Varangians (5)
"...Accordingly, I appoint Akolouthos Rogerius as Spatharios and Stratopedarchis."
The emperor's satisfied expression. Dressed in purple robes adorned with golden trimmings, I observed the proper etiquette and expressed my gratitude to him.
"I thank Your Majesty for your grace."
Akolouthos was my original title, meaning leader of the Varangian unit. To that, the rank of Spatharios—allowing me to bear a sword and serve as bodyguard—had been added. And now, I'd even gained the position of Stratopedarchis, responsible for administrative logistics.
Among the emperor's personal guard, those permitted to carry swords were few and far between. For a foreigner like me to become a Spatharios meant I could safely assume I now enjoyed the emperor's full favor.
This wasn't just a single promotion—it was two or three steps at once. In modern terms, it was a rocket ride up the ranks.
I wasn't the only one fast-tracked. Angelos had been promoted to Hoplitarches as well. That was the infantry commander's post—essentially jumping from centurion to chiliarch.
One might think it was just a single step up compared to me, but it was far swifter than usual. Normally, the chiliarch positions in Roman legions were monopolized by a handful of military families. After chiliarch, the remaining ranks were pure command roles: Protostrator, Katepano, Dux, Strategos, Domestikos ton Thematon.
Military clans had long cornered the chiliarch spots, turning central legions into their private fiefdoms across generations. The gateway to those key posts was Hoplitarches, so handing a chiliarch role to Angelos—from the still-modest Moselaph family—was thick with political intent.
In my case, it was all honor, no real power. Angelos, by contrast, now gripped military authority—a real power player. The gap between us was like heaven and earth.
Such thoughts raced through my mind as the brief ceremony concluded. The emperor approached me with a smile.
"Rogerius will become one of my most vital vassals."
Last time, he'd called me a barbarian. Now that I was fully in his good graces, he addressed me by name again.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
He clapped my shoulder, then turned to Angelos.
"Hoplitarches."
"Your command, Your Majesty."
"Proceed to Nicopolis at once and take receipt of the troops."
Nicopolis—the place where Manuel had been stationed, as far as I knew. Being ordered to take over the soldiers there meant inheriting Manuel's handpicked force wholesale.
In the original history, after the Phokas civil war, the emperor had decided to curb the nobles. He'd backed the Komnenos family from the shadows, nurturing them as a pro-imperial faction. Now, Angelos was set to inherit the army that clan had raised. In other words, his promotion had been a done deal.
"I shall obey Your Majesty's command."
Angelos rose with proper decorum, bowed his thanks to me, and headed out. It looked like we wouldn't cross paths for a while.
With Angelos gone, the emperor and I were alone.
"Rogerius."
"Your command, Your Majesty."
"Do you know why I appointed you Stratopedarchis?"
The emperor's question. I pondered briefly, grasping his intent. Two reasons sprang to mind.
One was my use of modern Excel skills to streamline reports. To reiterate, the Stratopedarchis handled logistics much like a modern quartermaster. With vast supplies to track and distribute precisely, my spreadsheet prowess was a godsend in that domain.
And the other reason...
"Do you intend to exclude the noble houses entirely from this war?"
The emperor broke into a broad grin and nodded.
"You read my mind perfectly."
It wasn't hard to figure out with a moment's thought. He'd just elevated the Komnenoi and installed an Arab immigrant like Angelos from the Moselaphs as infantry commander. That screamed no more old military dynasties.
"The army Manuel raised is a elite force I've poured years of effort into forging."
Handing that powerhouse to Angelos. The emperor clearly planned to let him rack up merits in the Bulgarian campaign, building his political clout.
"But elite or not, there's one problem."
"A problem, Your Majesty?"
"Logistics."
Logistics. No army could fight on empty stomachs or without gear. Like any force, without supplies, they'd crumble.
"The military districts in the East—long the nobles' private playgrounds—won't lift a finger for this war now that their families are sidelined."
Basil II's cold analysis rang true. The districts had been noble fiefdoms for ages. The Phokas revolt had culled many, but their influence lingered. Having weathered countless rebellions and wars since youth, Basil knew the aristocracy better than anyone. He anticipated their foot-dragging.
"But with your talents, it's doable."
The emperor saw me as a logistics genius off one Excel sheet. Sensing the misunderstanding, I carefully opened my mouth to correct it.
"I am grateful for Your Majesty's high regard. However, I am a foreigner—a Varangian far removed from Roman civilization."
He shrugged with a smile.
"Two days ago, you knew I'd end this war in five years."
I nearly blurted, Because I know the future. But I could picture the fallout and clamped my jaw shut.
"All from a mere order to classify timber output. That implies you can blueprint the entire five-year supply chain."
No relation whatsoever, Your Majesty, I wanted to snap. But his eyes told me it was pointless. This man was dead set on making it happen.
"I have no doubts about your logistical skill."
"B-but..."
"Fail, and the nobles will come for your head."
"..."
"No need to fret overmuch. I won't abandon you."
Small mercy—he'd spare my life. But then came the bombshell.
"Though to quell the nobles' ire, we'll need a little... sacrifice."
"If I may ask—what sort?"
"Something simple."
He grinned and nodded toward the back. There stood the emperor's private secretary, the Parakoimomenos. A role for eunuchs, the imperial chamberlain.
* * *
After the audience, I immediately asked Angelos to fetch every imperial document and dove in.
"I'll die before I let them make me a eunuch."
Fail at logistics, and the nobles would demand a scapegoat. Obviously, it'd be me—the bungler. The emperor would toss me to the wolves. My life might be spared, but something else would die.
"It's not vital, but still—no."
In my past life, I'd never married, just drifted through breakups. Marriage held no great appeal, but castration? Hard pass.
So, to safeguard my manhood, I pored over the library stacks of papers Angelos had procured.
"Olive oil, wheat, iron ore production—all solid."
The Roman army's staples: weapons, hardtack, olive oil, vinegar. Weapons were mostly spears—ash and oak wood with a bit of iron. Hardtack, or biscotti, was twice-baked bread, a staple since Roman times: desiccated combat rations. Tough to chew, so soldiers soaked it in wine or oil. Water in a pinch, but denying olive oil to men choking down flavorless mush would tank morale. Plus, it was essential for camp cooking. Non-negotiable.
"Vinegar's the issue."
Everything else could stockpile for five years. Vinegar? Barely a year's worth on hand.
"No vinegar means hauling drinking water. Impossible."
A modern might scoff—what's vinegar got to do with water? Its killer feature: sterilization. Most European groundwater was lime-heavy and alkaline; vinegar neutralized it, preventing gut rot.
Soldiers in heavy armor, swinging brutal weapons, sweating rivers—dehydration was a death sentence without proper fluids. No clean water, and combat effectiveness wouldn't just dip; the whole force could collapse.
Water security was key even in modern wars. Thus, vinegar was war's linchpin supply.
"Vinegar... how to source it."
Lost in thought, I sensed someone approach.
"Haven't seen you before. Who might you be?"
Beauty like a goddess descended from heaven. Eyes that sparkled. A face I knew all too well—one I could never forget. I blurted without thinking.
"El... Ellen?"
"What do you mean?"
She looked baffled by my outburst. Snapping to, I finally noticed her attire: golden trimmings on a purple cloak. Garb reserved for imperial kin.