. Then louder: "Gregory."

The Armenian general entered. "Majesty?"

Basil held up the letter.

"My brother has sent his son a eunuch… and a maid."

Gregory raised an eyebrow. "Useful?"

"No. Decorative. One to dress him, the other to undress him."

"Shall I send them back?" Taronites asked. 

Basil was silent for a long moment. "No. Let me see how my nephew lasts with reminders of the capital. If he holds off temptations, then he might have even further promise as well." 

​Then he smiled, less a man but more a wolf's snarl. "But before that, I must see them first." 

And thus brought before him were the newcomers: a tall, pale eunuch with the posture of a court-trained ghost, and a young woman cloaked in a fine wool shawl, her olive skin and almond eyes hinting at eastern blood. Georgian, he guessed. Of course his brother would send him something decorative.

Basil didn't speak at first. He looked.

And he let them sweat.

"Your names," he said at last, voice low but knife-sharp.

The eunuch bowed deeply, folding his hands in front of him with the poise of a palace veteran. "Stephanos, sire. I have served you for seventeen years."

Served his brother, he meant.

The girl hesitated, then curtsied with practiced grace. "Nestan of Apsaros, sent to Constantinople as part of a cultural exchange."

"'Cultural exchange,'" Basil echoed dryly. "And now reduced to handmaiden."

Nestan held her chin high. "The palace assigns as it sees fit."

He stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. The firelight danced on his face, carving lines into the hard planes of his cheekbones and eyes like chisels on stone.

"Let us not play games," he said. "You were sent here to spy for my brother."

Stephanos remained still, but a faint line of tension crept into his shoulders. Nestan blinked once, then steadied herself. Neither denied it.

"Good," Basil said. "You're not fools."

He circled them like a hunting dog gauging whether to bite.

"You were sent here as bait. A softness. A distraction. But you will not coddle him." The Emperor commanded.

Nestan swallowed. "We only do what is asked of us."

"You'll do what I permit," Basil snapped. "And if either of you so much as think to mold him into a fop, I will send you back to my brother without eyes or a tongue. He is the future of our dynasty and I will not let my brother's misplaced sense of love soften him."

He let that sink in.

"Do you understand?"

The two nodded. 

"Good. Now go." 

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The flaps of the command tent closed behind them, and the two walked in silence at first. The camp bustled around them—smiths hammering out armor plates, cooks stoking fires, grizzled veterans sharpening blades. The wind carried the smell of dust, sweat, and war.

Stephanos's expression darkened with every step.

"I should have stayed in the Chrysotriklinos," he muttered, adjusting his robes with an irritated flourish. "I had a comfortable post. Comfortable slippers. I was managing the wine lists and overseeing choristers. But no—I had to be ambitious. I had to think, 'perhaps if I attend to the porphyrogennetos, his dear father might reward me.'"

Nestan raised an eyebrow as she matched his pace, her long stride graceful even in the uneven dirt.

"You didn't expect the Emperor himself to interrogate you?"

"No!" he shivered. "Do you know what happened to the last eunuch that earned the Emperor's ire?" 

Everyone was aware of Basil Lekapenos. While able, the then young Emperor had seen him as a threat and all his lands and possessions were confiscated, all laws issued under his administration declared null and void and Basil Lekapenos himself exiled.

"I doubt you could be as powerful as the old eunuch. The Emperor distrusts your kind." 

"I should have never left," he bemoaned.

Nestan sniffed. "Don't be too hard on yourself. We're still attending a young prince. You do as eunuchs do and all I have to do is smile, be useful, and remind him of home."

She brushed an imaginary fleck of dirt from her cloak.

"And I do know I'm beautiful." 

Exotic features, long legs, and bountiful breasts that bristled with milk? She was a dream for any man, and she was far too aware of the many glances sent her way.

Stephanos exhaled hard through his nose. "Oh, you poor, hopeful girl. You think that helps? You haven't been in the palace long enough to know what happens when pretty things catch fire."

"You haven't seen him yet," she replied. "For all you know, he's lonely, bored, and grateful for any kind face that isn't shouting orders. Let him look at me like a man instead of a prince, and the rest will follow."

They followed the path along the eastern trench, past wagons creaking under coils of rope and barrels of pitch, until they reached a solitary purple banner fluttering beside a small cluster of reinforced tents.

Miroslav was already waiting.

The Varangian stood like a slab of living granite outside the flap, axe resting against one shoulder, his ice-blue eyes fixed on them before they were even within speaking distance.

Nestan slowed her stride just slightly. Stephanos did not.

He stepped forward and offered a shallow bow—not too deep. He knew better than to show weakness in front of wolves.

"We were told the prince resides here," he said, producing a scroll wrapped in red silk.

Miroslav didn't move at first. Then his eyes shifted—once—to the seal, then back to Stephanos.

He said nothing.

But slowly, he extended a hand the size of a smith's anvil and plucked the letter from Stephanos's fingers with care that seemed too precise for a man so brutish.

His gaze lingered a second longer. Measuring. Weighing.

Then, without a word, he turned and pulled the flap open.

The scent of parchment and wax drifted out, mixed with incense and a faint trace of wine.

"Go in," Miroslav said.

Stephanos stepped through first, Nestan following with a glance over her shoulder. Miroslav's eyes met hers for only a moment—and in them, she saw no lust, no curiosity. Just warning.

