The sun burned high over the makeshift siege lines of Gjirokastër, bathing the encampment in a glare that shimmered off iron helmets and battered pikes. The acrid scent of spent gunpowder clung to every breath of wind, a testament to days of cannon fire aimed at the centuries-old walls. Here, on the rolling hills south of the city, the armies of Depë Zenebishi and the small Byzantine contingent under Aristos had settled into a tense rhythm of watchful waiting and sporadic bombardment.
From a short distance, the repeated thunder of the cannons reverberated through the camp, each boom punctuated by the distant crash of stone from the battered fortifications. Plumes of dust rose where the iron shot struck, but from where Aristos stood, squinting in the harsh sunlight, progress against the walls remained frustratingly slow.
He turned at the sound of heavy footsteps on the stony ground behind him. Depë Zenebishi approached, broad-shouldered and dressed in a mix of chainmail and rough leathers. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his dark, keen eyes flicked between Aristos and the line of cannons positioned along a hastily built earthen rampart.
"We shoot, we shoot," Depë said, his Greek blunt and choppy, "but walls stand." A note of impatience bled through each curt syllable.
Aristos wiped the back of his neck with a linen scrap. "The walls will come down in time. We have only so much powder, Zot " he replied, using a respectful title for the Albanian lord. "We must be careful not to waste our shots."
Depë's thick brows knit together, his frustration evident. "We cannot wait too long. Defenders have food… enough for months. If we give them time, reinforcements will arrive."
Aristos followed Depë's gaze across the dry moat to Gjirokastër's ramparts. Black smoke from cooking fires drifted above the battlements, and the Ottoman banners still snapped in the breeze. "I know," Aristos said quietly. "But if we rush the walls now, we'll lose too many men. We need a proper breach."
Depë exhaled, his breath harsh, then turned to watch a fresh company of his own warriors drilling nearby. They were an assortment of mountaineers and part-time fighters, sporting mismatched cuirasses, helmets, and new pikes courtesy of the Byzantine supply. A few of Aristos' own men were trying to teach them a more disciplined pike formation—straight lines, interlocking spears, steady footwork. But the Albanians, fiercely independent and more used to swift ambushes, grew restless under such rigid tactics.
"My men not used to stand so… stiff," Depë muttered, nodding at the ragged lines. "Hard to learn pike, hold ground. They prefer hills, surprise attack."
Aristos offered a wry smile. "I understand. But to crack this city, we need them to stand firm under cannon fire and repel Ottoman sallies. If the walls weaken enough for an assault, we'll need discipline to push through."
Depë grunted, unconvinced. "We fight as we know. Your men… teach what you want, but do not expect miracles." He spat on the ground, then shifted the topic with abrupt directness. "News from the north, Andrea Thopia took two more villages. And word from Shkumbin Valley, Gjergj Arianiti cleared the Turks. He holds the road now."
At that, Aristos' expression brightened slightly. "A good turn of events. Thopia's success means less pressure on us here."
Depë gave a curt nod of agreement. "Yes. But none of it matters if…"
His sentence trailed off as one of Aristos' artillery crews came bounding toward them, a young gunner panting for breath. "Captain, Zot!" he exclaimed, voice quivering with excitement. "The cannon fire just now—part of the upper wall has collapsed! Looks like a decent section, too."
Aristos and Depë exchanged a glance before hastening across the camp. They found the cannon emplacements arrayed in a jagged line—six guns in total, their muzzles still hot from recent discharges. Smoke lingered in the sultry air, and the sour smell of sulfur tickled Aristos' nostrils. From here, they had an excellent view over the city's southwestern bastion.
Sure enough, a large chunk of masonry had crumbled from the upper battlements, leaving a jagged gap where defenders once stood. Dust and debris still swirled in the air. Through that breach, the sky over Gjirokastër seemed wider, as though the fortress itself were drawing a labored breath.
Depë let out a sharp bark of approval. "Good. The walls come down. Now we storm!"
Aristos raised an arm to stall him. "It's too soon. We may have knocked loose some stones, but there's still a good stretch of wall standing. Any assault now would force us into a choke point. We'd be cutting through rubble—an advantage for the defenders."
Depë fixed him with a hard stare. "Better we try while they are shaken. If we wait, they recover."
Aristos nodded, conceding the point. "True. But we still have enough powder for a few days' worth of bombardment. We can open a bigger breach before committing your men to a bloody attack."
The Albanian warlord let out a long, slow breath, as though forcing himself to accept a harsh truth. "Always talk, Aristos… talk, talk." He jabbed a finger at the missing section of wall. "But you said the walls fall slowly. They do. Fine. I will trust you—for now."
A flicker of relief passed across Aristos' face. He pressed a hand to Depë's shoulder, a gesture of reassurance. "Have faith, Zot. With each passing day, our cannons will carve a wider path through their defenses. When the breach yawns wide enough for a true assault, your moment will come. I swear it."
Across the camp, the Albanian pike trainees paused to gawk at the destruction. A few let out triumphant cries, brandishing their weapons at the wounded fortress.The Byzantine gunners at the cannons exchanged grins and claps on the back, waiting for the barrels to cool.
Depë cast one last glance at the shattered rampart, a torn shape silhouetted against the deepening afternoon light. Then he growled a low command in Albanian, and his subordinates scattered to inform the rest of the besiegers of the slight but definite progress.
Aristos let his gaze linger on the crumbling stones. He could almost hear Captain Andreas' voice echoing in his mind—urging caution, reminding him that while victory was possible, it would not come cheaply or swiftly. Still, he could see the shift in the defenders' morale; the slow thunder of the cannonade was taking its toll.
He inhaled the sulfur-scented air and allowed himself a single moment of satisfaction. The walls are crumbling, he thought, recalling his promise to Depë. Slowly, yes—but crumbling all the same.
The sun beat down on the charred remains of Gjirokastër's southwestern wall, a silent testament to days of punishing bombardment. Smoke still drifted from the broken stones, swirling in lazy spirals that mixed with the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air. At last, after a steady pounding that had left the defenders weary and battered, the wall crumbled completely, opening a ragged breach wide enough for an assault.
Depë Zenebishi's men had wasted no time, hurtling through the shattered gap with ferocious determination. Their shouts rose above the confused clang of steel on steel; Albanian rebels—some in mismatched armor, others in simple leather jerkins—raced up the rubble-strewn slopes. The Byzantine support troops under Aristos followed close behind, pressing the advantage with disciplined pike lines.
The final clash was swift and brutal, but it soon became clear the defenders were hopelessly outnumbered. Within hours, Gjirokastër's inner fortress fell. The Ottoman banners that once snapped defiantly in the wind were torn down, replaced by the standards of Depë Zenebishi and the double-headed eagle of Byzantium. Triumph echoed through the streets—another Ottoman bastion toppled by the growing Albanian revolt.
