March to Neopatras
Dawn of the next day saw the Byzantine army streaming out of Zetouni's northern gate, bound for Neopatras. The rising sun painted the eastern sky in pink and gold as long files of pikemen, musketmen, and cavalry wound their way along a country road following the Spercheios River valley. Father Nikolaos himself walked at the head of one column with his raised cross until the town's outskirts, blessing the departing soldiers like a shepherd sending his flock to pasture. Many townsfolk of Zetouni stood by the roadside, waving kerchiefs and shouting praises to the Emperor and the saints. Children ran alongside for a few hundred paces, laughing and trying to keep up until their parents called them back. Constantine, riding with the vanguard, allowed himself a smile at the heartfelt sendoff. These people saw his army as liberators and protectors, not conquerors, a vital distinction he was determined to uphold.
The route to Neopatras led westward across fertile plains dotted with olive groves and then gradually into foothills. The villages of Moschochori and Leianokladi lay on their path, and news of the Byzantine advance had reached these hamlets overnight. As the army approached Moschochori, they found the road lined with villagers holding icons and greenery. The moment Constantine's banner came into view, the villagers erupted in acclamation. Women in homespun dresses tossed laurel branches and wildflowers before the marching soldiers, creating a carpet of green and color on the dusty road. Old men bowed and clasped the calloused hands of passing pikemen in gratitude. One aged villager, leaning on a staff, managed to walk up to Constantine's horse. He pressed a small wooden icon of Saint George into the Emperor's hand, his voice quavering: "For you, my lord—Saint George for victory. We have kept him hidden from the Turks; now he rides with you." Moved, Constantine thanked the man and handed the icon to one of his standard-bearers, who raised it high. A cheer went up from both villagers and troops at the sight of the warrior saint's image leading them forward.
Through Moschochori and on to Leianokladi, the reception was the same. People offered cheese, onions, and freshly baked flatbreads to any soldier who wanted them. Captain Andreas made sure to keep the army orderly, no looting or bullying would be tolerated, and all provisions were properly requisitioned rather than seized. George Sphrantzes, riding in a wagon for a short rest, took notes of supplies given, intending for the Empire to compensate these communities later. The army's discipline and respect for the locals only heightened the villagers' sense that a just liberation was at hand. Many able-bodied young men volunteered to guide the soldiers through the local terrain, and a few even took up old spears or hunting bows to join the march. Constantine initially hesitated to accept untrained volunteers, not wanting to leave villages defenseless or families without sons, but in the end, some insisted so fervently that he allowed a handful to come along as auxiliaries and scouts. Their local knowledge proved immediately useful, one of them pointed out an old Byzantine-era stone bridge over a river bend that let the army bypass a muddy stretch of road, saving time.
As midday approached, the columns began ascending into the lower slopes of Mount Oeta. Neopatras lay nestled on a hillside ahead. The path narrowed again as they climbed; around one bend, they encountered a crudely felled tree blocking the way. It looked recent—perhaps an attempt by retreating Ottoman forces to delay pursuit. Constantine's engineers set to work at once, chopping it apart and hauling off the obstruction. While halted, some soldiers took the chance to refill their water flasks in a clear stream rushing down from the heights. The water was cold and sweet, a welcome refreshment in the gathering early summer heat. Overhead, the sun beat down, but many of the soldiers felt that even the elements favored them: a light breeze blew at their backs, as if nature herself wanted them to reach Neopatras swiftly.
That afternoon, the vanguard cresting a ridge caught their first glimpse of Neopatras. The town's stone houses and the gray walls of its old castle gleamed on the green hillside. Beyond, the dark bulk of Mount Oeta rose, guarding the town's rear. Sphrantzes squinted toward the fortress. Through the clear air, no Ottoman banner could be seen flying above the ramparts, only a lonely flagpole. It seemed the Turks had not even bothered to raise their colors that morning, a possible sign of demoralization. Constantine ordered the army to approach in battle order regardless. They unfurled the imperial banner and the great scarlet cross-emblazoned flag of the Byzantine army. Drummers beat a steady cadence as ranks of infantry fanned out, prepared in case of a last-ditch defense or a trap. The silence from the town was uncanny: no alarm bells, no shouts from watchmen—only the echo of Byzantine drums rolling back from the hills.
When the first Byzantine scouts reached Neopatras's outskirts, they discovered the truth: the Ottoman garrison had already abandoned the town mere hours before. A few townsfolk emerged from hiding to report excitedly that around daybreak, the Turkish soldiers packed up and rode out in a hurry. "They were shouting at each other, fearful of being cut off," one Greek farmer explained. "They said the Byzantines were coming from Zetouni and dared not face you. Their commander ordered a retreat toward Domokos." However, the Ottomans hadn't left without mischief, in their parting spite, they had destroyed the small wooden bridge over a ravine on the main road into Neopatras, hoping to delay any pursuers. The gap was narrow, with the stream below still passable, but it forced a brief halt. Constantine soon arrived and surveyed the broken bridge with a grim expression. Engineers assessed the damage; it was quickly decided that infantry could wade through the shallow stream, and the cavalry could find a ford a bit upstream. The artillery, however, would need a temporary plank or causeway. Without wasting time, Andreas ordered wagons dismantled and their planks laid down to create a makeshift crossing. Within an hour, the imperial troops were filing into Neopatras.
As anticipated, Neopatras fell into Byzantine hands without a fight. The reception, however, was no less ecstatic for being bloodless. The citizens of Neopatras, emboldened by the Turks' flight, threw open their doors and rushed into the streets to greet Constantine's forces as liberators. Many of these people had suffered under an Ottoman bey for years, and their joy now overflowed. Women ululated from balconies in celebration, and men embraced any Byzantine soldier within reach. Constantine entered the town on horseback but soon dismounted to walk among the people, signaling he came in peace and friendship. He made a point of halting a group of his own eager soldiers who were about to ransack the abandoned Ottoman governor's residence. "These goods will be inventoried and returned to the people or the state, not looted," he declared. The men obeyed, and nearby townsfolk, seeing the Emperor's fairness, bowed with gratitude. One elder approached Constantine with a shy young girl—his granddaughter—and said, "She was born the day the Turks came years ago, and she has never known a free Neopatras until today. God grant you many years, Basileus." Constantine gently lifted the little girl in his arms so she could see the Imperial banners flying now over her hometown. It was a small moment, but for those who witnessed it, it symbolized the restoration of hope for the next generation.
