Bulgaria (7): Plunged into Chaos
Bulgaria was thrown into turmoil. Not just any unit, but the forces of the trusted Nestoric had been defeated—a blow that left the emperor in profound shock.
"Wh-what are we to do with this?"
At the emperor's question, the nobles fell silent, unable to respond.
"Speak your minds! We must devise a way to overcome this crisis!"
Even as Emperor Samuil bellowed, the nobles merely bowed their heads, offering no reply. In truth, the emperor knew it too. Defeat meant the East Roman armies were marching on the capital.
Samuil reeled from the shock. He had no face left to show his ancestors, who had wrested freedom from the oppressors of East Rome. Long plagued by illness, he now felt a sudden wave of exhaustion crashing over him. In the end, the emperor collapsed right there in his seat.
"Your Majesty!"
"Are you all right?"
Attendants and nobles rushed to his side. Samuil gestured weakly that he was fine.
"I am well. It seems overwork has brought on a momentary dizziness, nothing more."
The nobles nodded, but everyone knew the emperor's condition was precarious. Even if they somehow resolved this national crisis, his health would never recover. A leader's vitality was crucial to the state. Now that all knew of his frailty, Bulgaria's downfall was all but sealed.
This realization had already turned the nobles' hearts away from Bulgaria. The emperor, fully aware, tried to act as if it were trivial, but it was far too late.
An awkward silence hung over the council chamber. The emperor raised a hand to dismiss the assembly, but cruel fate had no intention of letting him off.
"Pardon the interruption! Your Majesty! Urgent news!"
"Urgent news? What is it?"
The attendant bowed properly before delivering his report.
"East Rome has released all 15,000 elite prisoners they captured."
"Those vile Abzonia bastards...?"
Bulgaria had once greatly insulted Basil II. They knew full well how desperately the emperor of Abzonia craved revenge. For such a man to suddenly free the prisoners without demanding anything in return—without even sending envoys to announce it—was baffling. Samuil could only stare in confusion.
"Yes. They're said to be heading here soon..."
The attendant trailed off. Sensing something amiss, the emperor pressed him.
"Why hesitate in your report? Speak clearly! Now!"
"Th-that is..."
The emperor, barely holding himself up from the floor, looked on the verge of collapse. The attendant instinctively knew he must not reveal what he knew. But the emperor sensed this was Pandora's box. Human though he was, he clung to the hope that it held salvation and pried it open anyway.
"Tell me at once!"
The attendant dithered, but now not just the emperor but all the nobles hungered for Bulgaria's future. He could hide it no longer.
"One thousand prisoners with one eye gouged out are escorting fourteen thousand of our blinded troops—both eyes taken."
Pandora's box lay open. Inside was no hope, only despair.
"Wh-what...? How could anyone be so cruel... Urk... Hack..."
The shock proved too much; the emperor began vomiting blood. Nobles rushed to him, but his eyes had already lost focus.
With the emperor's death, chaos engulfed the Bulgarian capital of Ohrid. The Tagma Ton Varangia seized the moment to begin sacking the city.
"It's all gold!"
"Look at this! Piles of priceless gems!"
Bulgaria boasted not only limestone quarries but also rich mines of gold, silver, and gems. Thus, the capital Ohrid rivaled Constantinople in wealth, if not quite matching it. Having relocated the capital from Skopje, Emperor Samuil obsessed over Ohrid. He rebuilt the fallen Bulgarian autocephalous archbishopric and erected a grand cathedral—manifestations of his dream for a unified South Slavic kingdom.
As the designated capital of that grand vision, Ohrid outshone other Bulgarian cities with lavish architecture and treasures galore. But the emperor who harbored such ambitions perished without realizing them, plunging the golden city into pandemonium.
Tagma Ton Varangia. The name evoked greedy chaos. And the man leading it was Rogerius.
Rogerius directed the indiscriminate looting as he pressed forward.
"Leave the trifles. We're heading for the palace!"
The soldiers snapped to attention. Loot was limited; no need to waste it on junk. Ohrid had never been sacked before, so plundering commoners with worthless goods paled beside raiding the royal palace.
Near the palace, some guards resisted. But they were no match for the veteran Varangians. Quickly subdued, they posed little threat. The elite guards and imperial retinue had already fled with the royals and nobles, leaving the palace a sitting duck.
"Whoa..."
"No idea where to look first."
These rough mercenaries, illiterate in finer things, judged value by shine alone. Even they could tell the exquisite porcelain, artwork, and ornaments welcomed them with obvious wealth.
Greed flickered in the soldiers' eyes. Selling just one piece could transform their lives. They itched to dive in, but plunder had its rules. The commander Rogerius had first pick, so they waited.
But Rogerius stood stock-still. He scanned slowly, then chose a shabby chest amid the treasures—one that looked worthless to anyone.
"This will suffice for me."
His words moved the soldiers deeply. They thought he was sacrificing for them. The plain wooden chest seemed inferior to even one vase. Recalling his pre-loot speech about the fallen, they believed he waived his share for their comrades' families.
Senior centurion Alton shared their sentiment. He even guessed Rogerius picked the chest only to avoid making the men awkward by taking nothing.
This leader fought at the front, cared for the dead's kin, and now yielded his due to favor the troops. To mercenaries, he was the ideal commander worth following.
Loyalty blossomed naturally in their hearts. When Alton's turn came, he stepped forward and announced to all:
"Lord Rogerius has forsaken his share for our sake—a gesture for our fallen brothers' families. Thus, I too shall yield part of mine for them."
Alton claimed his portion, then donated some for the dead's kin. With Rogerius and the Pecheneg leader Alton setting the example, other centurions followed suit. Even rank-and-file soldiers and their attendants, who might have grabbed just a vase or bolt of silk, now hauled armfuls of spoils.
This bred natural respect for the centurions. Soon, an ambition to join Tagma Ton Varangia sprouted in their hearts.
After the looting, we returned to camp. No sooner had we arrived than I let out a long sigh, ruminating on how things had spun this way.
"The troops have seriously misunderstood..."
The reason I'd chosen only the shabby chest? Simple: it held the greatest value.
Opening it revealed crude golden ornaments.
"The chest containing the Varna gold."
When thinking ancient civilizations, Egypt or Mesopotamia come to mind—thanks to their pyramids and records enduring to today. Those pyramids, now mere stone tombs, were once capped in gold and clad in limestone, built around 2630 BC.
But overshadowed by them was Varna, which used gold far earlier.
"These ornaments date back to 4500 BC."
Items I'd only seen in museums felt surreal in my hands.
"Incredible value, but to the soldiers, they just look like old trinkets."
To them, it was outdated junk, not prime for quick sale. So they believed I'd sacrificed to give them more.
"Not my intent, but... solidifying command is all good."
No harm in this. Stronger influence meant better obedience—welcome for any commander.