Late February 1433, Glarentza
A pale winter sun climbed over the rolling hills east of Glarentza, its soft light piercing the thin veil of mist still clinging to the city's stout walls. The morning air felt crisp and bright, carrying the mingled scents of damp earth and a faint brine from the shore. Though dawn had only just broken, the streets already bustled with fervor: soldiers checked and rechecked their horses' tack, merchants competed in frantic voices for last-minute sales, and laborers hurried between wagons, stacking crates of provisions that would sustain the journey ahead.
Constantine reined in his black stallion at the edge of the main courtyard. The horse's glossy coat shone even in the muted morning light, a deep crimson cloth bearing the double-headed eagle of the Palaiologos draped over its broad back. Constantine sat tall, a fur-lined cloak falling across his shoulders and rustling softly in the breeze. He let his gaze sweep over the lively scene before him, aware that this departure was more than a mere trip along the roads of the Morea. It was an undeniable statement—an open path to his claim of authority, a first step toward destiny.
Behind him extended a formidable procession: soldiers in their polished lamellar armor, sunbeams dancing across metal plates and shining shields; nobles and scholars in fine carriages, some staring pensively at the cobblestones, others quietly discussing the gravity of the mission; and several wagons loaded not just with food, arms, and supplies, but also with fresh banners and large posters stamped with Constantine's seal. This Ieros Skopos propaganda—an unfamiliar term in this era—had been carefully prepared to sway hearts and minds as surely as any blade might cut through armor.
Though not an army, Constantine's retinue had a purpose as potent as any conquering force. Where swords might fail, well-chosen words and stirring symbols could succeed. Every man, woman, and supply train in this gathering served a role in a grand design: to win the loyalty of his subjects.
He felt a surge of anticipation tighten in his chest as Captain Andreas approached, the rhythmic clang of metal horse tack heralding his arrival. The captain, who had joined them from the Hexamilion a mere two days before, was easy to spot with his grizzled features and warrior's posture. His brown eyes—sharp and unyielding—surveyed the column with the familiar scrutiny of a man who knew the cost of war, even in peacetime.
"All is in order, Despot," Andreas reported, reins held firm in hands accustomed to wielding both pen and sword. "Your orders?"
Constantine looked toward the horizon, imagining the winding roads through the rugged countryside that would lead them to Mystras—where the throne, and perhaps the very future of the empire, awaited him. He took in a measured breath, steadying himself before he spoke.
"We ride."
At that command, a horn's clarion note rang out, echoing off the city walls. Constantine spurred his stallion forward, the horse's hooves striking the cobblestones in a ringing tempo that set the procession in motion. Behind him, the bright double-headed eagle standard snapped in the cold breeze, and the rhythmic thrum of armored footsteps and rolling carriage wheels filled the street.
They passed beneath Glarentza's walls, the stones seeming to whisper farewells and caution in equal measure. Soldiers, servants, merchants, and scholars alike turned their eyes to the open road, bracing themselves for the march ahead. For Constantine, each hoofbeat marked another moment slipping away in the countdown to the declaration that would shape his destiny.
Krestena (Southeast of Glarentza – Afternoon)
The road to Krestena was no gentle highway. It twisted and turned through rugged terrain, dipping into shallow valleys and rising again over rolling hills. Much of the path was packed dirt and loose stones, worn into deep ruts by travelers and carts long since passed. Olive groves pressed close on either side, their silver-green leaves shimmering under the pale winter sun. Despite the lingering chill in the air, Constantine found himself warm, the steady cadence of the march and the weight of his cloak insulating him against the brisk wind.
Behind him, the escort followed as a disciplined column. Horses' hooves struck the uneven ground in a synchronized clatter, kicking up patches of mud, while wagons groaned under their burdens. Soldiers rode in pairs or small groups, each bearing the Palaiologos emblem on their shields or tunics, and standard-bearers held tall banners that flapped and snapped in the crisp breeze. The entire procession seemed like a single living entity, its pulse measured by each measured footstep and grinding wheel.
By the time the first stone houses of Krestena came into view, word of Constantine's approach had clearly traveled ahead. The news had done its work, whether carried by official messengers or whispered from one villager to the next. At the outskirts of the town, a modest gathering of locals stood waiting. Faces peered out from beneath rough woolen hoods and cloth caps, marked by curiosity, hope—and perhaps a hint of apprehension. They sensed something significant was stirring, even if they could not yet name it.
A wooden archway marked the entrance to Krestena, its beams rough-hewn but freshly painted. As Constantine and his retinue passed beneath, a sudden clamor of church bells rang out, welcoming the travelers with a pealing cadence. The sound was clear and bright, echoing through the narrow streets. Immediately, a blend of aromas overtook them: the yeasty warmth of baking bread, the pungent crackle of firewood in open hearths, and the damp, rich scent of earth still moist from recent rainfall.
Though Krestena was no grand city, it possessed a simple vitality that made it feel alive under the winter sky. Its clusters of stone dwellings were arranged around a small central square, where the whitewashed walls of the local church reflected the afternoon sun. A few children, too young to worry about propriety, ran alongside the procession, pointing at the soldiers and giggling at the sight of so many banners and helmets.
Constantine guided his black stallion forward, nodding in brief acknowledgment to those brave enough to meet his gaze. This was more than a pause on the long road to Mystras—it was an opportunity to see how the people responded, to sow the seeds of loyalty and unity. He could feel the weight of every staring eye, every hushed word whispered among the townsfolk.
Yes, something had changed. And for the first time, standing at the threshold of Krestena, it felt as though the empire's fate was not only his burden to shoulder but also a shared cause, reflected in the hope he glimpsed on the villagers' faces.
Constantine swung down from his saddle in front of a modest stone building perched at the edge of Krestena. The structure was squat but sturdy, with thick walls meant to endure winter rains and harsh winds. Next to it, a small stable sheltered a row of well-tended horses, each tethered at the front. Above the main door, a freshly painted wooden sign read KRESTENA POST in bold, larger letters, and beneath it, in smaller script, Tachis Ippos. Together, they formed a quiet but potent symbol of an empire determined to modernize through the efforts of Constantine.
A wiry man emerged from the building, dressed in a simple brown tunic. Ink smudged his fingers, hinting at a life spent handling documents and quills. He bowed at once, keeping his head lowered out of respect.
"Despot," he said, voice steady despite his humble posture. "Welcome to Krestena's post. I am Petros, the station master."
Constantine returned the greeting with a nod. His gaze traveled over the stable, noting the lean, strong flanks of the horses, each one fitted with well-made bridles and saddles. These were the backbone of his fledgling Tachis Ippos relay network—the speed and stamina that would carry messages swiftly across the realm.
"How many riders do you have here, Petros?" he asked.
"Six, Despot," Petros answered promptly. "We keep two on constant standby. The others rotate for rest or local deliveries. With the new stations, a message can reach Mystras in only a few days, whereas before, it took well over a week."
Constantine felt a flicker of pride at the mention of such improved speed. It was no idle boast; the network he envisioned was finally becoming tangible, linking towns and cities in ways that would reshape the empire's fate.
He swept his gaze over the station once more. "And your riders—are they prepared for the urgency of the tasks ahead?"
Petros stood a little straighter, emboldened by Constantine's interest. "They are, Despot. Each understands we ride for the empire's future, not merely for coin."
A slight smile curved Constantine's lips. "You ride for history," he said softly.
