EMPIRE REWRITTEN
patreon
Book II/Chapter 51: The Promise Remembered
🕑 Added 2025-10-09 23:11:01 +0000 UTCConstantine reined in his horse at the rocky ridge, and the morning sun spilled over him and his brother Thomas as they surveyed the plain below. The city of Arta lay ahead at a bend of the silver Arachthos River, its weathered castle crouched on a low hill at the northeastern edge of the town. From this height, Constantine could make out green pastures and tilled fields flanking the riverbanks, a fertile landscape once renowned for its cattle. Beyond the city’s ancient walls, the high peaks of Epirus framed the horizon in blue haze.
The gates of Arta were open. On the battlements, a handful of guards and archers stood visibly at ease, bows unstrung at their sides. A faint breeze carried up the hill the distant toll of a single bell from a church tower within the city, a gentle pulse in the morning air. Constantine exhaled slowly, tasting spring’s damp earth on his breath, and allowed himself a rare, subtle smile at the sight. No smoke, no screams, Arta would be spared a siege today.
Thomas shifted in his saddle, armor clinking, his gaze fixed on the city below. His chest swelled; the moment felt like victory, won without a drop of blood. From the open gates, a small mounted party emerged, a Tocco banner fluttering above them. Constantine narrowed his eyes. Even at this distance, he recognized the colors of Carlo II Tocco, Lord of Arta and Count of Cephalonia. The riders advanced at a measured trot toward the imperial scouts.
One scout galloped back up the slope, trailing dust, and halted with a crisp salute. “Majesty,” he called, using the imperial title, “the riders come under a flag of truce. It is Carlo Tocco himself, with a small retinue.”
Constantine nodded once. He had expected, and hoped, no less. Carlo was desperate and too much of a realist to choose a futile fight.
“Very well,” Constantine said. He straightened in the saddle, adjusting the purple cloak draped over his shoulders. Despite the dust of the campaign still clinging to its hem, the purple announced his rank clearly enough. “Thomas, with me.” With a quiet gesture, he signaled a few of his armored guards forward, though he kept the majority of the army waiting back along the ridge.
They descended toward the plain at a controlled canter. Midway down, the oncoming party took shape, a dozen riders. At their head rode Carlo II Tocco, his breastplate dented, his blue tunic bearing the family arms. He carried no lance, only a sheathed sword in token of truce. Behind him, a standard-bearer held the Tocco banner limp in the still air; the rest, bareheaded and solemn, followed in silence.
When the two groups came within speaking distance, Carlo Tocco raised a hand in greeting and reined in. His face was drawn and weathered beyond his years, yet still carried a grave dignity. He had been family once, brother to Constantine’s late wife, Theodora. At the sight of him, her memory flickered: the brightness she had brought to his life, the grief that followed her death in childbirth. Time had marked them both, Constantine thought, studying Carlo’s tired eyes. But this was no moment for remembrance.
Constantine guided his horse a few steps forward. As Emperor, he remained mounted but inclined his head in respect. Carlo Tocco dismounted, landing softly on the grass. Dust rose around his boots as he handed off his reins and advanced on foot, one hand raised in submission. His dark hair tousled by the breeze, yet he carried himself with undiminished composure.
“Your Majesty,” Carlo called in clear Greek. He stopped a few paces from Constantine’s horse and inclined into a bow. “Constantine.” He spoke the name almost warmly, as one greets an old acquaintance. Indeed, they had met years ago under far happier circumstances, at feasts in the Morea, when Carlo’s sister was a new bride. That familiarity now lent a poignant tremor to Carlo’s tone. “We meet again… though I wish it were not under such fortune as this.” Carlo straightened from his bow. His hazel eyes flicked up to meet Constantine’s. “The wheel of fate has turned, and my rule here has collapsed around me. I come to surrender the city of Arta to you, Emperor, freely and without resistance.”
