Apr 28, 2025NewAdd bookmark#628In the pale hours before dawn, Constantine quietly ordered the camp broken. Guided by Theban scouts familiar with the terrain, the Byzantine army slipped silently out of Thebes, beginning its swift march along an ancient Roman road toward Livadeia. To maintain speed, Constantine brought only essential supply carts and the field artillery, leaving the largest bombard in Thebes under a small guard to follow later if necessary.
Over the next two days, the imperial forces moved swiftly and quietly across plains and gentle hills, resting only briefly and marching again at first light. Constantine rode near the vanguard, listening to the rhythmic sounds of marching boots, the creak of leather harnesses, and hushed conversations. On the second evening, Thomas approached him, voice low: "Scouts report clear paths ahead. If fortune favors us, we'll surprise them yet." Constantine nodded thoughtfully, anticipation tightening in his chest. A quick and decisive victory at Livadeia would be invaluable; he silently prayed the defenders would choose reason and surrender peacefully.
Two days after their departure, the dawn's first glow found the Byzantines poised at the outskirts of Livadeia. The town stretched below, nestled in a mist-shrouded valley. Livadeia's walls appeared gray and gold in the emerging daylight, medieval battlements encircling the town. Dominating the scene, a fortress stood high upon a steep hill, like a crown overlooking the valley. Through the heart of Livadeia ran a shimmering river, catching the first rays of morning sun.
Within moments, alarm bells began to toll from inside the town, the swift approach of Constantine's army could no longer remain hidden. Though complete surprise had been lost, the Ottomans were clearly unprepared for the rapidity of the Byzantine advance. On the battlements, sentries scrambled hastily to their positions, still bleary-eyed from sleep and visibly shaken by the sudden appearance of thousands of soldiers outside their walls.
Constantine acted swiftly. Before the garrison could fully muster, he ordered his trumpeter to sound a parley. Under a hastily raised white banner, a small party rode forward toward the main gate, an officer sent by Constantine, flanked by a standard-bearer and a translator. Behind them at a distance, cannons were quietly being unlimbered and infantry deploying into formation, though Constantine hoped they would not need to fight.
As the small delegation came within earshot of the gate, the officer raised his voice, his tone carrying the authority of Constantine's rank: "To the commander of Livadeia! I speak in the name of Constantine, Emperor of the Byzantines. We have come to reclaim this town for our empire. Open your gates and surrender, and you will be treated with mercy. Resist, and you will meet the sword and the cannon. Choose wisely!" His words echoed off the walls.
For a moment, there was silence from the town. Then, a figure emerged atop the gate tower—a stout man in a turban and armor, likely the Ottoman officer in charge. He shouted back in Turkish-accented Greek, "Go back the way you came, Byzantines! This is Ottoman land. Your so-called empire is dust. If you retreat now, we will spare you. Otherwise, we will mount your heads on these walls!" The defiant reply was followed by an arrow loosed from the battlements that whistled well past the officer's party, more a show of contempt than true aim.
From his position further back, Constantine's jaw tightened as he saw the refusal clearly communicated. He raised a hand in a curt gesture, signaling the party to return. There would be no more words.
Riding back to his lines, Constantine's expression was grim beneath his helmet. He met Andreas and Thomas midway, where they waited tensely. "They refuse," Constantine said simply. Thomas spat, anger flashing in his eyes. "Fools. They could have lived." Andreas nodded, already turning to signal the artillery crews. "We'll make them regret that decision, my Emperor."
Constantine took one last look at Livadeia's walls and gave the final order: "Bring up the cannons. Commence bombardment."
With practiced speed, Byzantine engineers moved the cannons into position. They focused on a section of wall to the left of the main gate that looked slightly lower, perhaps an older repair, a potential weak point. The gunners loaded powder and shot into the Drakos cannons.
"Fire!" shouted the artillery captain. A deafening boom shook the morning as the cannons discharged. A cloud of sulfurous smoke enveloped the guns, and all eyes followed the stone balls as they hurtled toward the wall. With a resounding crash and a spray of masonry, one projectile struck near the parapet, knocking loose chunks of stone. Cheers arose from the Byzantine lines. Two more cannons followed, pounding at the heavy wooden gates.
Inside Livadeia, chaos erupted. The Ottoman garrison, perhaps still gathering arms, now rushed to man the walls under fire. They returned fire with arrows and a few sporadic shots from a couple of primitive small culverins, but the suddenness and intensity of the Byzantine barrage clearly rattled them. From the hilltop castle, a tiny muzzle flash signaled that the Ottomans had a cannon of their own—they fired downhill toward the Byzantine lines. The cannonball thudded into the earth harmlessly, well short of the guns. The angle was too steep and the range too far to hit the attackers effectively. "They can't depress their guns enough to reach us properly!" Andreas laughed, shielding his eyes to watch the castle.
Constantine observed the bombardment with steely focus. Every crash of stone on stone was one step closer to breaching the walls. His hands were clasped behind his back as he paced just behind the gun crews, trusting them to their work. On the walls, he could see the Ottoman commander gesturing frantically, likely urging his men to hold and return fire.
After a week of concentrated bombardment, Livadeia's outer wall sections were crumbling. Two large holes in the chosen wall segment, one breach was now nearly man-sized, rubble piling at its base. The gate, hammered by repeated hits, sagged on broken hinges. Smoke and dust blanketed the town's edge, and the morning air stank of gunpowder. Constantine knew it was time. He turned to his trumpeter and nodded. The call for assault rang out, a high clarion cutting through the haze.
"Pyrvelos and Infantry, forward!" Constantine shouted, drawing his sword and taking his place at the head of one formation. The Byzantine soldiers, adrenaline coursing, surged from their cover and rushed the walls with ladders and ropes. Constantine wanted to lead the charge himself, but Andreas firmly insisted that the Emperor stay slightly back to direct the overall attack. Reluctantly, Constantine acceded—his place was to command, though every fiber of him wanted to be shoulder-to-shoulder with his men in the breach. Still, he rode closer now, into the fray just behind the second wave, to see and be seen by his troops as they stormed Livadeia.
The first assault team reached the gaping breach in the wall where the cannons had done their work. Amid swirling dust, Byzantine soldiers clambered over the shattered stone. They met the Ottoman defenders in ferocious hand-to-hand combat on the breach itself. Swords clanged, men shouted in Greek and Turkish alike, and screams of pain mingled with battle cries. An Ottoman spearman thrust at the first man over the rubble, impaling him, but was cut down by a Byzantine right behind his victim. More Imperial troops poured in, fanning out onto the wall walk and the streets just inside the walls.
At the main gate, Thomas's contingent smashed through the weakened doors with a makeshift battering ram, a felled pine log carried by ten men. The gate burst open with a splintering crash. Thomas himself was among the first through, his sword flashing in the dim light under the gatehouse. Desperate Ottoman troops met them in close combat. Thomas parried a strike from a scimitar, riposting to fell his foe, and pressed onward with a shout: "For the Emperor! Ieros Skopos!" His men echoed his cry, pushing the enemy back step by step.
Soon the city of Livadeia was engulfed in chaos and brutality. Byzantine soldiers flooded the narrow streets, engaging pockets of Ottoman resistance. Some townswomen and children ran for shelter or cowered in doorways as the fight swept through. The local Greek populace, having endured Ottoman rule, mostly hid until the outcome was clear. In some places, bolder civilians even tripped up Ottoman soldiers or pointed hiding enemies out to the invading Byzantines. Here and there, small knots of Ottoman defenders threw down their weapons and attempted to surrender to avoid slaughter. Most of those who yielded were disarmed and corralled under guard, but in the heat of battle, some were cut down regardless—years of pent-up fury were being unleashed. Constantine had ordered mercy for those who surrendered, but controlling bloodlust amid street fighting was nearly impossible.
Within three hours, the town of Livadeia was in Byzantine hands. Constantine entered through the ruined gate on horseback once it was secure enough. The sun was high, illuminating scenes of devastation: bodies littering the breaches and streets, several houses on fire from stray sparks, the air thick with smoke and dust. He saw his banner, the imperial double eagle, being raised atop the central marketplace by a group of soldiers, eliciting ragged cheers from his men and some tearful shouts of joy from Greek townsfolk peeking out from their homes. A sense of grim victory settled over Constantine. Livadeia was taken, far more swiftly than he had feared.
However, above, the castle on the hill still stood defiant. During the fight for the town, the Ottoman garrison's remnant, perhaps a hundred or more soldiers, along with their commander—had retreated up the steep path to the castle, slamming its gates shut. That citadel, perched on a rocky outcrop, was a fortress within a fortress. It overlooked the town and would be difficult to storm. Even now, as Constantine's forces began securing Livadeia below, a cannon shot from the castle thundered out, smashing a section of an already ruined house near the town square. It was a futile gesture of defiance; the ball hurt no one, but it was a reminder that the enemy still held the high ground. Archers from the castle also loosed the occasional arrow down, forcing those in the open to take cover.