Nearby, Captain Andreas observed the exchange with his usual level of intensity, arms folded across a chest defined by years of military service. Constantine knew Andreas was already assessing the post's efficiency, from the condition of the horses to the thickness of the walls and the stock of supplies.
Turning to his captain, Constantine's expression grew thoughtful. "Captain," he said, "see to it that these men receive a small gold reward for their diligence. Let them know we value their service—and that they are essential to our cause."
Andreas inclined his head, silently acknowledging the order. Petros looked momentarily stunned, then deeply grateful, a faint flush creeping over his cheeks.
From the Tachis Ippos station, Constantine led his entourage through Krestena's winding lanes toward the local church. Built of white stone and topped with red tiles, the structure sat near the heart of the settlement, its modest bell tower rising just above the neighboring rooftops. A faint echo of distant chanting lingered around the churchyard, hinting at the prayers that had been offered here for generations.
At the entrance stood the local priest, a short man whose kindly features were edged by a subtle weariness. Lines of concern furrowed his brow, though he forced a welcoming smile. He bowed low as Constantine approached.
"Despot," the priest murmured, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and fervor. "This house of the Lord is ever open to you. I, too, embrace the path of Ieros Skopos. I have read the manifesto—it stirred my very soul."
Constantine acknowledged the priest's words with a nod that revealed genuine satisfaction.
Entering the church, Constantine's boots echoed across the stone floor in slow, measured steps. Flickering candlelight illuminated the painted saints and icons, their gold leaf glowing in the half-light. Incense hung thick in the air—smoke curling in gentle swirls that stirred when he passed. He paused before the icon of Christ Pantokrator, bending his knee and lowering his head in a brief act of reverence.
Though not deeply religious in his past life, Constantine recognized the power of faith here. In this world, belief was not just private devotion—it was community, identity, and loyalty. Faith may bind them together as firmly as any sword or treaty, he thought, inhaling the perfumed stillness.
When he emerged from the dim interior into the bright afternoon, he found the town square crowded. The news of his presence had spread quickly; farmers, merchants, blacksmiths, and weavers alike had set aside their tasks to catch a glimpse of the Despot. Their quiet excitement was evident in the hushed conversations and cautious smiles that rippled through the assembly.
A simple wooden platform had been erected on one side of the square—likely used for local announcements or market day proclamations. Constantine stepped onto it, the boards creaking under his boots, and took a moment to survey the crowd. Faces of every age and trade turned toward him, reflecting both curiosity and hope.
He drew in a slow breath, steeling himself.
"People of Krestena," he began, letting his voice ring across the gathered throng, "you have heard the rumors. You have heard of the treachery in Constantinople."
A tense hush settled over the square. Men shifted on their feet, women clutched their scarves a little tighter. Constantine saw understanding—perhaps even dread—in their eyes.
"My brother, the Emperor John," he said, his words deliberate, "has been murdered."
There was a collective intake of breath. Some gasped aloud; others simply went pale at the gravity of his statement. A few crossed themselves, faces etched with shock.
"He was betrayed by those who should have stood by him," Constantine continued. His voice gained a bitter edge. "But the greatest betrayal came after."
He paused, letting the anger rise in his throat—anger that was genuine. He would make them feel it. "The Ottomans now rule our capital. Demetrios sits upon the throne not as Emperor, but as a servant of the Sultan. A Byzantine in name only—his soul sold for power."
Ripples of horror moved through the crowd. Some men muttered curses, while several women looked fearful, arms tightened protectively around their children. The notion of a Sultan's puppet claiming the Byzantine crown was a dire insult to their heritage and religion.
"But I tell you this," Constantine raised his voice, firm and resonant, "the Empire is not dead. The Empire does not belong to those who kneel before the Turk—it belongs to its people. To you."
From somewhere in the midst of the throng came a tentative cheer, which soon found echoes among a few more voices. Nervous tension shifted toward a flicker of hope.
"I will not kneel," Constantine declared, letting his voice carry over the square. "I will not serve Murad. I have defeated him once, and I aim to do so again."
He swept his gaze slowly over the crowd, ensuring they saw the fire in his eyes. He wanted them to believe—no, know—that he was ready for what lay ahead.
"I am the rightful ruler of the Empire," he continued, every word precise. "And I swear to you—I will fight for it. Ieros skopos!"
A smattering of voices immediately called back, "Ieros skopos!"—the phrase catching like sparks in kindling. A small knot of soldiers in the crowd echoed his cry. Then more joined in, men and women alike, until the square rang with an impassioned response.
Constantine raised a hand, and the tumult of voices subsided. "But I do not ask for war—not yet. War will come, but not as fools' bloodshed. We must be strong and united first. That is why I have come here—to hear you, to see you, to remind you that the Empire lives wherever her people still stand."
Thunderous applause and cheers erupted, the sound reverberating against the white stone walls of the church and the surrounding shops. The crowd's cautious curiosity now blossomed into earnest support.
A young man near the front—his hands bearing the rough calluses of fieldwork—stepped forward, admiration shining in his eyes. "We stand with you, Despot!" he called out, his voice trembling with emotion but resolute in purpose.
Constantine nodded, satisfaction warming him. This was more than a mere address; it was the beginning of the unity he intended to forge throughout the Morea. If I can inspire each village this way, he thought, then the road to Mystras will be paved with loyalty.
Stepping down from the platform, he found Captain Andreas standing near the edge of the crowd. The captain leaned in, speaking in a low voice that wouldn't carry. "A good start," he remarked, subdued approval in his tone. "But there will be those who fear Murad more than they love the empire."
Constantine gave a tight, knowing smile. "Then we must show them that he should fear us more."
.Before leaving the square, Constantine turned to greet the gathered locals. He took time to speak with them directly, inquiring about their struggles and their hopes. Farmers marveled at his frankness—so different from the distant rulers they had known before. Merchants, too, were heartened by his willingness to listen, while artisans and laborers recognized an empathy in his questions that spoke of a shared future. Word quickly spread that the Despot himself spoke plainly and earnestly, as though each person mattered.
That evening, Constantine and his entourage accepted the town's hospitality, bedding down in Krestena for the night. Warm fires and simple meals offered respite after the long road, and the villagers' continued excitement buzzed in every corner of the modest inns and households that hosted them.
The next morning, Constantine rose early. As he and his retinue prepared to depart, the people of Krestena gathered once more to see them off, voices brimming with renewed hope. Mounted on his stallion, Constantine carried with him the energy of their devotion and the certainty that Krestena's loyalty would not be the last he won on his road to Mystras.Like Award Reply94sersorMar 31, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 62: The Coronation of Constantine XI New View contentsersorApr 3, 2025NewAdd bookmark#549The road wound through the heart of the Morea, its path twisting through hills blanketed in winter's fading chill. Constantine rode at the head of the column, his cloak catching the wind, the Palaiologoi standard—a golden double-headed eagle on crimson—flapping proudly behind him. Each mile brought him closer to Karytaina.
As they crested the final ridge, Karytaina came into view, perched atop its steep hills like a sentinel over the surrounding valleys. The castle, a compact but formidable fortress, overlooked the settlement below, its repaired walls gleaming in the late afternoon light. Smoke curled from chimneys, and in the distance, terraced fields and vineyards stretched toward the horizon, the land promising stability for those who could defend it.
Unlike the bloodshed that had accompanied his arrival at Veligosti a year prior, Karytaina had submitted to him without resistance. The local garrison had sworn loyalty, and since then, he had invested in its defenses, turning the town into a vital bulwark at the center of the Morea.