Evening found the Byzantine camp happily ensconced in and around Neopatras. The imperial banner now fluttered atop the ancient castle, replacing the Ottoman crescent. In the castle's chapel, a dusty little Orthodox church neglected under Turkish rule, priests and monks gathered to perform a thanksgiving service. Constantine, his officers, and many townspeople crammed into the chapel, whose icons and frescoes glowed in the candlelight once more. Together they sang a doxology, their voices rising with the same hymns their ancestors had sung centuries before within those stone walls. "Χριστὸς Ἀνέστη! – Christ is Risen!" an old priest exclaimed joyously, even though Easter had passed weeks ago. In spirit, it felt like a resurrection of faith and freedom in this town. After prayers, the priests proceeded through the castle and the streets, swinging incense and chanting hymns of deliverance, effectively blessing the old fortress and the entire community, now free of infidels. Soldiers stood at reverent attention as holy water was sprinkled on the gates and walls to cleanse the stain of the Ottoman occupation.
Constantine himself participated earnestly. He held a beeswax candle and followed the cross in procession, reflecting on how rare and precious these moments were, to liberate a fortress and immediately rededicate it to God. When the procession returned to the castle's courtyard, a priest led the final benediction: "Lord, in former times this stronghold guarded Your people. Today we return it to that sacred purpose. Let this castle of Neopatras stand again as a shield for the faithful. Bless our Emperor and his warriors as You once blessed David against Goliath. Amen." A resounding "Amen" rolled through soldiers and townsfolk alike. In that twilight hour, with the castle's ancient stones glowing in lantern light and the distant song of nightingales in the air, many felt a profound assurance that God indeed smiled upon this campaign.
Toward Domokos
The next morning, Neopatras bustled with activity as Constantine's army prepared for the next phase. The Emperor left a small contingent of troops in the town, both to secure this latest gain and to organize the region's defense. Local volunteers were enlisted into a militia to help guard the walls, operating under a seasoned Byzantine officer.
By mid-morning, the main host marched out of Neopatras toward the north. Domokos was now their target, the last significant Ottoman-held fortress before the broad plains of Thessaly. The route turned more rugged as they advanced. The army had to ascend into the foothills of Mount Othrys, leaving the gentle Spercheios valley behind. The terrain became a patchwork of scrubby heights, narrow defiles, and rocky outcrops. Here and there, dense thickets of oak and chestnut clung to the hillsides, offering potential cover for foes. Everyone sensed that the easy part of the campaign was ending; unlike the half-abandoned towns behind them, Domokos was likely preparing to fight. Constantine ordered the columns to tighten their formation.
Before long, advance scouts encountered the first signs of Ottoman resistance. Riding ahead on a winding mountain path, a pair of Byzantine scouts suddenly found themselves peppered by arrows from a rocky ridge. An Ottoman scouting party revealed itself, light cavalry archers who had been shadowing the Byzantine movement. One scout took a grazing arrow to his thigh as he and his fellow fell back to warn the main force. Captain Andreas reacted swiftly, dispatching a troop of his own cavalry to chase off the harassers. A brief skirmish ensued in a wooded hollow: the Ottoman scouts, a dozen riders, fired a few volleys, then wheeled their horses and disappeared into the trees, unwilling to be caught. "They're testing us, probing," Andreas muttered as he surveyed the treeline. He knew these tactics—the enemy was trying to delay the Byzantines and gather information on their strength.
As the day wore on, more Ottoman scouts darted in and out of contact. At one narrow gorge, a felled tree had been laid across the path, and from above, a small band of Turkish infantry rolled stones down when the Byzantines approached. Shield-bearing infantry rushed forward under Constantine's orders to cover the engineers, who scrambled to clear the obstruction. Tumbling rocks bruised a few men, but a volley of pyrvelos sent the Ottoman skirmishers scattering. Two were captured after they tripped on the rough ground, trying to flee. Under questioning, these captives revealed they were local conscripts from around Domokos, sent to slow the Byzantines. They spoke of Domokos's garrison being on high alert, "like a beehive stirred by a stick," and that messengers had been sent to call for reinforcements from Larissa in the north. Constantine, hearing this report, exchanged a look with Sphrantzes—a relief force could soon challenge them. There was no turning back now, but the window of uncontested advances was clearly closing.
Despite these minor clashes, the Byzantine army pressed on methodically. Constantine dispatched his scouts far and wide: agile Greek mountaineers who knew how to move unseen among the crags, and a few Albanian recruits adept at irregular warfare. These scouts confirmed that no large field army lay ahead, only small bands like those already encountered. However, ominously, columns of smoke were spotted in a few directions. Whether they were signal fires or villages being burned by retreating Turks was unclear. Either way, it was a sign that the Ottomans were actively responding.
By the time the sun began to dip toward the western peaks, Constantine's forces came within sight of Domokos. The town sat perched on a series of hills overlooking a wide plain stretching north, the beginning of Thessaly. Domokos's castle was a stout stone structure on the highest point, its walls reflecting the late afternoon sun. Surrounding it was a modest town with a circuit of lower walls hugging the slope. As expected, unlike Zetouni or Neopatras, Domokos showed no sign of surrender. The Ottoman flag fluttered defiantly above the battlements, and even from a distance, the Byzantines could hear the blare of trumpets and war drums from inside. The garrison was making a show of readiness. Small knots of Ottoman cavalry were observed withdrawing through the gates, likely the same scouts and skirmishers falling back to the fortress now that the enemy host had arrived.
Constantine ordered his troops to encamp just out of bowshot from the walls, on a rise that commanded the main road. The Byzantines moved efficiently, well-trained from prior sieges: pikemen and musketeers established a perimeter, while engineers identified good spots to position the cannons come morning. The Emperor rode around the prospective lines, planning carefully. Domokos would not be taken by bluff or surprise; a siege was inevitable. The army had been marching for days, but their resolve only hardened at the prospect. Many remembered the bloody Siege of Livadeia not long past, they were prepared to do the same here if necessary. Still, Constantine decided to give the garrison a chance that night. Through a herald, he called out to the defenders in both Greek and Turkish, offering honorable terms if they capitulated peacefully: "Open your gates, yield the fortress, and no harm shall befall you or the townsfolk. Resist, and you will meet the fate of those who defied us at Livadeia." His words echoed against the walls. The answer from Domokos was a volley of arrows; clearly, the garrison had chosen to fight.
Constantine accepted the inevitable. He drew his cloak about him as a cool night breeze swept down from the hills. "Prepare for siege operations," he instructed his generals. "We invest the town at first light."
The siege
At dawn, the siege of Domokos began in earnest. Constantine's forces surrounded the town on three sides, leaving only the north facing the Thessalian plain partly open to watch for any relief force. Byzantine cannons, positioned strategically on hillocks southeast and west of the fortress, opened fire with a deafening roar. The Drakos cannon hurled stone balls against the walls, shaking them without yet creating a breach. Ottoman archers and a few arquebusiers retaliated fiercely, arrows and bullets raining down on the Byzantine siege lines. Wooden mantlets rolled forward, shielding Byzantine musketmen and cannon crews who crept closer, picking off defenders on the battlements. Soon, a cacophony filled the air—the deep boom of cannons, the snap of bows, and the crack of muskets mingling with the commanders' urgent shouts.
