March to Lazica (1)
Bang! Ioannikios slammed his fist down on the desk with savage force. And small wonder—he hadn’t just failed to eliminate Rogerius, but they’d also failed to secure custody of both Zoi and Theodora.
“Do you think this makes any sense!”
Ioannikios’s rage boiled over. Constantinos and the adjutant exchanged awkward glances, their faces troubled.
“His Majesty the Emperor was just so obstinate…” the adjutant offered weakly by way of excuse.
Ioannikios kicked him squarely in the gut.
“You fool!”
The adjutant went tumbling across the floor. At the sight, Constantinos stepped in to calm Keroularios down.
“They haven’t gotten far yet.”
Ioannikios heaved a deep sigh. Then, fixing the adjutant with a stare as if this were his final command, he murmured in a low voice.
“Take the soldiers and pursue those Varangians at once.”
The adjutant bowed deeply to Ioannikios and bolted from the room. Once he was gone, Ioannikios turned to Constantinos.
“Zoi heading to the Uranus house’s territory to rescue the Varangian was an unexpected twist. But Theodora was different. I’d appreciate a proper explanation of why.”
Ioannikios’s question dripped with fury. Constantinos met his gaze steadily before answering, slow and deliberate.
“First off, the Emperor’s suspicions were sky-high. I tried to talk him down, to head off any rash moves, but the adjutant barged in and botched the whole thing.”
Ioannikios already knew this detail from the report filed by one of the soldiers on the mission. He’d posed the question anyway to dress Constantinos down. Yet here the man was, responding as if he’d done nothing wrong. Ioannikios made no effort to hide his irritation.
Constantinos sensed it keenly. He was a noble in his own right, after all—and he was growing thoroughly sick of Ioannikios hijacking his plan and treating him like some mere underling.
“I was merely carrying out the mission you assigned me, my lord.”
“…Understood. You’re dismissed.”
They hadn’t nabbed Theodora, true—but the mission was as good as a success. And yet, instead of praise, he’d gotten a tongue-lashing. Constantinos could feel it in his bones: he no longer had any obligation to follow this man.
Constantinos stormed out. The moment he was outside, his anger erupted—he lashed out, kicking at whatever was in sight.
“Haa… haa…”
His fury showed no sign of fading. Then, abruptly, he sensed a presence.
Realizing he’d let his excitement betray him into unbecoming conduct, he quickly straightened his posture. Plastering on a smile as if nothing had happened, he turned toward the source.
A man emerged from the shadows. It was Michael, Leonus’s adopted son, approaching Constantinos with the casual air of someone who wasn’t with the enemy.
“Have you spoken with Lord Keroularios?”
“…Lord Michael.”
Constantinos’s eyes brimmed with wariness. Spotting it, Michael cut straight to the chase to ease his guard.
“No need to worry. I’m no servant of Lord Keroularios—and certainly no enemy of yours.”
“How am I supposed to believe that?”
“I can’t prove it this instant. But…”
Michael drew closer to Constantinos and, in a hushed tone, laid out his plan.
“…You’re serious?”
“Deadly. I’ve already swayed several duces.”
“How in the world did you manage that?”
“Arrogant nobles put blind faith in their own power. They delude themselves that killing the Emperor wraps it all up.”
His tone was even, but Michael’s words oozed contempt for the nobility. Born to commoners and adopted into nobility by the eunuch Leonus, he felt no kinship with his supposed class. That made it easy for him to win over soldier houses that had clawed their way up from nothing through merit.
“I’m a noble myself. Why share this scheme with me?”
Constantinos pressed. Michael smiled.
“I was struck when you stood tall at that last council and voiced your views before those doddering, useless old nobles.”
“…”
“That burning ambition—to raise your house by your own hand, to seize power through your own strength…”
Michael had pierced straight to Constantinos’s core. To encounter someone who truly grasped his desires, his dreams—Constantinos’s heart pounded.
“And the talent to make it real.”
Michael paused, extending his hand. Constantinos eyed it, hesitated a moment, then nodded and clasped it firmly.
On the road to Lazica.
By good fortune, they’d crossed the Bosphorus Strait before the nobles could give chase. Now it was just a matter of pushing east.
“We need to settle on a route.”
Alton, leading the scout cavalry, scanned the surroundings, confirmed they were safe, then turned to me with the question.
“The path ahead…”
The immense Anatolian peninsula sprawled before us, its terrain wildly varied. Jagged northern coasts. Towering central highlands. Endless southern plains.
Each option carried its own risks and rewards. I couldn’t make this call alone. So I summoned Alberto, Bachana, Halvar, Theodora, and even Zoi—everyone here.
They arrived at my call, curiosity plain on their faces. I explained the reason for the gathering.
“We’ve cleared our greatest obstacle: the Bosphorus Strait.”
Without ships, it would’ve been utterly impassable. The Emperor’s interference had bought us just enough time to cross before the nobles sealed it off—a stroke of sheer luck.
“Now we get everyone to Lazica in one piece. Angelos and Ioannis will aid us once we arrive.”
I’d contacted them the moment we crossed. They’d relocated their base to Lazica ahead of the Emperor’s death, sparing them the chaos.
“The catch? The roads there are treacherous.”
Everyone nodded gravely.
“What about the north, my lord? Lazica lies up that way—it’s the quickest route by far.”
Alberto had a point. Lazica hugged the coast near Trebizond; the northern path was objectively the fastest.
“Too many landing spots along the northern coast. If the nobles send ships, we’d struggle to hold them off.”
Bachana countered. As an Alan-Greek, he knew the Black Sea shores intimately—and he was right; it was raider’s paradise, perilously exposed.
“Then the center? The uncommitted duces there won’t move against us.”
Theodora’s suggestion. The central highlands teemed more with soldier houses that had bootstrapped their rise than with ancient highborn lines. The nobles sneered at these upstarts; the soldiers despised the nobles’ unearned privilege. Relations were poisonous. Even if the nobles leaned on Constantine VIII’s name to demand the duces join them, many simply ignored or defied the order. Arguably the safest bet.
“Theodora’s got merit there. But we need to reach Lazica now—show the Macedonian house endures, with Zoi and Theodora alive and well. Rally opposition to the nobles before it’s too late. Traversing those brutal mountains in this crunch would wear everyone down.”
Zoi laid out her counter. She was spot-on: we had to plant our flag fast, lest the neutral duces swing to the nobles’ banner or strike out on their own. The winds were shifting oddly already; sharp-eyed leaders would notice. Better we move swift.
“The south, then? Wide-open plains mean a detour, but we’d dodge ambushes and make good time.”
Alton, commander of our horse, voiced his take. Plains were swift going, unhindered by obstacles, and the gentle shores made naval pursuit tricky. Safe. Speedy enough, despite the loop. But one glaring flaw.
“South’s noble heartland by tradition. Passing unscathed would be a miracle.”
The flatlands had long been bureaucratic noble fiefdoms—thick with their influence. Marching through was tantamount to shoving our heads into the lion’s maw.
Alton looked chagrined; he hadn’t considered it.
“Swift but deadly north. Or secure but sluggish center.”
Everyone nodded. The options distilled. Decision time.
Then Halvar, who’d been silent, strode forward—Vikings at his heels.
“The northern coasts are milder than our homeland. We’ll hold them.”
He spoke true: Vikings hailed from Scandinavia’s brutal shores, masters of coastal raid and defense. With Halvar leading them, we could slash the journey short. And those eyes of his—fierce, insistent, demanding the task.
I couldn’t refuse that resolve.
“We head north.”
The road to Lazica lay ahead. Dangers unknown, trials unseen—but we would endure. We would survive.