Constantine surveyed the castle, shielding his eyes with a gauntleted hand. His blood was up from the battle, and he was eager to finish this. "We cannot consider Livadeia truly ours until that castle falls," he declared to the officers gathering around him. Andreas stepped up, helmet under his arm, face smeared with soot. "I agree, Your Majesty. But that is a damned hard nut to crack. It sits on a sheer hill." Thomas approached, breathing hard but exhilarated from the fight. He had a shallow cut on his cheek, though he seemed not to notice. "We could starve them out," he offered. "Surround the hill and wait."
Sphrantzes walked over, having directed some mopping-up operations. He looked at the castle pensively. "Starvation could take weeks. Time we might not have—any day, an Ottoman relief force could march from the north if they get word." Constantine frowned. He refused to lose momentum. "No, we cannot afford a long siege here. We must take the castle, and soon. Andreas, bring up the cannons. We'll haul at least one gun close enough to batter their gate or walls."
Andreas blinked sweat out of his eyes. "It will be tough, Emperor, to drag a cannon up that slope or even partway. But we'll try." He barked orders to some nearby engineers. Soon, with ropes, winches, and sheer muscle, a team of men began the arduous task of moving one of the cannons along the winding path that led partway up the hill, stopping within range of the castle's main gate. The castle's defenders realized what was happening and started shooting bolts and rolling rocks downhill in response. The Byzantine cannon crew raised improvised mantlets to protect themselves as best they could.
Meanwhile, Constantine rotated fresh troops to surround the base of the hill, encircling the castle so no one could escape. The siege of Livadeia's castle had begun in earnest.
Throughout the rest of that day, the Byzantines bombarded the castle sporadically and probed its defenses. The single cannon, positioned precariously on a ledge, managed to fire a few shots that cracked against the castle's stout walls, but accuracy was poor given the upward angle. Musketeers tried to pick off any exposed defender on the battlements, but the Ottomans wisely kept their heads low. An attempt at negotiation, shouting up offers of surrender terms, was answered only by curses and another cannon shot from the castle that smashed apart the Byzantines' makeshift mantlet, killing two engineers behind it. Constantine seethed at the refusal. He saw the Ottoman flag still fluttering atop the castle tower and resolved it would come down or the structure would be torn stone from stone.
As dusk fell on the first day of the castle siege, the Byzantines made their first assault. Under cover of darkness, a group of volunteer soldiers, mainly Thebans and a few of Thomas's men, attempted to scale a less-guarded side of the hill using ropes and grapnels. They moved quietly, cloaked in black against the night. Constantine watched from below, tense. For a few minutes, it seemed they might reach the walls undetected. But a sentry's torch high above suddenly flared, and a shout rang out in Turkish—alarm. The defenders had spotted movement. At once, a hail of arrows rained down. Cries echoed in the darkness as some of the Byzantines were hit, their bodies tumbling down the rocky slope. The rest of the party retreated hastily, dragging their wounded with them. The attempt had failed.
Frustration mounted through the next day. Constantine ordered constant bombardment at first light. Finally, by afternoon, the repeated pounding partially shattered the wooden gate, and one section of wall nearby showed a crack. Seeing this, Constantine readied a second assault. He personally rallied three hundred men, some of his best swordsmen and armored infantry, under Captain Andreas's direct command, to storm the damaged gate. The assault would go up the main path, using mantlets and shields to guard against arrow fire as much as possible. Thomas volunteered to lead as well, but Constantine chose Andreas, reasoning that Thomas had already done much and that another capable leader could take this dangerous task. Andreas accepted with a pleasure nod, drawing his sword with a flourish.
At Constantine's signal, war drums beat and a horn sounded. Andreas's assault party trudged up the steep path toward the castle gate in tight formation, carrying a large mantlet in front like a moving wall. Arrows and quarrels peppered it, a few finding gaps and striking men who cried out. The steep incline made the approach agonizingly slow. Partway up, a huge stone hurtled down from the battlements, crashing into the formation and knocking several men off their feet with bone-breaking force. The rest pushed on, stepping over their fallen comrades. Constantine watched with bated breath from below, his fist clenched so tightly on his sword hilt that his knuckles went white.
At last, Andreas and his troops reached the shattered gate of the castle. With a roar, they threw aside the mantlet and rushed through the splintered opening into the courtyard beyond. For a moment, Constantine lost sight of them within the castle. He could only hear the clash of steel and screams echoing down the hill. Time stretched unbearably. Then a shout: someone atop the wall waved a torch—one of Andreas's men. A cheer went up from the Byzantines below as they realized the attackers had gained a foothold.
But the victory was not yet complete. The castle interior was a labyrinth of keep, towers, and narrow passages. The Ottomans fought like cornered wolves from one building to the next. Sphrantzes hurried to Constantine's side, an anxious look on his face. "We must send reinforcements, Majesty. If Andreas's men are isolated in there…" Without waiting for permission, Thomas had already begun to rally another wave to go support Andreas. Constantine quickly assented and sent Thomas leading another two hundred men up the path.
It took over two hours of brutal, close-quarters fighting, but by sunset, Livadeia's castle fell. Captain Andreas himself, bloodied and limping from a gash in his thigh, hauled down the Ottoman flag from the tower and raised the imperial banner in its place. A triumphant shout carried across the valley as those below saw the symbol of victory. Constantine closed his eyes briefly in relief. It was done—Livadeia, town and castle, was back in Byzantine hands.
The cost, however, had been high. As night fell, the army's mood turned somber when the casualty reports came in. Over 164 Byzantine soldiers lay dead, scattered from the breaches of the town to the courtyard of the castle, and around 200 more were wounded—some gravely, unlikely to see another dawn. Fires were lit as medics and priests moved among the injured. The groans of the hurt and dying created a melancholy chorus beneath the celebratory shouts of a few hours earlier.
Constantine walked the makeshift infirmary set up in Livadeia's churchyard, his face drawn. He bore each loss personally. Here was a young pikeman clutching a blood-soaked bandage where an arrow had pierced his shoulder; there, an older officer staring sightlessly at the sky, having bled out despite the tourniquet on his thigh. Constantine knelt by a boy no older than seventeen writhing from a gut wound. The boy tried to rise upon recognizing the Emperor, but Constantine gently pressed him back. "Rest, son. Rest. You have done enough," he whispered, taking the boy's trembling hand. The lad's eyes brimmed with tears—of pain, or of apology for failing; Constantine could not tell. He stayed until a medic arrived with herbs to ease the suffering.
Finally, Constantine arrived in the castle's courtyard, where the final fight had occurred. The stone ground was slick with blood. Bodies of Ottoman defenders lay strewn about, alongside a fair number of Byzantine dead. Soldiers were piling the enemy corpses on one side, while carefully laying out their own fallen comrades on the other for last rites. In the flickering torchlight, Constantine's fury began to boil over. These losses… so many good men lost, lives that would never return to their families. And why? Because a stubborn garrison refused a merciful offer. They could have surrendered Livadeia that morning and walked away with their lives. Instead, they had cost him dearly.
Thomas, who had been overseeing the casualty count, approached with anger in his voice. "They made us pay in blood for every stone. They should pay in kind." He nudged one of the Ottoman prisoners kneeling under guard—a handful of wounded and captured had survived the castle's fall, perhaps twenty or thirty in all. Those prisoners looked terrified, and well they might be; some Byzantine soldiers guarding them were eyeing them with barely restrained hatred, swords still drawn.
Constantine's first impulse was to order them all executed on the spot, a sacrifice to the slain Byzantines lying nearby. He stepped toward the prisoners. One Ottoman, clutching a bandaged arm, met Constantine's gaze and spat on the ground, murmuring something in Turkish that sounded defiant. Rage flared in Constantine's chest. He actually reached for his sword hilt, and the captives cowered, expecting a death blow.
Captain Andreas, limping but present, swiftly intervened. He moved close to Constantine and said in a low but urgent tone, "Your Majesty, a word." Constantine paused, barely holding his anger in check. "Speak," he hissed, not taking his eyes off the Ottomans. Andreas continued, "They deserve death, that's certain. But perhaps there's a better way, one that sends a message louder than corpses." Constantine turned to him, brow furrowed, saying nothing yet. Andreas went on carefully, "I think of Emperor Basil II, after he defeated the Bulgars. He did not simply kill the prisoners. He blinded them, leaving one in a hundred with a single eye to lead the rest home. It was a merciful punishment compared to death, perhaps… but also a powerful message. The enemy's king nearly died of shock when he saw his men return blind."
