Making Rome Great Again or how I was born as Constantine IX, Emperor of the Romans ch 2 (Historical Fiction SI)

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The march westward from Constantinople was steady, deliberate, and unrelenting. Over the weeks of travel, the imperial army became a rolling city of crimson banners, golden eagles, and disciplined ranks. The roads, once worn and forgotten, now bore the weight of Rome's vengeance. Basil had ordered them rebuilt years prior, anticipating this moment. Every stone laid, every bridge restored, was part of a grander plan to ensure that the empire's might could reach its enemies without hindrance.

The army itself was a marvel of organization. The tagmata, the elite field regiments of the empire, formed the core of the force. Their shields gleamed, their spears were sharp, and their discipline unmatched. They were flanked by the Varangian Guard, towering warriors from the north whose axes seemed to glint with the promise of death. Behind them came the cavalry, their mounts adorned in brass and leather, their riders the pride of Anatolia and Macedonia. Supply wagons groaned under the weight of provisions: grain, salted meat, wine, and barrels of water carefully rationed for the long journey.

But it wasn't just soldiers who marched. Blacksmiths, cooks, and surgeons traveled with the army, their tasks as vital as any warrior's. Priests carried relics and icons, offering blessings to the men as they passed. Merchants followed at the edges of the column, hoping to profit from the soldiers' coin. Even the camp followers—mostly women and children—trailed behind, setting up temporary markets and kitchens whenever the army rested.

As the march continued, Basil took every opportunity to get to know his nephew. For the first few days, the prince had been quiet, observing the endless columns of soldiers and the intricate machinery of war. He spoke only when spoken to, and listened to their war councils. Good form, thought Basil. Observe and take in your surroundings. He let it be, allowing the prince to absorb the sights and sounds on his own. But as the days stretched into weeks, he began to speak to the boy—not as a child, but as a man who would one day rule.

"Do you see how they march?" Basil asked one morning, gesturing toward the infantry columns. The boy, riding beside him, nodded.

"Yes, Uncle. They march in perfect lines, like a great river flowing forward."

Basil allowed himself a faint smile. "A river, yes. But a river does not think. These men do. Each one is here because they believe in something greater than themselves. They march for Rome, for their families, for their faith. Do you understand?"

The boy frowned slightly, clearly giving the question thought. "They also march because of you, Uncle. They would go even to the farthest ends of the Earth if you ordered them to."

Such an answer would be seen as sycophancy by Basil, if it came from anyone else. But considering he had only exchanged a few words with his nephew, he was willing to hear him out on his answer. And thus he asked, "And why is that, nephew?"  

"Because you fought with them. You earned their trust and loyalty in battles and administration," Constantine the Younger replied. "Because you look out for their families, and ensure that they will be safe and live in prosperity." 

Basil nodded, pleased with the answer. "Exactly," he replied. "An emperor does not command by birthright alone. You must earn their respect, their loyalty. Assuring that their families are taken care of is already half the battle," he snorted.

It did not take a well-read man to realize that his reforms that targeted the Dynatoi allowed them land and other privileges. Only he was going to do that and no one else. That had allowed him a far better safety net than mere bribery. 

"Do you think your father could lead them?" he asked, curious on Constantine's answer. 

The boy hesitated, his cheeks flushing slightly. He glanced down at his reins, clearly uncomfortable. "No, Uncle. He could not."

"And why is that?" Basil pressed, his tone patient but unyielding.

The boy looked up, his pale blue eyes meeting his uncle's. "Because he has never proven himself. He spends his days in the palace, surrounded by luxuries. He does not know…this." He gestured toward the army, the endless line of men and horses stretching into the distance.

How honest. Basil almost laughed. 

"Good. You see the truth, even if it is difficult to admit. Your father has his strengths, but leadership is not one of them. That is why you are here, Constantine. One day, these men will look to you, not him. And when that day comes, you must be ready."

The boy straightened in his saddle, his expression solemn. "I will be ready, Uncle."

He was treating it seriously. That was already an improvement considering who his father was.

The days passed, and Basil continued to observe his nephew with a critical yet hopeful eye. Constantine was a curious blend of quiet introspection and sharp perception, traits that Basil found rare—and valuable—in someone so young. The boy seemed to absorb the rhythms of the army, the weight of its purpose, and the magnitude of the endeavor they were undertaking. He did not complain of the long hours in the saddle, the dust that clung to their skin, or the chill of the nights spent in military camps. Instead, he watched, listened, and learned.

