Chapter 727: Emperor’s Heart
The era of our generation—Admiral Antonius, Julian, Abdullah, myself, and the others—is fading. Our experience, our knowledge, our methods... we struggle to keep pace with the ever-changing tides of warfare and governance.
The future no longer belongs to us, no matter how much we wish to hold on.
It belongs to you. The younger generation.
And now, the time has come.
Prove to us, to Rome, and to history that you are ready. Show us that you can bear the weight we carried for so long. If you do—if you succeed—then, and only then, can we die in peace.
As the last legions departed Constantinople, banners streaming in the wind and weapons gleaming under the sun, the city fell into solemn anticipation. The torches had passed. The new generation had taken its first step onto the battlefield of history.
The fate of Rome was now in their hands.
It was not the first time that Emperor Leo rode with an army, but it was the first time he did so as its supreme commander. The weight of the empire pressed upon his shoulders. Though much of the operational command remained in the hands of his elder brother, Giovanni, this was Leo’s moment. The moment to prove his mettle—not just to his soldiers, but to himself.
The Roman military machine had transformed beyond recognition. Gone were the days of hastily assembled supply chains and armies living off the land. War had become an intricate mechanism, its gears turning with precision, its movements dependent on an unbroken chain of logistics.
This was no longer just an army of swordsmen and cavalry. The legions now carried arquebuses, field artillery, and hand grenades—deadly innovations that demanded a new level of logistical mastery. The weight of war had tripled, requiring vast supply trains of iron-wheeled wagons pulled by Anatolian warhorses.
Everyone knew the truth: wars were not won by firepower alone. They were won by supply, by endurance, by the ability to outlast the enemy.
To meet these demands, the empire had adapted. Wagon trains stretched for miles, carrying barrels of gunpowder, stockpiles of iron shot, and rations to sustain the march. Mobile forges followed behind, ready to mend shattered armour and repair muskets. Garrisoned supply depots dotted key roads, ensuring a constant flow of materials to the front.
The roads, once crude and uneven, had been remade—stone, brick, and reinforced crossings now wove the empire together, allowing legions to move with newfound speed. Signal towers, manned day and night, ensured that the emperor’s orders could travel faster than any horseman, while an elite network of couriers rode between cities, delivering urgent supply requests within days, not weeks.
The empire had become a war machine, one that did not simply march to battle but carried with it an entire system of support, designed to strike—and endure—until victory was secured.
The raids did not cease. Within mere days, entire provinces fell into chaos. North Albania, once a land of fertile fields and bustling trade, had turned into a wasteland. The croplands, once tended with care, now lay abandoned, their owners too terrified to return. Merchants dared not venture beyond the safety of town walls, their livelihoods vanishing as the countryside became a graveyard of scorched homes and looted storehouses. Roads, once filled with the chatter of traders and farmers, now stretched empty and lifeless, save for the blackened skeletons of ransacked villages, their charred remains standing as silent witnesses to the carnage. The raids did not cease. Within mere days, entire provinces fell into chaos. North Albania, once a land of fertile fields and bustling trade, had turned into a wasteland. The croplands, once tended with care, now lay abandoned, their owners too terrified to return. Merchants dared not venture beyond the safety of town walls, their livelihoods vanishing as the countryside became a graveyard of scorched homes and looted storehouses. Roads, once filled with the chatter of traders and farmers, now stretched empty and lifeless, save for the blackened skeletons of ransacked villages, their charred remains standing as silent witnesses to the carnage.
The repeated attacks on Albanian civilians pushed the rulers of Albania to the brink. They had tolerated much, but this, this could not continue. The Autocrat of Albanon, son of the legendary Skanderbeg, would not stand idle while his lands were trampled beneath the boots of lawless invaders. With the news that Emperor Leo was marching north with his army, the Albanian ruler sent his sworn oath of allegiance, reaffirming the defensive pact that bound their nations. And, as a sign of solidarity, he reinforced the emperor’s ranks with two thousand of the finest warriors Albania could muster—battle-hardened men, descendants of those who once fought alongside Skanderbeg himself, ready to reclaim their homeland.
But as the imperial host marched toward the ravaged lands, the enemy had already set its sights on a new target.
With much of the countryside pillaged and looted, the rebels—now little more than bandits—grew desperate. Their greed, left unsated by the spoils of war, turned their eyes toward a different kind of wealth. Unlike other regions, the northern prefectures of the empire, those once part of the Serbian kingdom, had long maintained close ties with Rome. Catholicism flourished there; its influence deeply rooted in the hearts of the people.
For centuries, the monasteries and churches of these lands had enjoyed special privileges—reduced taxation, abundant donations from the devout, and the protection of both Rome and Constantinople alike. To integrate the region peacefully, the emperor had permitted these traditions to remain untouched, ensuring that the wealth of the clergy remained undisturbed. These monasteries, brimming with gold, sacred relics, and centuries-old riches, had been left unmolested for years.
Until now.
Not all who fought under the rebel banners were noblemen. Many were mercenaries—hardened warriors who had no loyalty to any cause but their own. Unlike their noble counterparts, who at least possessed a rudimentary understanding of the laws of war, these men held no regard for rules, only the weight of gold in their hands. The rebel leaders were poor—how much could they have truly amassed after years as tributaries under Constantinople’s rule? They had little to offer in payment, save for one promise: take what you can, and keep what you loot.
It was an irresistible offer to the mercenaries.
And so, the great desecration began.
One by one, the monasteries fell. Their thick stone walls, built to repel time, could not hold back an army driven by greed. The rebels tore through them with an unholy fury. Altars were smashed, sacred relics stolen, icons defiled. Gold chalices, jewelled crosses, and illuminated manuscripts were stripped from their rightful places and stuffed into the sacks of mercenaries who had no knowledge of their value beyond the coin they would fetch.
The clergy, men who had sworn themselves to God’s service, were given no mercy. Many were slaughtered where they stood, their robes soaked in the blood of their faith. Some were dragged into the streets, humiliated before being executed. Others, those who resisted most fiercely, were burned alive in the very churches they had sought to protect.
By the time the emperor’s army arrived, the land was already dead.
The roads, once well-trodden by pilgrims and traders, lay eerily silent. Smoke still curled into the sky from the distant ruins of villages that would never be rebuilt. Barns stood empty, their stores long plundered. The scent of ash and decay hung heavy in the air.
But worst of all were the churches.
Their blackened husks, gutted and stripped of their sacred treasures, stood like the bones of a once-proud civilisation, desecrated beyond recognition. The shattered remains of icons, now nothing more than fragments of divine artistry, lay scattered among the corpses of monks who had once cared for them.
It was no longer a rebellion.
It was a stain upon history.
And as Emperor Leo looked upon the ruin before him, there was no question left in his mind.
Upon arriving at the desolate ruins, Emperor Leo VII gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening with rage as his fingers curled into a fist on his knee. The devastation around him was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. Churches desecrated, homes reduced to embers, the stench of death clinging to the very air.
His heart pounded, not with fear, but with fury.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, his voice a firm command cutting through the silence.
"Brothers and sons of Rome—clean up this land," he ordered, his tone steady, but edged with restrained wrath. "These people are citizens of our empire. They are one of us. They deserve dignity, even in death."
Without hesitation, the soldiers moved into action, tending to the bodies, recovering what little remained, offering prayers for the fallen.
But the emperor’s focus was elsewhere. He turned to his officers, his mind racing, thinking of various vital aspects, what should he do in this situation? What would his father do in this situation? This is the very first time that he is leading an army independently, with thousands of pairs of eyes watching over him, how should he lead them, towards victory? And not disappoint them in the process?
The pressure is immense.