Inside the tent, the atmosphere was... unexpected.

It was quiet. Dim. A single oil lamp flickered from a low table. The canvas had been draped with woolen hangings to mute the outside noise, and the floor was strewn with rugs and cushions—none luxurious, but carefully arranged for comfort.

At the center of it all, sprawled across a stack of cushions like a cat among scrolls, was Constantine.

He looked up as they entered.

Nestan has to admit he looked just like his father. Despite his age, already tall and showing signs that in the future, he would just be as handsome. Now, he was merely pretty. A boyish sort of pretty. 

Then, with the most unguarded grin either of them had seen since leaving the palace, he said:

"Welcome!"

Stephanos blinked.

Nestan tilted her head, half-smiling.

Constantine sat up, brushing hair out of his eyes with ink-stained fingers. "Before I left, my father told me that he was going to send me some things. I did not expect he was going to send me servants." 

He said the word servants with a wry twist, almost tasting it.

Nestan stepped forward and offered a bow that was practiced but not sycophantic. "We were sent to ensure your comfort, my lord. I am Nestan and he is Stephanos. We-"

"Comfort," Constantine echoed, drawing the word out like a piece of string. He tilted his head and looked her over—not leering, just observing. Then he turned his gaze to Stephanos.

"I am not going to say no. I would love to have some people to talk to at night." 

That sounded like an innuendo to Nestan's ears. 

"I shall serve at your pleasure, my lord," Nestan purred, her voice velvety.

Stephanos shot her a sidelong glare, but said nothing.

Constantine smiled at her—not lecherously, not like a boy overwhelmed by curves and scent and implication. It was the smile of someone who understood the rules of the game and had already seen the end of it.

"You might," he said mildly. "But let's be very clear about something, Nestan—may I call you that?"

She nodded, slightly surprised by his tone.

"I'm not a lonely boy clutching for warmth in a cold camp. I'm not going to cling to soft voices or softer thighs just because there's war outside my tent. My pleasure," he said, holding her gaze, "is earned. Not seduced."

Her smile faltered for a breath—just a breath.

"I see," she said, readjusting her stance with smooth poise. "Then I hope I earn it."

"I hope so too," Constantine said lightly. "You're certainly more charming than Stephanos, and far better dressed."

Stephanos gave a stiff bow. "We were told to assist and observe, purple-born. Nothing more."

"Oh, I know," Constantine replied. He rose from the cushions with a fluid, catlike motion and crossed to a side table, where a half-unrolled map of the region lay weighted down with ink pots and a dagger. "Observe all you like. But understand that you're not in Constantinople anymore."

He turned back to them, the firelight catching the ink still staining his knuckles.

"This isn't the Chrysotriklinos."

He picked up the dagger and pointed its tip toward the ground—not threatening, but final.

"I'm here to learn how to kill and how to rule. You're here to help—or get out of the way. Do we understand each other?"

Stephanos inclined his head with proper courtly gravity. "Perfectly."

Nestan's expression had settled into something unreadable—cool, composed, but no longer playful.

"Good," Constantine said. The intensity vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by that same boyish grin. "Now then. The siege will resume by sunset. If you want to see what war looks like before it eats a city alive, you're welcome to follow me."

He slipped the dagger into his belt, already moving toward the tent flap. "Or you can stay here. Arrange the cushions. Count my books. Whichever you think brings more glory."

Without waiting, he pushed through the flap and into the golden afternoon light.

Stephanos let out a slow breath. "He's… not what I expected."

Nestan's gaze lingered on the space where Constantine had stood.

"No," she murmured. "He's not."

She lowered herself onto one of the cushions and reached for the nearest scroll. Her fingers trailed over the parchment, but her mind wasn't on the text.

"What is a Norfolk system?" she asked aloud, the words strange in her mouth.

Stephanos stepped closer, peering down. "It looks...agricultural?"

Nestan frowned. "He studies farming during a siege?"

Stephanos looked uneasy. "He meant every word."

Nestan tilted her head. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" he repeated, incredulous. "That wasn't some pampered son of the Caesar. That boy looked me in the eye and measured me."

"He's just mimicking his uncle," Nestan said calmly. "They all do, the boys. He probably thinks it'll impress the Emperor. Growl like him, glare like him, talk about breaking spirits and sharpening tools. It's theater."

Stephanos didn't answer right away. He glanced down at the maps and the open scrolls, and the way the rugs had been arranged—not with indulgence, but with efficiency.

"He didn't look like he was acting," he muttered.

"Then give him time," Nestan said smoothly, crossing one leg over the other. "Let the cold nights drag on. Let the fear settle in. He's still his father's son. That softness—it's in there somewhere. It always is."

Stephanos gave a doubtful snort. "I've seen how the Elder negotiates with court singers. He apologizes before asking them to lower their pitch."

"And you think this boy won't unravel eventually?" Nestan's voice was silk, but there was a thread of steel beneath it. "Please. He's a boy. Surrounded by killers. All alone. He's holding up because he has to. But eventually? He'll need warmth. Guidance. Familiarity."

She leaned back on one hand, eyes sharp.

"That's when we serve him best."

Stephanos hesitated. His mouth twisted.

"…You're sure?"

She smiled faintly. "I am confident. The Emperor is a hard man to emulate."

There was no way the boy was like his uncle. 

No way at all.

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A/N: Unfortunately, he was just like his uncle. But worse.