EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/Chapter 50: Brothers of the Double Eagle
🕑 Added 2025-10-06 22:08:22 +0000 UTCThe council met at first light in the upper chamber of Angelokastron’s lone tower. Gray dawn slipped through the arrow slits, striping the round table and the faces around it.
Constantine anchored the head of the board, fingertips pressed to wood polished by years. Andreas crowded his right over the maps; To his left, Prince Thomas, newly arrived, sat forward on a low stool, eager and upright. Captain Aristos and Logothete Dukas completed the circle, with a few officers behind. In the stillness, only their breathing and the distant gulls carried, a calm council with tension pooled beneath the quiet, minutes before decisions were made.
“Vonitsa can be bypassed,” Andreas said, lifting the carved block from the map. It scraped softly as he set it aside. “We lose little by leaving it to our rear. The garrison is surely small and will keep to its walls if unprovoked.” He glanced to Constantine for assent, his scarred face calm.
Logothete Dukas frowned, fingers drumming his ledger. “Even a small stronghold, bypassed, is a risk,” he murmured. “Vonitsa commands the coastal road. A few men can still harry a rear or trouble our return—”
“They won’t,” Captain Aristos cut in. “Their garrison’s thin and Venetian-minded. They won’t sally while our column passes. And once Arta falls…” His smile narrowed. “They’ll likely melt away and surrender.”
Constantine nodded, unreadable in the lantern glow. His finger slid past Vonitsa to Arta. “Time is the key. Our scouts report rumors of Albanian movement toward Arta. We must assume the worst, that they march even now, aiming to claim Arta for themselves.”
Thomas couldn’t sit still. “We can’t allow that,” he said, eyes bright. “Arta belongs with us. Take it now and we deny the Albanians their prize, and stake our claim in Epirus. They, of all men, should be cautious after the help we gave them against the Turk; Aristos himself rode with them. They must not use the Turk’s ruin, won by us, to snatch what is ours by right.” He slapped the table, seeking assent.
Nods came quickly. Andreas gave a firm nod; Aristos grinned, remembering those marches. Dukas hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“With respect, Highness, my caution stands in part," he said, making his note. “Just permit a token screen to watch Vonitsa.”
“Agreed,” Constantine said. He exchanged a glance with Andreas, who offered a subtle incline of the head; he would see it done. A small detachment to keep Vonitsa’s garrison honest while the main host pressed on. It was a prudent choice, and Dukas seemed satisfied enough as he closed his little book.
Captain Aristos tapped a rough fingertip on the map, where the roads converged toward Arta. “With a bit of luck, my Basileus, we’ll reach the outskirts of Arta in two days’ march.”
Constantine glanced around. No dissent. In the torchlight, faces set: Thomas near-smiling; Andreas measuring distances in his head; Dukas silently reworking the trains; Aristos, arms crossed, already riding the road in his mind.
“If Arta truly favors us, we may not need to fight,” Thomas said, lower now. “Word is they pray for our coming.” The Ieros Skopos gleamed in his tone. Reports named Constantine “Liberator.” Warmth flickered through him; he allowed a small smile. “Pray it so,” he said.
He straightened, palms firm on the table. Silence took the room. Constantine’s gaze moved from face to face, weighing trust and stakes.
“Gentlemen,” he said, low but clear, “we march on Arta at once. Our cause rides on speed and surprise; we cannot let Skanderbeg, nor any Albanian warlord, steal a march.” His voice hardened. “Aristos, take the vanguard by the ravine. Andreas, set a rearguard to watch Vonitsa’s walls and screen the trains. Logothete, drive the wagons without halt. Every man to carry one extra day’s ration. We forage what we can.”
Fists met breastplates. Constantine turned to Prince Thomas, his tone easing. “You and I ride at the head.” Thomas’s smile broke wide. “Let them see the Palaiologoi in front. If Tocco is wise, he will open the gates himself, I am ready to make him a decent offer. And if, God forbid, Skanderbeg’s banners show on the plain, we meet them first.”
The council broke with a scrape of chairs and boots on stone. Dawn bled to muted blue; below, Angelokastron’s yard stirred, tents coming down, mules loaded, armor and harness clinking. Standards unfurled: the Palaiologoi’s double-headed eagle, and the cross of the Ieros Skopos. He let the calm hold him a breath longer. Beyond the hills lay Arta, and Epirus’s future.
By mid-morning, the column was on the march. Horses, wagons, and men poured out of Angelokastron’s gate and snaked down the narrow road. Constantine rode near the fore beside Thomas, the honor guard out in front and scouts farther afield.