Constantine focused his artillery fire on a critical corner tower dominating the town's gatehouse. Over several days, trenches advanced methodically, bringing Byzantine forces within mere yards of Domokos's main gate. Inside the fortress, tension mounted. Muslim refugees from the surrounding countryside had flooded into town before the siege began, quickly exhausting food and water supplies. Reports filtered back to Constantine through spies and sympathetic locals, describing mounting unrest. Greek townsfolk resented the Ottoman soldiers' refusal to surrender, leading to brutal reprisals. The hanging of a Greek merchant who openly wished for rescue hardened Constantine's resolve, prompting him to remark gravely, "Their fear of us is matched only by their fear of Murad. We must shorten their agony."
As the bombardment intensified, the targeted corner tower finally crumbled under sustained artillery fire, collapsing into rubble. A cheer arose from the Byzantine lines. Constantine ordered an immediate feigned assault to probe the defenders' strength. Volunteers stormed forward, briefly raising the imperial banner atop the breach before fierce Ottoman counterattacks forced them to retreat, costing several Byzantine lives.
The soldiers endured several restless nights marked by Ottoman raids. One dark night, Ottoman sipahi cavalry burst from a sally port, aiming for the cannons on the western hillock. However, Constantine had anticipated such moves. Caltrops scattered across the ground halted the attackers' momentum, sowing confusion among their ranks. Captain Andreas swiftly countered with a spear charge, decisively routing the raiders. Among the captured prisoners was a subashi who grimly revealed the deteriorating morale inside Domokos, hinting that no Ottoman relief might arrive.
Conditions inside Domokos worsened drastically as the siege lines tightened. Fires erupted, some from Byzantine bombardments, others set by desperate defenders trying to obscure Byzantine movements with smoke. Civilians, trapped and starving, began clashing openly with Ottoman soldiers over dwindling provisions.
By midday, a courageous group of Greek civilians attempted escape, sprinting toward the Byzantine lines with makeshift white flags. Smoke swirled behind them. Constantine ordered covering fire, successfully shielding their flight.
Many arrived barefoot and trembling, eyes hollow from hunger. Their accounts, of spreading disease and brutal Ottoman reprisals, deepened Constantine's urgency to end the siege quickly.
The arrival of a large bombard from Thebes, laboriously positioned within range, marked the siege's turning point. Its enormous stone balls struck the castle's main gatehouse, shattering wooden gates and severely weakening the walls. Desperate defenders scrambled to shore up their defenses, but morale had already fallen. The final blow came at dawn when a second thunderous bombard shot fully breached the gatehouse, leaving an opening wide enough for a concerted assault.
With a trumpet's call, Byzantine troops surged forward, shouting, " For the Emperor! " Thomas Palaiologos led the charge into the breach, his guards swinging their swords in fierce combat. Captain Andreas coordinated a flanking assault, swiftly overcoming the remaining defenders around the damaged corner tower. Intense fighting erupted throughout the town and into the inner keep, but Ottoman resistance was soon overwhelmed. By midday, the fortress had fallen, the imperial double-headed eagle proudly unfurled atop the castle.
Constantine solemnly walked through the shattered gate, surveying the high price of victory, piles of rubble, wounded soldiers, and frightened locals. He swiftly ordered discipline, ensuring protection and aid for the townsfolk. Ottoman dead, including their commander, were also buried. Climbing the ruined ramparts, Constantine gazed north across the vast Thessalian plain toward Larissa, aware that the Ottomans would soon respond in force.
As evening approached, Byzantines and townspeople gathered atop Domokos to offer a somber thanksgiving prayer led by a local priest, chanting the Trisagion hymn in memory of the fallen and in gratitude for their hard-won triumph. Constantine joined, quietly firm in his resolve, mindful that greater challenges lay ahead.
Author's Note:
The latest chapters draw heavy inspiration from the historical campaigns of Constantine Palaiologos in mainland Greece during the years 1444–1445.
In reality, Constantine—then Despot of the Morea—launched an ambitious offensive against Latin and Ottoman-controlled territories in central Greece. He managed to force Nerio II Accianuoli to pay tribute in Athens and Thebes, and with the support of a Burgundian contingent, he pushed deep into Boiotia, Phokis, and even Thessaly.
One particularly striking moment from this campaign was the success of his governor at Vostitza (modern Aigion), Constantine Cantacuzene, who crossed the Gulf of Corinth and liberated towns in western Phokis. The people of Loidoriki were so moved by his leadership that they renamed their town "Cantacuzinopolis" in his honor.
That's why, in the story, you'll notice such fervent enthusiasm and joy from the liberated townsfolk—it echoes the genuine spirit of gratitude and hope that real communities expressed during this brief but powerful resurgence of Byzantine arms.
Although these conquests were eventually reversed by Sultan Murad II's counter-invasion in 1446, they offered a fleeting glimpse of what could have been, and served as perfect narrative fuel for my alternate take on Constantine's legacy.
Hope you enjoy how history and fiction intertwine! Next chapter: Murad's POV
Like Award Reply84sersorMay 12, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 74: The Sultan's Ire New View contentsersorMay 15, 2025NewAdd bookmark#677Albanian Frontier, Ottoman Camp
A chill wind swept down from the jagged Albanian highlands, rustling the tents of Turahan Bey's encampment as dusk settled. Turahan stood at the edge of his pavilion beneath a sky of bruised purple, arms folded tightly across his chest. In the valley below, cookfires flickered amid the gathering darkness, and the distant cries of wounded men echoed from the field hospital. For months, he had chased phantoms through these mountains – rebel Albanians who melted away into forests and gorges after each skirmish. His seasoned spahi cavalry, so fearsome on open plains, found themselves frustrated by an enemy that refused open battle. Turahan's jaw clenched in simmering irritation as he scanned the blackening ridgelines, half expecting yet another guerrilla raid to harry his patrols before nightfall.
Inside the pavilion behind him, a hanging lantern cast a warm glow over maps strewn with markers. The Bey's officers murmured in low tones, discussing the next push against the elusive chieftains. Turahan tried to focus on their words, but his mind drifted. How had it come to this? He wondered. The Ottoman Empire's might, entangled in these barren hills by upstart rebels – it was an insult he was determined to crush. Each day spent here, however, gnawed at him. Thessaly, his home province and fief lay far to the southeast. He had left it secure under garrisons, never imagining the empire's heartlands in Greece might themselves be threatened. Yet rumors had trickled in: Byzantine forces were on the move beyond Thebes, and whispers of Christian villages were stirring. Turahan dismissed those at first as idle tales; Constantine's Greeks would not dare venture out of their defensive lairs in the Morea. And yet, an uneasy feeling tugged at him tonight, a premonition he could not shake.
