Free Web NovelChapter 731: Fate of Serbia
Giovanni Junior departed the fortress of Vidin just two days after the battle, leaving behind an encampment that suddenly felt vast and hollow. The general took with him nearly all the cavalry forces, along with four thousand infantry, tasked with scouring the countryside for lingering resistance, replenishing the depleted garrisons, and securing the vital supply routes of the region.
The emperor remained behind—not out of choice, but necessity. Thousands of prisoners of war had yet to be processed, and the logistical burden of restoring control to the ravaged provinces demanded his continued presence. Moreover, the troops themselves needed time to rest, recover, and prepare for what lay ahead.
The year had already turned. The rain season in Bulgaria had come in full swing, with thunder rumbling like distant drums across the horizon. Rain fell in heavy sheets, slapping the roofs of tents and stone walls alike, cold as sleet and relentless as fate.
And today, Emperor Leo VII was furious.
Just one night after Giovanni’s departure, chaos erupted. The Despot of Serbia, Boris Pavlović—who had previously surrendered and pledged loyalty—somehow incited a massive uprising within the walls of the fortress. Prisoners that had been taken during the battle, locked in the garrison, rose with him. In the dead of night, they stormed the barracks and attempted to overwhelm the Roman defenses.
They almost succeeded.
The fortress barely held. Hundreds of rebels flooded the corridors, reached the inner gates, and clashed violently with the guards. It took hours of brutal fighting to push them back. Over a hundred Roman soldiers lay dead by the time the fighting ceased. Order was finally restored when the garrison archers forced the rebels back under a hail of arrows, penning them behind the iron bars once more.
Now, in the heart of the imperial command tent, the air was heavy. The emperor sat at the head, silent and unmoving. On either side of him stood the Varangian Guard—still smeared in the blood and grime of last night’s combat—and his courtiers, all grim-faced and drenched from the storm outside. Before them knelt Boris Pavlović and the rebel nobles, heads bowed, the mud of the rain-soaked earth clinging to their knees and cloaks.
No one spoke.
The only sounds were the crackle of torches and the constant hiss of rain pelting the canvas above. Lightning flashed across the sky, momentarily illuminating the downturned faces of the traitors.
Boris Pavlović—this so-called ’Despot’—was not of noble lineage. He had clawed his way to power during the empire’s previous turmoil. When the last rightful King of Serbia, Vuk Grgurević, was in Constantinople rendering homage and tribute, Boris—then merely a Voivode—rose in rebellion. He sacked Belgrade and proclaimed himself king.
It was during the waning days of Antonius De’Ricci, when the old emperor’s health failed and the empire was momentarily adrift, that Chancellor Abdullah made a reluctant compromise: the empire would tolerate Boris’s rule, so long as he submitted to imperial authority, paid tribute, and refrained from rebellion.
But Boris, like many opportunists, mistook tolerance for weakness.
And now, under the flickering firelight and the weight of the emperor’s look, his choices had come home to roost.
"You’ve done quite a thing, Boris Pavlović," Leo said coldly, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. "A great thing indeed—reminding me why traitors like you are never to be trusted, never to be respected. For you, words mean nothing. You twist them the moment they leave your lips."
The Despot lifted his head from the muddy ground, eyes blazing with fury despite his tattered, blood-streaked appearance. The fire in his stare burned as if it could scorch the very tent—but Leo didn’t flinch. The young emperor met his gaze with unwavering resolve.
"You exploited the absence of your predecessor, a man who honored his loyalty to Constantinople by guarding our eastern borders. And we—I—chose stability over vengeance. We allowed you to keep your lands. And how did you repay that mercy? You took advantage of my father’s death, of my nation’s mourning, and raised a rebellion!" Leo’s voice rose with fury. "You insolent bastard. You dared to send threats to me, you spat demands soaked in greed and treachery while I stood over my father’s tomb! What did you think, Boris? That the empire would fall apart? That the son of Antonius would be weak, broken?"