The two brothers kept a brisk pace, their horses’ hooves kicking up little puffs of dust from the dry autumn earth. Ahead, Captain Aristos and his scouts had already disappeared around a bend, leading the way toward the inland ravine that would skirt Vonitsa. Behind stretched a mighty column: infantry with tall pikes carried on shoulders, interspersed with companies of musketeers cradling pyrvelos , their polished barrels glinting in the sun. Farther back rumbled the ox-drawn carts bearing Drakos field guns, each cannon swaddled in damp cloth to keep the metal cool under the rising sun. The army moved with disciplined urgency, a testament to the reforms Constantine had pressed: no laggards, no tangled mess of camp followers, just purposeful ranks flowing forward. It was a brisk march, an army that knew its destination and intended to claim it without delay.
Thomas took a long breath of the morning air and laughed lightly. “God has blessed us with fine weather,” he said, tilting his face skyward. Indeed, the sun was climbing in a clear sky, gentle for now. “Not too hot, not too wet. Perfect for a fast march.” He turned to his brother with a grin. “I can’t tell you how many Priests and monks I begged for prayers on my way here, asking for fair skies and swift horses. Perhaps it worked. I did make it in time.”
Constantine smiled at Thomas’s boyish enthusiasm. “You did, and just in time,” he agreed. “ I knew you’d find a way to catch us. I only wish your escort hadn’t had to ride through half the night.” He eyed Thomas’s mount, a dapple-gray charger now a bit drawn from hard travel. “That horse looks about as tired as you should be.”
“I couldn’t possibly be tired today,” Thomas declared. He straightened in the saddle, projecting vigor. “It feels good to be on campaign again.” He smiled. “Arta by week’s end, God willing. And then, your wedding. A new city for the Empire and a new Empress for you, for us. It truly feels like Providence is smiling on our house.”
At the mention of the wedding, Constantine’s grip tightened subtly on his reins. He found his throat unexpectedly dry. Katarina. He had never met the young woman, not yet; their betrothal arranged by letters and envoys, she was willing, and he… he was determined to honor and care for her. Still, it felt a bit surreal. “It will be a new chapter,” he answered, keeping his tone even and warm. “Serbia bound to us by blood, as father-in-law Branković no doubt intended. And perhaps… a measure of joy amid all this struggle.” He allowed himself a small chuckle. “Though I suspect I’ll be more nervous facing the altar than I am facing Arta’s walls.”
Thomas barked a laugh. “I doubt that. You, nervous? You fought off Murad’s finest and didn’t blink. One Serbian bride won’t scare you.” He reached over and clasped Constantine’s shoulder affectionately. “Truly, I am happy for you, brother. You deserve some happiness of your own.”
Constantine felt a pang, a mix of gratitude and something like guilt. If only Thomas knew the full truth of what he’d “done and sacrificed.” The real Constantine had sacrificed everything, even his very self, in a sense, and Michael, the man inside this skin, had stepped in to carry on the mission. But to Thomas, he was Constantine, beloved elder brother, the rightful Basileus. He set his jaw slightly and patted Thomas’s hand. “Thank you, Thomas.” He paused, then added gently, “You know, I could not have come this far without you either. Your support means a great deal.”
They rode on in companionable silence for a minute, listening to the sounds of the marching army behind them. But Thomas’s mind clearly raced ahead. He cleared his throat, drawing Constantine’s attention. “Brother, speaking of the wedding… We must have Mother there.” His tone was earnest, almost pleading. “It would mean the world to her, and to us, to have her see it with her own eyes. She has endured so much in prayer and solitude. This would lift her heart.”
Constantine stared down the road, saying nothing at first. The mention of their mother, Helena, stirred a complex knot of feeling in his chest. Helena Dragaš, now a nun held under Demetrios’s custody, yet still the revered matriarch of their line, was someone Michael had never met except in carefully penned letters and second-hand memories. To Thomas and the rest, she was Mother, beloved and venerated. To Constantine… to Michael… she was a revered figure, yes, but the warm threads of filial love were harder to summon. He knew what he ought to feel, what Constantine Palaiologos would feel, but could not claim those emotions as honestly his own.
Thomas read the silence as worry “I know it’s not simple,” he went on quickly. “She’s far away and travel is hard on her. And Demetrios…” Thomas nearly spat the name, “…Demetrios would rather keep her a prisoner in that monastery forever. But surely we can arrange something. Send trusted men—quiet ones—to take her from that monastery. Bring her to Glarentza just in time for the ceremony?” He looked at Constantine, eyes hopeful beneath a furrow of worry. “You hardly speak of her these days, that’s all. I, I just thought… you’d want her with you, especially for this.”
