Varangians (4): Excel, the Emperor's New Obsession
The technology presented to the emperor was none other than Excel, the trusty friend of every modern office worker. It took time without a computer— no command lines to speed things up—but they still wrapped it up in a single day. This was all thanks to the servants from the Moselaph family, one of the empire's great military clans. Angelos had summoned every servant from his house, putting them all to work on the sorting, and that let them finish in record time.
Of course, tables for reports weren't some brand-new invention. Ancient Egyptians and Persian bureaucrats had scratched them onto clay tablets. But this was different: it compressed five full years of data into roughly five sheets of paper. He could have trimmed it further, but that would have laid all his cards on the table, so he held back. In any case, judging by the emperor's reaction, such worries were unfounded.
Basil II, the emperor who chased peak efficiency like a zealot—for him, these neatly tabulated sheets were practically a new civilization. Overcome with joy, he grabbed Rogerius in a bear hug. Rogerius was thrilled to have won the emperor's favor, but the foul stench wafting from his body made it hard to keep a straight face.
"Hahaha! To think such a talent was hiding in our empire. Rogerius, what is it you desire? Ah! Angelos, you too—speak your wish."
The grim silence from their first meeting was gone. In its place stood a chatty old uncle. Basil II was asking what they wanted, so Rogerius glanced at Angelos, yielding the floor to him as the one who'd earned the biggest share of credit.
Angelos, who'd shone brightest in this endeavor, stepped forward cautiously.
"Your Majesty, I have a humble request."
"Out with it. I'm in high spirits—I'll grant anything."
Angelos swallowed dryly and spoke.
"In the war Your Majesty is preparing, I wish to lead the vanguard."
The word "war" wiped the goofy grin off the emperor's face in an instant. He transformed into someone else entirely, leaving both Rogerius and Angelos stunned.
"Preparing for war, am I? Sounds like you've painted me as some bloodthirsty warmonger."
His tone dripped displeasure. Angelos bowed his head at once.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I overstepped."
"No."
The emperor waved off the formalities, locking eyes with Angelos and murmuring low.
"Tell me. What gave you that idea?"
His voice was ice-cold, freezing the air itself. Angelos froze, at a loss. With his subordinate floundering, Rogerius had no choice but to step up again.
"I learned it from the task Your Majesty assigned."
"From the task?"
His expression showed curiosity, but his voice stayed frigid, demanding explanation. Rogerius dove right in.
"The reports included timber production from the Thracian and Cappadocian military districts."
"Timber stockpiling is a routine state matter. It might seem excessive to an outsider, but it's annual procedure."
As the emperor said, resources like timber, stone, grain, and olive oil—everything for daily life—were reported regularly. Even without national crises, skipping these tallies meant losing track of production and reserves. Nothing unusual there. But Rogerius had spotted something else.
"The Thracian and Cappadocian districts are key strongholds in the empire's east. By principle, their output gets used locally first."
He wasn't entirely sure such a rule existed verbatim, but it made sense. Why haul supplies from history's fiercest battlegrounds all the way to the distant Balkans? Records showed the Abbasids had ravaged the whole region relentlessly. Under Basil II, things had stabilized—the Phokas clan's power base—but it remained the front lines. Packed with troops, it guzzled more supplies than most. If anything, it should draw from other districts.
Rogerius was gambling on that logic. A northerner like him couldn't possibly know this already.
"Did the reports say that?"
"Yes."
"I don't recall it."
The emperor's word as the issuer made denial tricky. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Angelos jumped in.
"Akolouthos is a foreigner, ignorant of imperial administration. I added footnotes to the reports to guide him."
Angelos's backup. Basil II pondered briefly, then nodded.
"Not important. Let it pass. So, seeing even frontline districts stripped bare made you think war prep."
It was a plausible enough claim to gloss over. But suspicion lingered on the emperor's face, so Rogerius pressed on with more reasoning.
"Exactly. And there's additional evidence."
"Let's hear it."
The emperor looked intrigued.
"Most of the requisitioned timber is oak, beech, or ash—woods ideal for weapons."
"You know your timber."
He couldn't deny it. With his immigrant father's carpentry trade, Rogerius had practically been an apprentice, absorbing wood uses despite himself.
"These have great elasticity but hate humidity—tough for shipbuilding."
Classic ship woods were pine, oak, and thorn. The others could work with modern tech, but in this medieval era, moisture resistance was key to avoid splitting.
"So I figured it was for land weapons."
"No thought it might be for something else?"
"If so, you'd need reports for just one or two years, not five."
The emperor smirked, one corner of his mouth curling.
"True. Everyday or trade use? One or two years suffices."
He clapped Rogerius on the shoulder, drawing close.
"War demands a five-year horizon."
History bore it out: in 1014, Basil II launched his Bulgarian war for revenge, ending with Tsar Samuel's successor Presian II surrendering in 1018. Exactly five years. Hence the five-year timber reports.
"Those close to me might have guessed. My rage, that humiliation."
The Battle of Trajan's Gate. Ambushed at the pass, the emperor suffered defeat. It fueled the Phokas civil war—reason enough to see Bulgarians as vermin worthy of extermination.
"Correct, Akolouthos."
With the right answer given, Rogerius thought the suspicion lifted. Then the emperor whipped a dagger from his belt, pressing it to his throat.
"Who are you?"
His voice promised instant death.
"I... I'm Robert, deputy commander of the Varangian unit..."
"Bribed by Bulgarians? Or Muslims?"
His frantic interrogation left Rogerius reeling, but the emperor barreled on.
"A foreigner like you knows district details, even my war prep—like reading my palm."
The emperor pegged him as a spy. Fair enough; even Rogerius would suspect himself. A Varangian, not even East Roman-born, knowing too much? Obvious red flag.
Neck on the block, he racked his brain for survival.
"Answer me, foreigner!"
"...Because I know Your Majesty's true heart."
"My heart?"
Reason fled the emperor's eyes. Emotion was the only path to sway him.
"In your youth, Your Majesty endured every trial."
Civil war split the empire before he reached manhood. He quelled it, only for a Bulgarian governor to rebel, sparking the Phokas uprising in chain reaction. Disillusionment inevitable. Yet he endured, crushed the revolts, stabilized the realm, enacted policies, filled the coffers.
"Still, you endured, built the army, stocked the treasury—for one reason, I believe."
A near-monkish ascetic. The once-greedy, pleasure-chasing youth had shed all desires for statecraft, driven by a single goal.
"Don't pretend you know me, foreigner."
The emperor's bark. Stopping here meant death, so Rogerius gritted his teeth.
"Revenge."
The dagger clattered to the floor. The emperor stared, dazed.
"Your Majesty!"
As Angelos spoke, the emperor silenced him with a raised hand.
"Leave."
"But, Your Majes—"
"I said leave."
Dismissed, Rogerius and Angelos withdrew silently. They returned to their barracks and waited for the summons. Two days later, a palace steward arrived, bearing a purple robe adorned with golden trim.