As they neared the gates, the local garrison formed ranks. The gates creaked open, revealing a courtyard within. Constantine and his guards rode through, the sound of hooves striking stone echoing against the high walls. A group of officers waited for him, led by Vardas Angelos, the local commander he had left in charge.
Vardas was a solid man in his late thirties, his dark hair bound in a short queue, his lamellar armor showing the wear of long service. He bowed deeply as Constantine dismounted.
"Despot," Vardas greeted, his tone respectful but firm. "It is an honor to receive you in Karytaina. The garrison stands ready for your inspection."
Constantine dismounted, his boots striking the stone courtyard with measured confidence as he clasped the man's forearm in greeting. "Good. Walk with me," he said.
They moved through the castle's defenses. Constantine's eyes took in every detail—the walls, the cannon placements, the condition of the barracks. The repairs he had ordered last year had been completed; fresh stonework reinforced the outer walls, and new weapons had been added to the armory.
"You've kept the place well," Constantine said, his voice firm yet measured. "And the men?"
"They train daily," Vardas responded. "The garrison stands at one hundred strong, with another fifty militia drawn from the town. Not all are warriors, but they will fight when the time comes."
Vardas then explained how patrols had been expanded into the surrounding valleys, keeping an eye out for bandits.
Following the inspection of Karytaina's fortifications and garrison, Constantine addressed the assembled soldiers and townspeople in the main square, much as he had done in Krestena. The speech aimed to reinforce his claim as the rightful Emperor of Byzantium and to denounce Demetrios as a traitor enthroned by the Ottomans.
With the garrison standing in formation and the town's residents gathering in large numbers, Constantine delivered a forceful proclamation. He announced the murder of Emperor John VIII and exposed the treachery of Demetrios, emphasizing that Constantinople was now under the Sultan's control. He called upon the people of Karytaina to recognize him as the true Emperor and to stand with him in defiance of foreign subjugation.
The reaction from both the soldiers and the townspeople was overwhelmingly positive. The crowd responded with cheers and chants of Ieros Skopos, mirroring the enthusiasm seen in Krestena.
Continuing his journey to Mystras, Constantine also made stops in Veligosti and Gardiki, both key settlements along the route. As in Krestena and Karytaina, these visits were intended to consolidate local support, inspect the state of the fortifications and local Tachis Ippos stations, and reinforce his claim as the rightful Emperor of Byzantium.
Arrival at Mystras, Early March of 1433The sky was painted in pale hues of winter gray, and the air carried a sharp chill. High above the rolling countryside, the stone walls of Mystras rose from the rugged slopes of Mount Taygetus, their crenelated battlements and weathered towers testifying to the city's resilience. Vines and climbing ivy clung to the ancient stone, as if the very mountain itself sought to reclaim the fortress. In the distance, light clouds drifted across the horizon, transforming the sunlight into a subdued glow that gave Mystras an almost ethereal silhouette.
Though it was not Constantinople, the fabled Queen of Cities that every Byzantine heart still yearned for, Mystras was a bastion of the empire in its own right—a seat of Despots, scholars, and warriors who defied the slow retreat of Byzantium's legacy. Its churches, home to brilliant theologians and artists, stood proud, their domes etched against the sky. Within Mystras' labyrinthine streets, one could still hear the echoes of ancient ambition, the memory of a realm that refused to fade quietly into history.
As they neared the gates of Mystras, the entire city seemed to stir. Church bells tolled, their resonant chimes cutting through the mountain air and echoing across the valley. At once, it felt as though the entire populace surged toward the gates: merchants in stained aprons rushing from their stalls, monks pausing mid-prayer to look up, soldiers leaning forward on their spears, and townsfolk of all ages crowding the narrow streets. They stood shoulder to shoulder, whispering Constantine's name in voices filled with curiosity and excitement.
For them, this was no ordinary arrival. They had read the urgent proclamations and heard the rumors spreading across the Morea: the rightful emperor was coming.
The procession pressed forward, winding its way along the twisting road that led to the city gates. On either side, people craned their necks, some even standing on barrels or crates to catch a better glimpse of Constantine. Others waved small homemade banners in a show of fervent loyalty.
Riding near the front, Constantine caught sight of a young girl perched on a stone ledge, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She wore a threadbare cloak but clutched a tiny wooden cross in her hands. Their eyes met, and for a moment, all the clamor and excitement seemed to fade. In that instant, Constantine felt a surge of determination that drowned out the ache of his long journey.
Once through the Iron Gate, Mystras enveloped them in its narrow lanes. Streets that had seemed cramped and twisting now brimmed with throngs of onlookers, their breaths frosting in the chilly air. Constantine kept his posture upright, his chin set with quiet resolve.
He felt the weight of countless eyes upon him—people who had pinned their hopes on the rumors of a new emperor. These were faces worn by hardship and war, by the creeping shadow of an empire's decline. But in their upturned gazes, Constantine also saw a flicker of faith—a belief that maybe, just maybe, the final chapters of Byzantium's story had not yet been written.
He had seen such faces before in Krestena, Karytaina, Veligosti, and Gardiki—but here in Mystras, something felt distinctly different. Expectation filled the streets. Possibility and hope hung in the air, as palpable as the cold.
Their journey ended at the foot of the Despot's Palace, an imposing structure that crowned the upper city, where rugged stone walls gave way to the refined lines of marble buildings. Once home to the Despots of the Morea, it now stood ready to greet an emperor.
At the foot of the Despot's Palace, a familiar figure stood waiting. George Sphrantzes, his most trusted advisor, the man who had ruled Mystras in his stead for nearly a year now.
The last time they had stood together, John VIII was still the emperor, and Constantine a despot. Now? Everything had changed.
Constantine pulled the reins and dismounted, the clink of armor and tack echoing against the palace walls. He felt a ripple of relief in his limbs—tired from the journey, yet bolstered by the sight of this familiar friend. Sphrantzes advanced, his cloak billowing in the cold mountain wind, and offered a deep bow.
But there was no room for ceremonious distance. Before Sphrantzes could fully straighten, Constantine stepped forward, clasping him by the forearm in a gesture of companionship. This was not a scripted moment in the imperial protocol, but the earnest greeting of friends who had endured the same storms.
A flicker of warmth passed across Sphrantzes' normally solemn features, a rare smile appearing at the edges of his lips.
"Welcome, my friend," he said softly, each word carrying the weight of unspoken concerns.
For a second, Constantine closed his eyes, letting the tautness in his chest ease.
"It is good to see you, George," he replied, his voice low and steady.
"You enter these walls as a despot," Sphrantzes said softly, each syllable crystallizing in the chilly air, "yet soon you shall ascend as emperor."
For a moment, the distant toll of church bells seemed to fade, leaving only the soft rustle of cloaks and the beat of Constantine's own heart. He met Sphrantzes' gaze, his expression unwavering despite the enormity of the words. When he spoke, his voice was low and firm, carrying a sense of inevitability.
"Fate left me no other path," he answered quietly, as though even the wind might overhear.
Sphrantzes turned slightly, gesturing toward the broad stone steps leading into the palace.
"Come. We have much to discuss."
With that, the two men climbed the steps together, accompanied by the soft whisper of the crowd behind them.
The Coronation CeremonyThe bells of Mystras tolled, their solemn echoes rolling down the mountain slopes like the voice of history itself.