Constantine drew a breath and forced a smile. “Of course I do,” he said, trying to inject warmth into his voice. “She is always in my thoughts, Thomas. If I haven’t spoken of her often, it’s only because war and duty occupy my every waking hour. The cares of command leave little room for tender conversation.” He softened his expression, meeting Thomas’s gaze. “But you are right. Once Arta is secure, we will make every effort to bring Mother to us for the wedding. I promise you that.”
He reached over and squeezed Thomas’s forearm briefly. It was a gesture of reassurance, but also of pleading – let this satisfy you. “Until then, keep her in your prayers as I do,” Constantine added gently.
Thomas studied him for a moment, then nodded. The younger man’s face relaxed, the worry easing. “Good,” he said quietly. “I just… I remember how you used to invoke her counsel all the time, back when we struggled in the hard early days in the Morea... You’d quote her sayings, recall her advice. She has always believed in you, in us. I didn’t want her to be forgotten now that things are moving so fast.”
A shard of guilt pricked Constantine. Not forgotten, only Michael carried no memory of Helena’s murmured counsel, her scent, her lullabies; only her letters named him son, and he answered carefully, hiding the stranger in his hand. He shared none of it. “She is not forgotten, Thomas, nor could she be. When the time comes, I want her at my side. That is the truth.”
Thomas smiled and let it rest. Constantine faced forward, masking his relief. Helena mattered, living link to the old line, pious and beloved. He would draw her in where he could, for unity as much as love. It was right, whether or not he felt it. His conscience eased, a little.
The road pinched through broken hills. To the left, the Ambracian Gulf flashed between scrub; Vonitsa stayed hidden far behind the southern ridge.
With their mother set aside, Thomas’s mood rose. “Once Arta is ours… what then? The City...” He didn’t need to name Constantinople. “We’ve rebuilt so much, Thessaloniki, Macedonia, Thessaly, now Epirus. Why wait?”
“I repeat myself, brother: we choose our hour,” Constantine said, quiet but firm. “The Ottomans still hold Anatolia and most of the core lands.
Thomas’s jaw tightened; he held his tongue.
“We consolidate,” Constantine went on, “the balance tilts our way. Secure Epirus. Fortify the north. Win islands if we can. Build strength: more men, more allies, more firepower. By summer's end I mean to double our pyrvelos companies, powder, and guns. Luca’s furnaces burn night and day; the mines pay and arm us. Each month we grow stronger while the Turk fights his own fires. Strike when we choose”
Thomas bowed his head. “Patience and preparation. Hard lessons, but I hear you brother.” A half-smile. “Your caution, my fire, we balance.”
“We do,” Constantine said, softening. “And when we march on the City, you’ll lead the vanguard through the gates.”
Thomas’s eyes shone. “I’ll hold you to it.”
The hills eased and the road widened onto a larger track toward the plain. Sun climbed; thin clouds smudged the east. The vanguard showed again on a low rise, a scout flagging all clear.
Author note: i haven’t forgotten the extra chapter; it’s coming sooner rather than later. I’m deep in the duke side story research at the moment, which is what’s soaking up the hours.
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Yeah, that’s a great observation, Michael was really fortunate with the timing. He arrived in Constantine’s body just as Constantine was made co-despot in Glarentza, surrounded by new faces who didn’t know him well and a new wife. That distance from family and old acquaintances made it much easier for him to adjust and avoid raising suspicions.
Pearl of the Orient
Not happening. He'd have to conquer the Ottomans, the Mongol states, the Massive Delhi Sultanate that owns the northern half of India, and the 6 major kingdoms that share the subcontinent.
The ShowMan
Yeah it’s probably worrying for Thomas to see his older brother one year always looking to their mother advice and guidances then the other nearly no mention of her like she didn’t existed to him anymore. I wonder how long he has been having those thoughts.
The ShowMan
I wonder how this is gonna end. Like is the empire going to be a hybrid of Rome and the Old Alexander Empire? A empire that stretches that is greater than the olds from Greece, perhaps to the Lands of India and Burma? To conquer what Alexander the Greater couldn’t, and in way wipe away the shame of Persia’s victory of Rome with the capture of Valerian in their conquest of their lands well? I’m thinking FAR ahead. Maharaja Constantine XI, the Ottoman Slayer and Basileus Alexander the Great Successor. That title sounds amazing to me!
![blue[k]nights from fantia](https://patrefans.com/kistorage/49226.jpg)