Two days later
In the great hall of Gjirokastër's citadel, candlelight flickered against the cold stone walls. Aristos stood near a long, rough-hewn table, poring over a parchment map of Albania and the surrounding regions. His men and Depë's captains bustled about, moving supplies and sorting through captured weaponry. The mood in the fortress was jubilant yet tinged with a palpable sense of fatigue.
Depë Zenebishi himself strode in, shoulders thrown back with a prideful air. His normally severe expression carried the smallest hint of a grin.
"We took the fort, Aristos." His Greek still held its halting rhythm, but the words were charged with satisfaction. "Losses small. Victory big."
Aristos straightened, offering a respectful bow of his head. "Your men fought bravely and tthe cannons did their job —exactly as planned."
Depë dipped his chin in agreement. "Yes, good. My men see your ways work. Now they trust you more."
Aristos allowed himself a small smile. After days of tension with the proud Albanian lord, this was as good as open praise. "We've won an important foothold," he said, nodding toward the window overlooking the conquered battlements. "The Ottomans can't overlook this defeat."
Depë's jaw clenched, his momentary cheer dimming. "They will answer soon."
The gathering storm
The news arrived like a dagger in the dark—abrupt and ominous. Late on the second night after the fortress fell, a lone messenger, drenched in sweat and dust, pounded on the citadel gates. He brought word of a large Ottoman army, more than ten thousand strong, marching under Turahan Bey, one of Sultan Murad's most feared commanders. They were already crossing into southern Albania, burning villages suspected of rebellion and cutting off the mountain passes.
By dawn, Aristos and Depë convened an urgent council of war in the citadel's main hall. The atmosphere was grim.
Aristos tapped the map spread across the table, each line and mark illuminated by the weak morning light. "Turahan Bey is no minor warlord," he said. "He's a seasoned general who's crushed rebellions before. If he arrives in force, we could be trapped here in Gjirokastër with limited supplies."
Depë cast a glance around the chamber, where Albanian captains and Byzantine officers stood in a loose circle. "We have no time to fix walls," Depë said, voice firm. "We have little food. We cannot hold city against big force."
One of Aristos' lieutenants, a grizzled veteran named Markos, nodded in agreement. "We can't stay pinned down in a half-ruined fortress. We took it, but we don't have the men or material to repair the breaches—nor enough powder for another prolonged siege."
A murmur of assent rippled through the council. Supplies were meager; the captured stores from Gjirokastër were not enough to sustain a proper defense against a fresh Ottoman army. The local peasants, though grateful for liberation, had little to offer beyond their fields, already ravaged by war.
Depë slammed a callused hand on the table. "So we go. Burn what we cannot carry. Turks find only rubble."
Aristos met his gaze. "Scorched earth," he echoed. "It's harsh, but effective. If we can deny Turahan Bey the resources of the land, we can slow his advance. Meanwhile, we move north, join forces with Andrea Thopia and Gjergj Arianiti in central Albania. Together, we might stand a chance against such a large Ottoman army."
A tense silence followed, broken by one of Depë's older captains. "Do we abandon Gjirokastër to the Turks, then?" he asked, subdued anger in his voice.
Depë narrowed his eyes. "We can leave a small garrison, but they die if they stay. Better we hold strong in open field with allies."
Aristos spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "We must consider the long war. We've dealt the Ottomans a blow by taking this fortress. That victory still stands. But holding it right now… it's simply not possible with our numbers and resources. Turahan Bey's army is too large."
The men in the room exchanged reluctant nods, each realizing the painful truth: after their hard-won victory, they would be forced to abandon the very fortress they had fought so fiercely to capture. Yet none questioned the logic. To remain meant certain defeat.
A Bitter departure
By midday, the encampment within the city walls was a hive of activity. Soldiers loaded wagons with whatever supplies they could salvage—grain, dried meats, spare arms—and carefully packed the remaining barrels of gunpowder. Byzantine Engineers set small charges in the parts of the citadel too damaged to be defended, ensuring that if the Turks reclaimed Gjirokastër, they would inherit mostly rubble.
Depë's men moved through the surrounding fields, burning anything of value: grain stores, livestock pens, even fruit orchards leaving nothing for Turahan's forces. In the courtyard, townspeople who had sided with the rebels hurriedly gathered their belongings, ready to follow the withdrawing army rather than face Ottoman retribution.
Aristos walked the collapsed stretch of the wall one last time, his boots crunching over loose stone and shattered mortar. The acrid scent of smoke and gunpowder clung to the air, mingling with the dry wind that tugged at the edges of his cloak. He paused, his gaze lifting to the bruised sky, where the last traces of daylight bled into deepening twilight.
He exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the cross that hung from his neck—a simple, worn piece of silver, dulled by time and battle. Kyrie eleison... The whispered prayer left his lips, carried away by the restless wind.
This city should have been a triumph, a sign that God's justice had not abandoned them. A city taken in Christ's name should not have to be surrendered so soon. And yet, here they were, packing what little they could carry, setting fire to the rest, and retreating into the hills like fugitives. Was this a test of faith? Or a punishment?
The weight of the moment settled heavily upon his shoulders. He thought of his men, some wounded, others weary. He thought of the dead, their souls already commended to God. And he thought of the fight yet to come, of the Ottoman tide that would not relent until all of Christendom was swallowed whole.
Pressing the cross to his lips, he murmured, "Lord, if it is Your will that we leave, then grant us the strength to return. If we must fall back, let it be so that we may rise again."
Down in the courtyard, Depë watched his men finish their work with grim determination. When he spotted Aristos, he offered a small nod.
"Next time, we keep city. But now… we must be smart."
Aristos returned the nod. "We'll regroup with Thopia and Arianiti," he said, voice steady. "Our fight isn't over."
Together, they descended into the bustling courtyard, where the final wagons were rolling out. The fortress gates stood open, as if awaiting the inevitable return of the enemy. For a moment, Aristos glanced back at Gjirokastër's proud silhouette against the sky—another victim of a war without mercy.
Then, shoulder to shoulder, the Byzantine contingent and the Albanian rebels departed, leaving behind the smoking ruin of their victory, marching north toward a war that was only just beginning.
Author's Note:
In reality, Turahan Bey did led a campaign to relieve the siege of Gjirokastër in early 1433. He engaged and decisively defeated Depë Zenebishi's forces encircling the city under siege. This defeat resulted in Zenebishi's capture and subsequent execution, effectively quelling the southern insurgency and reasserting Ottoman control over Gjirokastër.Last edited: Apr 14, 2025Like Award Reply84sersorApr 14, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 66: The Emperor's Gamble New View contentsersorApr 17, 2025NewAdd bookmark#604Glarentza, May 1433
A faint scent of herbs and heated water lingered in the air as Emperor Constantine stepped into the modest hospital he'd commissioned on the outskirts of Glarentza. It was little more than a two-story stone structure with a series of simple rooms for patients. Its windows were thrown wide to let in the coastal breeze, and beyond the open doors, sunlit farmlands stretched toward the distant sea.