One evening, as the crimson haze of sunset bathed the camp, Basil invited Constantine to join him near the command tent. A small fire crackled between them, the soft murmur of the camp fading into the background. Basil poured two cups of watered wine, handing one to his nephew.

"Tell me, Constantine," Basil began, his voice steady, his gaze fixed on the boy. "What do you think of all this? The army, the men, the march?"

Constantine sipped his wine, his expression thoughtful. "It is… immense," he said after a moment. "I have read of armies in books, Uncle, but seeing it—living it—is different. It is like a living thing, with its own heart and breath. Every man has a place, a purpose. Even the smallest task seems important."

Basil nodded, pleased with the boy's insight. "Good. You understand the scale of it. But tell me, do you think it can be broken?"

The boy hesitated, his brow furrowing as he considered the question. "Yes," he said finally. "Anything can be broken, Uncle. Even the strongest army, if it is not careful. If it loses its purpose, its unity, it can fall apart."

A flicker of approval passed over Basil's face. "You are correct. An army is only as strong as the discipline and loyalty that bind it. That is why we train, why we plan, why we lead. Without those things, even the mightiest force will crumble."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. "And what of you, Constantine? If you were to lead, how would you keep such an army together?"

The boy met his gaze, his pale blue eyes steady. "I would lead by example, as you do. I would earn their trust, their loyalty. And I would never ask them to do something I would not do myself."

Basil smiled faintly, a rare expression of genuine warmth. "Good. Remember that. Leadership is not about giving orders from a gilded throne. It is about standing with your men, sharing their hardships, and showing them that you are worthy of their loyalty."

He paused, watching the boy closely. "But there is more to it than that. An emperor must also be clever, ruthless when necessary. Do you understand what I mean?"

Constantine hesitated, his youthful face momentarily uncertain. "I think so, Uncle. You mean… knowing when to show mercy and when to strike?"

"Precisely," Basil said, his tone firm. "Mercy has its place, but so does strength. An emperor who is too soft invites rebellion. An emperor who is too harsh breeds resentment. Balance is the key."

"As all things should be," he replied, an amused glint in his eyes. 

Basil nodded, turning to the war table. "You've watched, you've listened. You've seen how we prepare for war. Tell me, what do you think of our plan to deal with the Bulgarians?"

Constantine glanced at the war table, the maps pinned down by bronze figurines of soldiers and horsemen, the inked rivers and mountains marking the lands of Thrace and Moesia. His pale blue eyes flickered with thought as he studied the carefully laid-out markers that represented the imperial strategy. The boy hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of the table. He knew this was no casual question. Basil was testing him, weighing his judgment.

He straightened, his voice measured but firm. "The plan is… effective, Uncle. To wear them down, to grind their forces piece by piece, is the surest way to minimize our risks. The Bulgarians are cunning, and they thrive on mobility. A single decisive battle would play into their strengths. But this slow, relentless advance? It forces them to fight on your terms. It starves them of options."

Basil leaned back slightly, arms crossed. He said nothing, letting the boy continue.

"But," Constantine added, his tone now sharper, "it will be grueling. For them, yes—but also for us. The longer the campaign stretches, the more difficult it will be to maintain discipline. Supplies will dwindle. Fatigue will set in. The men will begin to question why we do not simply strike at their heart and end it."

"Go on," Basil said, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

Constantine glanced at his uncle, gauging his reaction before pressing on. "The Bulgarians will not wait for us to grind them down. They will raid our supply lines, harass our foraging parties, and avoid direct confrontation. They will test our patience, our cohesion. And if we falter—if even one part of this great machine fails—they will exploit it. Their leaders know the land better than we ever could, and they will use it to bleed us dry."

Basil nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "So, you agree with the strategy, but you see the risks. Tell me, then, how would you mitigate them?"

Constantine hesitated for only a moment before answering. "By making the men believe in the campaign. They must see progress—small victories, visible signs that their efforts are leading to something greater. Every captured Bulgarian warband, every reclaimed village, should be celebrated, not ignored. Let the men feel they are part of something monumental, not just pawns in a long, grinding game."

Basil's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Small victories, then. A steady stream of morale. And what of the Bulgarians themselves? How would you deal with their leaders?"

