The Path to Power (2)
“Ugh… my head…”
A throbbing headache crashed over him. Glancing outside, he saw it was already morning. The fierce sunlight stabbed at his eyes.
“Hoo…”
As he let out a sigh, something felt off.
“What happened yesterday?”
The place Lord Nikephoros had summoned him to. Constantine VIII had been waiting there. The emperor had pressed wine on him right away, and they’d talked of many things—nobles, families, succession, and more. Fragmented memories ground to sand.
The one that stuck clearest, naturally, was Lord Nikephoros’s proposal. A single phrase: adopting him as a son. The emperor had even mentioned the benefits if he accepted.
And with those words, she had appeared—the emperor’s daughter, Zoi.
Adoption. And a princess. What that implied was clear: marriage to the emperor’s daughter.
Absurd, even to his own mind. He shook his head, shoving the stray thoughts aside.
“Ridiculous.”
A knock echoed then. The door opened, and Alberto stepped in.
“You’re awake, my lord? I’ve brought water.”
Alberto handed him the water. His hangover headache pounded fiercely, so he thanked the boy and downed the cold liquid in one go. It eased the pain a little, and as the wave receded, curiosity struck—how had he made it back?
“I remember drinking heavily yesterday. How did I get home?”
“Oh, that? Well…”
As his chamberlain, Alberto had attended the banquet but stayed sober, waiting among the servants. He’d been there when the guards hauled in Rogerius, dead drunk.
“The guards half-carried you here, supported the whole way in your stupor. And then…”
“And then?”
“A veiled woman handed me this.”
A purple handkerchief, embroidered delicately. Seeing it, his face burned hot. Had he blundered something in his drunken haze? He racked his brain, but nothing surfaced.
Oblivious to his turmoil, Alberto passed it over and continued.
“She said to meet this afternoon in the clearing near Hagia Eirene Church, if you’re amenable.”
An invitation from noble blood. He hadn’t fully shaken the hangover, but this was no ordinary person—it was the emperor’s daughter. Headache or not, he had to go.
“Understood. Anything else?”
Alberto, as if he’d been waiting for the question, replied at once.
“She hoped to see you sober, if possible.”
He’d definitely messed up while drunk. Why else would she specify that? Mortified, he waved Alberto off with a dismissive gesture.
“I’ll prepare to leave. Step out for now.”
“Yes, my lord. I’ll ready your horse.”
The veiled woman stood there. Zoi Porphyrogenita, daughter of Constantine VIII, waited in the clearing near Hagia Eirene Church alongside her younger sister, Theodora.
“Sister, you’re really going to meet that barbarian?”
Zoi was calm and gentle by nature. Theodora was her opposite—fiery and hot-tempered. Knowing others might overhear, she still raised her voice at the thought of her sister marrying a Varangian savage.
“Father has decided it.”
“Sister!”
Theodora, frustrated by Zoi’s demeanor, tugged at her hand. Zoi soothed her with a reassuring smile.
“It’s fine. He’s a good man.”
“A good man? You know what Varangians are like—plunderers who smash everything in sight. They’re utterly ignorant of the music and arts you love.”
Zoi adored the arts, sponsoring countless artists across the empire with her authority as imperial treasurer. Her uncle Basil II despised it, but it was the one domain where Zoi, who usually deferred to him, stood firm.
Varangians had no connection to culture or art. To Theodora, Rogerius stood in direct opposition to her sister.
Thus, for Zoi’s happiness, she opposed the marriage. Unlike her impassioned sister, Zoi pondered quietly before curving her lips in a faint smile.
“I don’t know him fully yet, but he’s easy to talk to.”
“Easy to talk to?”
“Yes. Like that vinegar story I told you about…”
Truth be told, Zoi had worried when her uncle urged her to help the Varangian. The rumors painted them as ferocious—destroyers who looted without mercy, beheading men ruthlessly and ravaging women. She knew the tales were exaggerated, but their persistence meant some truth lurked beneath. She couldn’t help fretting inwardly.
Yet when she met Rogerius, his neatly trimmed beard framed a handsome face, his tall frame corded with lean muscle everywhere. He was the rugged antithesis of the soft-featured beauties famed in the East.
“The handsome man you described… he’s that Varangian?”
“Yes.”
Zoi felt a shy attraction to his looks, though she’d never admit it aloud. As they spoke, drawn by that initial spark, she discovered unexpected depth in his thoughts.
“And I liked how he saw me as I am.”
Rogerius had weighed her proposal gravely, discussing it openly. Position, gender, bloodline—they surely factored in. Still, his conduct had been boldly unconventional.
“Sister… you’re not falling for him, are you?”
“…He seems like a decent man.”
Zoi smiled, recalling the previous night. Father had summoned her to the banquet where Rogerius drowned in wine, helpless. Constantine VIII had ordered her to walk with him until he sobered.
An incomprehensible command. Zoi had nodded and led the stumbling Rogerius to a nearby clearing.
A man and woman alone in the dead of night. To onlookers, it might seem perilous. But her guards watched fiercely from behind, swords ready. Besides, Rogerius could barely control his own body—hardly a threat.
Under their protection, the walk proceeded. Midway, he collapsed to the ground and sat. Rude, perhaps. Zoi had planned to summon the guards, send him back to his quarters, and retire.
Then, abruptly, he seized her hand. She startled; the guards surged forward. From his lips came words—not mere speech, but a sweet, enchanting song that stirred the soul. Moved, Zoi unwittingly halted them.
“I want to meet again and confirm.”
“Confirm what?”
Zoi answered Theodora’s question with another smile. Her sister could only gape in bewilderment.
“You came.”
Zoi greeted him with a radiant smile. Beside her stood a woman with venomous eyes, glaring daggers. Arms crossed, she raked him up and down. Unpleasant, but he held his tongue. She wore the purple dalmatica reserved for imperial kin.
About Zoi’s age. Purple dalmatica. He knew at once this hostile woman was Theodora Porphyrogenita.
“Hmph. Varangians can’t even keep an appointment on time, it seems.”
He bowed properly, expressing regret.
“My apologies. I’m unfamiliar with the city’s layout and arrived a bit late.”
Theodora opened her mouth to retort, but Zoi intervened.
“Calm down, Theodora. Sorry about this—he’s not usually like that…”
“It’s fine. More importantly, you wished to see me?”
“Yes. About last night.”
Last night. He’d puzzled over it the whole way here, but no misdeed came to mind. Had he been rude? Said something unforgivable? Or… grabbed her hand…?
“Ah.”
A memory flooded back. He’d collapsed drunk, groped for purchase to stand—and tugged something.
“Do you remember?”
Zoi smiled slyly. He bowed deeply at once, apologizing profusely.
“Forgive me, Your Highness. Last night I was so intoxicated that I…”
“So you do remember. My hand—it came back to you?”
At her words, Theodora beside her shot him a murderous glare.
“Wh-what?! You grabbed my sister’s hand!? You filthy Varangian!?”
“Calm down, Theodora. It was nothing.”
“How can I calm down? I’m telling Father right now!”
Theodora flew into a rage. He floundered, half-expecting arrest for imperial insult. Then Zoi leaned close and whispered.
“This’ll cause a misunderstanding. Let’s slip away quietly.”
Her baffling words left him blinking in confusion.