At these words, Thomas exhaled softly. Constantine dismounted, placing himself on equal footing before Carlo. Emperor and fallen Count faced one another on the field.
From beneath his tunic, Carlo drew a heavy ring of iron keys, the keys to Arta’s gates. He extended them toward Constantine, hands trembling slightly. It was the ancient gesture of surrender, the yielding of a city to its conqueror.
Constantine accepted them, the metal cool and weighty in his gloved hand. “Count Carlo,” he said evenly, “your capitulation is received. I commend you for choosing the path that spares your people.” With a nod, he passed the keys to an attendant, then stepped forward and clasped Carlo’s shoulder. “There will be no bloodshed today.”
Carlo bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Straightening, he raised his voice to carry: “I deliver the city of Arta, its walls and its people, into your hands.” Unbuckling his sword, he offered it hilt-first. Constantine took it, then at once returned it through an attendant, a gesture of mercy and respect.
“I accept Arta under the protection of the Roman Empire,” Constantine announced, his words measured. “Rest assured: the city’s inhabitants will not be harmed. There shall be no sack. All churches and holy places will be respected. Your soldiers who lay down arms will be spared and given leave.” Thomas, still mounted nearby, lifted his chin proudly at his brother’s pronouncement of mercy. This was how Rome reclaimed her own, not as a ravager, but as a restorer of order.
Carlo Tocco visibly relaxed at Constantine’s promises. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice slightly. “Majesty, I ask for protection for the people of Arta, as you have given, and safe passage for my family and household. We will leave Arta as soon as you wish.”
Constantine inclined his head. “You have my word. Neither your family nor the populace will suffer any abuse.” He paused, then added in a lower tone meant only for Carlo to hear, “You were once kin to me. That is not forgotten.” Carlo’s eyes glimmered with an emotion, gratitude mingled with sorrow. They both remembered Theodora in that moment, though neither spoke her name aloud.
With the formalities complete, Constantine remounted and signaled for Carlo to do the same. Flanked by Thomas and their attendants, they rode back toward Arta’s gates. One of Carlo’s men spurred ahead to alert the gatehouse. By the time they arrived, a small honor guard stood in two lines within the walls, awaiting their new sovereign. The soldiers’ faces were drawn with fatigue and relief, men who had braced for battle and found reprieve instead. As Constantine and Thomas passed beneath the archway, the guards knelt or bowed their heads. Constantine rode at the center, Thomas beside him, Carlo a pace behind in token of fealty.
A chorus of cheers, hesitant at first, then swelling, rose from the streets. Townspeople lined the main thoroughfare, word spreading that the Emperor of the Romans entered in peace. Many were Greek and Orthodox; under Carlo’s Latin rule they had fared decently, yet relief and quiet joy marked their faces as the double-headed eagle standard passed. Women watched from doorways, elders crossed themselves and murmured blessings, children darted between soldiers with bright curiosity.
Constantine kept his expression solemn but gracious, nodding to those who hailed him. He had removed his helmet so the people might see his face, a deliberate gesture of openness. At his side, Thomas sat straighter in the saddle, his composure strained by pride; though only a few years younger, he looked almost boyish in his excitement.
As they neared the central square, church bells pealed in welcome. The Metropolitan of Arta, an elderly cleric in dark robes, emerged from the cathedral of the Panagia Parigoritissa carrying a golden cross. Flanked by priests, he raised it high and intoned a chant of thanksgiving. Incense drifted on the breeze. Constantine dismounted and knelt to kiss the cross, a gesture of piety that drew murmurs of approval. The Metropolitan blessed him, praising the return of Arta to Roman law. Off to the side, Carlo Tocco bowed his head, a man already half withdrawn, yielding the stage to his successor.