Constantine's jaw tightened. "Their leaders are the key. If we capture them, the resistance will splinter. But if we cannot, we must make it clear that this war is not just about destruction. If we show them that they can live under Rome's rule—that their families will be safe, their lands protected—they may surrender more willingly."

Basil raised an eyebrow. "Mercy, then? You would spare them?"

"When it serves us, yes," Constantine said without hesitation. "Not out of weakness, but out of strength. If they see Rome as a better alternative to endless war, they will lay down their arms. If not…" The boy's gaze hardened, his voice lowering. "Then we destroy them."

For a moment, there was only silence between them, the crackle of the campfire filling the space. Basil studied Constantine, his sharp gaze taking in every detail of the boy's expression, every flicker of emotion. Finally, he gave a curt nod.

"You think like a ruler," Basil said evenly. "Not just a general, but a man who understands the weight of an empire. You see both the sword and the olive branch. That is good. You'll need both."

Constantine allowed himself a small, relieved breath. "Thank you, Uncle."

Basil tapped one of the markers on the map, shifting it slightly. "But remember this: plans are nothing without action. You can think, you can strategize, but war has a way of unraveling even the best-laid plans. The true test of a leader is not in crafting the perfect strategy, but in adapting when everything falls apart. Do you understand?"

"I do," Constantine said quietly.

Basil turned to face him fully, his expression hardening. "Good. Because this campaign will test all of us. The Bulgarians are not fools. They will not simply wait for us to break them. They will fight with everything they have, even if it means burning their own lands to deny us victory. You must be ready for that, Constantine. Ready to lead when the time comes."

The boy straightened, his eyes meeting his uncle's with steady resolve. "I will be ready, Uncle."

Basil held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "We shall see. Go, and rest for the night." 

The boy hesitated, his pale blue eyes flickering with a mix of pride and exhaustion, before nodding. "Goodnight, Uncle," he said, his voice measured and respectful.

Basil watched him go, his silhouette disappearing into the flickering shadows of the camp. When he was sure the boy was out of earshot, he turned his attention back to the fire, its light dancing over his weathered face. A figure approached from the edge of the command tent—a tall, broad-shouldered man with streaks of silver in his dark hair and sharp, calculating eyes. Gregory Taronites, Prince of Armenia and one of the few aristocrats Basil could tolerate.

"You wanted to speak with me, Majesty?" Gregory asked, his voice low but steady.

Basil motioned for him to sit, pouring another cup of watered wine and handing it to him. "Yes, Gregory. About many things. But first, tell me—what do you think of the boy?"

Gregory took the cup, pausing thoughtfully before answering. "He's sharp," he said finally. "More than I expected for someone his age. He watches, listens. He doesn't speak unless he has something worth saying. That's rare in a boy of his position."

Basil nodded, his expression unreadable. "Rare, yes. But is it enough?"

Gregory frowned slightly, his thick brows drawing together as he considered the question. "It's a start. He has potential, but potential is only as good as the man who nurtures it. He's untested. He hasn't seen blood, hasn't stood on a battlefield. Until he does, we won't know what he's truly made of."

Basil leaned back, swirling the wine in his cup as he stared into the fire. "He reminds me of myself," he said quietly. "When I was his age, I had nothing but my wits and my will. No armies, no throne. Just a vision of what I could become. He has the same hunger, I think. But he also has a softness—one that his father has allowed to fester."

Gregory's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Softness can be burned away, Majesty. If the fire is hot enough."

Basil chuckled darkly. "True enough. And this campaign will be that fire. If he survives it, he'll be stronger for it. If not…" He trailed off, his tone turning cold. "Then he was never worthy to begin with."

Gregory nodded, understanding the harsh logic of the emperor's words. "But you think he will survive?"

Basil was silent for a moment, his gaze distant. Finally, he said, "I do. There's steel in him, hidden beneath the surface. He just needs to learn how to wield it. And if he doesn't learn…" His voice hardened. "Then I'll teach him myself."

Gregory took a sip of his wine, his expression thoughtful. "He has a good teacher, then. The best, I'd say."

Basil smirked faintly, then shifted the conversation. "Enough about the boy. There's more pressing business to discuss. When we take Beroia—and we will take it—I want you to govern it."

Gregory blinked, caught momentarily off guard. "Majesty, I… I am honored. But Beroia is no small responsibility. Are you certain I am the right man for the task?"

