Bulgaria (6): Ioannikios's Compromise
From the emperor's perspective, he wanted to conscript the soldiers outright, but as the nobles had pointed out, it would create a security vacuum. Supply issues for feeding them were also a military liability. If the war dragged on, rebellions could erupt again. Above all, the emperor's immediate thirst for revenge against Bulgaria burned hot. Thus, he accepted Ioannikios's proposal. But he had no intention of backing down so easily. He judged it necessary to crush the nobles who had opposed his view.
Just then, a report caught his eye. Beneath the report from Uranos, victorious in the Bulgarian campaign, was a single line: A way to end the war swiftly. The emperor intuited at once that this could also serve to crush the nobles.
Reaching that conclusion, the emperor looked at Ioannikios and burst into loud laughter. The nobles panicked, and even the composed Ioannikios couldn't hide his considerable unease, fearing the emperor might reject it after all.
The emperor lifted one corner of his mouth and stated his position. "I accept Lord Keroularios's proposal."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Though puzzled, Ioannikios's face relaxed, relieved that his proposal had passed unscathed. Seizing that opening, the emperor advanced to the next phase of his plan to crush the nobles.
"Lord Keroularios."
"Speak, Your Majesty."
"You, who care for the realm, must wish for this war to end quickly as well."
"How could I not?"
If the war prolonged, the empire would suffer—and so would the nobles, naturally. Prices might rise for short-term gains, but extended conflict would amplify their losses beyond recovery. Thus, even in war, the ideal was a swift, decisive victory.
"Conveniently, Lords Nikephoros and his deputy Rogerius have made an excellent suggestion to me. Would you carry it out in my stead?"
The emperor's proposal felt profoundly off. What the emperor willed was law; refusal was unthinkable. Asking Ioannikios to do it made no sense to anyone. Yet, with the emperor already compromising by accepting his proposal, Ioannikios had no choice but to accept the poisoned chalice.
"I am Your Majesty's loyal servant. How could I refuse your command?"
"Haha. Indeed."
The emperor grinned broadly. Ioannikios felt profound dread at seeing the usually emotionless emperor smile so openly.
"Gouge out one eye from each of the thousand Bulgarian prisoners."
The emperor's eyes gleamed with madness. The nobles grasped the order's intent immediately. The reason for directing it at Ioannikios: a silent warning that defying the emperor could doom them to the same fate.
As the nobles trembled in terror, the emperor issued an even more horrifying command.
"A thousand will serve as guides, so the rest are superfluous."
Lifting one corner of his mouth, he murmured lowly, "Gouge out both eyes from the remaining fourteen thousand."
Ioannikios felt an indescribable horror. That horror soon became reality.
"It's a proposal the emperor couldn't refuse."
By now, the emperor was surely implementing it. Because in actual history, that's exactly what he did.
"He earned the moniker 'Bulgar-Slayer' by blinding those Bulgarian soldiers wholesale."
Basil II, who never received the title of "the Great." Yet he ranked among the hundred greatest Greeks and outshone even Manuel I Komnenos, hailed as a wise ruler. In modern eyes, he stood as the finest emperor of the East Roman Empire.
Militarily brilliant, he amassed wealth to make the empire prosperous. But for every bright side to Basil II's achievements, dark shadows loomed.
Bulgaroktonos—Bulgarian Slayer in ancient Greek. The nickname arose, naturally, because he devised and executed the very scheme I had proposed.
"Fifteen thousand soldiers crippled beyond fighting—small wonder Samuel was shocked."
Bulgaria's emperor then was Samuel I. Upon receiving Basil II's savage "gift," the vicious emperor laden with malice, Samuel fainted and died on the spot.
Bulgaria's forces numbered roughly thirty-five thousand. Losing fifteen thousand—forty percent of their combat strength—inevitably stunned Samuel. Though some called it apocryphal, records abounded of his sudden death post-defeat, making it hard to dismiss outright.
"A man who actually did such things."
In battles against Bedouins, he severed the right arms of all captives. Against Georgians, he blinded Abkhazian prisoners, turning them into sightless wretches.
A ruthless commander. To modern eyes, yes—but from my military academy perspective, it was somewhat understandable.
"In a way, it was scorched-earth tactics."
From antiquity to now, commanders sought swift ways to neutralize foes. Conciliation or severity: the former stabilized conquests by sparing villages and recognizing local rulers; the latter shattered enemy forces early, breaking their will to resist. Both had merits, but pure efficiency favored severity.
"An emperor obsessed with utmost efficiency would prefer severity—and, doing it, etch unforgettable terror."
Bulgaria had already rebelled once against East Rome, even inflicting defeat on Basil. Instilling irremovable fear aided governance.
Of course, I didn't endorse near-genocidal blinding of fifteen thousand. I merely saw it as the era's best option to avert greater bloodshed.
"It spared lives, punishing exactly fifteen thousand while conciliating the rest—not pure malice on Basil's part."
In history, Bulgaria surrendered after Samuel's death. The royal family, typically doomed in surrender, saw the emperor cull only the rebellion's seeds, absorbing the rest. He spared and supported the empress, favored rather than purged nobles. Her sons became strategoi of new Bulgarian themes, spared execution.
Commoners lived as before; taxes simplified to grain, unlike complex Roman levies. Even soldiers who had threatened him were embraced, folded into new themes as imperial troops.
Such leniency enabled swift integration.
"Of course, that leniency required Samuel's death first."
The emperor's "gift" hadn't arrived yet. Thus, it would take time.
"Can't just wait idly, though."
Many Viking brothers fell in the last battle. Their deaths left families back home grieving and destitute. Vikings traded, raided, and merc'd largely to support kin abroad, much like modern migrant workers.
As their commander, I bore responsibility—and the duty to provide for their families.
"All preparations are complete, Lord Rogerius."
Alton, senior centurion of Pecheneg origin. Post-battle, formally assigned to the Tagma Ton Varangoi. Vikings dominated the unit, but heavy losses demanded recruits. Inviting Ethereia participants yielded eager volunteers, absorbing talents like Alton's cavalry prowess.
"How many for this raid?"
"All of them."
"Good."
Raid. Medieval mercenaries' cheap pay stemmed from such sidelines. This one targeted Bulgaria's capital, Ohrid—no wonder participants clamored to join.
Stepping from the tent, soldiers stood in perfect ranks, eyes ablaze with greed. In Christendom, avarice was sin—but humanity advanced on such desire.
Mercenaries knew no patriotism; medieval ideology lacked nationalism. For them, money ruled. It steeled them through life-or-death stress.
Before that greedy host, I began my speech.
"Brothers! We earned great merit against the Bulgarians."
Mercenaries' eyes gleamed.
"By His Majesty's grace and Lord Uranos's favor, we claim first rights to sack Ohrid."
"Waaaaah!"
"Loot!"
They cheered in joy, rewarded for their toil.
"This right honors not just us, but our fallen brothers first—their shares, then ours."
Respect for the dead served families—and motivated survivors, knowing their own would be divided if they fell. No complaints arose; my intent landed.
They might grumble inwardly, but the dead couldn't choose spoils. The living held absolute advantage.
The mood teetered on eruption. I raised my weapon and roared.
"Take up arms! The hour of plunder is upon us!"