The streets were filled with people—soldiers in polished armor, monks in dark robes, merchants and farmers standing shoulder to shoulder, nobles wrapped in fine cloaks of silk and wool. They had all come to witness a moment rarely seen: an imperial coronation.
At the highest point of the city, within the Church of Saint Demetrios, the great doors stood open, allowing the golden morning light to spill across the mosaic-tiled floor. The scent of burning incense filled the air, thick and heady, mingling with the faint chill of winter still lingering in the stone walls.
And at the center of it all, standing before the holy altar, was Constantine.
His hands were steady, his breath controlled, but inside his mind raced with the weight of what was about to happen.
This was real.
Before him stood the Metropolitan of Lacedaemon, an elderly man with piercing gray eyes and a beard as white as fresh-fallen snow. In his hands, he held a golden chalice filled with holy oil.
Constantine wore a deep crimson tunic embroidered with gold, its sleeves lined with Byzantine crosses. Over it, he bore a long mantle of deep purple, fastened at the shoulder with a golden clasp bearing the double-headed eagle. He had worn armor, led armies, and made speeches, but this moment felt heavier than all of them combined.
The Metropolitan stepped forward. The church fell into absolute silence.
"Do you, Constantine Palaiologos, swear to uphold the true faith, to rule with justice, and to defend the Empire against all who would see it fall?"
The words rang in his ears.
He had never been a particularly religious man in his past life. But here, now, in this holy space—with the fate of thousands resting on his shoulders—the weight of the question felt immense.
Yet, he knew there was only one answer.
"I swear it."
The Metropolitan dipped his fingers into the sacred oil, tracing the sign of the cross upon Constantine's forehead, his hands, his chest—the places of thought, strength, and will.
Then came the words, spoken in a voice that had echoed through the ages:
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I anoint you Emperor of the Romans."
A murmur rippled through the assembled clergy and nobles. The moment had come.
An acolyte stepped forward, carrying the imperial crown upon a velvet cushion—a band of heavy gold adorned with pearls and sapphires, its arched frame holding a small golden cross.
The Metropolitan lifted it, and for the briefest moment, Constantine saw his own reflection in the polished gold.
And in that reflection, he did not see Michael Jameston, the middle-aged bookseller.
He saw Constantine XI Palaiologos, Emperor of Byzantium.
The crown was placed upon his brow, its weight both real and symbolic, pressing down like the weight of an empire long in decline.
The moment stretched, eternal—a heartbeat where the entire world seemed to hold its breath.
Then the Metropolitan raised his staff and proclaimed:
"Long live Constantine, Emperor and Autocrat ton Rhomaion!"
The Shout That Shook the City
A beat of silence.
Then the church erupted.
Outside, the city answered.
The people cheered, their voices rising in a deafening roar that echoed through the streets, through the valleys, through the mountains beyond.
"Long live the Emperor!"
"Long live Constantine!"
"Basileus ton Rhomaion!"
"Ieros Skopos!"
A Moment of Surreal Clarity
As the Metropolitan stepped back, as the nobles approached to bow, as his soldiers knelt before him in fealty, Constantine remained still. His hands touched the crown lightly. The cold metal sent a shock through his fingers.
It had happened.
It was real.
He had fought, he had planned, he had changed history itself.
He had become Emperor of Byzantium.
And the most surreal moment of his life had just begun.
A Private CouncilThe fire crackled in the grand hall of the Despot's Palace, casting long, restless shadows across the marble floor and frescoed walls. The banners of Byzantium—rich crimson and gold, emblazoned with the double-headed eagle—hung heavy in the dim light.
At the center of the room, seated around a long wooden table, were the men who now held the future of the empire in their hands.
George Sphrantzes, Theophilos Dragas, Captain Andreas, Plethon, and Constantine.
For the first time since last year in Glarentza, all five of them were together again.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
A single parchment lay between them, its wax seal freshly broken. The message had arrived a couple of days ago, carried by a Venetian merchant ship from Constantinople.
Constantine exhaled, staring at the words before him.
Demetrios.
His younger brother had finally reached out.
Not with an olive branch.
With a command.
Demetrios' Demand
To the Lords of Mystras,
I, Demetrios Palaiologos, rightful Emperor and Autocrat of the Romans, order the immediate submission of the city of Mystras and its people to my rule.
I speak with the authority of the throne, upheld by the will of the Sultan, the only true protector of our empire.
You will swear fealty before the end of April. If you do, you will be spared the fate of those who defy me. If you resist, you will share the ruin of all who challenge their rightful sovereign.
A long silence followed as the words settled over the room.
Then, finally, Plethon scoffed. "A pitiful attempt at authority. He doesn't even believe his own words."
Andreas leaned back, crossing his arms. "That's because he knows the truth. He has no army. Not one worth speaking of, anyway."
Theophilos nodded. "Not one that could take a single fortified city, much less Mystras and the Morea."
Sphrantzes, ever the pragmatist, tapped his fingers against the wooden table. "Which means the only true threat in that letter is the Sultan's will."
The air in the chamber grew heavier.
Murad.
Demetrios held no real power. That much was clear. He had seized the imperial palace with Ottoman help, but beyond Constantinople's walls, he commanded nothing but ink and paper. The true master of the empire sat in Edirne.
Constantine exhaled through his nose. "This is not a declaration of strength. It is a plea."
Theophilos glanced at him. "You believe he is afraid?"
"I know he is." Constantine picked up the letter, his fingers brushing over the parchment. "He would not have sent this if he were certain of himself. He wants us to surrender out of fear before he has to beg Murad for an army he does not have."
Theophilos shook his head. "A desperate move. He doesn't even realize he's already lost."
Andreas chuckled, his grin sharp as a blade. "If he thinks we're going to kneel, he's a greater fool than I thought."
Constantine's Decision
Constantine let the letter fall back onto the table, his decision already made.
"There will be no reply."
Sphrantzes nodded, unsurprised. "Let him wonder."
Constantine glanced around the table, his gaze sweeping over the men who had followed him this far, who had stood by him since the beginning. "We do not acknowledge false emperors," he said. "And we do not acknowledge the Sultan's claim over our throne."
Andreas thumped a fist against the table. "Damn right we don't."
Sphrantzes exhaled, his expression unreadable. "Then the only thing left to do is prepare for what comes next."
Plethon steepled his fingers. "The West must know of this farce. We must send letters to Rome, Venice, and Burgundy. Demetrios rules nothing but the Sultan's shadow, and we will make sure every man in Christendom knows it."
Constantine exhaled, running a hand over his face. The reality of the moment pressed down on him.
He had taken the crown that morning, and by nightfall, he had already begun his first war as an Emperor.
The Final WordsA silence settled between them, the weight of the moment hanging in the firelit chamber.
Plethon studied Constantine carefully before speaking. "Are you prepared for this?"
Constantine looked at him. His mind flashed to the moment the crown was placed upon his head, to the cheers in the streets, to the ghosts of history whispering in the wind.
No.
No one could be prepared for what was coming.
But he had no choice.
"I became emperor today," he said, his voice steady. "Now, it's time I started acting like one."
Sphrantzes smirked slightly. "Then let us begin."
With that, the council was decided. There would be no submission. There would be no surrender.
Byzantium had its emperor.
And Demetrios Palaiologos would soon learn the cost of claiming what was not his.