A sudden pounding of hooves interrupted his thoughts. Down the rocky track leading into camp, a rider galloped past sentries, a torch bobbing in his hand. "Messenger approaching!" came a shout. Turahan turned sharply, heart quickening. Few messengers would ride so hard at nightfall unless the matter was dire. He strode forward as the rider, a mud-splattered courier in Ottoman livery, slid off his exhausted horse. The man's boots barely touched the ground before he dropped to one knee, chest heaving.
"My Bey, forgive the hour," the messenger gasped, sweat and dust streaking his face. "I bear urgent news… from Thessaly." At that, Turahan's blood ran cold. He grasped the man by the shoulder, urging him up. "Speak," Turahan commanded, voice low and edged with dread. "What news from my lands?"
The courier lifted desperate eyes to his lord. "A Byzantine offensive, sire. The Byzantines – have struck in force." He took a shuddering breath. "They have taken Domokos, and much of the countryside in central Greece rises with them. Neopatras fell with scarcely a fight. Domokos Castle resisted, but… it fell to the enemy three days past."
For a moment Turahan Bey forgot to breathe. Domokos… fallen? The word hammered in his mind. He released his grip on the messenger and staggered back a step. Inside the pavilion, his officers rushed out, alarmed by their lord's ashen expression. Turahan's lips parted, but no sound came. He felt as though the earth had dropped from under him, replaced by a surge of hot fury and disbelief. Domokos was one of the keystones of his province – a stout fortress guarding the South of the Thessalian plain. He had personally inspected its defenses not a year ago.
"By the Prophet… how?" Turahan hissed at last, his voice trembling with restrained anger. His dark eyes bore into the messenger. "Our garrison at Domokos numbered hundreds. Did they not hold?"
The courier bowed his head, shame on his features. "They held as long as they could, my Bey. The Emperor Constantine led the assault himself. The Byzantines brought heavy bombards from Thebes and new firearms in great numbers. They breached the walls after a short siege." He paused as if dreading the following words. "Our commander was slain in the final assault. The fortress is lost… and the Greek peasantry has risen in open revolt across the central plains. They flock to Constantine's banner now."
Turahan's hands slowly curled into fists at his sides. He remembered Constantine's infernal new weapons all too well – the thunder of cannons and the staccato fire of hand-guns that had stunned his cavalry two years ago in the Morea. He had underestimated the "fractured, desperate" Greeks then and paid for it in blood at the Hexamilion Wall. Apparently, he was not the only one caught off guard by the Emperor's innovations; now, Domokos had fallen to that same ruthless ingenuity. For an instant, amidst his anger, Turahan felt a grudging respect for the audacity of the move. You have guts, I'll grant you that.
That fleeting admiration was quickly consumed by rage. "Which other fortresses?" he demanded. "Speak, man!"
"Neopatras, as I said, my Bey. Also Levadeia, Zetouni and the passes south of Thermopylae. All taken or opened to the Greeks," the messenger replied hurriedly. "Larissa still holds, but the enemy has not reached so far north yet. They say Emperor Constantine's army is consolidating around Domokos, likely preparing to push further if unopposed."
At this, Turahan's temper snapped. He lashed out, seizing a nearby lance that leaned against a tent pole and hurling it to the ground with a crack. The onlookers flinched as Turahan turned away, breathing hard, trying to rein in his fury. His mind churned with the implications. Thessaly – his province – was being overrun. The very lands Murad had entrusted to his stewardship now lay in the enemy's grasp. The thought was a knife in his gut.
He paced a few steps into the torchlight, every muscle taut with barely controlled wrath. "By Allah, they dare raid my lands like plundering wolves," he growled under his breath. The officers exchanged uneasy glances; none had ever seen Turahan Bey so visibly shaken. He was known for his cool head and cunning on campaign. Now, a rare crack showed in that composure, born of the personal nature of this defeat. He thought of his estates near Trikala, of the timar-holders and their families under his protection. Were they now at the mercy of vengeful Greeks? The messenger had spoken of revolts – doubtless peasants settling scores with any Ottoman Sipahi they could catch. Turahan grimaced, imagining the reprisals already underway. Their fear of us is matched only by their hatred; he recalled Sultan Murad warning him once. How true those words rang tonight.
Slowly, Turahan inhaled the cold mountain air, forcing himself to master the rage pounding in his ears. Yelling at messengers and snapping spears would not undo this calamity. He turned back to the courier, who still knelt, trembling, in the dust. "Rise," Turahan ordered more quietly. The man stood, head bowed. "You have done your duty. Go, take food and rest – you look to have ridden to exhaustion." The courier hesitated, surprised at the restrained response, then gratefully backed away toward the mess lines, leaving the Bey with his gathered officers.
Turahan faced his men. In the torchlight, his face was stern, eyes gleaming with a deadly resolve. "We must accept the truth: the Greeks have outmaneuvered us." The admission tasted bitter as gall. "Constantine has taken Domokos and spilled Ottoman blood on Ottoman soil. He seeks to tear Thessaly from us while we are tied up here." He gestured broadly at the looming peaks, frustration evident in the hard set of his jaw. "It is a bold strategy – one that I might have employed were our roles reversed." A few officers nodded grimly; they also saw the Byzantine ploy's logic, however much it stung.
"One thing is certain," Turahan went on, his voice sharpening. "We cannot fight a war on two fronts indefinitely. If we continue to chase these Albanian rebels while Constantine carves away our provinces, the Sultan's wrath will be terrible… and deserved." At the mention of Murad, an uneasy silence fell. Turahan did not need to elaborate; all of them could imagine the Sultan's fury when he learned of Domokos. Murad II was not known for mercy toward failure, even if Turahan remained one of his favored commanders. The prospect of facing Murad's displeasure – or worse, seeing the Sultan ride south himself to reclaim what Turahan had lost – made the Bey's stomach twist.
He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the mountain chill. "Summon my scribe," he said at last to a lieutenant. "And send word for fresh horses to be readied." As the officer darted into the tent to fetch writing materials, Turahan squared his shoulders, already resolving on a course of action. He would alert the Sultan immediately, laying out the situation plainly. Perhaps Murad already knew – perhaps not – but Turahan would not delay. He also needed to communicate with the remaining Ottoman forces in Thessaly to organize a defense until reinforcements could arrive. And what of his campaign here? Abandoning it outright would give the Albanian rebels a reprieve they hardly deserved, yet pressing on now, with Thessaly aflame, was unthinkable. Turahan's loyalty to his Sultan warred with his pride and sense of honor. He had vowed to crush this Albanian uprising, but Thessaly was his charge, his responsibility. He could not stand idle while it fell.
Within minutes, the Bey's scribe arrived with parchment and ink. Turahan dictated in clipped, urgent phrases a letter to Sultan Murad conveying the gravity of the Byzantine attack and begging for swift permission to redeploy. Another missive to his son and deputies in Larissa, instructing them to hold firm and gather what troops they could to harass the invaders' flanks. As he spoke, his tone was fierce and determined, but inside, his heart was heavy. Each word admitting to lost fortresses felt like swallowing hot coals. I have failed to guard what is ours. No excuse would change that fact.
