Constantine, Emperor of the Romans (Roman SI)

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Constantinople, in the waning years of the 10th century, was a city of contradictions. West and East. Sacred and secular. Chaste and lustful. Silent and loud.

The walls of Theodosius loomed over the western land approach—tiered and impenetrable, trod upon by many, breached by none. German, Arab, Slav—even the fierce Norsemen failed before its front gates, barred like iron jaws. At dusk, torchbearers paced the parapets, peering down at squalid refugee camps and the merchants' caravans waiting days to be inspected, taxed, and admitted into the eternal city.

The Golden Horn, slicing into the land like a scimitar, brimmed with ships flying the sigils of every power east of the Alps: Slavic longboats, Arab dhows, fat Venetian galleys. The harbors of Neorion and Prosphorion teemed with stevedores and stink—salted fish and ambergris, soldiers shoving through priests, silk traders arguing with eunuchs. Spice caravans unloaded cargo labeled in Tamil and Farsi. Honeycomb crates of peacocks and ivory tusks passed beneath the seal of the imperial eagle. The smell was impossible: sea rot and rose oil, donkey sweat and hot bread, incense and shit.

Inland, the city burst with contrast. Marble palaces rose like islands in a sea of sagging wooden tenements.

To the north, the Forum of Constantine circled its weathered column like a whirlpool, threading into the Mese, the arterial boulevard carving Constantinople's heart wide open. Along it, goldsmiths and jewelers hawked rings for bishops and anklets for courtesans. The stink of ox carts mingled with perfumes brought from Baghdad. Pickpockets danced through crowds like ghosts. Eunuchs passed with slave girls in chains. Cripples begged outside the Church of the Holy Wisdom, where the shadows of the Hagia Sophia stretched long across the cobbles as the sun dipped low.

The Hagia Sophia itself, that impossible ocean of dome and gold, rose like a heavenly tumor in the city's soul. Its vaults echoed with choirs that seemed to weep through stone. Silver lamps dripped with oil. Mosaics of Christ Pantocrator stared down with sun-blind eyes. Candles flickered against lapis, marble, and malachite brought from the ends of the empire. Pilgrims wept. Dynatoi knelt. And somewhere beyond the curtain, a priest muttered the Divine Liturgy, his voice lost beneath the weight of heaven.

Above it all, the city never slept. Not truly.

By day, taxes were collected, oaths sworn, diplomats spied. By night, pleasure houses groaned, seers whispered curses into bowls of wine, assassins slipped between lanterns, and holy men prayed beside bleeding walls. In the taverns, people cursed the emperor and praised him in the same breath. In the palaces, plots fermented over cold figs and goat cheese. Fires glowed on distant hills, signaling messages to Anatolia, the Balkans, or the empire's bloodied edge.

Constantinople was a paradox—holy and corrupt, devout and depraved, the mouth of an empire and its graveyard. A city where the emperor lived as a god among marble angels and where children drowned in gutters beside churches plated in gold.

Modern, yet ancient. Mighty, yet weak.

And it was this paradox Basil II Porphyrogenitus ruled. At thirty-four, the Emperor of the Romans was a man of iron will and carved presence. Stocky, shorter than average, he had light-blue eyes, strongly arched brows, and luxuriant side whiskers, which he often rolled between his fingers when deep in thought—or anger.

But as an emperor?

No generals rose to challenge him. No eunuchs whispered commands in his ear. No scheming patriarch dared block his decrees. He had ground them all beneath his will—one revolt crushed, one estate burned, one hostage taken at a time. He had defeated usurpers. He had humbled his enemies. Rome was his.

In the east, the Arabs were quiet—for now. The Hamdanids, the Fatimids—all tangled in their own games. Basil had fortified the frontier, lined the borders with steel, and clamped down on every raiding pass that might bleed Anatolia. Armenia bent its neck, trembling. The Georgians were humbled.

But to the west…?

He remembered the stench of pine smoke and corpses. His army fleeing like beaten curs, mules overturned on steep trails, banners trampled under Bulgar boots. He had almost died there—slain not by a spear, but by his own youth, his pride. Samuel the Accursed had humiliated Rome. Since then, he even dared to claim the title of Tsar, as if a Roman Emperor had an equal!

The Bulgars had broken treaties. Ravaged Thrace. Burned monastic libraries. Carried off captives from Dyrrachium to Serres. Bulgaria had become a scabbed kingdom of goats and spears, daring Basil to cross.

So he would.

For years, he had prepared. Armories rebuilt. Roads repaired. Tax registers corrected with such merciless precision that even the dynatoi had stopped laughing. Cities re-fortified. Provisions stockpiled. Campaign maps inked in wine and amended by firelight. The tagmata stood ready. The Varangian Guard sharpened their axes.

Rome was ready to assert her fury.

