Mercenary Corps (4)
“As expected, nothing’s changed.”
Angelos vented his dissatisfaction. Just as he’d predicted, there was no grand triumphal procession—let alone the emperor himself coming out to greet us. Instead, the citizens turned out to welcome us.
“Woo-hoo!”
“Look over there! The cavalry looks so cool!”
“There’s a ton of mercenaries too!”
These were ordinary folk with little in the way of leisure. So even without a formal parade, the sight of soldiers marching in perfect ranks and files became a spectacle, a rare bit of entertainment.
Some of the mercenaries waved back at the cheering crowds.
“At least the citizens are giving us a warm welcome,” I said. Angelos nodded, his disappointment easing a bit.
“Glad even the commoners are cheering us on.”
As he spoke, Sir Nikephoros, riding ahead, turned back toward us.
“After the disbandment ceremony, all officers report separately.”
An officers’ assembly. Angelos and I nodded in acknowledgment.
We returned to camp that way, and Sir Nikephoros, the commander, stepped forward to address the troops.
“Comrades! Once more, I salute your valor in demonstrating Rome’s greatness to the Bulgarians!”
His speech continued briefly. As a seasoned soldier himself, he kept it short and promptly issued the disbandment order.
The soldiers dispersed, each grabbing their share of the loot. The taverns and brothels of the Eastern Roman Empire were surely in for an unprecedented boom that night.
After the ceremony, Angelos and I—along with the other officers, gathering in small groups—headed to Sir Nikephoros’s tent as ordered.
“You’ve all worked hard.”
The officers responded with a chorus of thanks.
“Fighting for your lives like that... you’ve all earned your rest...”
Before Sir Nikephoros could finish, the tent flap flew open, and a purple carpet was unrolled. Guards lined up in front of it. Then, a frail-looking man slowly emerged from their midst.
Nikephoros and all the officers immediately bowed in reverence to this exalted figure.
“I figured you’d all be gathered here.”
The entrance of Constantine VIII.
Nikephoros paid his respects to the co-emperor, then guided him to the seat of honor.
“The one who should sit at the head today is not me, but Sir Uranus.”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Haha. You know excessive humility becomes excessive?”
Constantine VIII replied with playful banter. Instead of taking the seat, he stood on the carpet, surveying us all before continuing.
“You’ve all done well. As emperor, I wanted to come out and welcome you personally, but my health being what it is...”
The officers bowed their heads as if to say it was nothing.
“Sir Uranus.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“I’ve heard there’s someone who distinguished himself greatly in the war. Who might that be?”
Naturally, all eyes turned to me. I could only manage an awkward smile.
“Are you Sir Rogerius?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Constantine VIII examined me from head to toe, leaving me more than a little flustered.
Perhaps noticing my discomfort, the emperor smiled and cracked a joke.
“Tall and handsome—you must be popular with the ladies. How are you in bed?”
His teasing remark drew chuckles from around the tent. I laughed sheepishly and replied loudly.
“I’m still a virgin, so I haven’t had the chance to find out.”
Laughter rippled through the group. Pleased with my answer, the emperor chuckled and then proclaimed to all.
“I shall provide enough wine to straighten crooked noses and food to burst bellies! Oh, and women, of course—they can’t be left out.”
Wine, food, and women—the perfect combination for officers, who erupted in cheers. Under the emperor’s largesse, they headed joyfully to the banquet hall.
“Ugh... my head...”
A pounding headache washed over me. No wonder—guzzling wine like that would split anyone’s skull.
“And the eating setup doesn’t help...”
Long tables and long couches. People reclined on the couches, ate, turned their heads to vomit, and repeated.
With no limit on intake, in ancient Roman times they’d eat lying face-down and vomit right there, over and over. At least here, leaning on the couch let you puke discreetly out of sight—a small mercy.
“How do you like an Eastern Roman banquet?”
Angelos approached, handing me a cup of wine.
“My northern kin would never believe their eyes.”
In food-scarce Northern Europe, this was unthinkable. The very idea of eat-vomit-eat didn’t compute.
“I imagine so. Haha.”
He plopped down beside me and casually broached the subject.
“Speaking of, was what you told His Majesty true?”
“What do you mean?”
“That you’re a virgin.”
In the Middle Ages, such things happened even before sixteen. Mercenaries, living rough, spent their earnings freely in brothels—open about sex as they were. No surprise Angelos doubted me.
“I swear it before God.”
After possessing Robert Guiscard’s body, I’d reviewed his memories to adapt quickly to medieval life. Contrary to his “fox” nickname, young Robert had been obsessed with training and raiding. On off days, he read books, investing in himself. He’d never even bothered with women.
He’d lived like a monk. I almost felt guilty taking over such a “pure” body.
“What a shame. If my family had a suitable bride, I’d propose her on the spot.”
“Don’t even joke. Your house, graced by His Majesty, wouldn’t hear good things about marrying a foreigner like me.”
Angelos bristled. “You know His Majesty favors you, and you say that?”
“Basil II?”
“Yes! You saw it. He’s not one for showing emotion, but he smiles ear-to-ear around you.”
Drunk and loosened up, Angelos spoke freely—words unwise if overheard.
“Shouldn’t you watch what you say?”
“It’s fine. Everyone’s drunk, dancing with dancers or belting songs—no one’s listening.”
Officers clustered in groups, chattering. Most were too busy with wine, dancers, and raucous music.
“It’s not just His Majesty. Sir Uranus has his eye on you too.”
I’d earned merits, sure, but he’d granted our supply unit first dibs on Ohrid’s loot. He’d even invited me to his home after the battles.
Twice now, I’d won Sir Uranus’s approval.
“Sir Uranus... He did mention inviting me to his estate once.”
Angelos’s eyes widened. “Really? Don’t tell me...”
“Don’t tell you what?”
“No, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions.”
“Quit the twenty questions and spit it out.”
“Well...”
Sir Nikephoros Uranus: veteran commander, favorite of Basil II. His family wielded top-tier influence in Eastern Roman politics. Even uncooperative nobles bowed to his prestige in this war.
That’s why I’d suggested reporting under his name—to leverage it. A figure who could crush arrogant nobles with influence alone.
But one problem: no heir.
A lifetime on battlefields meant no children, like Basil II. Unmarried even. His brother was set to inherit.
“But illness took him tragically.”
His brother and family succumbed to plague. Too late for Nikephoros to start a line now.
If he died, House Uranus would end.
“What’s that got to do with me?”
Angelos glanced around, then whispered so only I could hear.
“He might adopt you as heir.”
“Ridiculous.”
“No—look at Lord Renios, the kanikleios. He adopted that blacksmith’s son, Michael.”
Michael I. In true history, he’d marry Constantine VIII’s daughter Zoe and become emperor. Adopting heirs was common in the East to preserve houses.
As Angelos and I talked, someone approached from behind.
“There you are.”
“S-Sir Uranus!”
We’d just been discussing Nikephoros. Angelos jumped up, bowing hastily.
“Quite the startled look. Were you talking behind my back? Haha.”
“N-No, of course not!”
“Ask Rogerius here—he’ll tell you.”
Angelos paled at the jest. Nikephoros turned to me.
“I need a word with Rogerius. Mind if I borrow him?”
“O-Of... Of course!”
I rose and followed Sir Uranus.
“May I ask where we’re going?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
He smiled enigmatically. We soon arrived at a secluded chamber, perfect for private talks.
A man sat inside. Constantine VIII smiled at me.