He paused at the entrance to examine a makeshift chart prepared by Damianos, the monk administrator. It listed the names, or descriptions, since many patients were illiterate, of those receiving treatment inside. Though only a few wards were filled, Constantine felt both pride and apprehension stirring in his chest. So many here had never known anything but the haphazard care of traveling physicians or the kindness of monastery infirmaries.
Inside the main hall, several rough-hewn cots stood in tidy rows. On one of them sat a man in a threadbare tunic—a farmer by the looks of his sun-scorched hands—head bowed as a surgeon's assistant carefully cleaned a wound on his forearm. In a far corner, two soldiers rested on cots, their bandaged limbs propped atop rolled blankets. They were the victims of a recent pirate attack on a Byzantine trade ship.
Constantine approached the surgeon, a lean man named Isidoros, who was preparing a fresh cloth. "Ensure it's boiled before you bind the wound," Constantine said, his voice quiet but firm. "Clean tools save lives. Do not forget that."
Isidoros nodded with a humble dip of his head. "As you command, Emperor."
A wooden basin beside him still steamed from the boiled water within. Not long ago, the notion of plunging metal instruments into near-boiling water had been met with incredulity. But word had spread that injuries treated here were less prone to the dreaded fever that often claimed lives after even minor cuts. Now, despite lingering skepticism, more and more townsfolk found their way to these halls in search of help.
Constantine moved on, pausing at the bedside of one of the wounded sailors. The soldier's leg was swaddled in a clean white bandage, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.
"How fares your leg?" Constantine asked, leaning close enough that the young man could see the concern in his eyes.
The soldier blinked, awed and uncertain. "It... it aches, my Emperor. But the surgeon says I'll keep it. I—" His voice trembled, astonished that the Emperor himself had come to check on him.
"Good," Constantine said gently. "Rest and mend. We need every man willing to guard these waters." The soldier offered a shaky smile, still disbelieving at the attention bestowed upon him.
Further along, Constantine saw a mother cradling her feverish child. Two nuns stood nearby, quietly praying while a physician examined the child's breathing. Constantine murmured a soft prayer under his breath—for the child and for this entire endeavor to succeed.
He was about to speak with them when a guard in the familiar crimson-and-black livery hurried into the hall. "My Emperor," the guard said, bowing, "apologies for the intrusion, but there is urgent news. An agent has returned from Albania."
Constantine straightened. "Where is he?"
"He awaits at the castle. His report concerns Aristos's actions in the north."
A spark lit in Constantine's eyes. "Then let us not keep him waiting. Have the surgeons continue their work here; I'll speak with them upon my return."
With a final sweeping gaze over the hospital wards, he bid a quick farewell to Isidoros and headed outside, leaving behind the murmurs of patients and the heady fragrance of boiled cloth and medicinal herbs. A growing crowd of townsfolk stood nearby—some waiting to be seen, others merely curious. As Constantine passed, a handful offered shy thanks or crossed themselves in reverence, uncertain but hopeful. Yet he also noticed the furrowed brows of several older women who whispered among themselves—doubtful, perhaps fearful, of what they saw as an unnatural merging of faith, herbs, and boiling water.
He made his way through the bustling streets, noting the mix of relief and skepticism on the people's faces. The hospital's expenses weighed on the treasury, as Theophilus—and even George Sphrantzes—had repeatedly reminded him. Yet the cost of gold seemed a small price to pay if it meant preserving health and boosting the loyalty of the populace.
At last, Constantine reached the castle. Stone steps led him up to the great hall, where the messenger awaited. Constantine gestured for him to rise.
"Speak," he commanded, voice taut with anticipation. "What news from Albania?"
The messenger swallowed. "My Emperor, Aristos and our allies managed to take Gjirokastër—if only briefly. Turahan Bey arrived shortly after with a large Ottoman force. Our men were forced to retreat north, hoping to meet with the other Albanian forces along the mountain passes."
Constantine's expression hardened, worry flickering in his eyes. "They captured Gjirokastër but couldn't hold it. So be it. What of Aristos? Did he survive?"
The messenger gave a resolute nod. "He fought fiercely and managed to withdraw with most of his men. They aim to regroup farther north, near Krujë, I believe."
Constantine exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Thank God. We cannot lose that foothold entirely." Straightening, he addressed the guard, "See this messenger is fed and allowed to rest." Then, turning back to the man, he added, "We'll plan a response as soon as possible."
His thoughts whirled. News from Albania could change everything.
"Summon Theophilus," he said quietly to a nearby servant. "We have plans to discuss."
The late spring sun cast long shadows across Glarentza's castle courtyard, heralding the chill soon to grip the region. Inside the council chamber, Constantine paced in slow, deliberate steps, the echo of his boots resonating off the stone walls. He had just exchanged greetings with Theophilus Dragas—his cousin and trusted advisor—before turning to face him fully.
Theophilus stood by a window, a shaft of golden light framing his composed features. In his hand, he held a small leather-bound notebook brimming with updates on book production and shipments of parchment. "You wished to speak with me, my Emperor?"
Constantine exhaled, allowing himself a brief pause before plunging into the news from Albania. "Aristos and his men have been forced back north from Gjirokastër," he said, voice tight with concern. "Turahan Bey arrived, and our forces withdrew to avoid a rout."
Theophilus pursed his lips. "And Aristos? Did the messenger say whether he's—"
"Alive, yes. Still fighting." Constantine leaned against a tall-backed chair, arms crossed. "They're trying to join the other Albanian forces, but the situation is dire. Turahan has a strong foothold now."
Theophilus nodded thoughtfully. "Then we must coordinate a response—either support them or draw Turahan's attention away."
"That is precisely why I summoned you. I need Andreas back from Hexamilion, and George from Mystras. We'll hold a war council in a week—no later. Bring them here."
Theophilus scribbled a note to himself, but before he could leave, Constantine's voice softened. "One more thing, Theophilus—any news of the agents we sent to Genoa? They were supposed to find Petros and Maria."
Theophilus's gaze flickered with concern. "None yet. No letters, no messengers. It's possible they're still searching. Genoa is vast, and Petros has a knack for vanishing off the map when he chooses."
A twinge of disappointment stabbed at Constantine. "I see..." he said at last. "Let me know the moment we hear anything."
Theophilus bowed, then exited, leaving Constantine alone in the silent chamber, his hands clasped behind his back. Outside, the gulls cried over the harbor, their calls punctuating his deepening worries.