Author note: While I use the term Byzantium for simplicity, in the coronation scene, I used Rhomaion, as that was the title they called themselves.Last edited: Apr 7, 2025Like Award Reply100sersorApr 3, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 63: The Dawn of Rebellion New View contentsersorApr 7, 2025NewAdd bookmark#579The Port of Glarentza – Late March 1433
The briny scent of the Ionian Sea hung thick in the air as the port of Glarentza stirred to life with the coming of spring. After a few months of sluggish trade and harsh winter winds, the docks were once more a place of movement, noise, and industry. The wooden piers groaned under the weight of men and cargo as ships, their sails taut in the morning breeze, jockeyed for position.
Venetian and Genoese vessels lined the harbor, their banners snapping crisply in the breeze, but they were no longer the only ones. From the bustling markets of Marseille to the ports of Portugal and Castile, traders had begun making the long voyage, drawn by the new lucrative market—the books of the Morea Publishing House.
Constantine stood at the edge of the main quay, his heavy cloak shifting slightly as he surveyed the city he had transformed. The morning sun gilded the sea with streaks of gold, casting warm light over Glarentza's bustling waterfront. Where once crumbling Latin ruins had marked its skyline, new buildings now stood—tall warehouses, expanded wharves, and grand merchant halls where deals were struck in Greek and Italian. Glarentza was no longer a relic of the past; it was a city of the future, its fortunes tied not only to the tides but also to the knowledge it now exported to the world.
The sounds of commerce filled the air—dockworkers heaved barrels of olive oil, wine, and fine Moreote paper onto waiting carts, merchants haggled over silks and spices, and the sharp scent of fish being gutted mingled with the warm aroma of baking bread from nearby market stalls. But the loudest voices, the most eager hands, belonged to the book traders.
They swarmed the Morea Publishing Store, the grand establishment near the port, its boldly inscribed sign catching the eye of every merchant who passed through Glarentza. Situated at the end of a wide, meticulously paved street, the building had become a landmark of trade and learning—a destination spoken of in the bustling markets of Venice, Genoa, and even distant Iberia.
Inside, scribes and clerks worked tirelessly, cataloging the latest arrivals—theological works, treatises on history and philosophy, and meticulously reproduced copies of ancient Greek and Roman texts. Traders pored over inventory lists with eager anticipation, desperate to secure the most sought-after titles before their rivals. Some murmured in hushed excitement over rumored new editions, while others negotiated bulk orders, knowing these books would fetch fortunes in their home ports.
What had once been a mere experiment had now transformed into an empire of knowledge, its influence stretching across the Mediterranean, shaping commerce, scholarship, and faith alike.
"Have you the new edition of Plato's Republic?" a Venetian trader asked eagerly, his fingers drumming against the counter.
"I must see the latest theological works available," an Aragonese insisted, his Greek heavily accented. "I have an order from a bishop in Valencia."
Nearby, a Genoese merchant frowned as he scanned an inventory list. "Ten ducats for a Bible?" he muttered. It was a sum that stung—but one that these merchants gladly paid, knowing that in their own lands, these books would sell for far more.
Word spread across the Mediterranean about the immense success of Morea's printed books, and now traders who once sailed only for silk and spices came for knowledge. The demand had soared so high that shipments to the Papacy, Venice, and Genoa were already secured before the books even left the presses.
Yet Constantine's attention was not on the trade. His gaze remained fixed on a galley mooring at the farthest pier, its oarsmen drawing their long sweeps into the hull as it drifted into position. Two figures, cloaked and travel-worn, disembarked with swift, purposeful steps, their movements betraying both urgency and fatigue. His agents.
He turned to the men standing beside him—Captain Andreas, his most trusted military officer, and Theophilus Dragas, his cousin and right hand now that George Shrantzes was governor of Mystras. Both men had watched over the mission's progress from afar, awaiting the news.
"They've returned," Constantine murmured.
Andreas, his sharp brown eyes squinting against the morning sun, gave a short nod. "We'll soon see if their journey was worth it."
The agents moved through the crowded waterfront with single-minded purpose, their dark cloaks billowing in the brisk, salt-laden wind. The docks were a riot of motion and noise: dockworkers hoisted heavy barrels onto splintered carts, sailors haggled with crooked merchants over crates of spices and wine, and beggars clamored for coins in shrill voices. Despite the clamor, the agents pressed on, weaving through knots of laborers and sidestepping half-drunken soldiers just stumbling off their ships. Their boots clattered against the warped wooden planks, each echo swallowed by the crash of distant waves.
At last, they spotted Constantine standing beneath the shadow of a building. Even from afar, his bearing marked him as a ruler—his posture erect, his gaze calm yet watchful. His retinue stood at a respectful distance, forming an invisible boundary between him and the milling throng. When the agents reached him, they immediately dropped to one knee in the traditional Byzantine gesture of fealty, fists pressed against their hearts.
"Emperor," the elder of the two greeted, his voice hoarse from weeks of hard travel. Fatigue clung to him like a second skin, but there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes. Urgency radiated from every tense line of his body.
Constantine nodded and motioned for them to rise. "Stand," he said, his tone firm yet not unkind. "You've come far. We will speak privately."
He pivoted on his heel and led them away from the teeming docks, where the smell of fish and tar hung thick in the air. His personal guards cut a path through the onlookers. A few curious stares followed, but most returned to their business, content that their Emperor's affairs were far above their station. Soon, the noise faded to a dull roar behind them as Constantine guided the pair toward the fortress gates—a stone battlement perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the sea.
They passed through a narrow courtyard filled with stacked crates and spare weapons, weaving between patrolling soldiers who snapped to attention at the Emperor's approach. A set of heavy wooden doors led inside the sea fortress proper, and torches flickered in wall sconces, chasing away the cool dimness of the corridors. Eventually, they entered a modest chamber: its high-beamed ceiling lent it a sense of openness, while a single narrow window allowed a shaft of sunlight and a gentle breeze to drift in from the harbor. The only furniture of note was a sturdy oaken table, upon which lay a parchment map of Albania and Western Greece, inked with the winding courses of rivers and the sharp lines of mountain ranges.
Constantine gestured for Theophilus and Andreas—his trusted confidants—to gather near. The two agents remained standing, their bearing tense. Their message could not wait on formalities.
"Speak," Constantine commanded softly, yet the urgency in his voice was unmistakable. He took his place at the head of the table, eyes fixed on the men.
The elder agent inclined his head. "The rumors are true, Emperor: Albania has risen in full revolt against the Turks."
He paused, searching Constantine's gaze. Seeing that the Emperor was ready for every word, he pressed on. "Andrea Thopia, a local noble with considerable influence, delivered the first blow. He ambushed an Ottoman detachment in central Albania. Emboldened by his success, others followed suit, and now the rebellion spreads like wildfire."
Constantine's expression grew intent. "Who else fights?"
"In the south, the noble Depë Zenebishi has returned from exile," the agent continued. "After instigating a revolt in nearby areas, including Këlcyrë, Zagorie, and Pogon, his forces have besieged the southern city of Gjirokastër, which serves as the capital of the Sanjak of Albania. At Këlcyrë, his men successfully captured the castle, but the siege of Gjirokastër is prolonged and still ongoing. In the Shkumbin Valley, Gjergj Arianiti—once an Ottoman hostage—escaped from Edirne. He's since built a following of fighters. He strikes at the Turks whenever he can."
He paused, allowing the import of his words to settle. Constantine leaned over the map, tracing a finger along the southern passes. "And the Ottomans themselves?" he asked quietly.