Sphrantzes overheard this and stepped forward, his expression troubled. "Basil II… indeed did that. But it was a cruel act." His voice was soft, cautionary. Constantine's eyes narrowed as he weighed Andreas's suggestion. The thought of replicating Basil's infamous deed made his stomach twist; such deliberate cruelty was not something he had ever expected to consider. Yet, as he looked around at the corpse-littered courtyard and thought of all the families that would grieve tonight because of this obstinate garrison, his heart hardened. If a harsh lesson now could save hundreds of lives later by compelling other garrisons to surrender without a fight, was that not worth it? And these men before him, they had chosen to fight to the bitter end.
Thomas nodded in agreement with Andreas. "Fear is a weapon too, brother. Let all who oppose us hear what befell those who cost us dearly." Some other officers murmured assent; the tale of Basil II's brutal justice, though from centuries past, remained legendary among them. The message it sent was one of dread inevitability.
Constantine exhaled slowly, coming to a decision. "Very well," he said, voice like iron. He would temper vengeance with cold logic. "Captain Andreas is right. We will make an example." He raised his voice so those around could hear. "These prisoners will not be executed. Instead… blind them." A hush fell as soldiers and prisoners alike processed the words. One captive began to wail in horror, begging in broken Greek for mercy. A few of Constantine's men looked uneasy, but Thomas barked, "You heard the Emperor. You'd rather avenge your brothers with a clean death for these curs? No, they deserve worse."
Under Constantine's hard stare, the soldiers moved to carry out the order. It was a grisly business. Sphrantzes, unable to watch, turned away. One by one, the Ottoman captives were pinned down. A burly sergeant with a dagger stepped forward. For each prisoner, he carefully slid the blade across the eyes, mercifully quick, severing sight. Some of the prisoners fainted from shock; others screamed until their voices cracked. A few Byzantine soldiers looked pale at the task, but none protested openly. They all knew the Emperor's will, and the memory of their fallen comrades was fresh and raw.
As Andreas had recounted, Basil II left one man in each hundred one-eyed. Here, the captives were far fewer. Constantine decided to spare one man's sight in part: the Ottoman commander himself, who had been captured alive though wounded. That defiant officer who had insulted Constantine from the walls now had to be dragged before him, held up on his knees. "Open one of his eyes," Constantine ordered coldly. The commander howled as the knife did its work—one eye gouged completely, the other mercifully only half-destroyed so he retained blurred vision. Shaking with pain, the Ottoman glared at Constantine through his remaining bloody eye. Constantine leaned down and spoke in broken Turkish: "Go. Find your way back to your Sultan. Tell him what happens to those who defy us." The man, sobbing, was cast out of the castle gates along with the other blinded prisoners. The Byzantines gave each surviving captive a long stick to feel their way. The sun had fully set, and in the darkness, the group of maimed men fumbled and stumbled away down the road, guided by the half-blind officer's weak sight and the sticks feeling the path. The echoes of their anguished cries faded into the night.
A terrible quiet lingered after the deed. Constantine's face was as stone, but inside, a tempest of emotions raged. He told himself this cruelty was necessary, that it might save lives by avoiding future stubborn sieges. Yet part of him recoiled at having ordered such suffering. He recalled Basil II was revered as the Bulgar-Slayer; his act had broken the will of Bulgaria for generations. So must we break the Ottomans' will, he thought, if the Empire is to be reborn. Steeling himself, he silently vowed that this grim measure would be the exception, not the rule—he would always prefer a swift surrender to such brutality.
Captain Andreas placed a fist to his chest. "It is done, Majesty. Word of this will spread like wildfire. I suspect the next garrison will think twice." Constantine simply nodded. Thomas showed no remorse, only a fierce satisfaction. Sphrantzes approached quietly, his face drawn. The advisor did not speak of the blinding; instead, he said softly, "The men are asking your leave to begin burying our dead, sire." Constantine's expression crumpled with sorrow for a moment, the façade of wrath giving way. "Yes… yes, of course. See that they are honored and given proper rites. They died for the empire's rebirth." He then turned to practical matters. "We'll rest the troops here for a day or two. Tend to the wounded. And ensure Livadeia is secured—post watch on the roads. If any Ottoman relief columns are coming, we must know."
Over the next day, Livadeia transformed from a battlefield into a brief haven. The townsfolk, seeing the Byzantine soldiers now firmly in control and the Turkish soldiers gone or dead, emerged to offer what aid they could. Women brought bread, wine, and clean water for the wounded. Old men helped dig graves outside the walls for the fallen. A priest held a somber funeral service at dusk for the Byzantine dead, hundreds of soldiers bowing their heads in respect as prayers for the departed rose to the heavens. Constantine attended in person, kneeling at the front, tears glinting in his eyes as the names of notable fallen were read. He made sure to speak to many soldiers that day, comforting those who had lost comrades and praising acts of valor.
George supervised the redistribution of ammunition and supplies. Andreas organized the garrisoning of Livadeia, leaving a contingent of one hundred men, mostly local volunteers and a few soldiers unfit for rapid marching due to wounds, to hold the town and rebuild its defenses. The walls could be repaired in time; the main army had to move forward.
As the army prepared to depart two days later, Constantine held a final meeting with his inner circle on the castle ramparts overlooking the rolling countryside to the north. The consequences of the victory at Livadeia were already unfolding: delegations from nearby villages had come to pledge loyalty to the Emperor, bearing gifts of cheese, grain, and a few oxen.
"It begins," Sphrantzes said with a hopeful smile. "The people believe in us. They see we can win."
Constantine remained cautious but pleased. "We must make sure we do not betray that belief. We will protect them from retribution." He also knew these popular uprisings could provoke a fierce Ottoman backlash if not shielded. Time was pressing. They had to secure more strongholds before the Sultan sent a large force south.
From the ramparts they could see distant plumes of smoke—signals, perhaps, from Ottoman beacons or fleeing soldiers. Word of Livadeia's fall and the horrifying punishment dealt to its garrison would travel fast. Constantine traced a line on the horizon with his finger. "Our next target lies there: Bodonitsa." He turned to his assembled officers. "Have the men break camp. We march within the hour."Like Award Reply93sersorApr 28, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 70: The Fall of Bodonitsa New View contentsersorMay 1, 2025NewAdd bookmark#636Leaving a small garrison behind in Livadeia, Constantine led the army northward. Their ranks were thinner now from casualties, but their resolve had only hardened. Those who had survived Livadeia felt nearly invincible, having taken a town and castle from the Ottomans. Still, bandaged men marched among them, a constant reminder of the cost of war. Some of the wounded refused to stay behind, insisting on continuing with their comrades despite arms in slings or limps from stitched wounds. Constantine quietly admired their dedication and made sure wagons were available to carry those who could not keep up on foot.
The route to Bodonitsa first took them along the Kifisos River in the broad plains north of Livadeia, where gentle fields stretched on either side. From there, they pushed through wooded valleys, guided by locals who knew the old paths—and then climbed into rugged hill country. Bodonitsa lay to the northeast, near the slopes of Mount Kallidromon, guarding passes that led to the plain of Thermopylae and beyond. Once built by Crusaders, it now served as an Ottoman outpost, overseeing vital crossroads from its ancient ramparts.
Constantine's army took five days to reach Bodonitsa, moving as fast as they could in hopes of staging another surprise. By late afternoon on the fifth day, they finally caught sight of the fortress rising before them.
Bodonitsa's castle sat atop a rocky hill carpeted with cypress trees, its medieval towers piercing the sky. Below, a small settlement clustered at the foot of the hill, though it seemed half-deserted—perhaps many villagers had fled at the news of the Byzantine advance, or the Ottomans had evacuated the locals. Only the castle itself looked manned: banners with the Ottoman crescent fluttered, and sharp-eyed scouts spotted a few soldiers on the walls.
The Byzantines surrounded the hill quietly, dispersing through the woods as twilight fell. Constantine and his commanders huddled among scrub and stones at the base, observing. The garrison did not seem large, maybe a hundred men at most, likely mostly local Ottoman-aligned troops or a token force.
"It looks scarcely defended," Thomas whispered, a hint of eagerness in his voice.
Andreas gave a curt nod. "They probably heard what happened at Livadeia and lost their appetite for a fight. Still, a cornered foe can lash out. We shouldn't be careless."
They decided to wait until morning to offer terms, as Bodonitsa was already effectively under siege with their arrival. Meanwhile, musketeers and some cannon crews were positioned in case the enemy tried anything at night. The soldiers settled in a tight encampment around the base of the hill; fires were kept low to avoid giving clear targets. The night air was thick with tension. Would Bodonitsa surrender tamely, or would it be another bloody siege? Many Byzantines, exhausted from the previous siege, hoped fervently for the former.