There was a knock on the door.

"Enter," spoke the Emperor of the Romans.

And in he came—tall, athletic, proud. Constantine Makedon looked every inch the imperial scion. Outwardly respectable. But the silk draping his frame, deep purple embroidered with stags and vines, betrayed him. A wine cup already in hand, hair oiled, skin glowing from a bath, rings clinking with every idle gesture. His voice was honeyed—somewhere between mocking and bored.

"You're drunk," Basil said flatly.

"Such is my state of being, dear brother," Constantine reposed, swirling his cup. "I drink, you rule. I fuck, you…remain unmarried."

"You never married," Basil returned.

"And I feel amazing!" Constantine laughed.

Basil didn't laugh. He didn't even blink. His gaze swept over Constantine like a blade, measuring where best to strike.

"You strut through this palace like a eunuch in a brothel," Basil said finally, voice low. "All scent and silk. No sword."

Constantine gasped theatrically. "A eunuch? Brother, please. I've got more bastards in the city than you have scars. I'm a living testament to Roman fertility."

"A testament," Basil echoed, turning back to his scroll-strewn table. "Yes. A mockery written in wine stains and whorehouse perfume."

Constantine laughed again, but the sound was hollow. "You wound me."

"No. That would require effort."

Basil rolled up a map, tying it with red cord. "What wounds me is your cowardice."

The smile faltered. Constantine leaned against a pillar, swirling his cup. "And what wounds me, dear brother, is the sheer dullness of your ambition. Marching off to punish peasants in sheepskin for defending their pig-shit villages. And it worked so well, last time! Yo—"

Basil's hand stopped. He didn't look up. He didn't need to.

The room fell silent. The fire hissed softly. Constantine shifted, swallowing his wine too quickly.

"That was then," Basil said, finally raising his head. His eyes were coal. "This is now."

Constantine's smirk cracked, just slightly. His fingers brushed the rim of his goblet—a nervous habit. "Right. Yes. Of course. Forgive me—I forget how many spears you now command."

"So," Constantine said after a beat, voice lighter, "what will this be, then? Another little border dance? One of your slow, meticulous marches where you count every peasant skull along the way?"

"It will be war," Basil said.

"Oh, splendid."

"With blood."

"That's what happens during war."

"With him."

Constantine blinked. "Who?"

"My heir."

"No," Constantine retorted, his voice finding fire. "He's a child."

"He's a prince," Basil corrected. "And he will be Emperor."

"Bu-"

"He will be emperor," Basil repeated, his voice sharp as steel. His hands rested on the table, fingers curling slightly against the wood. "Unless you plan to suddenly grow a backbone and take command after I fall in battle."

Constantine's mouth worked, but no sharp retort came this time. He looked away, his gaze drifting over the brazier's flickering light. For a moment, he seemed smaller, his confident facade dimmed.

"He's a child," he said again, quieter this time.

Basil's shoulders eased slightly, though his expression did not soften. When he spoke, his voice was quieter too, but no less firm. "We were children once, Constantine. Do you forget? We stood in the shadow of Nikephoros and John. We watched men killed in the palace halls before we could even ride. We slept under guards. Trusted no one. We were emperors at twelve—or didn't you notice?"

"It is exactly because I noticed," Constantine snapped, his voice breaking with sudden fire, "that I do not want him to live as we did! We never had a childhood, Basil! We never had the chance to be free!"

Basil's gaze hardened again. "There is no freedom for our kind, Constantine. We are emperors. There is only duty. Only Rome."

Rome.

The word lingered in the air like a lit torch, burning with its own weight. It was a single word, insignificant on its own, but it carried the weight of centuries. It had driven men to grit through the invasions of Pyrrhus and the tribulations of Hannibal. It had spurred Caesar to cross the Rubicon, Augustus to remake the world. It had propelled legions across the known world and inspired the lowliest of men to hold against insurmountable odds.

Majesty. Grandeur. Pain. Labor.

Rome.

The room stilled. The shadows from the brazier stretched long and sharp against the walls. Constantine said nothing. His hand fell to the folds of his robe. His face, for a moment, seemed old—older than his years. Then he snorted, a bitter laugh escaping him as if to shake off the weight of the moment.

"Very well," he said at last, though the life in his voice was muted. He glanced at his brother, his expression unreadable. "Promise me this, Basil."

Basil straightened. "What?"

"Promise me he will be safe. That he will be cared for."

Basil rose from his seat, his movements deliberate, commanding. He was not a tall man, but in that moment, he seemed a giant. His shadow stretched across the room, swallowing Constantine's. "My dear brother," he said, his voice low but certain, "he travels with me. There is no place under heaven where anyone shall be safer."

Constantine held his brother's gaze for a long moment as if weighing the truth behind those words. Finally, he nodded, though his hands fidgeted with the folds of his robe. "See that you mean it," he murmured, the faintest tremor in his voice.