"They are losing their grip on Albania by the day," the agent answered. "Murad's forces were forced to abandon Vlorë, leaving it in the hands of local rebels. Garrisoned strongholds in the highlands have been surrounded and cut off from supply lines. Hoping to stamp out the uprising swiftly, they dispatched an army of ten thousand under Ali Bey to retake control—but Gjergj Arianiti lured them into an ambush near Buzurshekut. The Ottoman force was shattered, with few survivors."
Andreas, who had been listening intently, let out a low whistle. "That's no skirmish," he muttered, voice gravel-thick. "They bled the bastards in those passes. The Turks will feel that loss in their bones—and they'll want blood for it."
Theophilus folded his arms, his thoughtful gaze lingering on the spread of rebel territory marked on the map. "A wound, yes—but not a mortal one," he said quietly. "Murad is not a man to let insults fester. He'll return—harder, faster, and with fire enough to cleanse every village that dared defy him."
"They will indeed return," the elder agent affirmed, his voice grim. "We've heard talk that Murad may lead the next offensive himself to crush the rebellion once and for all."
A chill swept through the room, despite the salt-scented breeze drifting from the narrow window. The Emperor knew well the gravity of facing Murad on the battlefield.
"How many rebels can the Albanian lords muster?" Andreas asked, shifting his weight anxiously.
"They are scattered, but growing in number," the agent replied, hesitating only a moment. "Depë Zenebishi has between two and three thousand in the south. Gjergj Arianiti musters nearly four thousand in the central regions. Others like the Thopias and Muzakas are rallying more every day. Altogether, perhaps ten thousand. But they fight with meager arms: hunting bows, rough pikes, and whatever Ottoman gear they can capture. Organized training is scarce. Their supply lines are fragile."
Constantine exhaled slowly, turning to Theophilus and Andreas. "They have courage and a swelling tide of recruits," he said, "but little in the way of proper weaponry, no strong supply network, and no broader alliance to sustain a true war. If we do nothing, they'll be overrun once the Ottomans bring their main armies."
Theophilus inclined his head, voice low and deliberate. "Just so. A revolt cannot live on courage alone—it needs steel, discipline, and ground to stand on. And if Murad rides out himself, God help us, we must answer not with noise, but with speed and purpose."
Constantine's thoughts raced. If he acted now, he could fan this rebellion into a great conflagration—one that would bleed the Ottomans from the west. The timing was critical.
He looked at the agents again. "And the Venetians? How do they respond to this turmoil in their backyard?"
A flicker of irritation passed over the younger agent's features. "They stand idle," he said in a clipped tone. "They hold Durazzo and Scutari but do not commit troops. They fear provoking the Ottomans. But some of their captains whisper that if the rebellion shows true promise—if it looks like the Turks can be beaten—they might join in. Venice is ever cautious but rarely misses a chance to profit from a changing balance of power."
Constantine tapped the table's edge, his gaze flicking over the Venetian-held ports on the map. "They'll wait until they see which side is winning," he murmured, half to himself. "Their commerce depends on open seas and stable trade routes, but if they sense an opportunity to weaken the Ottomans without incurring too great a risk, they won't stand by."
He paused and let out a measured breath, then shifted his focus southward toward Western Greece. "And Carlo II Tocco? What news from his lands?"
The elder agent cleared his throat, his eyes briefly flicking to his companion. "Lord Tocco's grip is faltering," he said. "We've heard a steady flow of reports—priests, local elders, small-time Orthodox landowners—each lamenting Tocco's mismanagement. They call for liberation, many invoking your name as the rightful ruler. Even Tocco's own lords whisper that his power is waning."
The younger agent nodded in agreement, gesturing at the map. "Outside Arta, he holds little with any certainty. The realm he once commanded is a shell of its former self. His war with Memnone over the last couple of years left him battered, and he lost significant territory. Now, he barely manages to defend his central strongholds. The people's loyalty is paper-thin."
Constantine listened with a sober expression. Western Greece had slipped from imperial hands long ago. Yet the locals still remembered, still yearned for the days when the Empire's presence united their lands. A fracture in Tocco's dominion opened a rare window of opportunity.
The Emperor let silence fill the room for a heartbeat, then rose from his seat, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the stone floor. His gaze fell upon the two agents, and the corners of his mouth curved into a faint, resolute smile.
"You have done well," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine respect. "Take your rest while you can. I will need you again before long."
The agents bowed their heads, relief, and pride etched across their weary features. They withdrew from the room, leaving Constantine with Andreas and Theophilus. The Emperor stood by the table for a moment longer, eyes drifting over the map of Albania. Outside, gulls cried over the harbor, and somewhere beyond these walls, the fate of an entire region hung in the balance.
Before him lay a choice: to intervene and bolster the Albanian rebels, to pressure the ever-fickle Venetians, and perhaps reclaim Western Greece from Tocco's feeble grasp. It was a chance to roll back the Ottoman tide, if only for a time. Yet the risk was immense.
Steeling himself, Constantine laid his hands flat on the table. "We have much to do," he murmured, half to himself and half to the men at his side.
Andreas leaned over the table, one calloused finger gliding across the map like a blade. His eyes, cold and focused, traced the fractured coastline. "It wouldn't take a siege," he said, voice firm with a soldier's certainty. "Preveza, Angelokastron, Vonitsa… They're held by name, not by strength. March in with banners flying and half their garrisons will melt away."
Theophilus remained still, arms crossed tight over his chest. His gaze didn't leave the map, but his voice came with the slow weight of experience. "And when the banners are lowered? When our backs are turned?" He shook his head faintly. "To hold a town is to bleed for it. Men forget that. The land remembers."
Constantine nodded slowly, his thoughts aligning with Theophilus' concerns. "If we seize these lands, we will be expected to hold them," he said, his fingers tapping against the wood. "Garrisons will be needed in every castle and town, men stationed to defend roads and supply routes. Every new town we take will require administration, resources, and protection."
Theophilus sat back, exhaling through his nose. "Overextension," he muttered. "If we stretch our forces too thin, we risk losing everything when Murad turns his eyes south once more."
A heavy silence filled the chamber.
The opportunity was undeniable. If Constantine struck now, the Byzantine banners could once more fly over lands lost to the Latins for more than a century. Orthodox Greeks under Tocco's rule would welcome them with open arms. But reality was a harsh master—every gain had a cost, and the Empire's resources were not limitless.
"We are not yet strong enough," Constantine admitted at last, his voice steady but firm. "If we reach too far, we risk losing the Morea itself. We do not have the men to hold the region and still defend against the Ottomans if they strike at us in the south. For now, we let Tocco remain where he is."
The decision was made, and though Andreas looked mildly displeased, he gave a curt nod. "Then we focus on Albania."
Constantine replied, "Gjergj Arianiti and Depë Zenebishi hold the rebellion together, but they lack weapons and siege capabilities. We will send them what we can spare—a small but effective force: a few cannons, one hundred men, and spare armor. They will train the Albanians in pike formations and artillery warfare, help them hold the land they've already won, and strengthen the siege of Gjirokastër."
Theophilus traced a line on the map, tapping the besieged city. "If Gjirokastër falls, the Ottomans will lose one of their most important strongholds in Albania. That will keep Murad's attention away from us for now."