In the darkest hour before the moon rose, the Ottomans in Bodonitsa made their move. Unbeknownst to the Byzantines, the garrison commander had already decided that holding the castle was futile. Perhaps he had heard of Livadeia's fate and dreaded the thought of being blinded or worse. However, rather than formally surrender, fearing that such terms might not be accepted, given recent events, he chose to flee under cover of night.
A column of around sixty men emerged from a hidden postern gate on the far side of the hill, creeping single-file down a goat path. They carried packs, likely filled with valuables or supplies, and moved in eerie silence, weapons sheathed to avoid clanking.
But the night was not dark enough, nor was the Byzantine watch lax enough, to let them slip by unnoticed. A young Theban volunteer on sentry duty spotted a glint of metal and realized it was a group of helmets moving away from the castle. Immediately, he gave the alarm: a shrill whistle followed by a shout in Greek, "They're fleeing! The Turks are fleeing the castle!"
In a moment, Byzantine horns blared and campfires roared up as soldiers seized their weapons. Confusion reigned briefly in the dark, some thought the enemy was attacking. Scouts quickly relayed the truth: the Ottoman garrison was abandoning Bodonitsa, trying to melt away into the hills. Constantine, who had been resting in a tent at the foot of an olive tree, dashed out sword in hand, anger flashing in his eyes at the thought of his quarry slipping away.
"After them!" he shouted. "Do not let them escape to plague us later."
What ensued was a chaotic night chase through the rough terrain around Bodonitsa. Captain Andreas led a group of fast-moving infantry uphill to intercept the fleeing enemy, while Thomas and his cavalry circled around to cut off escape routes. The Ottomans, realizing they had been discovered, broke into a desperate run, abandoning any pretense of stealth. They cast aside shields and supplies to move faster. Yet most were on foot and already tired from carrying their burdens; they could not outrun mounted pursuers or determined infantry for long.
The chase reached a climax in a narrow ravine south of the castle. Under the pale light of a crescent moon, Andreas's intercept force caught up with roughly forty of the fleeing Ottomans. A brief, vicious clash unfolded there, torchlight and moonlight revealing blades flashing and men grappling. It was less a battle than a hunt. Many Ottoman soldiers, demoralized and focused solely on escape, threw down their arms and tried to scramble up the ravine's sides. Byzantine fire caught some; others tripped and fell, only to be met by swords and spears.
Thomas's cavalry ran down a smaller group that had split from the main, riding them down a hillside. Fueled by the memory of Livadeia's stubborn fight, Thomas showed no quarter. He ran an Ottoman infantryman through with his lance, then drew his saber to strike down another who was attempting to surrender. In the darkness and fury, the notion of accepting capitulation hardly registered, this enemy had tried to slip away and might later join another Ottoman force. Better to eliminate them here and now.
Within an hour, it was mostly over. Most of the fleeing garrison lay dead or dying on the stony ground around Bodonitsa. Perhaps a dozen at most escaped into the wilderness, including, it was rumored, the garrison commander himself, who knew the terrain well. Those few who got away would carry tales of terror back to other Ottoman positions.
By dawn's first light, Constantine's troops cautiously approached Bodonitsa's castle gates. An eerie stillness greeted them. With the garrison gone, the fortress was like a ghost town. The gate had been left ajar, creaking softly in the morning breeze. Andreas led a contingent inside, swords drawn, expecting a trap or stragglers. They found none, only the remains of a hasty departure. The castle's courtyard was littered with debris: half-empty chests, dropped weapons, and a cooking pot still hanging over the fire's embers. It was clear the Ottomans had left in a rush. In one corner, a small group of locals, servants and families of the Ottoman garrison, huddled fearfully. They cried out for mercy when the Byzantine soldiers entered, but these were mostly Greek captives and posed no threat. They were quickly reassured and ushered to safety.
On the ramparts, the imperial standard was raised without a fight for the first time in this campaign. When the double-headed eagle banner unfurled atop Bodonitsa's keep, a triumphant cheer went up from the Byzantine ranks encircling the hill. The fortress was theirs, taken with barely a siege at all. Constantine allowed himself a sigh of relief. After the grueling fight at Livadeia, Bodonitsa's easy capture was a welcome gift. He climbed up to the highest tower to survey the land. To the north, through the morning mist, he could make out the rolling terrain leading to Zetouni and the distant highlands of Thessaly. They were now at the doorstep of the next phase of the campaign.
Constantine gathered his captains in Bodonitsa's main hall, a simple stone chamber that still bore banners of the old Latin lords beneath newer Ottoman pennants. Over a map on a table, they reviewed their situation. The consequences of these victories were significant. With Bodonitsa taken, the pass of Thermopylae to the north could potentially be held, making it difficult for Ottoman forces from Thessaly to move south without fighting on unfavorable ground. The local Greek population was fully in support now; messengers from Thebes and Livadeia arrived to congratulate the Emperor and report that peasants were arming themselves in other villages, ready to join or defend their homes.
"Two major Ottoman positions have fallen in a week," Sphrantzes said, almost in disbelief.
"This will not go unnoticed by the Sultan," he added, looking meaningfully at Constantine.
The Emperor nodded. "Murad will be furious but may also be occupied elsewhere." He tapped the map. "Still, we can be sure a response will come, perhaps from Thessaly or via Epirus. We must consolidate quickly and be ready."
Andreas chimed in, "We should repair Bodonitsa's defenses and leave a strong garrison here. If the Turks try to retake it, we can make them pay dearly, this position favors the defender." He knew the value of the high ground. Constantine agreed. Bodonitsa, with its commanding view of the Thermopylae pass and the road to Lamia, would be their northern bastion. He decided to leave a few hundred troops here, including some of Thomas's men and local volunteers, under a reliable officer to hold it.
Thomas was eager to push forward. "Brother, I volunteer to lead the vanguard to Zetouni," he declared. "We should press our advantage before the enemy can regroup. The men's blood is up, and we have momentum." Some around the table murmured assent; striking quickly had worked so far. But Sphrantzes counseled caution. "Yes, we have momentum, but our men are also tired. We've marched fast and fought hard. Perhaps a short respite here to gather our strength and await any stragglers joining us would be wise before the next push."
Constantine listened to both. He was proud of Thomas's fighting spirit and understood the urge to exploit the shock their campaign had caused. Yet Sphrantzes had a point, fatigue and attrition were accumulating. Even the stoutest troops needed rest after continuous operations. They also needed to reorganize: at Livadeia and along the way, they had picked up freed or volunteer fighters, and they had wounded to care for or send back. Ammunition for the cannons had to be inventoried after heavy use at Livadeia.
"We will take a brief pause," Constantine decided, raising a hand to preempt Thomas's protest. "Only a short one. A few days at most, enough to send scouts ahead toward Zetouni and see what awaits us, and to ensure Bodonitsa and Livadeia are secure behind us." He cast a glance at his brother. "I need you and your men fresh for the battles to come. Even a lion waits and gathers strength before striking again."
Thomas pressed his lips together, then nodded reluctantly. "As you will, Emperor."
Captain Andreas rolled up a spare banner and grinned. "I imagine the Ottomans at Zetouni are already trembling, wondering when we'll arrive on their doorstep. A little fear can soften them up." He was likely right—survivors from Bodonitsa's garrison or news from villagers would reach Zetouni soon, painting a terrifying picture of the Byzantine advance and the fate of those who resisted.
Before concluding the council, Constantine addressed them all, his voice firm but carrying a note of inspiration: "In a span of days, we have stormed Livadeia and claimed Bodonitsa. These victories have ignited hope in Greece and sown fear among our foes. Remember what we fight for: our homes, our faith, and the legacy of the empire. Each step north we take, the shadow of the Turk recedes a little. But we must remain vigilant and united. The enemy will throw everything at us to stop this reclamation. We will answer with courage and cunning."
The officers thumped their breasts or the table in agreement. Political consequences were indeed unfolding, Constantine could almost sense the ripple of events: perhaps the Ottomans would divert forces from other fronts to deal with this, granting breathing room elsewhere; perhaps Western powers, hearing of a reborn Byzantine fight, might reconsider lending support. Within Greece, these successes could spark further uprisings in places like Epirus or Macedonia. Each victory was more than just a territorial gain; it was a statement that Byzantium was not dead.