"You are one of the few men worth your title," Basil returned. "In the absence of Ouranos, I can find no one better. Do you understand?" 

Gregory Taronites inclined his head, accepting the weight of the honor—and the burden it implied. "I do, Majesty. And I won't fail you."

Basil studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You've never failed me before. That's why I trust you with this. Beroia is key. If we control the passes and the valley, the Bulgarians will find it far harder to move between the mountains and the plains. I want a Roman hand on its throat—tight, firm, but not reckless."

Gregory nodded again. "I'll make sure it holds."

"Good." Basil stood, the fire casting long shadows against the canvas walls. "The Bulgarians will come for it eventually. Samuel will not abandon it without a fight. But by the time he realizes we've secured it, it'll be too late. He'll be chasing smoke."

He walked slowly to the war table, eyes sweeping over the figurines once more. He adjusted a few with deliberate precision, representing the tightening noose he was drawing across the Bulgarian heartland.

"And Ouranos, Majesty?" Gregory asked cautiously, sensing an unspoken undercurrent. "Will he rejoin us before the autumn push?"

Basil's mouth thinned. He did not look up. "He is in the east. Antioch and the Mesopotamian frontier have grown restive again—there are whispers of Fatimid activity, and I need a man I can trust watching that border. Ouranos is not idle; he serves where he is most needed."

Gregory absorbed that with a nod, understanding both the truth and the implications. "Then it falls to us in the west."

"It does," Basil said. "And we will not falter."

For a few long seconds, silence reigned, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the distant clink of armor beyond the tent flaps. Finally, Gregory rose, saluting once more. "I'll make preparations for Beroia. We'll be ready."

Basil gave a nod of dismissal, then added as Gregory turned to go, "And Gregory—watch Constantine. Quietly. If he's to be an emperor one day, I want no illusions about what kind of man he's becoming."

Gregory's voice was steady. "Of course, Majesty."

As he left the tent, Basil remained where he stood, alone now, eyes on the war table. The pieces were in motion, and the board was set. Victory would not come swiftly—but it would come. Because unlike his father before him, Basil was not a man of half-measures.

And in time, neither would his heir be.

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Constantine the Younger collapsed onto his bed.

On one hand, he was absolutely ecstatic to be in this. In himself. The Byzantines—or Romans, as they rightly called themselves—wouldn't invent the printing press for another few centuries, and yet here he was, living among living history. And not just any part of it. He had gained consciousness—somehow, impossibly—in the middle of the Basilian Renaissance, the iron-shod golden age of the Eastern Roman Empire. The height of military reform, administrative revival, and Orthodox sanctity…all embodied in one terrifying man: Basil II the Bulgarslayer.

And that man just happened to be his uncle.

Constantine exhaled sharply, more of a groan than a breath, and rolled onto his side. The stiff linen sheets scratched his skin, and the rush-stuffed mattress wasn't much better than sleeping on dirt. He didn't care. His legs ached from days of riding, his back burned from the sun, and there was dust in places that dust had no business reaching. Yet beneath the exhaustion was a kind of euphoric awe. A thrill he couldn't quite suppress. He was here. He was living it.

Still, it was a lot.

Not just the physical strain of marching with a medieval army—though that was bad enough. It was Basil. Basil the Unyielding. Basil the Machine. Basil who had looked at him with the quiet calculation of a man who measured people by the weight of their spine and the sharpness of their gaze. He respected Basil, revered him even—but the man was like a living siege engine. The sheer pressure of being around him made Constantine feel like a temple column in an earthquake.

He lay on his back, staring at the oiled beams of the tent ceiling, chest rising and falling. The stars outside were so bright, so clear. This was a world untouched by the light pollution of the future. No buzzing generators. No blue LED glow from digital screens. Only torchlight, and the flickering red-orange warmth of campfires.

He closed his eyes and let the silence press in—until his thoughts began to stir.

The memories were jumbled, but they were there. A lifetime of modern life compressed like scrolls packed into a sealed amphora. He remembered Wi-Fi, and memes, and long forums arguing over whether Basil was truly a tactical genius or just a brute with good logistics. He remembered watching YouTube videos with garbled reconstructions of Byzantine hymns, and wondering what it must have felt like to stand in the Hagia Sophia with incense in the air and gold leaf glittering on every mosaic. A strange hobby by normal standards but he was as the internet would call: autistic. 