When the letters were sanded and sealed with Turahan's mark, he thrust them into the hands of two fresh riders. "Ride to Edirne with this," he ordered the first man, locking eyes with him. "Spare neither whip nor spur. The Sultan must know of Domokos at once." The rider bowed deeply, understanding the importance, and sprinted off to saddle a horse. To the second rider, Turahan said, "Take the mountain paths east and go to Larissa. Give this to my son, Ali Bey, or whichever commander holds the city. Tell them I will come as soon as I am able." That courier, too, hastened away. Watching them depart into the dark, Turahan allowed himself a long, unsteady breath. He had taken the first steps to respond, but the true decision still loomed: stay or march.
Edirne, Ottoman Capital
In Edirne's imperial palace, an oppressive silence hung beneath the high domed ceiling of the divan hall. It was mid-morning, but the usual bustle of Murad II's court had stilled to a hush. Sultan Murad stood by one of the tall arched windows; hands clasped tightly behind his back as he gazed out over the palace gardens without really seeing them. The sunlight streamed in painted patterns on the polished marble floor. Before him, kneeling on a silk carpet, was the haggard envoy from Thessaly who had arrived moments ago. The man had traveled day and night to bring his Sultan ill tidings, and now he quivered with his forehead pressed to the floor, awaiting Murad's response.
In Murad's clenched fist was the parchment the messenger had delivered – a letter penned in Turahan Bey's own hand, along with corroborating reports from local Ottoman survivors. The Sultan's dark eyes scanned the lines again as if rereading might somehow change the contents. Domokos fallen. Neopatras and Zetouni abandoned. Byzantine army pushing into central Greece. Constantine leads them. Murad's jaw tightened with each phrase. He had received warnings of Byzantine movements in the south, of course. But this… this was beyond a mere raid or minor incursion. An Ottoman province was aflame, and a prized fortress was toppled.
At last, Murad spoke, his voice low and steady in the hush. "Rise and report fully," he commanded. The courier rose to hands and knees, not daring to meet the Sultan's eyes.
"M-my Sultan," he stammered, "I bring word from Larissa and from Turahan Bey. Weeks ago, the Byzantines launched their offensive by besieging Livadeia. After capturing it, they blinded the garrison as punishment and moved swiftly northward, overwhelming Bodonitsa next. Our outposts at Zetouni then opened their gates to them without a fight. Neopatras fell shortly thereafter—the garrison was too small and fled at the Greeks' approach." Each admission made the man wince as if expecting a blow. Murad's expression was impassive, but a vein pulsed dangerously at his temple.
Emboldened by the Sultan's silence, the messenger continued. "Emperor Constantine's forces then besieged Domokos. They… they brought large bombards, my Sultan, and many arquebusiers. The siege was swift. The castle walls were breached and—"
"I know of the outcome," Murad interrupted coolly, lifting the crumpled letter in his hand. Turahan's urgent, apologetic tone practically bled from the page. Murad could almost hear his veteran commander's voice pleading for swift action. The Sultan inhaled slowly through his nose, containing the storm within. Calculated fury – a lifetime of rulership had taught him to master his temper until the appropriate moment. But oh, how it burned.
He turned from the window at last to face the chamber. Along the walls, a handful of advisors and guards stood rigidly, eyes downcast. Grand Vizier Halil Pasha hovered nearby, hands tucked in his robe, concern etched on his face. Murad's gaze swept over them all and settled on Halil. "So," the Sultan said softly, almost a hiss, "Constantine has taken upon himself to seize what is mine."
No one dared answer immediately. Halil Pasha stepped forward and bowed. "My Sultan, the news is grave. The Byzantines have indeed struck in Thessaly while our forces are divided." He spoke carefully, soothingly. "However, Turahan Bey is already mobilizing to contain the incursion. He writes that he will march south from Albania with all haste." Halil gestured subtly toward the letter Murad held.
Murad's fingers flexed against the parchment. He knew Halil was attempting to mollify him – to highlight that Turahan was acting decisively. But Murad could not help but flare up anger at the situation. "Contain the incursion," he repeated with biting emphasis. His voice remained measured, but each word was hard as iron. "It should not have happened to begin with." He strode forward and cast the letter onto the low table at the center of the hall. The courtiers flinched as the Sultan's composure began to crack, his controlled tone undercut by the intensity in his eyes.
"Levadeia, Zetouni, Neopatras, Domokos…" Murad enumerated the losses, his brow furrowing deeper with each name. "Castles and towns under the protection of the Ottoman state – lost or surrendered without a proper fight. Villages in revolt." He nearly spat the last phrase. "All this, while Turahan was bogged down chasing rebels in Albania. We have been outmaneuvered." The admission was as rare from Murad's lips as it had been from Turahan's. An uncomfortable rustle went through the advisors. Some exchanged wary glances; it was unlike the Sultan to acknowledge a foe's success so openly. But Murad was nothing if not a realist, and denial would serve him little now.
He stepped toward the kneeling messenger, who quailed as the Sultan loomed over him. Murad's ornate robes swished softly, the only sound in the chamber besides the crackle of a brazier. "Tell me of Domokos," Murad ordered, quieter now but no less intense. "How did it fall? How long did our soldiers hold?"
The courier swallowed hard. "They held eight days of siege, my sovereign," he said, voice shaking. "Our forces were outnumbered. The enemy's bombards breached the gate at dawn of the eighth day. The garrison fought bravely in the streets, but by midday, the fortress was overrun. Most of our men perished fighting to the end. The commander… Khalil Bey, was slain." The man hesitated, then added in a whisper, "Even in defeat, they did not yield, Sultan. They fought to the last."
Murad closed his eyes briefly. Khalil Bey was an old companion-in-arms, a loyal servant for years. He died at his post… A pang of grief, laced with fury, coursed through Murad. At least there was honor in that death. The Sultan drew a deep breath, suppressing the urge to curse aloud. Instead, he placed a steady hand on the messenger's shoulder – a surprising gesture that caused the man to look up in timid astonishment. "You have done well to bring this news swiftly," Murad said, voice gentler. "Go, get some rest. You will have further messages to carry soon." The courier, wide-eyed at the unexpected mercy, bowed repeatedly and backed away as an usher led him out.
As the doors closed, Murad turned to his inner circle. The mask of calm slipped back over his features, but inside, anger roiled like a caged lion. He moved toward the map unfurled on the table, the same map of Greece he had pored over months before when planning his campaigns. His advisors gathered around at a respectful distance. Murad's gaze fixed on the region of Thessaly, where tiny drawn castles marked Domokos, Larissa, and other strongholds. The castles were painted with the Ottoman crescent – or had been. Murad reached down and, with the edge of his ring, scratched harshly across the symbol at Domokos. The meaning was clear: lost. His thin lips pressed into a line.