As the meeting dispersed, Constantine stepped onto Bodonitsa's ramparts again. Below, his soldiers were already working to refortify—repairing the gate, setting up a smithy to fix armor, distributing captured arrows and weapons. Others finally took a moment to rest, shrugging off their packs and sharing flasks of watered wine in relief. The Emperor's gaze drifted southward, back toward Livadeia, Thebes, and the Morea. Smoke from cooking fires curled upward, a peaceful contrast to the smoke of battle days before. He offered a silent prayer of thanks for these victories and for strength in the trials ahead.
To the north, beyond a line of hills, lay Zetouni, their next objective, and beyond that the vast expanse of Ottoman-held Greece. Constantine felt a mixture of anticipation and resolve. The coming campaign would not get easier, if anything, each step deeper into Ottoman territory would provoke fiercer resistance. Yet he would face it as he had faced every challenge: head-on, with loyal friends and family beside him.
His thoughts turned once more to the blinded prisoners, the slain soldiers, and the battles yet to come. Was this course truly just? Future generations would judge him, would he be seen as a liberator or just another conqueror meting out cruelty? The weight of leadership pressed on him, but he straightened his shoulders. Each sacrifice, he reminded himself, was for a vision: a free, restored empire where Greek and Christian lands would no longer kneel to the Sultan. Sometimes, an Emperor had to don the mantle of both lion and fox—warrior and diplomat, saint and sinner—to see that vision through.
As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of orange over Bodonitsa's battlements, Constantine XI Palaiologos turned away from the parapet and walked down to join his men. There was much to do and little time to do it. For now, however, the Emperor allowed himself a brief moment of solace in victory. Greece was awakening under Byzantine banners once more, and with each triumph, the empire was being rewritten.
Author note: Just nine chapters left until the grand finale of Book One!
Last edited: May 1, 2025Like Award Reply84sersorMay 1, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 71: The Emperor and the Pontiff New View contentsersorMay 5, 2025NewAdd bookmark#647Rome, late May 1433
A cool spring dawn painted Rome in hues of rose and gold as Sigismund of Luxembourg rode through the ancient city gates. The streets erupted in celebration at the new emperor's arrival. Bells pealed from church towers, and a thousand pennants bearing the imperial eagle and papal keys fluttered above the crowds. Citizens of Rome, merchants in velvet caps, barefoot friars, armored condottieri, pressed at the roadside to catch a glimpse of the King of the Romans coming to claim his crown. Sigismund sat tall in the saddle, his fifty years carried with august dignity. He wore a mantle of crimson velvet lined with ermine, and a thin circlet of gold rested on his graying brow as a token of his kingly rank until the true crown was bestowed. As he passed, he took in the sights and sounds: the incense wafting from swinging censors, petals of spring flowers strewn in his path, the Latin chants of welcome from robed clergy. Rome, the Eternal City, basked in pageantry not seen in decades. Yet amid the jubilation, Sigismund felt the weight of history on his shoulders. He was keenly aware that today, he would stand where Charlemagne had stood, in the basilica that enshrined the tomb of the Apostle. Today, at long last, he would be crowned Holy Roman Emperor.
At the stairs of Old St. Peter's Basilica, Pope Eugene IV's entourage awaited. The Pope's chamberlains in their rich brocades and scarlet hats descended to greet the emperor-to-be. Sigismund dismounted and, as tradition demanded, removed his hat and cloak, humbling himself before the Vicar of Christ. Trumpets blared a sonorous fanfare that echoed off the colonnades. Sigismund's heart quickened at the sight ahead: the great bronze doors of St. Peter's were thrown open, revealing a nave lined with towering columns and lit with countless candles. Beyond, at the far end under the lofty dome, he could make out the white figure of Pope Eugene IV seated upon the papal throne near the high altar. The Pope wore gleaming vestments of gold and white, and in his hands he held the jeweled Triple Tiara. Around him clustered cardinals in their crimson robes like so many blood-red blossoms, and bishops in miters of cloth-of-gold. The papal court was assembled in full splendor to witness this moment when imperial and papal authority converged.
Sigismund made the long walk up the nave with measured steps. With each footfall on the marble pavement, he felt the eyes of the court upon him. Latin psalms echoed from the choir, their voices soaring beneath the basilica's ancient rafters. As he drew closer to the altar, Sigismund's gaze flickered over the dignitaries gathered. He recognized the stern face of Cardinal Condulmer, the Pope's nephew and right hand, studying him intently. Nearby stood a knot of princely envoys: the ambassadors of Venice and Aragon in dark silks, the Florentine delegates, even a representative from France. Their presence underscored the importance of this coronation for all Christendom. Many had doubted whether Sigismund, so long occupied with wars and councils in the North, would ever make it to Rome to claim the imperial diadem. Yet here he was at last. He allowed himself a faint smile, tinged with both pride and humility, as he knelt upon the embroidered cushion before Pope Eugene's throne.
Inside the basilica the air was heavy with frankincense and candle-smoke. High above, the mosaic eyes of saints and martyrs glimmered down from the apse. Sigismund bowed his head deeply. An acolyte brought forth a golden gospel book, which the Pope held aloft. In Latin, Eugene intoned the ancient rite, invoking the example of Charlemagne, of Holy David and Solomon, calling upon God to bless His servant Sigismund. The words swirled in Sigismund's ears, solemn and sonorous. When the moment came, he felt the Pope's thumb trace a cross of holy oil on his forehead – the anointing that sanctified him to rule. The thick perfume of chrism mingled with the scent of wax candles. This is real, Sigismund thought, a slight tremor of emotion gripping him despite all his composure. By God's grace, I assume the mantle fate long reserved for me.
A deacon presented the symbols of power: first the jewel-encrusted scepter, which Eugene IV placed in Sigismund's right hand – symbol of justice and temporal power. Then the golden orb topped with a cross, which Sigismund received in his left – symbol of Christian dominion over the world. Finally, a hush fell as an attendant approached bearing the Imperial Crown. It was an ancient circlet of gold, heavy with gems, its eight hinged plates glinting in the candlelight. Sigismund felt his breath catch as Pope Eugene IV stood and lifted the crown with both hands. For an instant, Sigismund glimpsed his own reflection in the polished metal: a man with solemn gray eyes and a neatly trimmed white beard, looking far older than the fiery youth who had once charged rashly at Nicopolis. In that reflection he saw not just himself, but the weight of generations of emperors. His eyes drifted closed as the Pope gently lowered the crown onto his head.
"Accipe coronam imperii… Receive this imperial crown," Eugene IV proclaimed in Latin, his voice firm and clear in the vast silence, "which marks you as the august Emperor of the Romans, ordained by God." The instant the metal pressed upon Sigismund's brow, a cheer erupted inside the basilica. "Vivat Imperator Sigismundus! Long live the Emperor!" The shout was taken up by the nobles and prelates present, then echoed by the masses outside who heard the cry and the tolling bells. Sigismund opened his eyes, blinking away a sudden sting of tears. In that eternal heartbeat, he felt the burden and glory of the moment sear itself into his soul. I am Emperor, he told himself. After so many trials.
He rose, and Pope Eugene IV extended the kiss of peace, a light brush of the Pope's ring against Sigismund's lips – an age-old gesture binding Empire to Church. As Sigismund straightened to his full height, crowned and invested, he met Eugene's gaze. The Pope's dark eyes were shrewd and unreadable, set in a face creased by both asceticism and Venetian canniness. Sigismund bowed to him respectfully, as protocol required. Yet in that exchanged look, a silent understanding passed: each was a man seasoned by turmoil, each needed the other's support in the dangerous world that lay beyond the basilica's walls.
What followed was a blur of pomp and celebration. There was a jubilant procession out of St. Peter's, where the newly crowned Emperor rode beneath a silk canopy held by the Roman barons. Trumpeters heralded his every step. A state banquet was laid in the Vatican Palace, where endless toasts were offered in wine as sweet as nectar. Through it all, Sigismund maintained a gracious smile and spoke words of thanks and piety, yet his mind already churned with thoughts beyond the feasting. He caught snatches of conversation among the Roman courtiers about troubles in the East and whispers of the bold Greek upstart defeating the Turks.
Clearly, news had traveled even here, and it set imaginations alight. The papal court, for all its gilded ritual, was abuzz with rumors of war and wonders in distant Byzantium. Sigismund found himself keenly curious, but he held his tongue through the public ceremonies. There would be time enough to discuss such matters away from the ears of the curious.
Late that afternoon, as golden sunlight slanted through the colonnades, Sigismund was escorted to a private audience with Pope Eugene IV in the Apostolic Palace. The festive clamor of the day had subsided, leaving only the faint echoes of distant hymns in the halls. Two halberdiers opened the door to the Pope's private library, and Sigismund entered to find Eugene IV alone, waiting for him. The room was modest by papal standards, high-vaulted with frescoed walls depicting biblical scenes in faded colors. A tall window stood open to the spring air, and the curtains stirred gently. The fragrance of old books and a trace of incense lingered. A single table was set with a flagon of wine and two simple cups, a sign that this meeting was to be informal and confidential.