A week passed in a flurry of last-minute checks and hurried dispatches. Finally, the day of the gathering arrived. Seated at the head of a long oaken table in the castle's war room, Constantine glanced around at the men who had come at his summons: George Sphrantzes, ever-watchful, hands folded behind his back; Theophilus Dragas, parchment at the ready, calm as always; Captain Andreas, straight-backed in a plain tunic befitting a soldier, his gaze reflecting steady determination; and Gemistos Plethon, silver-bearded and serene, an aura of scholarly gravity trailing him like a cloak.
Constantine began by addressing Captain Andreas. "Captain," he said, his tone edged with urgency, "give us your assessment."
Andreas straightened, his voice carrying the gruff precision of a soldier. "We have nearly seven thousand trained Pikeman troops, reliable men who've undergone thorough drilling. Seven hundred Pyrvelos and thirty-two field Drakos cannons. Enough firepower to pack a punch, but not enough to withstand the Sultan if he marches at full strength, I believe. In a pinch, we can summon another seven or eight thousand volunteer pike-bearers from our armories, but they will need time to assemble."
Constantine's gaze shifted to George Sphrantzes, who stood slightly off to one side, observing with his usual caution. "George, what do your instincts tell you?"
Sphrantzes inclined his head, choosing his words carefully. "Murad might not expect us to strike in Thessaly—he'll assume we're still fortifying here in the Morea. That could work in our favor. But if he senses a threat to his holdings, he may well march south in force. Turahan will be pinned between defending Albania and protecting Thessaly. The question is, do we have the stomach to face a Sultan enraged?"
The question hung in the thick air.
Theophilus Dragas, standing behind a small mountain of parchment, cleared his throat. "If we remain idle, Aristos and the Albanians may be crushed. A swift strike in Thessaly could draw Turahan back and give our allies in the north some breathing room. And frankly, I doubt Murad believes we'd be bold enough to venture beyond our defenses just yet."
From his seat near the corner of the table, Gemistos Plethon regarded them with mild concern etched into the lines of his face. "Strategically, it's a risky gamble. But fortune sometimes rewards the unexpected. Let's not forget our promised aid from the Pope, Emperor Sigismund, Venice, and the Duke of Burgundy—though I fear those pledges may gather dust for years."
Andreas let out a low, humorless chuckle. "If ever! Latin lords have a knack for grand vows that go unfulfilled. We'd be fools to bet everything on a rescue from the West."
Constantine nodded thoughtfully, recalling the letters of congratulations and lofty promises he'd received after his coronation. "If we wait, we might gather a stronger coalition in the coming years—but we leave Aristos and the Albanians to fend for themselves in the meantime." He paused before continuing, "We should leverage what we do have. A thrust into Thessaly now, with Turahan off in Albania, could yield us strategic ground—perhaps cause chaos behind Ottoman lines. If the Sultan moves against us in force, we withdraw and burn whatever might aid him. If we strike swiftly, we might force him to split his armies."
George Sphrantzes folded his arms, a somber look on his face. "Agreed. But be warned: if Murad himself rides out, our advantage will vanish in days. We risk turning Thessaly into our graveyard if we overextend."
A heavy silence settled, punctuated only by the crackling of torchlight against the ancient stone walls.
Constantine lifted his hands from the table, resolve glinting in his eyes. "We have little choice. Let's act—and act swiftly. Summon the army. We'll move north to harass Turahan's holdings. If the Ottomans answer in force, we'll retreat and destroy anything of value to deny them its use. But if fortune smiles on us, we'll carve out new ground and show Europe—and our enemies—that Byzantium still stands."
Andreas gave a firm nod. "I'll gather the forces and ensure our supply lines and retreat paths are secure."
One by one, the men filed out—Andreas grim-faced but determined, Sphrantzes scanning the corridors with habitual caution, and Theophilus clutching his parchments. Gemistos Plethon lingered at the door, offering Constantine a parting bow before stepping into the hallway.
"Plethon," Constantine called after him, his voice low, "any word from Iskander yet?"
The silver-bearded philosopher paused, sympathy evident in his eyes. "None, my Despot. I've heard nothing since he first set foot in Anatolia."
Constantine pressed his lips together, disappointment flickering. "Very well. Keep me informed the moment anything changes."
Plethon inclined his head. "You have my word," he murmured, then slipped away.
Left alone in the wavering torchlight, Constantine ran a hand over an old map of Greece, tracing the routes soon to fill with marching feet and rolling cannons. His heart pounded at the risk, yet a flicker of anticipation burned within him. They would not wait for distant saviors; they would stake their claim on the empire's future—or perish in the attempt.
Author note : This is a big milestone for me, Book One is officially complete on Patreon!
Binge the full story, experience the epic finale, and get 13 chapters ahead, all live for patrons now.Last edited: Apr 17, 2025Like Award Reply95sersorApr 17, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 67: For God, For the Empire. New View contentsersorApr 21, 2025NewAdd bookmark#607Glarentza, May 1433
Glarentza awoke with the dawn, unfurling into a hive of activity beneath a pink and gold sky. The port city bustled like a marketplace at festival time. Long caravans of carts creaked through the gates, heavily loaded with various supplies. At the harbor, sailors shouted in a babel of tongues: Greek, Venetian, Genoese, Iberian, Burgundian, as they loaded wooden crates stamped with Morea's publishing seal onto ships riding low in the water. The salty air was tinged with the sharp scent of fresh ink and paper, the new perfume of prosperity that had come to define Glarentza's transformation. The main thoroughfare was alive, with traders hawking goods and locals rushing to fill orders.
Intermingled with the commercial fervor were the unmistakable preparations for war. Down by the docks, a line of ox-drawn wagons stood ready, packed with barrels of grain, salted meat, and amphorae of wine to fuel the coming campaign. Blacksmiths' forges glowed hot as armorers hammered out the final dents in breastplates and sharpened swords for the soldiers who would carry them. A squad of pikemen marched past in step, their boots drumming against the cobbles; their spear tips caught the morning light. Townswomen paused in their errands to watch the warriors go by, offering silent prayers or small cheers, while children ran alongside the formation with wooden swords, pretending to be heroes bound for glory. Glarentza thrummed with purpose, a city preparing its mind for trade and its heart for battle, united under Constantine's guiding hand.
Constantine rode slowly through the streets on his way to the castle, absorbing the sights and sounds with quiet pride.
At the castle's council chamber, Constantine found Theophilus Dragas already awaiting him beside a long oak table strewn with reports, ledgers, and a single Bible bound in leather. Theophilus's lined face broke into a relieved smile as his liege entered.
"Good morning, my Emperor," he greeted, inclining his head. Despite the formal words, there was a warmth between the two men born of hard-won successes and shared vision. Constantine returned the smile and clasped Theophilus's forearm in friendship before taking his seat at the head of the table.
