Purple Bloodline (3): Return to the Emperor's Palace
As I arrived, the emperor tilted his head, eyeing me.
"Shaved your beard?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I didn't add that I'd tidied it up because my head was a mess—it felt like unnecessary chatter. In any case, the emperor seemed quite pleased with my groomed look, his face breaking into a satisfied smile.
"Handsome fellow."
One offhand remark from the emperor, and a hundred bizarre thoughts flooded my mind. Greek culture lay at the heart of Western civilization, so everyone knew its grandeur. But beneath the popular allure of its splendor lurked darker aspects—like homosexuality. To be precise, it was more common between men than women. Powerful men often took adolescent boys not yet of age as lovers. As an adult man, I didn't fit that mold. Still, some emperors had kept adult men as consorts. Hadrian or Trajan, for instance. Though they insisted it wasn't physical. And then there was Elagabalus, who dressed in drag and craved men—my imagination ran wild with possibilities. Could Basil II's bachelorhood stem from something like that? Just as my absurd theorizing peaked,
the emperor dispelled my misconceptions.
"My nieces have a taste for good-looking men. That's why I said it."
I nearly blurted out thank you, but that would've been odd, so I bowed deeply, letting my body convey my gratitude instead.
"Anyway, I summoned you at dawn because of the report that you've solved the vinegar issue."
News traveled fast. Probably Zoi Porphyrogenita's doing. I nodded, confirming it.
"That's right, Your Majesty."
"Steeping apples in honey. I'm not sure if it'll ferment properly."
Truth be told, that worried me most. Honey prevented microbial growth.
"That's why I'll use just a trace amount."
Drowning them in honey would halt fermentation entirely. I planned to dilute it properly in water.
"Whatever the outcome, I commend your pursuit of alternatives."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
His expression suggested growing favor.
"Come here."
At Basil II's command, I sat at the table. He immediately unrolled a map for me: the Balkan Peninsula, a rugged expanse of mountains with scant flatlands.
"The terrain of the Haemus Peninsula (Χερσόνησος τοῦ Αἵμου) is notoriously treacherous. Many stratopedarchs have struggled there."
The Haemus Peninsula here meant the Balkans. After the 15th-century fall of East Rome to the Ottomans, the Turks who seized the region turned the Bulgarians' "Balkan" into a common noun. Before Ottoman conquest, from antiquity through the Middle Ages, it bore other names—derived from Haemon, the Thracian king in Greek myth: Haemus Peninsula or Aimos Peninsula. The term "Balkans" only emerged mid-14th century, so the emperor's phrasing was natural.
"How do you plan to handle logistics?"
After a moment's thought, I answered his question.
"I hear Your Majesty aims to end the war in five years."
"Indeed. Any longer, and the embers of rebellion might reignite."
"Then you'll launch a decisive mobile campaign to crush the enemy at once?"
My words drew a flicker of surprise from the emperor.
"Yes. I'll lead with cataphracts up front, forming the central army with tagmata."
Cataphracts, the heavy cavalry bridging antiquity and the Middle Ages. People often pictured them as medieval knights charging with couched lances, but they mainly wielded swords. Their core tactic: hammer and anvil. Odd as it sounded, I knew a fair bit about tactics, strategy, and military history. Thanks to my father, in a way. He'd pushed me into a full-ride military academy that trained officers. I'd once regretted West Point for the scholarship, but now it proved useful—proving him right that you never know what life brings.
"If supply trains trail the vanguard, the line stretches thin, exposing it to enemy strikes."
"Have a countermeasure?"
His gaze tested me like an exam. I nodded confidently.
"I'll use this."
I pointed to a river vein on the map: the Maritsa River, known to Greeks as the Hebrus.
* * *
The grumbling Pechenegs. Originally part of the central tagma, they'd been suddenly reassigned to the newly formed Logistikos Taghma.
"Supply duty out of nowhere."
A cavalryman like him, ordered to haul goods? Absurd. But with bureaucrats paying good coin, he had no choice.
"More than that—is the entire Logistikos made of foreigners?"
Pechenegs, Varangians, Khazars, Franks, Alans. Not a single Greek in sight. A fellow Frank from his old regiment overheard and approached.
"Fancy seeing you here."
"Doing well?"
"Peace was nice while it lasted—who saw this draft coming?"
"Right? Speaking of, that rumor must be true."
"Which one?"
"About reorganizing the scattered ethereia."
Ethereia: elite cavalry regiments of foreigners. Born in the empire's chaotic era, thrown into countless battles, but as stability returned, many merged into the Basilike Ethereia—mostly Greek cataphracts. Foreign troops got shuffled into the Taghma ton Varangon or splintered across units.
"That rumor? Reorganization's already done—news travels slow."
Embarrassed, the Pecheneg scratched his head.
"And the supply tagma's commander is Varangian-born, they say."
"A Varangian, huh."
The Pecheneg hailed from near the Volga, turf of Rus and Varangians—he knew their battle prowess better than most.
"He'll fight well."
"Yeah. Logistics means hard work, but safer than the front."
Creases lined his face; frontline days were fading.
"Still, we've lived by the sword—doesn't it sting?"
Veterans proud of their combat skill, wasted on supplies? He couldn't fathom it.
"Must be a reason."
As the pair reminisced, a group of Varangians mounted the platform, a man stepping forward among them.
"Attention, all."
His command drew every eye.
"I am Rogerius Hauteville, commander of the newly formed Taghma ton Logistikos (εφοδιασμός τῶν Βαράγγων)."
Rogerius introduced himself, then outlined the unit's purpose.
"Our mission: support Nikephoros Ouranos's Basilike Ethereia in their mobile campaign."
Shock rippled through the ranks. Not just any unit—the living legend, veteran Nikephoros Ouranos's cataphracts.
"You know how fast they move?"
"Greeks make endless demands. Fulfilling them swiftly and precisely? Impossible."
Murmurs rose. As free men, they could voice doubts to their commander—though mutiny was off-limits.
"I know their speed. That's why our unit will uphold four principles like our lives depend on it."
Rogerius held up four fingers.
"Speed, economy, safety, accuracy."
He explained implementation.
"To achieve this, we'll simplify diverse supplies into four categories and standardize crates."
Byzantine logistics had been a mess—olive oil jars varied wildly by region, breaking in transit or wasting space. Rogerius aimed to streamline and uniformize, cutting labor and boosting capacity.
"Second, ship these via the Hebrus River."
A man piped up: "Cavalry doesn't follow rivers. How do we chase them with heavy loads?"
Fair point. Rogerius replied smoothly, prepared.
"We'll build depots at drop points, garrisoned with cavalry for distribution."
"Units will split."
"The first wave won't deliver everything at once. It cycles through detachments, dropping only what's needed, then returns. Next..."
His astonishing logistics unfolded from Rogerius's lips. The soldiers' faces dawned with understanding—why they'd been gathered here.
"I share this plan so you grasp it fully—only then can supplies flow smoothly."
"No wonder so many cavalry vets."
"Garrisons need seasoned troops."
One soldier asked Rogerius: "What's this tactic called?"
He pondered briefly, then murmured:
"Dawn Delivery."