Constantine's gaze lingered on the map, considering the delicate balance they were attempting to maintain. "We play for time," he murmured. "We need time to expand our armies, produce more firearms, and train our men. If we commit too much too soon, we will find ourselves overwhelmed when war comes to the Morea again."
Andreas gave a firm nod, his voice low and sure. "A small force, seasoned and sharp. That's all we need to stiffen their spine. Quick in, quick out—no long chains to drag behind us."
Theophilus exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing through his graying hair like a man counting burdens. "It is a cautious plan... and perhaps that is what the Lord asks of us now. Not valor without measure, but wisdom clothed in patience. Even saints knew when to wait in silence before striking."
"Seems to be the only plan for now," Constantine countered.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. Then, one by one, they nodded in agreement.
Constantine sat back in his chair, exhaling. "Andreas, send orders for the force to be assembled immediately. This meeting is adjourned."
As the council dispersed, Constantine remained seated, his gaze fixed on the maps before him. He had made his choice. Now, he could only wait to see what history would make of it.
AUTHOR NOTE: The events of the Albanian rebellion depicted in this chapter closely resemble those that occurred in the original timeline.
Like Award Reply99sersorApr 7, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 64: Embarking on the Mission New View contentsersorApr 10, 2025NewAdd bookmark#596The Port of Glarentza, Early April 1433
The dawn mist still clung to the wooden piers of Glarentza, curling in wisps around the crates and barrels stacked along the docks. The first light of morning shimmered on the Ionian Sea, its surface rippling as the tide ebbed and flowed beneath the hulls of the waiting ships. The air was thick with the scent of brine, tar, and freshly sawn timber as the port bustled with activity.
Men moved in a practiced rhythm, their voices mingling with the cries of seagulls and the steady pounding of boots on damp planks. Dockworkers heaved crates of iron-tipped pikes and bundles of armor onto the ships, their muscles straining beneath the weight of war. A wooden crane groaned under the strain of a Drakos cannon, its thick ropes creaking as they slowly lowered the massive iron beast into the hold of one of the modified transport ships. Below, sailors guided its descent, their hands steady despite the sweat slicking their brows.
"Easy, easy!" shouted a foreman, waving his hands urgently. "If that falls, we'll be fishing for bronze at the bottom of the harbor!"
A crowd had gathered along the docks, a sea of townspeople, merchants, and soldiers, their faces a mixture of awe and excitement. Children perched on the edges of barrels, their eyes wide as they watched the preparations unfold. An elderly woman clutched a wooden cross to her chest, murmuring a quiet prayer. A group of younger men, still too young for war, cheered as the soldiers boarded, dreaming of the battles to come.
Near the loading area, a group of monks oversaw the storage of posters and medicinal supplies, their brown robes fluttering in the sea breeze. "God's blessings upon you," one intoned, touching the wooden crates stacked high with dried herbs and linen bandages.
Nearby, an engineer clad in a soot-stained tunic wiped his hands on a rag and inspected another set of small boxes being loaded. He nodded in approval before turning to a young apprentice. "Check the fuses again. If we lose a cannon to damp powder, I'll make you scrub the decks from Glarentza to Himara."
Laughter rippled through the soldiers standing in formation, their shields slung over their backs, helmets tucked under their arms. The mood was high, this was no grim march to certain death but a mission of hope.
At the heart of the docks, Aristos, the officer in charge of the expedition, moved with sharp efficiency, ensuring everything proceeded as planned. His sharp eyes darted across the assembled men and cargo, missing nothing.
He pivoted sharply toward one of his lieutenants. "The gunpowder shipment. Have we accounted for all fifty barrels? No mistakes, this isn't some market stall, it's war."
"All accounted for, sir. Sealed and triple-checked," the lieutenant reported with crisp assurance.
"Good." Aristos allowed himself a fleeting, razor-thin smile. "And provisions?"
"Enough salted meat and hardtack for four weeks, water barrels filled and secured," came the brisk response.
Satisfied, Aristos allowed himself a brief moment to take in the sight before him. Five ships, laden with men, arms, and purpose, ready to sail. He exhaled slowly. We are ready.
A sudden gust of wind sent the banners of Morea fluttering, the double-headed eagle of the Palaiologoi rippling proudly in the morning sun. The cheers from the crowd grew louder as the last of the cargo was secured.
As Aristos looked toward the pier, he spotted two familiar figures standing at the water's edge, Constantine and Captain Andreas, watching the scene unfold. It was time.
Captain Andreas stood with his arms crossed, his gaze sweeping across the bustling harbor with the trained eye of a soldier. The scent of salt and freshly tarred wood mixed with the distant aroma of baking bread from the market behind them. Around him, the final moments of preparation played out, the clank of metal as armor was secured, the rhythmic shouts of sailors adjusting sails, and the distant neighing of horses being led away from the docks. Beside him, Constantine stood silent, his cloak shifting with the morning breeze.
"I should be the one leading this mission," Andreas said finally, his voice heavy and deliberate.
Constantine offered a wry half-smile, tinged with the calm cunning of practiced diplomacy. "And leave the Hexamilion undefended while you chase glory across the sea? Not today, my friend."
Andreas turned his head slightly, brow furrowing. "You need someone with real battlefield experience on this mission. Aristos is a fine officer, but he hasn't led men in a campaign like this."
Constantine clapped a hand on Andreas' shoulder, his grip firm. "I need you here. The Hexamilion needs you." He let the words hang between them for a moment. "This expedition is important, yes, but if the Ottomans test our defenses while you're away, who would I trust to hold the wall?"
Andreas exhaled deeply, grudging acceptance coloring his tone. "You have a knack for making bitter truth easier to swallow."
"Call it the grace of a crown," Constantine replied, his voice warm with subtle humor.
A voice cut through their exchange. "My Emperor, Captain Andreas."
They turned to see Aristos, his armor polished but practical, his stance straight-backed and disciplined. His dark hair was tied back neatly, and his sword belt sat snug against his waist. Behind him, the last few sailors were making their final rounds, ensuring everything was secure.
"All is ready," Aristos reported. "The ships are fully loaded, the men are aboard, and the wind favors our departure."
Constantine nodded. "Good. Then all that remains is for us to entrust this mission to you."
Constantine folded his arms as he looked over the final preparations, then turned to Aristos. "You have one thousand solidi at your disposal," he said. "Spend them wisely, arms, provisions, bribes if needed. But no waste." A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "They're among the first we minted, after all. Treat them carefully."
Aristos smirked. "I'll make sure they don't end up in a dice game, my Emperor."
Constantine stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Your mission is to aid the Albanians, not to fight their war for them. Train them, arm them, and reinforce their siege, but do not squander your men on reckless engagements. If Gjirokastër falls, the Ottomans will strike back with force. Be prepared."
Aristos nodded, his expression serious. "I understand."
Andreas, still watching the loading of the last crates, finally spoke. "Stay disciplined, Aristos. If things turn, don't try to be a hero. A good officer wins the war by staying alive."
"I'll bear that in mind, Captain," Aristos said with formal respect, a subtle nod acknowledging the veteran's wisdom.
The gangplanks were being drawn up now, the ropes loosened from the moorings. The cheers of the crowd swelled as the sails of The Kyrenia unfurled, catching the wind like the wings of a great bird.
Constantine took a step back, his hands clasped behind him. "May the Lord guide your path," he said, raising his voice over the growing din. "And may you return in triumph."
With a final salute, Aristos turned on his heel and strode up the ramp onto the ship. The gangplanks were pulled away, and the fleet slowly drifted from the docks.