"We live in extraordinary times," Constantine said as he ran his hand reverently over the cover of the Bible. The volume was one of the special Papal Edition copies, its pages still smelling of fresh ink. He opened it to a page where the black print of the movable type stood uniform and precise. "Ten thousand Bibles for Pope Eugene," he murmured, as if to himself. The reality of it still amazed him, just a couple of years ago, such a thing would have been unimaginable.
Theophilus's eyes shone with pride. "And the first four thousand are bound and ready for shipment, as you see." He tapped a parchment inventory. "The rest are in production around the clock. Our printing-press workshops have not been silent for a moment these past months. We even had to hire two dozen more apprentices to keep the presses fed with paper and ink." He chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the vast hall. "The coffers of Glarentza are heavier every day. Gold flows in as steadily as the Eurotas River in spring."
His tone turned more earnest as he continued. "In the past month alone, twelve Venetian and seven Genoese ships have docked here specifically to buy books. Burgundian traders have also started to arrive, the Duke is clearly pleased with our arrangement for scholarly works for his libraries. He's expressed his satisfaction in our recent correspondence."
Constantine allowed himself a tight smile of satisfaction. The Duke of Burgundy was one of the most powerful men in Europe; the ongoing trade and exchange of letters further cemented their relationship. "We will continue to accommodate them," Constantine said. "Since our initial agreement is proving fruitful, and given our established correspondence, if Burgundy desires more books, then by Christ, more books he shall have. Perhaps we can formalize a dedicated bookstore north. We've established a strong presence in Italy already; a more robust partnership with Burgundy is the next natural step."
"Just so," agreed Theophilus. He unrolled another parchment, revealing columns of figures and notes. "Our bookstore in Ragusa reports that every volume we sent last month sold out within days. The same in Naples. In Rome, Bessarion writes that the storefront we established near the market is drawing throngs of curious clergy and lay scholars alike. We can scarcely keep up with demand. The scribes in those cities have taken to calling our shopfronts 'miracle markets.'"
Constantine chuckled at the thought. "Miracle markets? If only Gutenberg could hear that." He caught himself and cleared his throat, waving a hand as if to dismiss a stray thought. "I mean, if only the scholars of Constantinople could see what a humble press can do."
Theophilus raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar name that had nearly slipped from Constantine's tongue, but said nothing as his lord smoothly continued, "Despite our recent expansions, made possible by Cosimo's generous investment, it's clear we've already reached our capacity. The demand for our books greatly exceeds our production capabilities."
He paused, glancing calmly at Theophilus Dragas, who stood quietly, observing him with thoughtful eyes. "Our coffers are full, thanks to your management and the success of these partnerships. We should establish yet another printing warehouse here in Glarentza, solely for secular works. The existing presses must remain focused exclusively on the religious texts. We cannot afford delays."
Theophilus considered this proposal carefully before responding, his voice soft yet carrying a steady authority. "You speak wisely, Emperor. Cosimo's funding has already provided us ample room to grow. Indeed, our revenues confirm your vision's success. We have sufficient gold at our disposal to finance further expansion ourselves, without depending on foreign patrons."
He hesitated briefly, his expression calm but pragmatic. "Yet we must proceed cautiously, Constantine. Expanding too rapidly risks spreading ourselves thin."
Constantine met his advisor's eyes and saw the unspoken worry there. Above them hung the question of survival against the Ottomans, along with the hope of reclaiming lost territories. He gave a firm nod. "That is precisely why we've pushed so hard on these fronts. The gold from book sales builds our army and feeds our people, but the alliances and goodwill they foster might one day tip the balance in a larger struggle," Constantine said, his voice echoing in the hall.
"Now, we must turn our minds fully to the campaign. The army is prepared to march at first light tomorrow. Let's ensure everything is in order for our departure."
Theophilus rose quietly, carefully tucking the ledger under one arm. "Earlier this morning, I took the liberty of inspecting the supply convoys at the docks," he said calmly, as they walked together toward the arched doorway. Sunlight spilled through, illuminating the hall with warm, golden shafts. "All provisions are loaded exactly as planned. Officer Marcos has wisely organized the wagons into two columns, they'll depart an hour ahead of the main army to gain a head start on the journey. He also ensured fresh horses are stationed at Andravida to keep the supply lines swift and steady."
Constantine nodded, clearly pleased. "Excellent. And the troops themselves?"
"They remain in high spirits," Theophilus replied softly, his voice measured and reassuring. "But perhaps you should observe them yourself. They're drilling now, just outside the main gate, awaiting your inspection."
"I will," Constantine agreed. He paused at the doorway, placing a hand thoughtfully on Theophilus's shoulder in farewell. "Take good care of the city in my absence, Theophilus. Glarentza and the Morea now rest in your capable hands. Keep the presses running, the trade flowing, and above all, our people safe."
Theophilus inclined his head respectfully, his calm eyes quietly reassuring. "By God's grace, I shall. Glarentza will stand ready to welcome you home in victory." He hesitated briefly, then spoke in an even softer tone, "And Constantine—be cautious. Remember, you carry more than the soldiers' hopes. The unity we seek depends greatly on your safe return."
Constantine offered a reassuring smile. "I'll return. Count on it." With that, he stepped confidently into the midday sun, striding toward the mustering field to review his waiting men.
Outside the city's main gate, a broad field stretched toward the olive groves, now trampled flat by weeks of training and encampment. As Constantine approached on horseback, a trumpet blew a sharp call, and the assembled ranks of soldiers snapped to attention. The sight before him made his chest swell with a mixture of pride and determination. Nearly five thousand men stood arrayed in companies. Sunlight gleamed off polished helms and the tips of thousands of spears held upright. Banners fluttered in the midday breeze: the imperial double-headed eagle and other standards marking the contingents of the Tagmata.
To one side of the field, rows of horses nickered and stamped, the cavalry forming up under their captain's watchful eye. Constantine noted with satisfaction that many of the riders now bore new lances and wore half-armor purchased with the newfound wealth of Glarentza.
A stocky officer in a crested helmet broke away from the front line and marched toward Constantine's group, saluting smartly. It was Officer Kastorios, one of the seasoned commanders Constantine had come to rely upon.
"The men await your review, Emperor," Kastorios said in a loud, clear voice.
Constantine dismounted, handing his reins to a waiting aide, and stepped forward to stand beside Kastorios. "At ease!" he called, projecting his voice across the field. The lines of soldiers relaxed slightly, though their eyes remained fixed on their emperor. Constantine paced down the first rank, with Kastorios at his side, surveying the troops. Many of these men he had personally recruited or trained with over the past year; he knew their faces if not their names. Here was Nikolaos, the former farmer who had volunteered after his village was raided last spring, now standing tall with spear in hand and resolve in his eyes. There, young Apostolos from Zakynthos, one of the mercenaries who fled a fallen fortress to seek service in the Morea—he gave a broad grin under his iron cap as Constantine passed. And at the end of the row, veteran Stephanos, who had fought for the Empire decades ago and now, in his greying years, had taken up his sword again for this final campaign. Constantine greeted each with a nod or a clasp on the shoulder, murmuring words of encouragement.
