March (3): The Road to Lazica
The road to Lazica. What would have been a swift journey alone stretched out interminably with the people in tow. For ordinary folk, covering 10 to 15 kilometers a day was grueling enough. Still, it was a blessing that the northern route was the quickest path to Lazica. Detours through the central or southern regions would have doubled—no, tripled—the time.
And so they pressed on, traversing the north. They stopped at villages along the way for supplies, but each visit sparked trouble.
"Please, spare us!"
"Let us come with you!"
The emperor's death. Nobles seizing central power. The rise of local warlords. The resulting breakdown in public order was, in a way, inevitable. The suffering trickled down to the commoners, plunging their lives into rapid destitution. Poverty bred bandit gangs, and those bandits—born of hardship themselves—exploited the very same victims to survive. A vicious cycle of misery. The powerless had few choices: become bandits themselves, wait for the central authority to stabilize and send guards, or seek protection from the local warlords. None offered immediate relief.
Into this chaos came their group. To these people, they were saviors who drove off the bandits and the only shield against the violence filling the security vacuum.
"We're short on supplies. We can't take them on."
"The march will slow even more."
As Alton and Bachana warned, accepting them would strain their already tight logistics. They were moving far slower than the original plan to Lazica; any further delay would be disastrous. Rogerius had been inclined to refuse, heeding their counsel.
"We must take them in. I'll handle the supply issue myself."
"If we turn away people begging for help, no one will respect us."
Zoi and Theodora insisted on welcoming the refugees. The core reason? As heirs to Basil II's legacy, they could not abandon the people. Rogerius wanted to argue, but no counter came to mind. It wasn't just his modern origins—had he been a pacifist or a save-everyone idealist, he wouldn't have acted like a Viking from the start. Morality wasn't the barrier; he needed these people too.
In the medieval world, commoners were labor. Farmers, especially, were the finest kind. Lazica was a near-barren wasteland, scarred from recent battles. Rebuilding it demanded vast manpower. What locals awaited them? Turkic nomads versed only in herding and raiding. Turning nomads into rebuilders was a pipe dream. These refugees were all farmers skilled in cultivation, thwarted only by bandits. Their hands were essential for Lazica's revival.
"We'll accept them, per Zoi and Theodora's proposal."
The sisters beamed as the motion passed. The nomads Alton and Bachana looked baffled. Rogerius explained the labor shortage for reconstruction. Realizing his true intent, they apologized for their ignorance and fell in line.
Thus, farmers joined their ranks. Supply stops now drew more aspirants: stonemasons, blacksmiths, carpenters, merchants, miners. All vital for Lazica. Refusing grew impossible.
The group ballooned. They reached a village near Lazica three times past schedule.
"No more. We're at our limit."
Even Zoi, who had championed the refugees, called for a halt.
"Lazica's just ahead. No need to worry."
Zoi nodded, but Theodora stared silently.
"Why the look?"
"N-nothing."
For "nothing," she seemed bursting to speak. But Rogerius let it drop.
"Y-you can't just accept a woman's 'nothing' without asking. It's rude."
"...Not my strong suit."
"Tch."
Theodora flushed. Long travels had thawed her initial coolness toward him; she now acted like a little sister.
"Fine. What is it?"
"Can't you be a bit nicer?"
"Ask my wife."
Zoi smiled, looping her arm through his reassuringly.
"It's fine. I permit it."
"Permission granted. Out with it, Theodora?"
Theodora shivered, glaring.
"Ugh... you're impossible."
"Did exactly as you wanted, and still complaints."
Cheeks puffed, she looked like a twenty-year-old college student—adorably so.
"Anyway, here's what I wanted to say. You two are too loud at night. You know that?"
Theodora's bombshell left Rogerius—and even Zoi—red-faced and flustered.
"Thanks to brother-in-law Rogerius giving us private tents near my sister's, I'm grateful. But that means I hear everything."
Guilt pinned his gaze to the ground.
"Especially that night after you saved Sis from the bandit raid..."
Zoi swiftly muffled her. With practiced ease, she dragged her sister toward the tent.
"Haha... Th-Theodora, dear. How about an early night?"
"Mmmph! I already kn-mmph... know everythi-mph!"
"Yes, yes. Sometimes you have to pretend you don't hear."
Zoi dispatched her sister quietly and efficiently—proof she was Basil II's niece. Theodora quelled in seconds.
Flushed, she plopped beside Rogerius, fanning herself.
"She used force so suddenly... it's hotter now."
"Y-yeah."
His sister-in-law's words left him hot and awkward too. Silence fell, broken by Zoi.
"Thank you, my lord."
He eyed her quizzically.
"You always respect me, heed my counsel. I'm grateful."
"You make sound proposals. I follow them."
"Heehee."
She giggled like a child, pecking his cheek.
"Not just saving me from the bandits—everything."
"I've claimed rewards beyond my due."
Zoi blushed, recalling that night.
"D-don't say it like that. It was my first time."
"S-sorry."
She pinched his side, whispering low.
"It was good."
Fireworks exploded in his mind. Speechless, he froze. Zoi noticed, mischief sparkling in her eyes.
"I mourn my uncle's death. If he'd named a successor sooner, this horror might've been averted."
Her cryptic words clicked.
"So, to prevent such tragedy... securing our heir feels like vital duty."
He recalled her words to Theodora: an early night. The intent dawned clear.
As the mood heated, Alberto approached.
Their feigned strategy talk evaporated instantly.
"My lord. Eastern Roman navy sighted nearby."
"Tell Halvar to prepare for battle."
"Understood."
As Alberto turned with decorum, relief washed over them—until he added:
"The inner area here is better for hiding. My lord."
Alberto's parting shot turned their faces crimson.
The Eastern Roman fleet's sudden raid. When the admiral requested a parley, Rogerius granted it.
"We might sway them if we play it right."
Zoi's optimism earned his nod. He steeled his expression for the meeting.
Soon, the man—evidently the 11th Fleet admiral—arrived with aides. Among them, a familiar face: the officer who led Keroularos's troops, glimpsed beside Constantine VIII from the balcony during their palace escape.
Zoi spotted him too, glaring murderously. Rogerius itched to kill him, but the admiral's presence restrained him. Clutching reason, he addressed the commander.
"I hear you wish to speak."
"Indeed. I am Himerios Radanos, admiral of the 11th Fleet. You are Lord Rogerius?"
Zoi stepped forward at the introduction.
"Lord Rogerius upholds Basil II's will, destined to lead the Eastern Roman Empire. As Autokrator, I command you show him due respect."
Autokrator—a title for the Roman emperor, akin to Augustus, denoting supreme dignity. More formal than the popular Basileus, it suited co-emperorships. Zoi's choice signaled: honor him as her consort and co-emperor.
Himerios pondered briefly. Peace or war—his choice would shape their path.