And then… one morning, he'd awoken to find himself in a gilded room, hands too small, wearing silk too heavy for any modern child. A eunuch had bowed low and addressed him as porphyrogennetos—born in the purple.

That was when the realization struck.

He had replaced someone. The historical record was murky—he knew Basil had no children of his own, but his co-emperor, Constantine VIII, did. And among his children… Zoe. Empress, consort to three emperors, survivor of palace coups and riots, lover of perfumes and baths. The last of her line, in a way.

And now?

Zoe was gone.

He was in her place.

Or… was it really her? He still wasn't sure. It wasn't like he'd woken up and murdered someone in the womb. Maybe the universe had corrected itself. Maybe she had never existed in this timeline. Maybe there was another Zoe, far away, untouched by this strange displacement.

Or maybe he had stolen her life entirely.

He rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow, suppressing a groan.

Still, he had to admit—part of him felt exhilarated. To live here, to shape things, to learn directly from the most powerful emperor since Heraclius? It was more than any history nerd could ever dream of. This wasn't a textbook. This was history, alive and breathing and brutally beautiful.

And yet…

He was scared, too.

Because Basil might be proud of him now—but what would happen when he slipped? When he forgot some arcane ritual, or some diplomatic nuance, or misstepped in a game of imperial chess? Would Basil look at him with disappointment? Would he be cast aside, or worse, quietly dealt with like so many unworthy heirs?

Constantine the Younger, formerly a political science student from a tropical island, was now next in line for the throne of the most complex empire in Christendom. And no one suspected a thing.

He buried his face deeper into the pillow and whispered, just loud enough for the linen to catch the sound:

"God help me."

A pause.

Then, quieter still: "But also… thank you."

When he work up, Constantine awoke to the smell of woodsmoke and leather.

His eyes blinked open slowly, crusted with sleep and dust. For a brief moment he forgot—forgot the camp, forgot the world, forgot that he was not in some comfortable apartment with a coffee pot nearby and the hum of a laptop waiting for him. But then the stiff canvas ceiling of the tent loomed overhead, and the dull ache in his shoulders reminded him where—and when—he was.

He sat up groggily, pushing aside the wool blanket. Morning had come, sharp and chill. The sun hadn't fully crested the hills, but already there was the sound of movement: men murmuring, armor clinking, horses whinnying. The army was beginning to stir.

He pulled on a tunic, then his belt, laced his boots with awkward fingers still not used to the feel of rawhide, and stepped outside.

There, standing like an obelisk beside his tent, was a mountain of a man.

Tall. Blond. Bearded. Dressed in a mix of heavy Byzantine lamellar and Northern furs. A labrys—a double-headed axe—rested against one shoulder, and his arms were bare despite the morning cold, knotted with muscle and old scars. His expression was stoic, almost bored, but his eyes—ice blue and alert—met Constantine's the instant he stepped out.

The man inclined his head in a stiff gesture of respect.

"Good morning, porphyrogennetos," he said, with a thick accent that tugged the Greek into harder, colder shapes. "I am Miroslav. The Emperor of the Romans has ordered me to be your shadow."

Constantine blinked. For a moment he was so thrown that he nearly laughed—but then he caught himself. Right. Of course. They would assign him a guard, especially if Basil had taken him seriously on the march. And of course it would be a Varangian. Basil loved the Varangians. They were loyal, brutal, and too foreign to be swept up in palace intrigue.

Constantine offered a warm smile, folding his hands behind his back in what he hoped was a dignified posture.

"Miroslav. Good to meet you. Really," he said, trying to pitch his voice somewhere between prince and excited ethnographer. "I was wondering when I'd meet one of you."

The Varangian said nothing, just gave a slight nod. He didn't seem suspicious—just watchful.

"May I ask," Constantine continued, tilting his head slightly, "what are the Varangians like, outside of service? When you're not breaking heads or intimidating court functionaries, I mean."

Miroslav raised a single thick brow. "We drink. We fight. We sing. We carve runes. We die for our oaths. What more is there?"

Constantine grinned. "That's honestly… about what I hoped you'd say."

Now there was the faintest flicker of amusement in Miroslav's face. A ghost of a smile.

"I take it you are not afraid of Northmen," he said.

"Oh, terrified," Constantine replied brightly. "But also completely fascinated. Where are you from? Rus'? Norway?"