"Your Holiness," Sigismund began, inclining his head with respect. Despite now wearing the Imperial crown, he observed proper deference to the Pontiff. "I thank you for the great honor of today. It is a memory I shall treasure all my life." His voice, a rich baritone seasoned by years of command, reverberated softly in the quiet chamber.
Eugene IV rose from behind the table and stepped forward, a warm smile easing his austere features. "Your Majesty," he replied, extending both hands in welcome. "The honor is ours. It has been too long since Rome witnessed an Emperor's coronation. God has willed that you and I build a new bond between throne and altar." Sigismund noted the Pope's careful choice of words—you and I. Eugene spoke as a partner in enterprise, not merely a pontiff bestowing favor.
They took seats across from one another. For a moment, the Pope's gaze drifted to the open window, where the distant silhouette of St. Peter's dome was visible. "This morning's ceremony," Eugene continued thoughtfully, "filled my heart with hope. A united Christendom, east and west, has never been more needed than now." He turned back to Sigismund, folding his hands. "Which is why I wished to speak with Your Majesty in private. There are matters of grave import in the East that demand our attention… and present perhaps a divine opportunity."
Sigismund leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. The late sun cast a mellow light on the two men: the white-robed pope with his weathered, ascetic face and the newly crowned emperor in a plain doublet now, crown set aside on a cushion nearby. In this setting they might have been two old friends sharing an evening drink, save for the magnitude of their discussion. "I am at Your Holiness's disposal," Sigismund said. "Speak freely."
Eugene nodded gratefully. He poured a little wine into each cup, his hands steady but slender, the hands of a scholar-monk turned statesman. "Your Majesty is certainly aware of the distressing situation that has plagued Constantinople and its empire these many years," he began carefully. "Yet recent events have altered the situation dramatically. You may have heard vague tidings about Emperor John Palaiologos's fate."
Sigismund's expression hardened slightly. "Indeed, Holy Father. I have heard troubling whispers, rumors of treachery and assassination. They say Emperor John was murdered by his own kin, but details eluded me."
"Unfortunately, those rumors are true," the Pope said with a deep sigh, a shadow passing over his features. "Demetrios Palaiologos, his own brother, assassinated him in cold blood to seize the imperial throne, aided by the Ottoman Sultan. Constantinople fell further under Turkish influence as Demetrios swiftly declared himself Emperor, a puppet whose power flows entirely from the Sultan's will." Eugene's lips pursed with unconcealed disdain. "He has betrayed his blood, his faith, and his city."
Sigismund absorbed the revelation grimly, nodding slowly as his suspicions were confirmed. "And Constantine Palaiologos of the Morea," he prompted thoughtfully, "has he not also claimed the imperial title?"
"Yes," Eugene affirmed with emphasis. "Constantine Palaiologos, ruling from the Morea, responded swiftly. He denounced Demetrios's vile crime and accepted his supporters' call to become the rightful Emperor. His coronation in Mystras was solemn and public, gathering immense support from Greeks unwilling to bow to Ottoman tyranny."
Sigismund stroked his beard, contemplative and solemn. "Then it seems the East is caught between two emperors: one legitimate by blood and spirit, and the other a creature of the Turks." He sighed heavily. "I have heard already of Constantine's bold resistance and his great triumph at the Hexamilion Wall. News of Murad's retreat traveled fast; the Turks' defeat is rare enough to stir every Christian heart from Buda to Paris."
"Indeed," Eugene agreed, gratified at Sigismund's knowledge. "Constantine's victory rekindled hope across Europe. But the Emperor of the Greeks has done more than wield sword and cannon. He has become a patron of learning, of innovation. He has accomplished remarkable things, Sigismund."
Sigismund's curiosity sharpened. "You speak of his book endeavors?"
"Precisely," Eugene replied eagerly. "Constantine has established printing presses in Morea, not only producing Greek works but also Latin Bibles of exquisite quality. You yourself may possess one of these editions, I suspect—a particularly fine Bible, the special Papacy Edition, bears the seal of the Holy See itself."
Sigismund smiled, nodding in acknowledgment. "Indeed I do. A remarkable volume reached my court in Hungary. At first, my scholars marveled, uncertain how it was made, so precise and uniform were its pages. I admit I scarcely believed their explanations at first."
The Pope chuckled gently, pleased by Sigismund's enthusiasm. "It has been immensely profitable, both spiritually and materially. The demand across Christendom grows by the day."
Sigismund allowed himself a low laugh of admiration. "Extraordinary indeed. A Greek emperor, printing Latin Bibles to enrich and strengthen the Western Church. Such are the marvels of our time. Constantine Palaiologos seems a truly remarkable leader, brave, resourceful, learned. It would benefit us greatly to know him better."
Eugene took a draught of wine and continued, "Furthermore, taking advantage of Murad's setback, Constantine Palaiologos pressed the offensive. He has embarked on campaigns across Greece to reclaim lands long lost. I have dispatches that he liberated the Duchy of Athens from its Florentine lord who had sided with the Turks." The Pope's tone grew animated, as if picturing the map of Greece with widening territories of freedom. "And not only Greeks, but others have been emboldened by his successes. In Albania, the mountain chieftains have risen in revolt. Lord Gjergi Arianiti and other lords harry the Turks to reclaim their highlands. The whole Balkan coast is becoming a thorn in the Sultan's side."
Sigismund tempered his optimism with caution. "Murad will not suffer these defeats quietly. He is a formidable foe. The garrisons he leaves will be reinforced, and he will undoubtedly return with greater force."
"True," Eugene conceded, "and yet… even the Sultan is not invulnerable. My agents tell me Murad faces difficulties. If we Christians press our advantage now, while he is on his back foot, we might achieve what many have only dreamed of." The Pope's voice dropped, solemn and intent. "We could drive the Ottomans out of Europe entirely. We could free Constantinople and restore a true Christian emperor to that ancient see."
Silence fell as Eugene's words hung in the air. Sigismund felt a surge in his chest, a mixture of longing and resolve. To free Constantinople would be a crowning achievement for any Christian monarch. He reached for his cup and drank, gathering his thoughts. "Your Holiness speaks of pressing our advantage," Sigismund said slowly. "I agree. Yet we must do so with prudence and unity. I have witnessed the price of impetuous crusading at Nicopolis. We ignored sound counsel, and the result was disaster. The flower of Western chivalry was cut down in a single day. I swore then that I would never forget why we failed."
The Pope listened solemnly, folding his hands. "I know the tale well, Sire. No one questions the courage of those who marched, only the folly of their quarrels and vanity. What you propose is wisdom: any new crusade must avoid those mistakes." He leaned forward. "That is why I wanted to speak with you, Sigismund. You have spent decades since Nicopolis forging unity in Christendom—ending the Western Schism at Constance, striving to heal Bohemia after the Hussite turmoil. You understand diplomacy and the necessity of cooperation. And now, providentially, there is a willing ally in the East, a visionary Emperor who has already united the Greeks and even Latin mercenaries under his banner. If we join forces with him, with the Church's blessing, think what might be accomplished."
Sigismund felt the old warrior's fire kindle anew in his belly. He set down his cup, the faint clink on the table punctuating his resolve. "Your Holiness, you will find no reluctance in me. I have yearned to see Christian unity against the Ottomans all my life. If Emperor Constantine is indeed as capable and enlightened as you describe, then I believe we have been granted a rare chance." He allowed a firm smile. "I am most eager to meet this Constantine—to speak with him, to learn from him even. The devices you mention, the printing press, the new cannons… I should like to see them with my own eyes. Such innovations could tip the scales of war. And I would extend to him, as Emperor of the West to Emperor of the East, my hand in friendship and alliance."
Eugene IV's face brightened with relief and enthusiasm. "Excellent. I had hoped Your Majesty would see it so. Together, we can begin laying the groundwork. I intend to call for a general crusade at an opportune moment—rallying kings, princes, and knights from all Latin Christendom. Your support as Holy Roman Emperor will be invaluable in galvanizing the German princes and the realms of Central Europe."
Sigismund gave a determined nod. "I shall send envoys to the princes of the Empire at once, and to the Kings of Poland and Denmark, the Duke of Burgundy, and whomever else may heed the call. My own kingdoms of Hungary and Bohemia, God willing, will provide sturdy soldiers for this cause—especially now that the Hussite strife wanes and peace returns at home." He allowed himself a moment of pride; after years of conflict, he had finally pacified Bohemia's religious wars enough that those energies might be redirected against the true foe. "We must also court Venice and Genoa," Sigismund continued, thinking strategically. "Their fleets will be needed to transport troops and choke off the Turks by sea. Venice, especially, might be enticed—the spice trade suffers under Ottoman pressure, and they have coveted another chance at the Aegean."
