Purple Bloodline (2)
“What business do you have summoning me at this late hour, Your Majesty? *cough*.”
The frail-looking man. Basil II's face softened with regret at the sight of him.
“I'm sorry for dragging you here while you're still recovering.”
“Not at all, Your Majesty.”
Constantine VIII. Basil II's younger brother and co-emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, ruling the realm alongside him. But in truth, Basil II held all real power.
Constantine VIII stayed out of politics by choice—not just to avoid interfering with his brother's rule, but because of his fragile health. For that reason, the emperor had deliberately kept his ailing brother sidelined from state affairs, ensuring his condition didn't worsen.
That said, he hadn't excluded him entirely. Constantine's daughters, Zoi and Theodora, had been appointed to key roles: Zoi as imperial treasurer, Theodora groomed for politics within the palace walls. It was a safeguard, a contingency for if Basil II—childless himself—met a sudden end.
“When it's just us, I told you to call me 'brother,' not 'Your Majesty.'”
“Too many listening ears here for that.”
Constantine lifted one corner of his pale mouth in a wry smile.
“Still so many clinging to you, hoping for scraps?”
“Plenty. Too many to count on my fingers.”
Basil II despised extravagance. He loathed private audiences with foreign envoys or revelries with nobles. So Constantine handled those duties in his stead.
“I'm sorry to burden you with such clownish tasks.”
“No matter. I must do what I can.”
Compared to his brother, Constantine lacked martial prowess and political instinct, having shunned the fray. Yet he entertained envoys and feasted with nobles daily in his thrifty brother's place. Small wonder the whispers painted him as dissolute, extravagant, utterly inept.
“More importantly, as you know, it's time to name a successor.”
“You're right.”
The emperor nodded gravely at his brother's blunt words.
A childless emperor. His co-emperor brother shared the throne, but that offered no secure lineage. Constantine had only daughters: Eudokia, Zoi, and Theodora.
Eudokia, scarred by smallpox in childhood, had retreated to a convent. That left only Zoi and Theodora as viable imperial heirs.
“You can't pretend indifference to heirs forever. It could spark rebellion again.”
The emperor fell silent before his brother's warning.
As the rumors said, he lived a life bordering on asceticism.
“Some nobles even call you irresponsible on the succession issue.”
The air grew chill. To lighten it, the emperor cracked a rare joke.
“Are you just borrowing the nobles' mouths to say what you really think?”
“Caught me?”
They chuckled like boys again.
“Reminds me of our childhood.”
“You've changed completely since then.”
“Yes. Had to, to survive.”
The emperor nodded solemnly. To live, he'd severed his desires and immersed himself in governance. Days became weeks, years, decades—and that iron will became his very nature.
Noticing his brother's darkening mood, Constantine cleared his throat and changed the subject.
“So, why did you summon me? Not for twenty questions, I hope.”
“War is coming.”
The emperor's voice was steady. Constantine nodded as if he'd expected it.
“You knew already, from that look.”
“Zoi told me.”
“Of course. She's sharp enough to have figured it out.”
“Zoi takes after no one in our family—smart and wise. Thank God she didn't inherit my looks.”
Basil eyed him quietly as he boasted of his daughter. Constantine's face fell in resignation.
“Tell me—who will marry the girl?”
“I'm sorry.”
“No need. I've known since Anna went to Kiev Rus.”
The purple bloodline. The exalted Porphyrogenita were forbidden from marrying foreigners. Constantine VII, grandfather to Basil II, had decreed it so. Yet Basil had broken that taboo, sending his and Constantine's sister Anna to Kiev for political gain.
Fortune smiled: Anna and Vladimir I enjoyed marital bliss, the prince converting at her behest.
Since Basil himself had flouted grandfather's iron rule, Constantine knew his turn might come.
“As co-emperor, I beg you: not to another land. Anyone from Rome, and I'll consent.”
He couldn't bear sending his daughter to barbarous realms beyond Rome, as he'd lived his life within its walls.
“I won't send her abroad. That's my promise.”
His only brother's plea. The emperor nodded earnestly.
“So, a match from within Rome?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“One eunuch, to carry on his line, adopted a smith's son named Michael.”
“You mean Leonus, the kanklikios.”
The emperor nodded. The kanklikios oversaw the imperial household; emperors favored eunuchs for the post. Constantine, ever mingling with nobles, knew the beardless ones well.
“Yes. Leonus raised him right—his talents are known even at court.”
That rank qualified for imperial marriage. Constantine saw no grounds to object.
“Other candidates?”
“Angelos of the Moselaphs, Asakios of the Komnenoi.”
“Both from families you favor.”
After Phokas's revolt, Basil parceled military command with paranoia: slashing arrogant governors' pay, starving frontline generals, exhausting them with demands, keeping them too busy for schemes. It worked to control the duces of the military districts, but it wasn't enough.
“I raised them to check the old nobles, but they could turn on me anytime. Best bind them now.”
Twice a rebel's survivor, he trusted no one but his brother. Even his favored houses might betray him.
“Marriage alliances are ideal.”
Constantine agreed. Born imperial, political unions were inevitable. Better a powerful house's lady than a weaker match.
“Michael, Angelos, Asakios—one of the three?”
The emperor paused mid-nod, lost in thought. A rare sight; Constantine watched with interest.
“Actually, there's one more.”
“Who?”
“Robert of Hauteville. His administrative gifts will serve a lifetime.”
“Ah, yes. They say even you, who rarely shows emotion, opened your arms in joy.”
“I did—named him Rogerius on impulse. Handsome, tall; he'd suit your daughter well.”
“You really like him, brother.”
The rare “brother” from Constantine's lips drew a smirk from the emperor.
“But he's still green. He'll have to prove himself in this war.”
“Atchoo.”
A sneeze escaped me unbidden. Chills? I pulled the blanket tighter.
“No one's cursing me... probably just a cold.”
Lying on the wooden bed, I stared at the ceiling.
People who'd curse me? Plenty.
“Mom, Dad, friends... and Eleni.”
If I hadn't sworn off climbing to forget Eleni, I wouldn't be lost in this alien medieval world.
“Who'd have thought I'd die falling off a cliff.”
Pathetic end, even by my lights. I'd planned to grind at a Silicon Valley giant, then retire like Dad to woodworking. With Eleni.
Zoi's face flashed in my mind. I bolted upright in a panic.
“...Hoo...”
Her face was unforgettable. To purge it, I headed to the washstand.
Mirror and silver basin. Beside it, a large porcelain jug of water for washing.
“Beard grew in wild.”
Not neat, but ragged tufts everywhere—like my tangled thoughts. Time for a trim.
Razor on the stand. I grabbed it, careful not to shave clean lest they call me a eunuch.
Done. A tall, striking man stared back.
“Robert... not bad-looking, huh?”
Handsome, even. A knock interrupted.
I stepped out. A servant waited.
“Apologies for the late hour, Lord akolouthos. His Majesty summons you.”
The emperor's call in the dead of night. As Varangian Guard captain, it wasn't odd—but something felt afoot.