"Rus', yes. My mother was of the Slavs. My father came in a ship from across the sea, from the land of ice and gods. He taught me to swing an axe before I could ride a horse."

Constantine nodded, absorbing every detail like a sponge. "And how long have you served in the Tágma ton Varangíon?"

"Since it's foundation," His mouth tightened slightly. "Now, I guard you."

Holy shit.

"Then you were there at Abydos with my Uncle fighting the usurper?" 

"I was," Miroslav said, with a faint nod. "The Emperor rode through the camp the night before. Spoke to no one. Not even the generals. Just looked at the river. At the cliffs. Said nothing. We thought he might throw himself in."

"What happened?"

Miroslav's mouth curled into the faintest edge of a smile.

"He didn't. He won."

Constantine chuckled, half in awe. "That's very Basil."

The Varangian grunted.

"You seem to know much about the emperor," he said, his gaze sharpening slightly. "More than most boys of your years."

Constantine's breath caught—but only for a moment.

"My tutors speak of him constantly. And I… I listen well."

Miroslav tilted his head, neither confirming nor denying his skepticism.

"You will need more than good memory to survive, porphyrogennetos," he said. "Words are wind. Swords bite deeper."

"And you'll teach me?" Constantine asked, grinning.

"If the Emperor wills it," Miroslav replied. "And if you do not cry the first time you fall."

"I will," Constantine said solemnly. "But only once."

That earned a genuine chuckle. Dry and rasping, like old parchment torn in two. The Varangian gave the haft of his axe a small, reverent thump against the ground.

"I will train you. But I will not go easy."

"I'd be insulted if you did."

There was a long pause, comfortable in its weight. The cold morning air began to warm slightly as the sun crept above the hills. Across the camp, the clash of steel rang out: sparring drills, shouting officers, horses being saddled. The Imperial Army was waking.

"You will march with the emperor today," Miroslav said after a moment. "He is inspecting the passes near Thessalonica. You will ride beside the standard."

Constantine blinked. "With him?"

"He commanded it."

That familiar knot of excitement and terror twisted in Constantine's chest again. Riding beside Basil. Observing him up close. Learning from the living engine of imperial fury and discipline.

"Then I should get ready."

Miroslav inclined his head once more, stepping aside to let Constantine pass.

"And, Miroslav?" Constantine said, pausing just inside the tent flap.

The Varangian looked at him.

"I look forward to a long and fruitful partnership." 

Miroslav nodded.

+++

Miroslav watched him go.

The porphyrogennetos moved with the awkward confidence of someone pretending not to be lost. Miroslav had seen it before. In soldiers, mostly. New ones. Men pulled from farms or fishing boats, suddenly forced into the iron rhythm of a marching army. They kept their backs straight, mimicked the gruff of veterans, but their hands twitched when gripping spears. Their eyes searched faces too long. Always looking. Always measuring.

So too did Constantine.

He was not like the others born to silks and marble corridors. He smiled too easily. He asked questions. Not to pry or to boast, but to understand. That, in itself, was strange. Most sons of the highborn asked to be flattered, not answered.

Miroslav had guarded such men before—sons of patricians and generals, velvet-soft with oil in their hair and cruelty in their bones. They treated guards like furniture and servants like chamber pots. But this one? Asked where he came from, what he did when the sword wasn't in his hand.

Stranger still, he listened to the answer.

Miroslav's fingers tightened slightly on the haft of his axe. He was no philosopher. He cared little for court whispers, less for the clink of coin and wine. But he was not blind. A prince who showed gentleness was a prince who made enemies. The palace in Constantinople would eat such a boy alive, as wolves did to the weak of the pack.

Perhaps it was his father's influence. Constantine the Elder was a man Miroslav had no respect for. A shadow of a shadow. A perfumed fool who played at being Caesar while his brother waged real war. Miroslav had seen him once in the flesh—lounging beneath an awning during a parade, fingers glittering with too many rings, eyes glazed with drink or boredom. Yes. This boy had his softness. The same ease of speech, the same polite turn of phrase, as if trying to charm the wind. But there was something else too. Something not from the father. Miroslav had seen it when the boy spoke of the North. The hunger in his eyes when he asked about runes, about oaths, about death. Not fear. Not entirely. Wonder.

Curiosity.

That was rare.

Rarer still in one who bore the purple.