He stood, eyes blazing now. "Let me tell you—no! This empire, carried on the shoulders of her people, shall march forward as long as I draw breath. And you... You will serve as the example to every would-be traitor who thinks they can shake Rome!"
The Despot opened his mouth, ready to shout something back—but two Varangians stepped forward and stuffed a cloth into it, forcing him to the ground. His limbs thrashed, his eyes bulged with rage, as if he could devour the emperor with his glare alone.
Leo looked to his right, then reached for the sword at Cerberus’ waist. The guard commander did not resist. With a calm nod, he released the blade into his emperor’s hands.
Leo raised the weapon. It trembled slightly in his grip—but not from fear. From adrenaline. From fury.
With a shout, he brought it down—but the strike landed against the Despot’s shoulder plate, and the steel bounced back with a deafening clang, sending a jolt through the emperor’s arm that nearly made him drop the sword.
Cerberus stepped forward with grim composure. "Strip off his armor," he ordered the guards. Then, turning to Leo, added quietly, "Your Majesty... higher. Aim above the collar. Not the shoulder."
Leo’s face flushed, but he did not hesitate. He stepped forward again, adjusted his grip, and this time, drove the blade clean through.
The Despot’s head fell, rolling to the damp ground with eyes still wide, locked in an expression of disbelief. The young emperor—born in the purple, untested by blood—had struck down his enemy himself.
A steward rushed forward with a cloth. Leo took it, his breathing heavy, eyes dazed. No matter how many battles he’d seen... this was different.
He had passed a threshold.
The blade slipped from his fingers.
And outside, the rain kept falling.
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The body of Boris Pavlović had long gone cold, his lifeless eyes still locked in a final expression of defiance. Yet, the weight of his execution lingered. The emperor, still seated, let silence reign. He had made his decision—there was no undoing it.
"Your Majesty."
"Yes, Nikos."
"I must say, that slaying this man might create an impact on the situation." The courtier continued despite the emperor frowning. "Most of the surrendered rebels are yet in a state of panic, killing their leader might show no benefit towards the stability for now, we could have waited for the entire thing to be over, give him a proper trial..."
"Thank you, Nikos." The emperor interrupted. "I admit that you are right, but no matter what, for the sake of the country, for the sake of my father, for the sake of myself, I must, kill this prick on the spot here today... Just for one thing, that he dared to offend me at my saddest moment, when my beloved father have just passed, and let me tell you what, he shall definitely not be the first, I want a clear signal being sent to everyone who dares to defy my borders, that I am no child emperor that only knows how to protect myself behind the shoulders of my troops, the hearts of my people, and the walls of Constantinople."
Nikos bowed slightly with a sigh, and backed down into the lines.
A moment later, another young man, called Valentino, whom was once rescued by the emperor yeras ago, and managed to excel through the grades, becoming the Skouterios, directly reporting to the emperor himself.
"What has been done cannot be undone," Valentino said softly, turning to Nikos with respect. "Your words are wise, and so are His Majesty’s. Both carry weight, but what truly matters now is how we take advantage of the situation. How do we deal with Serbia and Bosnia in a way that ensures lasting control?"
The emperor, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of his chair, gestured for him to continue.
"The autonomy granted by Emperor Antonius, may God bless him in heaven, can no longer stand," Valentino stated. "However, we must recognise that most of the Serbian and Bosnian people were not active participants in this rebellion. They merely wished to live their lives, unaffected by the ambitions of either side. Some among their nobility remained loyal to us. These individuals must become the foundation of our continued rule."
A few courtiers nodded in agreement, though Nikos remained unconvinced. freewēbnoveℓ.com
Valentino pressed on. "We should avoid unnecessary disruptions to the local political structure, while confiscating the wealth and lands of the rebels. Distribute some of these to the common folk—this will win their support. Strengthen our alliances with the nobility who remained loyal, and eliminate only the true instigators of rebellion."