Without fanfare, the imperial banner rose over the castle ramparts, replacing Tocco’s colors. The golden double-headed eagle caught the midday light, drawing a ripple of applause. Many in Arta recalled how the city had passed through many hands: Serb, Albanian, Latin. Now, after long years, Constantinople’s standard flew again above its walls. The moment was not lost on Constantine. He met Thomas’s gaze; his brother’s small nod spoke of shared relief.
True to Constantine’s word, the army entered in peace. Imperial troops secured the gates, barracks, and armory with quiet efficiency. No shops were looted, no homes disturbed. At the castle, Constantine’s men relieved Carlo’s guards courteously, clasping shoulders instead of forcing them aside. The garrison, prepared to die the day before, now stood bewildered by mercy. They stacked their arms in the courtyard and yielded. Soon, many would swear new oaths to the Emperor.
By late afternoon, the handover was complete. In the castle’s high keep, Constantine stepped onto the battlements Carlo Tocco had paced only a day before and looked out over the city. The sky stretched pale and clear above Arta’s rooftops and domes, glowing gold in the slanting light. Bells rang sporadically as churches held brief thanksgivings. In the streets below, Roman soldiers mingled with townsfolk, sharing bread and dried figs with children.
Thomas joined him on the rampart, boots clinking on the stone steps. He rested his hands on the parapet and surveyed the scene with bright eyes. “Not bad for a day’s work,” he said in a low voice meant just for Constantine. There was a rare note of playfulness in him now that the tension had broken. Constantine allowed himself the faintest smile. “Not bad at all,” he agreed quietly.
That evening, in the torch-lit hall of Arta’s castle, Constantine received Carlo Tocco. The chamber was worn but dignified, frescoes fading beneath a timbered roof. Constantine sat in the former despot’s chair, Thomas at his side; Carlo stood opposite, his advisors waiting by the door. Logothete George Doukas sat ready to record the terms.
Carlo bowed. “Your Imperial Majesty, I thank you again for the mercy shown today. I have renounced my lordship; the city and its domains are yours by right.”
Constantine inclined his head. “Your cooperation made it bloodless, Count Carlo.” Before him lay the sealed surrender, transferring Arta and all mainland holdings to imperial rule.
Carlo drew a breath, then knelt. The sight stilled the room. “Majesty,” he said quietly, “I beg leave to speak on one matter, the fate of Cephalonia.”
At the word Cephalonia, Thomas drew a sharp breath. The island was the jewel of the Tocco domains, their ancestral seat and last bastion in the Ionian Sea. Carlo’s voice wavered slightly as he spoke:
“Cephalonia has been my family’s heartland for generations, our refuge since the days of Naples. I beg Your Majesty’s leave to retain it under your sovereignty, as your vassal.”
He raised his eyes. “I will send hostages of my blood, including my nephew, to guarantee loyalty, and pay whatever tribute you judge fitting.”
Silence followed, broken only by the hiss of torches. Thomas shifted, armor clinking, his look questioning. The plea was bold. Cephalonia was rich and strategic. Carlo, kneeling, offered it to the Emperor’s dominion, but on his own terms.
Constantine rose slowly from the throne-like chair and descended the dais until he stood directly before Carlo. “Stand, Carlo,” he said gently. Carlo obeyed, rising from his knee, though he kept his head respectfully bowed. Constantine studied the man’s face in the flickering torchlight. He saw desperation there, and hope. He also saw humility. Carlo had been a sovereign prince only yesterday; now he was a supplicant, asking to be a vassal for the remainder of his days. It was a hard fate, but far better than some alternatives.
Before Constantine could answer, Carlo pressed on. “Majesty, my hold on the islands is weak. I still possess Cephalonia and Lefkada, but they are isolated. I lack ships and men. And…” He faltered, shame flickering in his eyes. “I must confess a prior entanglement. The fortress of Vonitsa, once under my control, is pledged to Venice as security for loans. My coffers were empty, my enemies many. It was the only way to keep my realm alive.”
Thomas stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You gave Vonitsa to the Venetians?” he snapped. “You pawned imperial land to foreign powers for coin?”