He would need to be careful, Miroslav thought. Not for his own sake, but for the boy's. There was something broken-loose inside Constantine, something fragile and bright and unsteady. He could become many things: a scholar-emperor, a peacemaker, a dreamer who built churches of light and gold. Or he could become nothing at all. Crushed under the boots of warlords and bureaucrats who would sniff weakness like wolves scent blood.

Miroslav had no love for weaklings.

But he had sworn an oath.

If the Emperor of the Romans deemed this boy worth guarding, then guard him he would. And if he was to become a man worth the empire… then he would need to bleed. On the field, not in the court. Better bruises from a sparring axe than a dagger between ribs in the Senate chamber.

He would train the boy. Not gently. Not kindly. But justly.

And if he wept? Let him. So long as he stood back up.

The flap of the tent shifted, and Constantine reappeared, shoulders wrapped in a riding cloak, cheeks pink from washing, eyes bright with the kind of eager dread only the young possessed.

"Ready," he said, breath slightly quickened. "Let's go."

Miroslav nodded once and turned without a word. The sun had risen fully now, a pale gold disk above the hills. Trumpets began to call. Standards rose. Men mounted their horses in disciplined rows.

The boy followed at his side.

Later that day, they met the enemy.

A band of Bulgarians descended from the hills in a sudden strike. The scouts had spotted them in time, and the army reacted with practiced discipline. The engagement was short, the outcome never in doubt. The enemy was driven off, leaving behind scattered bodies and blood in the grass.

There were injuries, of course. Always were. Men groaning under makeshift bandages, others carried back on stretchers, pale and silent.

Miroslav and the prince had been too far to take part. The fighting had been too brief, too contained. There was no glory to be won. Nothing that would be remembered.

But Constantine remembered.

He asked where the wounded were. When no one answered quickly enough, he found them himself.

Most nobles would not have bothered. Skirmishes were a daily rhythm of war—small, ugly things best left to the surgeons and scribes. The names of the injured would be noted, their fate sealed in cold ink. That was how it had always been.

But Constantine broke from that rhythm.

He walked the line of the injured, the stink of blood and sweat curling in the air. He knelt beside a soldier with a fractured leg and asked his name. He squeezed the hand of a boy who'd taken an arrow to the shoulder and told him he had done well. He even took water from a servant and held it to the lips of a dying man who could no longer lift his own head.

It wasn't for show. There was no audience. No coin changing hands. No soft words for the sake of performance.

Just presence.

He was there, and that mattered more than anything he could have said.

Miroslav watched from the edge of the tent, arms crossed, eyes hard. He told himself it was foolish. That it would cost the boy in the end. That the world had no mercy for princes who showed too much of it themselves.

​It was then, the Emperor called for them.

+++

The officers had dispersed, the tent emptying of murmurs and steel. Basil stood alone at the war table, hands braced on its edge, eyes on the map but mind already steps ahead. The air hung heavy with the scent of oil lamps and sweat—victory still distant, but beginning to take shape.

Footsteps crunched outside. A shadow returned.

"Taronites," Basil said without looking up. "Changed your mind?"

Gregory ducked through the tent flap, a half-finished cup of wine in hand, a grin tugging at his beard.

"No, Majesty," he said, his tone easy. "Just thought you'd want to hear this before the next courier turns it into a saga."

Basil arched an eyebrow, annoyed but listening.

"The prince," Gregory began, swirling his wine. "Constantine. He's at the surgeon's tents. Talking to the wounded."

Basil blinked, slowly. "What."

"Got off his horse after the skirmish. Walked straight down there without a word. He's been pouring water, asking names. Wiped blood from a man's mouth himself, they say."

Basil stared. "You're joking."

Gregory smirked. "Wish I were. One soldier swore the boy thanked him. Personally. Nearly killed the man with shock."

Basil shook his head, incredulous. "My brother would've stepped over the body to avoid the stain."

"Exactly," Gregory said, sipping. "And that's what makes it so... entertaining."

The emperor didn't respond. A flick of his hand summoned a guard.

"Bring him here. Now."

Constantine stepped into the tent, his boots muddied, his sleeves stained, his posture stiff but steady. His eyes—though tired—were clear. The guard lingered, silent before the Emperor.

Basil fixed him with a look somewhere between confusion and scrutiny.

"You were in the surgeon's tents," he said, flatly.

"Yes, Uncle."

"You spoke to the wounded?"

