The Emperor's Resolve
“Move quickly!”
What mattered now was speed. The nobles were also racing to secure Constantine VIII and Theodora as hostages, so outpacing them was crucial. That was why Rogerius was galloping through the palace grounds on horseback—something utterly unthinkable under normal circumstances. This area should have been swarming with Imperial Guards. But most of them had marched into Uranos's territory to kill him, only to get captured. With no one left to stop them, they rode unimpeded. Thanks to that, they reached the separate palace where Constantine VIII and Theodora were hiding in record time.
“Fortunately, no guards out front here either, Your Excellency.”
“That means the nobles haven't arrived yet. What a relief.”
Zoi exhaled a deep sigh. Rogerius nodded in sympathy, then issued commands to the Varangians.
“Secure the perimeter. If enemy forces appear, notify the senior centurions at once.”
The order given, the Varangians fanned out to take positions. Alton and Bachana stepped up to command the troops in his stead. Preparations complete. Still, the nobles might have arrived ahead and laid traps, so caution was essential.
“It could be a trap set by the nobles—stay sharp.”
Zoi drew her sword with a nod of understanding. They entered the separate palace. Reserved for the imperial family, it was smaller than Basil II's administrative residence but no less opulent. Dozens of rooms honeycombed the interior—likely designed that way to thwart assassins. Rulers across the ages, especially in Rome where knives in the dark were commonplace, built their strongholds like this. Searching room by room would waste precious time. Rogerius turned to Zoi for guidance.
“Follow me. I know just the place.”
Under Zoi's lead, they climbed the stairs and halted before a shabby wooden door that screamed servants' quarters. Two knocks. Silence from within. Zoi knocked three times, paused, then twice more. The door creaked open. Theodora, Zoi's younger sister, peered out.
Confirming it was Zoi—not an enemy—Theodora flung herself into her sister's arms.
“Sister!”
“Are you all right? Father?”
“He's inside. But...”
Theodora turned, eyes narrowing warily at Rogerius.
“Lord Rogerius got us here safely. He's with us. No need to worry.”
“...Hard to believe, but... all right.”
Theodora swung the door wide, ushering Zoi inside. There sat Constantine VIII on the bed, racked by coughs.
“Father!”
The emperor's face lit with surprise at Zoi's voice. Like Theodora moments before, he opened his arms and pulled her close, sighing in profound relief.
“Thank God. Truly, thank you for delivering my daughter safely.”
“I'm fine, Father. But here...”
“When the guards vanished and the palace fell eerily quiet, I knew danger was afoot. Hid here straightaway.”
The sharp-minded Constantine VIII had sensed the shift and acted swiftly.
“But why aren't you at your uncle's side? And with Lord Rogerius, of all people?”
His gaze demanded answers. Zoi paused, then laid out the dire events.
“My uncle...”
Constantine VIII reeled from the tale—Basil II's death, all but confirmed. Shock hit the ailing emperor hard.
“My... brother...!”
Unable to bear it, he swayed. Zoi caught him before he fell.
“I'm... fine. *Cough*...”
“F-Father!”
Zoi fretted helplessly. Rogerius cut in—they had to move now.
“Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty, Your Excellency. We must evacuate immediately. Else the nobles' troops will overrun us.”
Zoi refocused. Theodora moved to help her sister support the emperor.
But he raised a hand, refusing aid.
“Father!”
“You must flee now!”
Desperate pleas from Zoi and Theodora. Yet the emperor's face was iron—he turned to Rogerius.
“How long until the nobles' soldiers arrive?”
They were already overdue. But Rogerius held his tongue; he knew what words like that would unleash. The emperor pressed, seeing through him.
“This is an imperial command. Will you defy me?”
“...Soon. But flee now, and we have a chance. My men and I swear before God: we'll guard Your Majesty and Your Excellency to our last breath.”
A faint smile from the emperor. His tone shifted—paternal, chiding.
“I know full well fleeing with a sick old man is no easy task.”
Dawning horror on Zoi and Theodora's faces. They moved to protest, but his raised hand silenced them.
“With no one here, the nobles will hunt you and my daughters relentlessly.”
“I understand Your Majesty's intent. But noble or not, they'll never abandon the purple bloodline.”
“Precisely. Thus, I stay.”
Unyielding. Gazing at Rogerius, Zoi, and Theodora, he bared his heart.
“I'm old, broken. You, Lord Rogerius—young, full of promise, with loyal men at your back.”
“...”
“Return to Lazica. Build your strength. I'll linger here, dance to the nobles' tune, buy you time. Then come back. Avenge me—crush them for what they've done.”
Revenge. Fury blazed in his eyes for the nobles who slew Basil II, his brother. He knew staying meant puppetry—but so be it.
Theodora broke, tears streaming as she begged.
“I'll stay too, Father. Can't leave you alone like this.”
“Theodora, my precious girl. Your eyes... they bring back your mother, gone too soon.”
She sobbed without end. Gently wiping her tears, he pressed on.
“She endured hell at my side—branded wastrel, skulking in shadows. I was always sorry.”
“No... no, Father...”
“I won't doom you to her grief, her forced marriage.”
Stay, and the nobles would wed her off for politics. He couldn't allow it.
“Zoi, my daughter.”
Taking her hand:
“Forgive me—this heavy mantle I lay on you.”
“No... no, Father.”
“...Thank you.”
Thus ended what might be their final farewell. East Rome's ruler, yet every inch a father's aching heart.
“No more delays. Go.”
He rose. Destination unknown, but Rogerius, Zoi, and Theodora couldn't stop him. His sacrifice demanded they press on.
Zoi soothed her weeping sister, then met Rogerius's eyes.
“Lord Rogerius.”
“Your will, Your Excellency.”
“No more 'Lord.' From this moment, you're my husband.”
Zoi transformed. Gone the poised beauty; in her place, an empress—gentle steel.
“Call me Zoi, as co-emperor of East Rome... as my husband.”
Co-emperor. He felt it then: her political equal, her partner in vengeance.
“Make way.”
Constantine's command rang out. Yet the Varangians blocking the path didn't twitch.
“I must see His Majesty. Clear the way now.”
“Impossible.”
Alton strode forward, commanding the troops. He alone barred the solitary Constantine's path.
“Who are you?”
“Senior centurion Alton, Varangian unit.”
“You Varangians—who assassinated His Majesty—dare stand here so brazenly?”
Accusations slid off Alton like water. Constantine tried threats, then bribes—nothing budged him.
Deadlock. Then Keroularios's aide, who'd been observing, approached.
“You're... Lord Keroularios's man?”
“Correct. His Excellency dispatched me for contingencies.”
Constantine seethed inwardly—Ioannikios's distrust stung—but kept his face neutral.
“Thank God. These brutes bar the entrance.”
“Threats and honey fail... Force it is, then.”
The aide signaled. From the shadows, soldiers emerged: nobles' private guard, armed and itching for blood.
Then—the separate palace door swung open. The mercenaries sheathed blades, falling back as if bewitched.
“What is this farce before my palace?”
The emperor's voice boomed with authority. The young Constantine floundered, speechless.