For a long moment, the Sultan said nothing. Only the crackle of the brazier and the faint rustle of silk from Halil shifting his weight broke the silence. At last Murad spoke in a low, controlled tone, addressing his council. "This Constantine has grown ambitious. While we've been occupied elsewhere, he presumes to snatch away lands we conquered decades ago." He tapped the map where the Byzantine advance had occurred. "He exploits our distraction with Albania. Clever, indeed. I did not think the Greeks capable of marching beyond their precious walls so boldly."
"He has had some success, it seems," ventured Zaganos Pasha, a younger general who stood among the circle. His eyes flashed with indignation on Murad's behalf. "Success won by treachery and luck. The Greeks caught our smaller garrisons by surprise. And Domokos…" Zaganos shook his head. "Domokos would never have fallen had we been able to send relief in time."
Murad glanced at him. "No, it wouldn't have," he agreed quietly. He did not miss the subtle implication behind Zaganos's words – that if not for Turahan and the army being tied up in Albania, things might be different. The Sultan's face darkened. "Our mistake was to underestimate their Emperor after his initial victories." His tone grew harder. "I will not repeat that mistake."
Grand Vizier Halil Pasha stepped closer, folding his hands. "My Sultan, the immediate question is how we shall respond. Constantine's triumph will not end at Domokos if he is unchecked. Even now, his envoys surely court the Greeks of Larissa and the Christians of Epirus, encouraging more revolt." Halil's eyes shifted to the Sultan's for permission to continue, and Murad inclined his head. The vizier went on, voice calm but urgent. "The season is late for a full campaign – the rains of autumn will begin in a couple of months. But if we delay until next spring, the enemy will have many months to entrench and rally support. The tribes in Albania and even the Serbian princes might grow bolder seeing the Sultanate pushed back."
At that, Murad's temper flared anew. His fingers drummed once on the table. "Do you think I will tolerate waiting a year while a Byzantine upstart parades through my lands?" he snapped. "No. This insult must be answered swiftly and decisively." He looked around at his assembled advisors, his presence dominating the chamber. Murad was a seasoned monarch, and in moments like this, he radiated an aura of unquestionable authority. The anger in his eyes was like distant thunder – restrained but heralding a storm. "We march south," the Sultan declared. " We will muster our forces and strike back at once. I shall lead the army myself."
A ripple of surprise – and, in some faces, relief – passed through the council. The Sultan leading in person would galvanize the troops and intimidate foes; Murad was renowned as a warrior-commander. Halil Pasha, however, ventured a cautious protest. "My Sultan, the logistics—"
"We will solve them," Murad cut him off, raising a hand. "Send riders to every garrison in Thrace and Macedonia. I want twenty thousand men assembled at Thessaloniki within a month – cavalry, infantry, artillery, all we can gather." His tone left no room for debate. "We'll cross into Thessaly and crush Constantine's little adventure in one swift campaign."
Zaganos Pasha and several other militant advisors nodded eagerly. "It will be done, Sovereign," Zaganos said, thumping his chest in salute. "The army will be ready to remind the Byzantines of their place."
Murad allowed himself a tight smile at the young general's enthusiasm. Then his gaze shifted back to Halil, who still looked concerned. "Speak freely, Halil," Murad said, moderating his voice. He valued the Grand Vizier's counsel, even if he sometimes grew impatient with his cautious approach.
Halil bowed his head. "Sultan, no man doubts the need to reclaim Thessaly. But we must consider all fronts. If we draw so many forces south, the Hungarians or the Anatolian vassals might sense opportunity. And the Albanian revolt—"
Murad's eyes narrowed slightly. "Do not mistake me, Vizier. I have weighed these risks. But a Sultan who hesitates while his empire's provinces fall to rebels and upstart Byzantines will soon find jackals at his door from all sides. We must show strength now when our enemies expect weakness." Each word came out measured and firm. In his chest, Murad felt the hot conviction of his decision solidify. Indeed, even beyond the strategic necessity, there was a personal element he could not deny: pride. His pride as the Padishah of the Ottomans had been wounded. Constantine Palaiologos had embarrassed his armies, challenged his authority, and dared to reclaim lands long under the Sultan's shadow. That could not go unanswered.
One of the older Pashas, Karaca Bey, stroked his white beard thoughtfully. "The Sultan speaks true. This Constantine has stirred a fire that will spread if not extinguished. The empire's honor is at stake. We must remind the Greeks why even their Western friends whisper the name of Murad in respect and fear." A few others murmured agreement.
Murad placed both hands on the table, leaning over the map. He felt the energy in the room shifting – the resolve coalescing around his will. His anger was still there, coiled like a viper, but now he guided it with purpose. "I want messengers dispatched to Bursa and Konya," he said, looking to another aide. "Draw five thousand of our timariot cavalry from Anatolia to bolster us. And order additional powder and shot sent forward for the bombards – if the Byzantines want to play at siege craft, we shall answer in kind." He imagined the heavy guns rumbling across the plains toward those recaptured fortresses, ready to smash them open in retribution.
"Yes, my Sultan," the aide replied smartly, hurrying off to arrange the orders.
Halil Pasha finally inclined his head, acquiescing to the plan. "Your will shall be done, Sovereign. I will see to the provisioning and coordination at once." Despite his initial hesitation, the Grand Vizier moved with efficient purpose; he, too, understood the necessity.
As the flurry of preparations began, Murad straightened and moved away from the table. His gaze drifted upward to a large banner hanging on the wall: the tugra of the House of Osman emblazoned in gold thread. Beneath that emblem of Ottoman might, Murad's strong features set in determination. "Constantine believes his victories make him strong," he said aloud, not to anyone in particular but for all to hear. "He will learn they have only sealed his fate."
The Sultan's words hung in the air, heavy with promise. Murad could already envision the campaign – his banners unfurled on the march south, the thunder of hooves across the plains, the panicked flight of those who had so recently been celebrating in Domokos.
Suddenly, he realized his right hand had been resting on the pommel of his sword – the grand scimitar gifted to him years ago, its hilt embedded with rubies. Murad hadn't even noticed himself grasping it. He released it slowly, then turned to Halil once more. "Send a reply to Turahan Bey," he ordered. "Acknowledge his message. Tell him the Sultan marches to join him, and that he is to press the enemy from the west as we come from the east. We will catch Constantine's forces like a hammer and anvil." Murad allowed a thin smile. "And tell Turahan… he is to reclaim his honor in Thessaly. I expect him to make the infidels regret ever setting foot beyond their walls."
Halil bowed deeply. "At once, my Sultan." He gestured to a scribe to begin drafting the reply. Murad's message was clear: Turahan was forgiven his setback only insofar as he would help rectify it. There was no room for further failure. Not for Turahan, not for anyone.