"I did."

"You gave them water?"

"I did."

The questions came sharper now. "Why? Playing nurse? Seeking applause?"

Constantine's voice was steady. "No. I wanted them to know someone saw them. That what they did mattered—even in a skirmish. That we have their backs. Even in small things."

A pause. Basil's gaze narrowed.

"Compassion," he said, as though testing the weight of the word.

"Yes," Constantine replied.

"And what do you think that earns you? Their tears? Their poems? Do you think dying men need princes kneeling beside them?"

"No," Constantine said. "I do it because I thought it might earn their loyalty. You told me loyalty is earned, not given. In the absence of battles, I saw an opportunity and took it."

Basil studied him a moment longer. Then, a short, dry snort escaped—a sound caught between irritation and amusement. From the corner, Gregory Taronites exhaled a quiet, amused breath.

"You're not wrong," Basil said. "You're not right, either. But you're not wrong."

He stepped past the boy, pouring himself another cup of wine. "Care too much, and the palace will eat you. Care too little, and the army will leave you."

Constantine tilted his chin slightly. "I don't expect them to love me immediately. But it's a start. If I want their loyalty, I'll need to bleed with them, protect their pay, and guard their families."

Basil turned, studying him again—this time with a glint of something deeper in his eyes.

"So," he said, after a beat. "You've been listening."

"I try to."

"Hmph."

Basil gestured to the guard. "Miroslav stays. You—outside."

Constantine's boots crunched softly as he left. The flap fell closed behind him, leaving silence in his wake.

Basil didn't move right away. He let the wine settle on his tongue before finally speaking, voice low and edged.

"How did the men take it?"

Miroslav, arms crossed, remained still. "Some are confused. Unsure what to make of it."

"And the rest?"

"A few are thankful. Quietly. They won't speak of it too loud—not yet—but they remember."

Basil exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. He set the cup down with a faint clink.

"Of course they do. A prince in purple stooping to speak with foot soldiers? It disrupts the order of things."

Miroslav gave a slight nod, saying nothing more.

Basil's gaze shifted—not to Miroslav, but to Gregory Taronites, still leaning against the tent pole like a cat watching a game it already understood.

"You've been quiet."

Gregory smirked. "Didn't want to interrupt a perfectly good interrogation. Besides, it's rare to see you puzzled."

Basil grunted. "Not puzzled. Assessing."

He turned back to Miroslav. "When he first met you—how did he treat you?"

Miroslav didn't hesitate. "Asked where I came from. Asked about the Varangians. And he listened."

"Out of ignorance?"

"No. Curiosity."

Basil was silent for a moment, then muttered, "Dangerous."

"For him?" Miroslav asked.

"For everyone," Basil replied. Then, after a pause: "But not necessarily a weakness."

He moved back toward the war table, fingers brushing the map's edge.

"A purpleborn who listens, who sees value in the nameless... that's either the making of a good emperor or a dead one."

"Or both," Gregory said from the side, voice casual. "Depending on the season."

Basil glanced at him. "You think this is good?"

"I think it's something," Gregory said, stepping to the table. "A boy raised in silks and prayers steps into a tent and gives a damn about mangled soldiers? That's not nothing. That's a ripple. Might be a crack. Might be the start of a wave."

"He's soft," Basil said reflexively, the words hollow.

"Maybe," Gregory said. "But he's not stupid. And he's not his father."

That drew silence.

Basil's eyes shifted to the tent flap where Constantine had exited. Then, back to the map.

"If the boy continues like this... will the men follow him?"

"Not yet," Miroslav said. "But they're watching him differently."

"Good," Basil murmured, low and thoughtful. "Then I still have time."

He straightened, voice colder now. "Keep him close. If he falters, I want to know. If he succeeds, I want it quiet. No parades. No titles. Let the loyalty settle in their bones, not their mouths."

"Yes, my Emperor," Miroslav said.

The Varangian bowed and left without a sound.

A long pause followed. Gregory picked up a cavalry figurine and turned it idly in his fingers.

"He's not what I expected," he said at last.

"Nor I," Basil admitted.

Gregory smiled faintly. "But... admit it. There's something there."

"There's something," Basil allowed. "But what it becomes depends on whether he can survive the weight of it."

He took another sip of wine, his eyes fixed on the figurines.

"Potential is cheap," he said. "Survival is not."

+++

A/N: More