He stopped before a group of officers gathered near an open map spread atop a barrel. Among them were quartermasters and captains responsible for various units. "Gentlemen," Constantine addressed them, returning their salutes. "Report on our readiness."
One older officer with a neatly trimmed beard, Logothete Dukas, master of provisions, stepped forward. "Emperor, the army is well-supplied. We have rations for thirty days on the march without resupply. The wagon trains you saw in the city carry flour, dried meat, and olives, as well as gunpowder and other necessities."
"Very good," Constantine acknowledged.
Officer Kastorios spoke up. "Captain Andreas sends word that he's shored up his forces at the Hexamilion and drilled them there daily. He has three thousand men holding the wall now. Additionally, Despot Thomas is waiting with his contingent at Kalavryta, prepared to unite his forces with ours before we reach the Hexamilion"
Constantine placed a finger on the map, tracing the line of the Hexamilion. "We'll join Andreas and Thomas soon," he affirmed. "If the Ottoman Sultan's forces push down toward us, they'll find the wall well defended once again."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the officers.
"On that note," he continued, "George Sphrantzes is marching from Mystras as we speak with reinforcements. I expect him to reach us shortly after we make camp at the wall. He brings another three thousand, fresh recruits and some of the garrison from Mystras."
Kastorios drew a breath and clapped his hands decisively. "Morale is high, Emperor. The men are eager to march. They've been training hard and are hungry to prove themselves."
As if to underscore the point, one of the soldiers in the front rank raised his voice in a bold shout: "For the Ieros Skopos!" A chorus of assent rose behind him. Spears thumped against shields in a rhythmic din. "Ieros Skopos! Ieros Skopos!" the men chanted, eyes bright with fervor.
Constantine felt a surge of emotion at the sight of his army rallying to the cry. Holy Purpose—that was their oath and their aim. He lifted his arm, and the chanting fell silent in respectful anticipation of their leader's words.
"My brothers!" Constantine called out. "You have worked hard, trained without cease, and strengthened both your bodies and your spirit. Look around you. See your comrades at your side, each one as determined as you to defend our homes, our families, and our faith. Tomorrow, we march as one."
A wave of cheering answered him. He continued, his voice steady and carrying: "I am proud of each and every one of you. Proud to lead you. When we reach the Hexamilion, Captain Andreas and our fellow warriors there will join us, and together we will form an unbreakable line. The ancestors at Plataea and Marathon, the heroes of old, will look down and see that their blood still runs strong in our veins!"
Another cheer, louder than the last, erupted at the reference to ancient victories over invaders. Constantine raised his voice over it, finishing, "Rest tonight knowing you are ready. Tomorrow, we fulfill our sacred duty, our Ieros Skopos. For God, for the empire, for our people!"
At that, the entire field roared as men pumped their weapons in the air. "For God, for the empire, for Constantine!" someone hollered, and a new chant began to ripple outward: "Constantine! Constantine!"
He felt heat rise to his face at hearing his name shouted with such ardor. Humbly, he lowered his head a moment in acknowledgment, then signaled for the officers to dismiss the troops back to their tasks. The men broke formation gradually, many still energized and talking excitedly as they went about checking their gear or finding their tents to prepare for the journey.
Officer Kastorios turned to Constantine with a grin. "That should give them enough fire to march all the way to Thessalonica, my lord."
Constantine let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Let's hope it carries them as far as needed," he replied with a smile. "Thank you, Kastorios. You and the other officers have done excellent work."
Kastorios inclined his head. "We could not have done otherwise, not with the example you set, my Emperor. By dawn, all will be in order."
Constantine clasped forearms with Kastorios. "I have faith in you all. Until dawn, then." With that, and one last proud look over the field, where his men moved with renewed vigor, Constantine remounted his horse. He left the training ground at a canter, mind already churning with the plans and uncertainties of the battles to come.
Before the first light of dawn the next day, the army assembled at Glarentza's eastern gate by torchlight. A hush of anticipation hung in the cool predawn air. Officers barked final orders as soldiers strapped on helmets and shouldered their packs. Horses nickered and stamped, their breath misting white in the faint glow of lanterns. Despite the early hour, a great crowd of citizens had gathered along the city walls and roads to see them off. Many held candles or lamps, turning the darkened streets into a sea of trembling light.
Constantine rode to the head of his column, clad in half-armor over a padded gambeson and a crimson cloak that caught the morning breeze. At his side hung his sword, newly reforged and polished, and on his breastplate gleamed the emblem of the double-headed eagle picked out in gold. He took a moment to gaze back at the ranks of his men, a living serpent of steel and hope about to uncoil toward the horizon. His heart swelled with resolve and protectiveness. These men were his responsibility, as were the countless souls still within Glarentza's walls who depended on this army's success.
Dawn broke as a pale line on the horizon, and with it the church bells of Glarentza began to toll. The Archbishop of the city, clad in his vestments, stepped forward to give a final blessing. He raised a silver-cross-tipped staff and intoned prayers that rolled over the assembled host. Constantine bowed his head, making the sign of the cross, and heard thousands of soldiers murmuring "Amen" in unison at the prayer's conclusion. The Archbishop then walked along the front ranks, sprinkling holy water on the men and their banners, his voice ringing out, "May the Lord guard you and grant victory to your cause, your Ieros Skopos!"
As the first rays of sun peeked over distant hills, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold, Constantine turned to address the crowd one last time. He lifted his right hand and spoke, his voice firm enough to carry: "People of Glarentza! We go now to do our duty. We carry your hopes with us to the battlefield, and by God's grace we shall return victorious!" He paused as a cheer went up, then called out in a resonant voice, "For the safety of our homes, for the future of our children, for our Holy Purpose, pray for us, as we fight for you!"
For a heartbeat, silence followed his words, a collective intake of breath. Then a roar of voices answered, swelling from the walls and road. "Ieros Skopos! Ieros Skopos!" the people cried, raising fists and waving kerchiefs. The soldiers took up the cry as well, pounding spear butts against the earth in thunderous accord. "Ieros Skopos!" The phrase echoed off the stone battlements. Amid that crescendo came another refrain interwoven with it: "Constantine! Constantine!" The sound was like a rolling wave that washed over the departing army.
Constantine felt the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes as he witnessed the outpouring of support. He steeled himself, keeping his composure, but allowed a proud, grateful smile to cross his face. Beside him, Officer Kastorios raised his sword to salute the crowd, and other officers did likewise. Theophilus stood on the ramparts above the gate, hand on the parapet, watching with a mixture of worry and pride as his cousin and lord prepared to depart. Constantine met his eyes for a brief moment and offered a confident nod.