Basil did not reply. He turned back to the table, his focus already shifting to the scrolls, the maps, the plans for war. Constantine lingered a moment longer, the wine cup still in hand, before he turned and strode toward the door.

"He will be safe, practically," Basil said. "One of my finer Varangians will be his shield."

Now that was something, Constantine paused. Without looking back, he spoke. "You know, brother, sometimes I wonder if you truly believe in all this…Rome." He gestured vaguely at the air, as if referring to the weight of the empire itself. "Or if it's just an excuse. A way to justify all the blood on your hands."

Basil didn't look up, his fingers tracing the edge of a map. "Rome needs no justification," he said simply. "She is eternal."

Constantine chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. "Of course it is," he said, his voice heavy with something unspoken. Then he stepped through the door, and it closed behind him, leaving Basil alone with his maps, his plans, and the silence of the room.

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The morning broke cold and sharp, the kind of dawn that carried the scent of frost even in the heart of summer. The imperial camp outside the Queen of Cities bustled with activity. Soldiers tightened their armor straps, horses stamped and snorted, and oxen strained against the weight of wagons laden with provisions. The banners of the empire—golden eagles on fields of crimson—fluttered in the breeze, snapping like whips.

Basil stood at the edge of the camp, watching as the Varangian Guard, his handpicked warriors from the north, drilled in perfect unison. Their axes gleamed in the pale light, each one a promise of violence. Behind them, the tagmata assembled, their ranks stretching into the distance. This was no mere raid, no border skirmish. This was an army prepared for conquest.

At his side stood the boy—Constantine's son. The child was thirteen, his frame slight but his bearing proud. He wore a small version of the imperial armor, its gilded edges catching the sunlight. His eyes, a pale blue so like his uncle's, watched the soldiers with a mixture of awe and fear.

It was here that Basil remembered how he knew so little of his nephew. Time and his duties often meant he was almost always away. Oh, he knew of Constantine the Younger, his brother naming his boy after himself, from the letters his brother would send. How he was a sharp young boy involved in dull pleasures. Agriculture, his brother had said.

How quickly he forgot their roots with his own namesake, Basileos the First, who himself was a farmer and a sheperd.

Well, this was a good chance for him to get to know Constantine the Younger now. He had already decided to focus his energies in ruling and the boy's father did not hide his incompetence. The fate of not just Rome but also of their dynasty was at hand.

"Thank you, uncle, for bringing me to this campaign. I shall be worthy of your attention," the boy had declared.

Not will, but shall. He was confident of himself and his abilities. That was promising of his blood. Confidence was what got them far, admittedly. Their founder would not have become Emperor if he wasn't so brazen. But confidence was a double-edged sword as well. Basil shifted his gaze down to the boy, his light-blue eyes narrowing slightly in thought. There was something about the way the boy spoke—proud, precise, measured. A glimmer of ambition, perhaps, or pride born of his father's influence. Shall be worthy. That was a bold promise for one so young.

"Good," Basil said after a pause, his voice even. "But words are nothing without action. You will have your chance to prove yourself."

The boy straightened, his shoulders squaring beneath the gilded armor. "I will not fail, Uncle."

"See that you don't," Basil replied, his gaze lingering on the boy a moment longer before turning back to the army.

The Varangians were finishing their drills, the rhythmic clash of axes against wooden posts ringing through the air. Beyond them, cavalry squadrons were forming up, their banners catching the breeze as officers barked orders. Basil allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The army was ready. The campaign would begin today, and Rome's honor would be restored.

Basil nodded slowly, though his expression remained unreadable. "And what does that mean, to restore Rome's honor?"

The boy opened his mouth to answer, then faltered. He frowned slightly, his young brow furrowing in thought. "It means…to show the world that Rome is strong. That we cannot be defied."

"More than that," Basil said, his tone sharpening. He turned to face the boy fully, his hands clasped behind his back. "It means that Rome is eternal. That no matter how many times we are challenged, no matter how many enemies rise against us, we endure. That is our duty—to ensure Rome survives, no matter the cost."

The boy met his uncle's gaze, his expression serious. "And what is the cost, Uncle?"

Basil's lips thinned. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze drifting back toward the vast sea of soldiers and banners stretching out before them. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but heavy with meaning.

"The cost is nothing."

Then he continued. "The cost is everything."

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A/N: Unveiling another idea.

Basically, one of the best Emperors of Rome was Basil 2 the Bulgar-Slayer. Shit the Makedon were one of the best dynasties there was, until after his death. Basil never married so he had no sons of his own. His brother, Constantine the VIII did have children but most of them were girls. Here, the eldest is born a son. Another self-insert because I am so creative.

Do tell if ya'll would like more.