Author note: Book One is nearing its climax, only 5 chapters left until the epic finale! You can now read the last 5 chapters of Book On, plus the first 8 chapters of Book Two early on Patreon.Like Award Reply103sersorMay 15, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 75: To Strike or to Stand New View contentsersorMay 19, 2025NewAdd bookmark#692June 1433
Back at Domokos, Constantine's army had only a brief moment to savor victory before dealing with new threats. In the days following the fortress's capture, disturbing reports filtered into the Byzantine camp. Mounted scouts and local Greek peasants brought word of Ottoman raids and sabotage in the surrounding regions. Under cover of darkness, bands of enemy Akinci cavalry – likely dispatched by Turahan or local Ottoman governors – had circled behind the Byzantine advance. They struck at isolated villages and supply convoys with merciless efficiency. One dawn, smoke was seen smudging the sky to the south-east. A messenger from Neopatras arrived, breathless and disheveled, reporting that an Ottoman raiding party attacked them on their way to Domokos. Another report indicated that a supply convoy from Thebes was ambushed; the wagons were set ablaze and the escort was killed entirely. It was evident that the Ottomans were employing guerrilla warfare and scorched-earth tactics to impede Constantine's forces.
George Sphrantzes collated these grim tidings and presented them to Costantine in Domokos's captured hall, where a makeshift command post was established. "Emperor," Sphrantzes said, pointing to marks on a map spread over a rough-hewn table, "the enemy is lashing out in our rear. Here, near Neopatras, and here along the old road from Thebes… small raiding parties, but enough to disrupt us. They wish to cut us off or at least make it difficult to hold what we've taken." Constantine frowned, tracing the routes with a gauntleted finger. He realized the danger: though victorious at Domokos, his army was now deep in hostile territory with increasingly precarious lines of supply.
Worse yet, rumors started flying among the locals that Murad was gathering a massive army to march south. One of the Greek villagers who had fled into the Byzantine camp swore he overheard an Ottoman soldier mutter, "Wait until the Sultan arrives, he'll burn them all." Such talk, true or not, cast a shadow over the elation of the recent wins. Constantine knew that time was now of the essence – whatever the next move, it had to be decided and prepared before Murad's hammer descended.
Thus, a tense war council was called in Domokos just days after its fall. Constantine gathered his key commanders and advisors in the castle's old keep beneath a vaulted ceiling still blackened by soot. Outside, twilight was settling. The distant rumble of thunder hinted at a summer storm brewing over the Thessalian plain, and occasional flickers of lightning danced on the horizon. In the chamber, an oil lamp cast long shadows over the faces around the table: Constantine at the head, flanked by George Sphrantzes, Captain Andreas, and Despot Thomas. Also present were a few other officers, but the core discussion lay with the first four.
The Emperor opened the council. "Brothers and friends," he began, his tone measured, "we stand at a crossroads. By God's grace and our sweat, we hold Livadeia, Bodonitsa, Zetouni, Neopatras, and now Domokos. Never in recent memory has our banner flown over so much of Greece. Our strategy unfolded exactly as intended—thanks to Turahan Bey being occupied in Albania, we've executed a swift and decisive campaign thus far."
He paused thoughtfully, his eyes assessing each face around the table. "But we also know the enemy will not rest. Murad will come—with fury. The question is: what do we do next? Do we push further while we have momentum? Or do we secure and fortify what we've taken and brace for his counterblow?" Constantine's gaze sharpened, emphasizing the gravity of the moment. "I want your frank counsel."
Thomas was the first to speak, unable to contain himself. He stood up from his stool, one hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his sword as he said passionately. "We must press on to Larissa, Brother. Right to the heart of Thessaly!" He pointed north, in the direction of the great plain invisible beyond the dark window.
"Every day we linger gives Murad time to gather strength. Right now, much of Thessaly lies exposed and trembling. If we march fast, we might seize Larissa and perhaps even parts of Macedonia before the full weight of the Ottoman host is upon us. Imagine capturing Larissa – a rich city and the Ottoman regional capital. Its fall would cripple their hold on Greece and rally even more Greeks to our cause."
Thomas's youthful face was flushed "Yes, our men are tired, but they're inspired by victory. The locals are with us. Another bold stroke now, while we have the initiative, could make the difference between a short-lived raid and a true restoration of our lands."
He then did acknowledge the risks, waving a hand impatiently as if to swat them away: "Murad will come eventually, yes. But it is better to face him having taken his key cities, perhaps forcing him to negotiate or fight on our chosen ground. We can always fall back to these mountains if needed, but opportunity like this knocks but once." Thomas sat, breathing hard, clearly convinced that daring attack was the proper course.
George Sphrantzes folded his arms, his expression thoughtful but guarded. "I appreciate Prince Thomas's fervor," he said, voice calm and precise. "God knows, I too yearn to see our banners over Larissa, but ambition must reckon with reality."
He took up the wooden pointer with practiced ease, tapping softly at the map, each touch careful and deliberate, as if counting the cost of every inch. "Consider clearly what marching on Larissa truly entails. Forty open miles separate us from that city, through country that is hostile even if its people are not. Every step we take northward would force us to leave small garrisons behind, thinning our ranks, exposing flanks vulnerable to strikes from Trikala, even as far as Thessaloniki's garrison."
He paused, his eyes sharp beneath heavy lids, watching Constantine carefully, gauging each man's reaction before continuing. "And what about supply? We barely secure convoys through Thebes now. These raids in our rear, burning crops and wagons alike, threaten our lines further. We might reach Larissa hungry and cut off, isolated deep within enemy territory."
He sighed lightly, a weariness showing at the corner of his eyes, the burden of years and responsibility evident in his posture. "Picture clearly the moment Murad arrives with forty thousand at his back while we linger exposed upon the Thessalian plain. He could surround us and break us with one decisive stroke."
George spread his hands, pragmatism etched deeply into his expression. "My counsel is prudence. Consolidate. Fortify Domokos, Neopatras, Bodonitsa, and especially our hold on the mountain passes behind us. Turn them into iron gates which even the Sultan cannot easily breach."
He glanced briefly around the room, a touch of quiet urgency in his gaze. "And we must dispatch fresh envoys to potential allies—the Pope, the Venetians, Emperor Sigismund. Inform them of our triumphs clearly, press them to aid us openly. Perhaps, by next spring, reinforcements or even crusaders could bolster a renewed offensive."
He met Constantine's eyes steadily. "But gambling now with an advance deep into Larissa? We could win greatly—or lose everything."
Andreas listened patiently, his scarred hands clasped in front of him, expression quietly skeptical. When he spoke, his voice was gruff yet measured, carrying the blunt authority of a soldier. "Both sides speak truth," he rumbled, nodding slowly. "The army could march further, aye—they've bled and fought, but morale remains strong. Larissa would indeed shock the Ottomans deeply. Yet I've seen too many battles lost to armies stretched thin, supplies cut off, stomachs empty."