With the bells still pealing and the people chanting, Constantine faced forward toward the road that led east, toward the Hexamilion wall and the uncertain miles beyond. "Forward, march!" he commanded. A drum sounded a steady rhythm. The column began to move, shuffling at first, then settling into the cadence of a long march.Like Award Reply87sersorApr 21, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 68: The Road to Livadeia New View contentsersorApr 24, 2025NewAdd bookmark#614Constantine rode at the head of his column, the early sping sun casting long shadows over the dusty road from Glarentza. His cape fluttered in the breeze as he glanced back at the men following him. They had departed from Glarentza at first light, leaving behind the glittering Ionian Sea, and now every mile East felt heavier underfoot. Yet there was purpose in their steps. Constantine could sense it in the determined silence of the column and the way even the tired men kept pace. The Emperor himself bore an immense weight on his shoulders: the fate of a reborn empire rested on this campaign, and each stride took them closer to Ottoman-held lands.
As they passed the hill town of Chalandritsa, a small cheer went up. A contingent of local militia and conscripts waited by the roadside under a tattered banner. These were hardy men of Achaea, perhaps a hundred in all, eager to join the imperial army. Constantine raised his hand in greeting, allowing himself a faint smile. Their commander bowed stiffly, sweat beading on his brow. "Your Majesty, Chalandritsa sends what men it can," the man said, voice hoarse but proud. Constantine nodded in gratitude. "Every man counts. Join our ranks," he replied. The newcomers fell in line, earning claps on the back from the imperial soldiers.
Two days later, the column wound through the pine-clad hills toward Kalavryta. The sound of a distant horn echoed off the slopes as they approached the town's stone fortress perched above green hills. Suddenly, riders emerged from the gates, at their head Thomas Palaiologos, Constantine's younger brother. Thomas wore a broad grin beneath his helmet, and behind him trailed 800 troops in neat formation. When the brothers met, they clasped forearms tightly.
"It is good to see you safe, brother," Constantine said, voice warm. He looked Thomas up and down, noting the dust on his armor from riding. Thomas laughed lightly. "And you, Emperor. I wouldn't miss this fight for the world. Me and my men stand with you." He gestured back at his troops, roughly organized into companies of spearmen and light cavalry. Constantine's eyes shone with gratitude. He knew Thomas had marched these men quickly from their mountain homes to rendezvous here. "With your 800 and the others gathering, our cause grows stronger," Constantine replied. He lowered his voice, just for Thomas. "But your presence means even more to me. We fight together, as family—united." Thomas placed a gloved hand on Constantine's shoulder. "Always, my Emperor—always, my brother." The brief moment of affection passed, and both turned to the practical matters of merging their forces.
By late afternoon, the expanded army continued northward. Thomas rallying the newcomers with youthful enthusiasm, veteran captains coordinating supplies, and Constantine himself riding up and down the line exchanging encouraging words. With Captain Andreas to Corinth to prepare the way, Constantine relied more on his own presence to guide the men. He remembered a lesson from years past: an emperor must share in the hardship of his soldiers. So he paused often to walk beside the infantry, leading his horse rather than riding.
The Fires of Corinth
Four days later, the imperial army approached Corinth. As they trudged along the isthmus road, the Acrocorinth, Corinth's mountain fortress, loomed into view, crowned with fortifications glinting in the late sun. Below it sprawled the city of Corinth. The gates opened, and Captain Andreas dismounted and knelt briefly as Constantine came forward.
"Rise, my friend," Constantine said, also dismounting. The two clasped each other in a quick embrace. Andreas's armor smelled of forge-smoke and oil. "Welcome to Corinth, Emperor," Andreas said formally, then broke into a grin. "You've made good time. We've been busy readying things here."
The Emperor's arrival was greeted with cheers from the Corinth garrison and townsfolk lining the streets. New barracks of timber and whitewashed stone flanked the road, and hundreds of local troops stood at attention. Constantine raised an arm in salute as he passed. Reviewing the garrison, he noted their neat uniforms and their newly forged pikes and swords. These were not the tattered, demoralized Byzantines of years past, these were rejuvenated soldiers, chests proud, resolved to defend their empire. Pride swelled in Constantine's chest at the sight of them. Many were young men of Corinth and nearby villages who had grown up under the shadow of Ottoman raids, now finally given a chance to fight back.
Andreas led Constantine and Thomas through the bustling military quarter. The air rang with the clang of hammers on anvils. They soon arrived at the new forges for cannons, built just outside the city walls along a diverted stream. "We finished construction on these forges only a few months ago," Andreas explained over the din, shouting to be heard. Inside a large shed, several blacksmiths and artisans paused from hammering out sword blades to bow to the Emperor. Beyond them, a massive furnace roared with flames. Two shirtless smiths carefully poured molten bronze into a long cylinder mold—clearly the casting of a cannon barrel.
Constantine's eyes widened at the sight. "How many cannons have you produce?" he asked, inspecting another finished cannon that lay cooling on its trunnions. The black metal gleamed in the firelight. Andreas wiped sweat from his brow and answered proudly, "We have cast fourteen Drakos cannons and one large bombard so far, with more on the way. Enough to batter some holes in Turkish walls, I'd wager."
To demonstrate, Andreas guided them outside where a team of engineers were readying the new bombard for testing. The massive gun was positioned atop a rampart facing an empty hill outside the city. Constantine and Thomas covered their ears as the fuse was lit. With a thunderous boom, the bombard hurled a stone ball into the sky. A distant crump sounded as the projectile slammed into the hillside, gouging earth and stone. Soldiers nearby let out impressed whoops. Thomas whistled low. "That will shake the Turks' courage," he remarked. Constantine nodded, satisfaction on his face. The Emperor stepped forward and laid a hand on the warm cannon's flank, feeling the energy still thrumming through the metal. "Excellent work. We'll need every advantage we can get," he said. He took a moment to personally thank the sweating cannon-founders and smiths, acknowledging their vital role. Soot-stained and tired, the workers beamed at the recognition from their emperor.
Night fell, and campfires bloomed across Corinth as the main army settled in around the city. Constantine, however, had little time to rest. As he and his commanders gathered for a war council in the citadel, George Sphrantzes finally arrived with his reinforcements. Sphrantzes entered the torch-lit hall accompanied by three thousand soldiers from the south. He bowed deeply. "Forgive my lateness, My Emperor. We made all haste," George said. Constantine crossed the room and embraced him. "You are just in time, George. Your presence heartens me more than you know." Sphrantzes smiled, his travel-weary eyes crinkling. He quietly pressed a hand to Constantine's arm and surveyed the room of assembled leaders.