At that, Eugene chuckled softly. "The Signoria of Venice will join any venture that jingles with coins, I suspect. I will use our influence with them—after all, I myself am Venetian-born, which they have not forgotten. Genoa too can be persuaded if the prize is right."
The two men talked on, deep into the golden hour of the afternoon. They spoke of logistics, of timing and council. Eugene IV mentioned convening a council of the Churches—a great gathering where East and West might formally reconcile their longstanding theological schism as a prelude to the military alliance. "Constantine Palaiologos has shown openness to the idea of Church union," the Pope confided. " If we heal the breach between Orthodoxy and Catholicism at last, imagine the boost to our shared cause. The Greeks would fight with the knowledge that Rome stands fully behind them, and Westerners would see their Eastern brethren not as strangers but as fellow Christians under one spiritual roof." Sigismund acknowledged this with a thoughtful hum. He knew such a union would be delicate—centuries of distrust could not vanish overnight. But if anyone could broker it, it might be this Pope with his diplomatic tenacity, working with an emperor who clearly valued results over dogma.
As they conversed, Sigismund occasionally studied Eugene's face. The afternoon light etched lines of care on the Pope's brow. He realized that Eugene IV bore his own heavy burdens: the restive Council of Basel challenging papal authority, political unrest in the Papal States, and the eternal balancing act of cajoling Europe's monarchs. The Pope's eagerness for a crusade was not just for spiritual glory; Sigismund understood it was also a bid to unify Christendom under papal leadership at a critical time. If a grand crusade succeeded, the Pope's prestige would soar, and the conciliarists would be silenced. Sigismund, for his part, would secure his legacy as the Emperor who saved Constantinople and halted the Turks' advance. Overlapping goals, indeed, he reflected. They each had something to gain, yet both truly yearned to deliver Christendom from the infidel threat. In that, their hearts were honest and aligned.
By the time the sun had sunk low and orange light spilled across the library floor, the outlines of a plan had taken shape. Sigismund stood, and Eugene IV rose with him. "Your Holiness," the Emperor said with energy in his voice, "I came to Rome to receive a crown. I leave with more, I leave with a purpose renewed. The struggles of my past, every setback and every patience I have learned, shall serve in this. We will not hurl brave knights at the Turk like reckless gamblers. No, we shall forge an alliance of knowledge, faith, and steel."
AUTHOR NOTE: In the original timeline, Sigismund of Luxembourg was crowned Holy Roman Emperor by Pope Eugene IV on May 31, 1433, in Rome. During this period, the Albanian revolt against Ottoman rule (1432–1436) was underway, led by figures such as Gjergj Arianiti. Both Sigismund and Pope Eugene IV viewed the Albanian resistance favorably, as it aligned with their broader efforts to counter Ottoman expansion in Europe.
In our novel's alternate timeline, these events are accelerated and intensified. The book deals generate substantial revenue for the Papacy, further fueling their political and military endeavors against the Ottomans.Like Award Reply105sersorMay 5, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 72: Through the Hot Gates New View contentsersorMay 8, 2025NewAdd bookmark#653At first light, Emperor Constantine's army broke camp at Bodonitsa. A small garrison of Byzantine troops and local volunteers remained behind to hold the newly won fortress, but the primary host now turned north.
Before the march, Orthodox priests walked among the ranks, swinging incense and sprinkling holy water. One gray-bearded archimandrite held aloft a gilded icon of the Theotokos, Mother of God, its painted face catching the dawn's glow. Soldiers and officers alike crossed themselves as the clergy chanted prayers for protection.
Constantine removed his helmet and bowed his head to receive a final blessing; the priest touched the icon to the Emperor's forehead and murmured, "May the Lord guard your coming and going." Thus consecrated, the army stepped forward, banners with the double-headed eagle unfurling in the morning breeze.
They entered the fabled pass of Thermopylae, the "Hot Gates" of legend. Steep slopes of Mount Kallidromon still pressed close on their left, while to the right the land slanted away toward reed‑cloaked marshes and the glimmering Aegean Sea. Time, however, had softened the choke point's grip: what once funneled ancient hoplites shoulder‑to‑shoulder had broadened into a rough roadway wide enough for wagons to negotiate, though the cliffs remained near enough for travelers to feel their stony weight. Centuries of mudslides and neglect had choked parts of the old road, forcing Constantine's engineers to labor at clearing fallen boulders and felling a few scraggly pines that blocked the way.
Warm sulfuric steam drifted from hidden hot springs, carrying the faint smell of brimstone. Many in the column grew silent with awe or curiosity; they all knew this was the hallowed ground where, long ago, a brave few had held off the hordes of an eastern invader.
Constantine rode near the vanguard, leading on horseback under the imperial standard. As hooves and boots trod the ancient earth, he found himself reflecting on those ancient heroes. Leonidas and his Spartans had shed their blood here against the Persians; now, nearly two millennia later, Greek soldiers marched again through Thermopylae to face another eastern empire. He wondered if the spirits of those warriors watched them now. Captain Andreas ordered a halt at one particularly tight bend where the cliffs loomed oppressively.
Scouts jogged ahead, eyes peeled for any sign of an Ottoman ambush. None came, the enemy had melted away from the pass. Still, Andreas directed a team of engineers to shore up a crumbling ledge so the cannons could be brought through safely. Men strained with ropes and levers to maneuver the heavy Drakos field cannons along the treacherous path, inch by inch.
Despite the difficulties, morale was high. Soldiers exchanged grins and remarks about how the Turks must be quaking beyond the mountains. Even the grizzled veterans admitted it felt as if God's favor was guiding their steps; each obstacle overcome in the Hot Gates was a victory in itself.
By midday, Constantine's army emerged from the northern end of the pass onto broader ground. The rugged defile opened into rolling terrain, and far ahead across a fertile plain they could see their next objective, Zetouni.
Known to the ancients as Lamia, this town and its fortress guarded the approach to Thessaly. Constantine paused at a rocky outcrop overlooking the plain. He raised an arm, signaling a brief rest while the columns re-formed. As men caught their breath and adjusted their armor, the Emperor gazed out at Zetouni's distant walls and the shimmering Gulf of Lamia beyond. That narrow gateway had once been a grave for heroes; today it had delivered the Byzantines into the heart of central Greece.
Behind him, the long line of troops and wagons snaked out of the mountain shadows, stirring dust under the midday sun. Constantine allowed himself one deep breath of the open air. The hardest part of the march was over, now the liberation of Zetouni awaited.
Liberation of Zetouni
The approach to Zetouni was cautious but swift. Constantine dispatched advance scouts on horseback to probe the roads leading to the town. They found no organized resistance – only a few abandoned Ottoman outposts and watch fires still smoldering.
A surprising scene unfolded as the imperial army drew within sight of Zetouni's walls later that afternoon. Instead of facing arrows, the Byzantines saw the town gates already ajar and Greek townspeople crowding the battlements.
The flag of the Ottoman garrison had been lowered and was nowhere to be seen. In its place, locals had draped improvised banners bearing the cross and even a crude rendition of the Byzantine double-headed eagle hastily painted on cloth. When Constantine's gold and crimson banners came into view, a great cheer rose from the walls.
Townsfolk waved handkerchiefs, olive branches, and even icons held high in thanksgiving. It seemed the Ottoman soldiers had fled in the night, unwilling to face the advancing Byzantine army. The garrison's flight was so hasty that they left behind crates of arrows and half-cooked meals on their hearths. Many had thrown off their uniforms to mingle with fleeing refugees heading north.
Cautiously, Captain Andreas led a vanguard detachment through the open gate. They were met not with an ambush but with tearful laughter and outstretched hands. Greeks of Zetouni – men, women, and children – pressed forward to welcome their liberators.
A few Ottoman stragglers who hadn't escaped lay bound and disarmed in the streets, captives of the locals who had overpowered them once news spread that the Turks were abandoning the town. The Emperor entered on horseback, flanked by Thomas and George Sphrantzes, to the peal of the town's church bell ringing joyously.
One by one, soldiers removed their helmets, astonished and moved by the greeting. Elderly women approached to kiss Constantine's stirrup and the hem of his red cloak, thanking him through happy sobs. Young boys scampered alongside the horses, trying to touch the soldiers' spears as if in awe of heroes from legend.
Constantine dismounted in the central square, which a stone church and a modest old Roman-era fountain dominated. As his boots touched Greek soil, now free of Ottoman rule, he knelt and made the sign of the cross. The crowd hushed as the Emperor bowed his head in prayerful gratitude; the only sound was the crackle of a few torches and the distant call of a freed dove flying above.