He jabbed a blunt finger toward the map, tracing the supply route that snaked precariously back toward the Morea. "Our provisions must cross hundreds of miles, Constantine. True, it's still early summer, we forage somewhat, but the enemy burns fields as they retreat. Already, Domokos strains to feed both our men and the locals who've stayed behind. March farther north, how much longer before we starve ourselves?"
He shook his head slowly, brow furrowed in quiet exasperation. "And our siege capability—consider carefully. Domokos cost us nearly two full weeks, and its defenses are nothing compared to Larissa's thick walls. We'd find ourselves deep in siege, staring helplessly across the plain for Murad's dust clouds, his banners on our horizon."
Andreas paused, drawing a steady breath as if forcing calm into his chest. "Yet sitting idle here also holds danger. If we dig in and wait, Murad will regain initiative. He'll burn countryside around us, picking off patrols, harassing our men until we're weary, starving, demoralized. The road to Neopatras is defensible, yes, but no route is ever entirely safe."
George interjected swiftly, the shadow of a diplomatic smile barely ghosting his lips. "Alternative routes, Captain, are exceedingly improbable. To the west, mountains bar passage entirely. To the east, he'd be forced into a massive detour through broken terrain near the coast. Even if he attempts it, we'd intercept and halt him easily near the choke-points of Thermopylae."
Andreas grunted thoughtfully, tugging briefly at his beard, his patience clearly tested, yet disciplined enough to reconsider carefully. "Perhaps, then, a middle path suits us best," he said steady "Advance partway, bait Murad into fighting on ground of our choosing. Set camp at Pharsalos, fortify strong enough to withstand attack without committing to Larissa's full siege." He frowned slightly, caution warring visibly with the appeal of such a strategy. "Even then, we'd have to secure our rear—no room for carelessness in this."
The debate continued for a while, with minor voices chiming in. Some younger officers, emboldened by victory, sided with Thomas – eager to drive on. Others, war-weary and mindful of the formidable Sultan, agreed with Sphrantzes about caution.
Constantine absorbed every perspective in silence, his expression thoughtful, almost stern in the lamplight. In his heart, he felt the same fiery urge as Thomas: this was a moment he had dreamed of – to reclaim empire's lost provinces, city by city. How sweet it would be to ride into Larissa in triumph! Yet his mind, sharpened perhaps by the strange dual insight of a man out of time, weighed the cold facts that Sphrantzes and Andreas laid out. Finally, the Emperor raised his hand, and the chamber fell quiet, only the low rumble of thunder outside filling the pause.
"My friends," Constantine said quietly, weighing each word carefully, "I've listened to your counsel—and I thank you for it. You all speak honestly, from love for our cause and our people." He stood, pacing slowly, the worn spurs at his boots jingling faintly against the stone floor. His face was shadowed, thoughtful, the lines around his eyes betraying fatigue. "Boldness brought us here—without it, we'd never have stood within Domokos. For that daring, Thomas, and every man who charged forward with him, deserves praise." He hesitated, glancing briefly toward Thomas, then continued, his voice roughened by the gravity of the decision. "But caution kept us alive. Without George's careful supplies, Andreas's sharp eyes and steady nerve—many who now stand beside us would lie beneath the earth instead. Victories won recklessly are soon lost."
Constantine turned toward a narrow window slit, eyes fixed briefly on distant flashes of lightning, stark and unpredictable, across the horizon. His voice dropped almost to a murmur, speaking half to himself, half to the gathering storm. "It's coming now, this storm. Murad is gathering strength and will strike with thunder at his heels. We have to decide—and soon—how to weather it."
Constantine faced the council once more. "If we rush to Larissa, we may indeed catch more territory, but can we hold it under the storm? If we stay here, we keep what we have but give the initiative back to Murad." He looked at the map and traced a line along the hills bordering Pharsalos. "Perhaps Captain Andreas's middle path is wisest: move forward, but not too far—just enough to force Murad to fight on the ground we choose, not in a city siege. We could select terrain favorable to our pikes and cannon." He tapped Pharsalos's vicinity on the map. "If we fortify a camp there, we'd also cover the roads from the east towards Velestino. Meanwhile, we send word urgently to our potential allies. Their mere preparation might tie down some Ottoman forces."
George Sphrantzes interjected respectfully, "Majesty, if we move to Pharsalos, we'd be halfway to Larissa anyway. That could satisfy neither objective fully… We might be too far forward to easily retreat to Domokos or Neopatras if overwhelmed, but not far enough to deny the enemy Larissa as a base." Constantine nodded. "True. It is a gamble. But war is rarely without gambles." Thomas added, "If we go that far, why not go all the way? Take Larissa before Murad arrives, then meet him outside its walls. We'd have the city's supplies." Andreas countered, "Larissa's garrison might slow us just enough to let Murad catch us during the siege – worst-case scenario." The discussion was passionate but respectful; all knew the weight of the decision.
Constantine raised his hands calmly, signaling the council to silence. "I have made my decision," he declared firmly, his voice steady amidst the rising sound of thunder outside and the gentle patter of rain against the roof. "The arguments have been compelling, yet caution must guide our hand. The wisest course is to play it safe. Let Murad come to us—we shall use every hour till his arrival wisely. Strengthen and stabilize our supply lines stretching all the way back to Thebes. Domokos is too exposed to hold against a determined siege; we will abandon it before Murad arrives, salvaging meanwhile part of its materials to fortify positions within the mountain passes south of Domokos toward Neopatras."
He paused briefly, letting the weight of his words settle among the council, then leaned toward the map again. "Here," he said deliberately, pointing to the plains south of Domokos and just north of the mountain passes leading to Neopatras, "is where we shall make our stand. We'll choose ground favorable to our pikes, pyrvelos, and cannons—open enough for proper deployment."
He tapped the map again for emphasis. "Murad will be drawn in if we offer a battlefield seemingly ideal for his cavalry, but it will serve our artillery and pyrvelos just as well. And being close to the mountain passes ensures we have the option of a disciplined withdrawal if needed."
"By fortifying our escape route and securing supply lines back to Thebes, we ensure this battle is fought on our terms, not his. Let him wear himself down chasing shadows—then let him march straight into the trap we've prepared."
The council exchanged approving glances, recognizing the logic in Constantine's cautious yet strategic decision. The Emperor had chosen prudence without sacrificing strength, giving them the flexibility to adapt and endure whatever storms lay ahead.
As they prepared to adjourn, a bright flash illuminated the chamber, followed by a crack of thunder so strong it rattled dust from the stones. The men flinched, looking about. In the eerie silence after the thunder, Constantine murmured, "A storm from heaven… perhaps a sign, or simply nature's fury mirroring the Sultan's." He managed a faint smile to ease the tension. "Either way, we shall need God's favor more than ever."Last edited: Thursday at 1:44 PMLike Award Reply100