Council of War
Around a large oak table spread with maps of Greece, Constantine and his commanders convened. The flicker of oil lamps cast dancing shadows on the stone walls as strategy was laid out. Constantine stood at the head of the table. To his right sat Thomas Palaiologos and Captain Andreas; to his left, George Sphrantzes, quill in hand to jot down notes. Lesser officers ringed the table's far sides, eager but silent until called upon. The Emperor let his gaze fall on the men. In their eyes, he saw a mixture of determination and anxiety.
Constantine cleared his throat. "Gentlemen," he began, his voice low but steady, "we have gathered a formidable force through our preparations." He gestured to Sphrantzes, who unfurled a paper. Sphrantzes read the tally: "Our combined forces are around 12,000, including 750 Pyrvelos, 34 field cannons, and 400 cavalry." He looked up. "More volunteers may join as we advance, but this is our core."
Murmurs circled the table—12,000 men against the vast Ottoman Empire sounded both bold and perilous. Constantine raised a hand for silence. "Quality and courage will have to substitute for quantity," he said. "We will strike hard and fast, taking the enemy by surprise wherever possible. Our aim is to reclaim our homeland piece by piece, not to meet the Sultan's full might in open battle—at least not yet." The men nodded. This had been Constantine's mantra since the campaign's inception: swift movement, surprise, and seizing strategic points before the Ottomans could muster a counter-force.
Thomas leaned forward, pointing at the map. "We stand here at Corinth. The last friendly stronghold to the north is Thebes." His finger traced the route.
Captain Andreas tapped the map where Thebes lay. "Aye. Once past Thebes, every mile is enemy ground. The first major target would be Livadeia, here." He circled a spot northwest of Thebes. "It's a well-fortified town under an Ottoman garrison. From what our scouts report, Livadeia's walls are old but thick, and there's a castle on a hill that commands the area. The Turks have held it for a few years, using it to control the local villages and the road."
Sphrantzes added, "Livadeia is key. If we take it, we not only secure Boeotia, but we also cut off the Ottoman route from Thessaly into Attica. It will free the countryside around it. However, its garrison will likely fight stubbornly. They know they are an anchor of Ottoman authority there." He looked to Constantine, concern in his eyes. "We should be prepared for a siege."
Constantine crossed his arms. Siege warfare meant time and casualties, two things he was loath to spend. "We will first attempt a demand for surrender," he said firmly. "I have no desire to spill blood needlessly. If the garrison yields Livadeia upon our approach, we spare them and our men. But," and his voice hardened, "if they refuse, we will bring up our cannons and blast their walls to rubble." There was a quiet intensity in the Emperor's tone that made it clear he would not shrink from force.
The commanders exchanged looks. Thomas thumped the table lightly. "With our cannons, I daresay any town's walls in Greece will tremble." He was eager, confidence running high after seeing Corinth's preparations. Andreas gave a grim smile. "That they will. But let's not underestimate them. We should move quickly so they have no time to call for help from other Ottoman forces."
Constantine placed both palms on the table, leaning in. "After Livadeia, our next objective is Bodonitsa." His finger pointed to a fortress north of Livadeia, in the foothills near the pass of Thermopylae. "Bodonitsa is an old castle guarding the roads from the North. It's strategically important—control of Bodonitsa opens the way toward Zetouni and ultimately into Thessaly. If we take Bodonitsa, we secure our flank and gain a forward base to challenge Ottoman hold in central Greece."
Sphrantzes exhaled, "Bodonitsa… I remember the Margrave of Bodonitsa held it in the time of our grandfathers. Now the Turks garrison it. It won't be easily yielded either, but perhaps news of Livadeia's fate will reach them first."
Andreas chimed in with a wolfish grin, "If we do our job at Livadeia thoroughly, Bodonitsa's defenders might lose their stomach to fight." There were knowing looks around the table, Andreas had a reputation for ruthless efficiency. Constantine did not miss his captain's implication and allowed it for now.
They spent the next hour discussing logistics: how to provision the march through Thebes, which scouts would ride ahead to reconnoiter the road, and the looming Ottoman response. "We must assume that the Sultan or his governors will not overlook these losses," Sphrantzes cautioned softly. "If we succeed in capturing Livadeia and Bodonitsa, they will undoubtedly dispatch an army, despite Turahan Bey being at the Albanian front."
Constantine met his old friend's eyes. "I know. That is why we must fortify what we take and be ready. Perhaps we can draw the Ottoman armies into terrain of our choosing, narrow passes, fortified cities. Every fortress we reclaim can be a stronghold to slow their advance."
Andreas thumped a fist to his chest, "Let them come. We'll be ready at Thermopylae or wherever they dare." A few men murmured in agreement, excitement tempered with the reality that those battles would be fierce.
At last, Constantine straightened and rolled up the maps. "Our course is set. We march at first light. Thank you, my friends. Get some rest, tomorrow, Thebes, and beyond it, the enemy." The men stood and bowed as Constantine left the hall, Thomas at his side.
Thebes, the Last Bastion Before the North
The morning sun bathed Thebes in golden light as the imperial banners fluttered atop the city's walls. The same walls that, only a year ago, had been wrested from the Turks under Constantine's command now stood as a proud symbol of Byzantine resilience, manned by soldiers wearing the double-headed eagle of the empire.
Constantine rode at the head of his army, passing beneath the stone arch of the city's gate. The soldiers of his Theban garrison stood in formation, their spears held high in salute. The streets were lined with townsfolk, some cheering, others watching in reverent silence. It was clear that while the city had grown accustomed to Byzantine rule once more, the scars of war still lingered in the wary expressions of its people.
John Leontios, the commander of the garrison, awaited him in the town square, next to the broken columns of an old building. A veteran warrior, John had overseen the city's defenses and ensured Thebes remained secure. He stepped forward and saluted, fist over heart.
"Your Imperial Majesty," John said, his voice steady. "Thebes remains loyal and steadfast in your service. The garrison stands ready, and provisions have been gathered for your continued march north."
Constantine dismounted, removing his helmet so the people could see his face. "You have done well, Captain. The city stands strong." He glanced around, taking in the sight of Theban soldiers patrolling the walls, their armor polished and spears sharp. "How does the garrison fare?"
John nodded. "We hold two hundred men here, trained and disciplined. The fortifications have been reinforced, as per your orders last year, and morale is high. However, there is troubling news from Livadeia."
Constantine's gaze sharpened. "Go on."
"The Ottoman garrison there remains entrenched," John continued. "Reports place them at around three to four hundred strong. The local Greeks are restless under the rule of the Ottoman bey. They would rise if given a chance."
Constantine exhaled slowly. The situation was as expected. He placed a hand on John's shoulder in appreciation. "Good. We march at first light."
Throughout the afternoon, the army resupplied. Waterskins were refilled at the fountains, bread was distributed from Theban bakers, and the final plans for the next phase of the campaign were drawn. By dusk, Thebes had become a hive of disciplined activity, readying itself for the march northward.Last edited: Apr 26, 2025Like Award Reply92