Carlo flushed, starting to protest, but Thomas’s words lingered. Constantine raised a hand. “Thomas,” he said sharply. His brother fell silent, jaw tight. The issue of Vonitsa would need cooler heads.
Turning back to Carlo, Constantine asked, “So Vonitsa is no longer yours?”
Carlo bowed his head. “A Venetian bailo took charge last month under my loan terms. My banner still flies there, but it’s theirs in truth. I deceived myself that I could redeem it.” He spread his hands. “My lord, I lay my failures before you. I ask only to keep my family’s home and serve you faithfully. Cephalonia I can still defend, Venice has not moved there. But without your protection, I will lose it soon.”
Constantine let silence fall after Carlo’s plea. Hands clasped behind his back, he paced a few steps, boots echoing on stone. Thomas watched in silence; Doukas poised his quill, waiting.
Constantine’s gaze caught a faded fresco, an old Despot of Epirus, a reminder of power risen and gone. Empires are rewritten by time, he thought. Now it was his turn to write anew.
Theodora’s face came to him then, her laughter in the gardens, her death in childbirth, the promise he’d made to care for her kin. Now her brother knelt before him, seeking mercy. The moment’s weight pressed on him. Mercy was not only a matter of policy; it was personal and moral.
Constantine turned back to Carlo, decision made. The hall fell silent. “Carlo Tocco,” he said evenly, “you shall retain Cephalonia, but only as my vassal, under strict conditions.” Thomas’s brows rose; Doukas readied his pen. Carlo looked up, hope flickering through his fatigue.
“First,” Constantine declared, “Cephalonia and its islands will stand under imperial suzerainty. You will hold them in fief from me, owing full allegiance to the Empire.”
“Second, an imperial garrison will occupy the citadel to secure the island loyalty and defense against Turk or Venetian alike.” Carlo inclined his head; the price was expected.
“Third, you will pay annual tribute and furnish ships for the imperial fleet as required.”
“And lastly,” Constantine’s tone hardened, “you will make no treaties with foreign powers, Venice, Naples, or the Turk, without imperial sanction. All diplomacy passes through me.”
Carlo listened, then exhaled, relief plain on his face. “These terms are generous, Your Majesty.” He moved as if to kneel, but Constantine caught his forearm, stopping him. Instead, Carlo clasped his hand and bowed over it. “You will not regret this mercy. I swear before God and my ancestors to hold Cephalonia faithfully for you and your heirs.” His voice trembled with conviction.
Thomas crossed his arms, silent but thoughtful. The terms were strict yet wise, a buffer gained without blood. Pride might have preferred conquest, but prudence had prevailed.
“Very well,” Constantine said, withdrawing his hand. “Rise, Count Carlo. Logothete Doukas will record the Cephalonia Settlement at once.”
Doukas’s quill moved quickly. Carlo composed himself. “You honor me, Majesty. My family and people will rejoice under your protection.” He hesitated. “My late sister… Theodora… would thank you, too, if she were here.” He spoke the name at last. “You have shown the φιλανθρωπία – the love of mankind – that befits a true Basileus.”
Constantine felt a tightness in his throat at the mention of Theodora. He inclined his head silently, accepting the thanks. In his heart, he whispered a reply meant for Theodora’s spirit: I have not forgotten you.
Comments
jlamazing
I'm looking forward to see a map of the current situation in the Balkans reflecting the conquests of Rome and the border adjustments of the Turks. Seeing what happened to the HRE after the death of Sigismund wouldn't be bad either.
Mineseikea
First, fuck Venice and second while I agree that Tocco should keep some land in vassalage I do think Constantine should have forced them to convert and become culturally Greek. He is still a Latin lord. It becomes a bit weird if he says I restore our ways but let a foreigner rule is vassalage.
![blue[k]nights from fantia](https://patrefans.com/kistorage/49226.jpg)