Andreas and Constantine stood side by side, watching as the ships moved into open waters. The banners of the empire fluttered in the wind, and for a brief moment, the horizon was filled with the promise of something greater, something more than just survival.
But as the ships grew smaller, fading into the distance, Constantine's expression darkened. He had sent them into a firestorm.
The Voyage and Arrival at Corfu
The Kyrenia cut through the calm waters of the Ionian Sea, its sails taut with the steady wind. The rhythmic creak of timber and the splash of oars from the escorting galleys filled the air, blending with the cries of gulls overhead. The small fleet sailed in close formation, their banners fluttering in unison as they pressed northward along the Greek coast.
On the main deck, Aristos stood near the railing, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The sun hung low now, its golden light casting long shadows across the rippling waves. The sea was merciful today, no raging storms, no treacherous winds, only the endless blue stretching ahead, guiding them toward Corfu.
The men, still fresh from the excitement of departure, had settled into the rhythm of the voyage. Some sat on crates, sharpening their weapons or adjusting their armor. Others gathered near the mast, murmuring prayers with the monks who had joined the expedition. The engineers huddled near the bow, discussing how best to position the cannons when they reached the siege.
Basil, a young soldier, leaned against the ship's railing, his gaze drifting over the endless sea.
"Strange, isn't it?" he said softly.
Aristos glanced over, his face thoughtful. "What's strange?"
Basil shrugged, nodding toward the horizon. "Sailing toward a war we haven't even seen. On land, at least you know where you're headed. Out here, it's just water until we arrive."
Aristos offered a reassuring smile, more to steady his own nerves than Basil's. "You get used to it. War doesn't always let you know what's ahead, but that doesn't mean we aren't ready."
A sudden call from the lookout interrupted them. "Land ahead!"
All eyes turned toward the horizon. There, rising from the sea like a darkened jewel, was the island of Corfu—Venetian territory.
The fleet adjusted course, angling toward the sheltered bay near the town. As the ships neared the shore, the towering walls of Corfu's fortress became visible, standing like a sentinel against the encroaching twilight. Venetian galleys bobbed in the harbor, their captains watching the approaching Byzantine fleet with quiet scrutiny.
"Lower the sails!" came the orders. Ropes were thrown, anchors dropped, and soon the ships rocked gently in the harbor's embrace.
A small Venetian delegation awaited them on the dock, no grand reception, just a handful of men in fine but practical attire. Their leader, a thin man with keen eyes and a well-groomed beard, stepped forward as Aristos and a few officers disembarked.
"Captain," the Venetian said smoothly in accented Greek. "I am Pietro Morosini, governor's aide. We received word of your arrival, your passage has been approved as agreed. You and your men may stay for the night, as per the arrangement."
Aristos offered a respectful nod, careful to project calm authority despite the youthfulness visible on his features. "We appreciate your hospitality, and we'll set sail for Himara at first light tomorrow."
Morosini studied him carefully. "War stirs in Albania, and now Byzantine ships sail north with armed men. Venice values its neutrality, as I'm sure you understand."
Aristos met his gaze directly, voice steady and respectful. "We have no quarrel with Venice, nor would we jeopardize your neutrality. You have our assurance, we'll keep our stay brief and peaceful."
The Venetian pursed his lips, then gave a small nod. "Very well. Your men may remain for the night as agreed, but ensure there is no trouble."
Aristos inclined his head slightly. "You have my word."
With that, the delegation departed, leaving the Byzantines to organize their encampment near the docks. Some men stretched their legs on solid ground, others remained aboard, resting for the next day's journey.
Aristos watched the fortress for a long moment before turning back toward his men. Tomorrow, they would set sail at dawn.
The morning sun had barely risen when the Byzantine fleet left Corfu behind, the dark silhouette of its Venetian fortress fading into the horizon. A steady wind filled the sails, carrying them swiftly across the Adriatic toward the Albanian coast.
After a couple of hours, the small port of Himara came into view, nestled between rugged cliffs and the shimmering blue sea. Unlike the grand harbor of Corfu, Himara's dock was modest, a cluster of wooden piers jutting into the water, weathered by salt and time. Beyond it, the town's whitewashed stone houses clung to the hillsides, their rooftops bright against the deep green of the surrounding mountains.
Bonfires flickered on the slopes above, signals from Depë Zenebishi's men, confirming that the Byzantines were expected. On the docks, a gathering of armed men stood waiting, their posture rigid, their weapons glinting in the sunlight.
As the ships approached, Aristos stood at the bow, studying the shore with a keen eye. The Albanian rebels were warriors of the mountains, fiercely independent, hardened by years of resistance against the Ottomans. They had accepted Byzantine aid, but trust was something that had to be earned.
With a final command from the helmsmen, the ships eased into the harbor, their hulls bumping gently against the wooden piers. Gangplanks were lowered, and the Byzantine soldiers began disembarking, their boots thudding against damp planks. The dock groaned under the weight of barrels of gunpowder, crates of weapons, and the canons, which had to be hauled ashore with the help of oxen and sweating laborers.
A small delegation of Albanians stepped forward, their leader a tall, bearded warrior clad in worn leather and chainmail. His dark eyes swept over the Byzantine force, lingering on the cannons before returning to Aristos.
"You bring arms and men," the warrior said in heavily accented Greek. "Good. But war is not won with gifts alone."
Aristos straightened slightly, his voice clear and sincere. "We bring more than weapons, we bring experience." He gestured to the engineers and veteran soldiers organizing the supplies. "Soldiers who've fought the Ottomans, cannons to breach their walls, steel to empower your fighters. We'll stand together and drive them back."
The Albanian's lips curled slightly, not quite a smile, but close enough. He gave a firm nod. "Then let us waste no time."
With that, the march to Gjirokastër began.
The journey inland was grueling. The mountain passes were steep and unforgiving, the narrow trails barely wide enough for the carts carrying the cannons. The soldiers moved in disciplined columns, while Albanian scouts darted ahead, their eyes scanning for signs of Ottoman patrols.
Villages along the route offered what aid they could—baskets of bread and dried meats, flasks of honeyed water, and whispered blessings from Orthodox priests who saw the Byzantine arrival as a sign from God. The locals spoke of the siege in hushed tones, of Depë Zenebishi's forces encircling Gjirokastër, of Ottoman garrisons still holding strong behind the city's walls.
"The Turks are trapped inside, but they do not yield," one elder warned Aristos as they passed through a small settlement. "They wait for reinforcements from the east."
Aristos exchanged a glance with his officers. Time was against them. If Murad's forces arrived before the city fell, all would be for nothing.
On the fourth day, as dusk settled over the land, the Byzantine force crested a ridge, and there, stretched before them in the valley below, was Gjirokastër.
Smoke curled from the besieged city, black scars of war marring the stone walls. The banners of the Ottomans still hung defiantly over the towers, while beyond the trenches of the Albanian rebels, flickering torchlight marked the positions of the encampments surrounding the city.
Aristos surveyed the battlefield, his mind already calculating the best approach. His eyes locked onto a weakened section of the southwestern wall, where the masonry was older, worn from years of exposure.
He turned to his officers, his voice hard and decisive. "We will set the cannons on that southwestern wall. We'll hammer them until the stone gives way."
Aristos drew his sword and pointed toward the city.
"It's time we give the Turks a taste of our fire."Last edited: Apr 10, 2025Like Award Reply104