Among those who stepped forward to greet the Emperor was the local priest of Zetouni, Father Nikolaos. Clutching a brass-handled cross to his chest, the priest's eyes brimmed with tears of joy. He offered Constantine a loaf of bread and salt in the traditional Greek welcome. "Your Imperial Majesty," Father Nikolaos said, voice trembling with emotion, "welcome to Zetouni, liberated by God's grace.
We have prayed for this day." Constantine rose and embraced the elderly priest, who smelled of incense and candlewax. "Father, we come as fellow Greeks and Christians, not as conquerors. We thank you for your welcome," the Emperor replied warmly. At that, more cheers echoed off the stone houses of the square.
As soldiers moved to secure the empty Turkish barracks and organize billets, Constantine drew Father Nikolaos and his top officers aside on the steps of the church. They spoke in low tones amid the jubilant chaos.
The priest, still catching his breath from excitement, relayed what he knew of the situation in the region. Neopatras, he explained, was ripe for liberation next. "My Emperor," Nikolaos said, pointing westward, "the fortress of Neopatra lies only a short march from here, in the hills beyond the Spercheios River.
The Ottoman garrison there is small and vulnerable. Not long ago, many of their soldiers were withdrawn north to Thessaly and Epirus. Rumor has it they were sent to reinforce against Albanian rebels or perhaps to bolster Larissa. Only a token force remains in Neopatras – two score of men or so – and they are demoralized." The priest's eyes shone as he added, "If you strike soon, they will surely flee or surrender as we saw here. The Turks are in disarray, fleeing before your banner."
George Sphrantzes stepped forward, ever the practical advisor, and asked quietly, "Father, have there been any other Ottoman movements we should know of? Any forces gathering nearby, or strongholds still holding firm?"
Father Nikolaos nodded thoughtfully. "We have heard that garrisons in smaller villages to the east have pulled out, heading either to Domokos or back toward Thessaly. The Turks seem to be abandoning the countryside in panic. Only the larger forts with substantial troops, like Domokos to the north, remain manned. And even there, they say the enemy is shaken by how quickly you have advanced." The priest's face grew solemn. "But take heed, Emperor—some Turks have vowed scorched earth as they retreat. In villages a day's ride east, they burned crops and took revenge on Greek peasants when news of Bodonitsa's fall reached them. Evil still lurks even in retreat." Constantine's jaw tightened at that; the thought of his people suffering retaliation weighed on him. He placed a reassuring hand on Nikolaos's shoulder. "Thank you, Father. Your counsel – and the courage of your flock – will not be forgotten. We will be on guard."
As dusk settled, Constantine convened a quick council with his key commanders in the town square, beneath a hastily raised imperial banner. The sweet smell of incense from a thanksgiving service inside the church mingled with the smoke of victory bonfires lit by citizens on the ramparts.
The Emperor's face was illuminated by torchlight as he addressed George Sphrantzes, Captain Andreas, and his brother Thomas. "The tide of fortune seems to be turning," Constantine began, his voice measured but carrying a current of emotion. "In a matter of days, we have marched through Thermopylae and taken Zetouni without a fight.
Our enemy flees at our approach. Thanks be to God, the vision of a free Greece no longer seems a distant dream but is happening before our very eyes." He gestured around at the celebrating town. "Every village that raises our flag, every church bell ringing freely, is a sign that the long night of occupation is receding."
He paused, scanning the faces of his officers. By the torchlight, Thomas's young face was flush with excitement, Andreas appeared steadfast and attentive, and Sphrantzes's eyes gleamed with cautious optimism. Constantine continued, voice ringing louder so that nearby soldiers and townsfolk could hear as well: "But we must not grow complacent.
For every step we take forward, the Ottoman Sultan's anger grows. We are entering lands long under the Turk's yoke; with each liberated town, we strike a blow to his pride and power. He will not remain idle. The shifting tides can easily shift again if we are reckless." The Emperor's gaze drifted upward for a moment as if seeing beyond the dark sky. "When we set out, many thought us foolish or desperate. Now, the impossible is becoming reality. See how God favors our cause, yet we must show ourselves worthy of His aid.
Our forefathers defended these lands with blood; now it falls to us to reclaim them with wisdom and courage." The assembled men thumped their fists to their breastplates or nodded firmly, moved by his words.
After this brief speech, Constantine turned to his inner circle for their counsel on the next steps. He trusted these men to voice honest opinions. Thomas, his youngest brother, could barely contain his eagerness. "Brother, this is our chance to press our advantage!"
Thomas exclaimed, eyes bright. He pointed in the direction of Neopatras and beyond. "The Turks are on the run. If we strike Neopatras at first light, we'll catch that feeble garrison before they can either fortify or flee with all their loot. And beyond Neopatras lies the road to Domokos and Thessaly. We can keep this momentum and perhaps free all of Greece up to Larissa before the Sultan can react. It's a golden opportunity." Thomas spoke quickly, slicing the air with his hand for emphasis. His enthusiasm was infectious; a few nearby officers murmured agreement, inspired by the prospect of continuing the string of victories.
George Sphrantzes cleared his throat gently, the man's measured voice providing a counterpoint. "Your Majesty, our progress is indeed heartening, but Thomas speaks of a rapid advance – I feel compelled to raise the matter of logistics." He glanced at the Emperor and around the circle. "We have pushed far from our original bases in the Morea in a short time. Our supply lines now stretch back through Livadeia and Thebes, all the way south. Every new stronghold we take needs a garrison left behind, which thins our ranks for the field. Food and ammunition must be brought up to sustain us. We should ensure that Livadeia, Bodonitsa, and now Zetouni are secure and provisioned before moving further. Perhaps we should send messengers back to Thebes or Glarentza to organize supply caravans, and to bring any reserve troops forward." He gave a polite nod to Thomas. "We all wish to capitalize on this success, but if our men run out of bread or powder in the mountains, enthusiasm alone won't carry the day." Sphrantzes's words brought a sober hush; some of the junior officers looked at one another, realizing they had been riding a wave of adrenaline that might not last forever.
Captain Andreas weighed in next, his voice gravelly from years of barking orders on the battlefield. "We've dealt the enemy a strong blow, that's certain. But George is right—we can't ignore our rear. Also, consider the risk: an Ottoman force could be lurking out there," he gestured toward the dark silhouettes of hills to the north and west, "waiting to catch us overextended. Perhaps some force from Domoko or Thessaly might try to cut our supply road at Thermopylae, trapping us up here. We've been lucky that the garrisons lost their nerve so far. At Domokos, the enemy may decide to fight hard, and Murad could send cavalry raiders behind us." He folded his arms across his chest. "In short, we must be bold and careful. Taking Neopatras seems low risk given what Father Nikolaos reports, and it will further secure our flank. But before any push beyond that, I'd scout aggressively. We should send our best scouts out toward Domokos and even towards the Thessalian plain tonight, under cover of darkness, to learn what we can of enemy movements."
Constantine listened to each in turn, nodding thoughtfully. Thomas's boldness, George's logistical prudence, Andreas's caution, all were valid and valuable points. The Emperor felt a swell of pride in this small council; they were not sycophants, but loyal men giving him honest counsel, just as he needed.
At last he spoke, making the decision. "Thomas is right that we cannot afford to lose momentum—Neopatras will be our next objective, and immediately. We march at dawn." Thomas grinned and thumped his fist to his chest. "However," Constantine added, "we will do so with our eyes open. George, begin organizing wagons here in Zetouni to gather grain, salted meat, anything the townsfolk can spare for the army. We'll repay them justly later. Also dispatch riders back to Bodonitsa and Livadeia to report our success and to urge them to send forward any supplies they can. Andreas, you have leave to send out scouts at once. Pick men who know the local terrain; perhaps Father Nikolaos can suggest some locals to guide them. I want to know what lies between Neopatras and Domokos—if any Ottoman forces are rallying." Constantine placed his hands on his belt and concluded firmly, "Tonight we rest behind Zetouni's walls and tend to the troops. At first light, with God's blessing, we set out to liberate Neopatras. From there, we'll judge the best course into Thessaly."
The plan set, the council broke up. Before they dispersed, Father Nikolaos led a short prayer there in the torch-lit square, thanking God for the bloodless victory at Zetouni and asking divine guidance for the battles ahead. Soldiers began lighting campfires and sharing humble dinners provided by the grateful townspeople. As Constantine made his way to a small house offered for his lodging, he noted the mixture of relief and determination on everyone's faces. The tide truly had turned, the only question was how far it would carry them.Like Award Reply93