EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/Chapter 48: Welcoming Shores
🕑 Added 2025-09-30 16:59:30 +0000 UTCSpring 1435
A pale spring sun crests over the Gulf of Patras as the Kyreneia glides through calm waters. Emperor Constantine stands at the warship’s bow with General Andreas at his right and Admiral Laskaris to his left. A cool salt breeze tugs at Constantine’s cloak, carrying the brine scent of the sea and promise of land ahead. In the early light, the coast of Aetolia emerges, a low green outline after a short voyage from Kalogria. Constantine narrows his eyes and catches sight of movement on the shore, allowing himself a small, satisfied breath. The first wave has landed;
Laskaris shaded his eyes against the rising sun and nodded toward the shore, where colored banners waved in prearranged patterns. “The forward companies report a successful landing, Majesty,” the admiral said. “Captain Kallistos and his men hold the beach. No enemy in sight.” His tone was calm and assured. Constantine expected as much, but relief still eased the tension in his shoulders. The plan had gone as smoothly as expected. He clasped Laskaris briefly on the shoulder in thanks, then turned back toward the coast. Within the next hours, the rest of the fleet would anchor and unload the rest of the force onto these welcoming shores.
As the Kyreneia drew closer to the coast, a lookout called down from the mast, ‘Sail on the horizon!’ Constantine turned to see the silhouette of a ship catching the morning sun. Its sails were emblazoned with the winged lion of Saint Mark. A Venetian ship, and a sizable one, was passing eastward in the distance. The officers exchanged glances. Likely a merchant or patrol out of Patras or Naupaktos, bound for the Ionian Sea. For a moment, Constantine watched the Venetian vessel cut along the horizon, its presence a reminder that their movements were observed. General Andreas crossed his arms over his breastplate and murmured, ‘The Venetians have sharp eyes. If they didn’t know before, they know for sure now.’”
Constantine’s expression remained steady. “Let them,” he said quietly. “We’ve nothing to hide, and we’ve no quarrel with the Republic today, or the Republic with us.” Admiral Laskaris nodded in agreement. “It’s probably just a trade ship bound for the Ionian Sea, nothing important, and it sails without escort,” he observed as the Venetian vessel grew smaller astern.
Indeed, the ship made no change in course toward the small imperial fleet. Constantine allowed himself a thin smile. Venice might well send word of this crossing to every port in the Adriatic, but it mattered not, for by the time anyone decided to interfere, the banner of the double-headed eagle would already fly on these shores. With a final glance at the vanishing sails, Constantine turned his full attention to the now imminent landing.
The imperial transports soon dropped anchor along the coast, and boatloads of men and horses landed on the wet sand. Constantine was among the first ashore, his boots sinking into the soil that would soon be home again. By midday, the entire army was safely on land, and a base camp had been established on a gentle rise not far from the beach.
That afternoon, Constantine convened a council of his senior officers in the command tent. General Andreas and Admiral Laskaris took seats at his sides, and the few other senior commanders gathered around.
Captain Kallistos, leader of the first landing wave, stood across from the Emperor, travel-stained and windburnt from the day’s work. He bowed and began his report in a clear, respectful tone. “Your Majesty, the scouts ranged ahead as ordered. Thus far, we met no organized resistance.”
Kallistos pointed to the map, indicating the sparse settlements between the coast and their target. “There were only a handful of small villages on the roads north. We made contact in two of them. The people…” He paused, a faint smile brightening his dirt-smudged face. “The people came out to greet our scouts. No hostility at all, indeed, they were friendly, even offering water and bread. They seemed relieved to see Roman soldiers.”
A soft murmur of approval rippled among the officers. Constantine nodded, motioning for him to continue. Kallistos tapped a spot on the map representing Angelokastron, the small hill-fort that was their first objective. “The villagers did warn us of one concern, my lord. Angelokastron is held by a small garrison of mercenaries under Tocco’s banner. Albanians, from what we heard, with few Latins officers among them. No more than fifty men, maybe fewer. But…” He grimaced. “They had been acting more like brigands than soldiers. They extorted whatever supplies they wanted from the villages nearby. Livestock, grain, even the women had been harassed at times. There is no discipline or purpose to them, just robbers behind walls.”
General Andreas let out a dry, humorless chuckle. He folded his arms across his breastplate. “So,” he said, “Carlo Tocco’s rule had degenerated to this.” His scarred eyebrow arched as he shook his head. “An unpaid rabble, living off the peasants like common bandits. The Duke’s grip has all but collapsed.” There was contempt in Andreas’s voice; he had fought Tocco’s troops years ago when they were a more formidable force, and seeing them reduced to scavengers drew a wry smirk from the old general.
Constantine’s face remained composed, though he felt a quiet satisfaction. This confirmed the intelligence they had. Tocco’s holdings were ripe for reclamation; the local Greeks were eager for relief, and the enemy forces had neither coordination nor morale. “It appears the hour is ours,” he said softly. Then the Emperor lifted his gaze to meet Kallistos’s. “Any sign of Prince Thomas’s army approaching from the northeast?” he asked. All eyes shifted back to the captain.
Kallistos shook his head once. “Not yet, Majesty. My scouts haven’t sighted them. It could be Prince Thomas is still a day or two out, or coming by another route obscured by the hills.”
“Very well,” Constantine replied. “ He knows where we’re headed. We’ll secure Angelokastron as planned and link up with him there.”
Constantine rose to his feet, the officers straightening as he did so. “At dawn, we march on Angelokastron.” His finger traced the route on the map. “Captain Kallistos, your vanguard will guide the way on the northward road. General Andreas, organize the main column behind them. Keep the troops tight and ready, brigands or not, I want no ambush in those hills.” Andreas nodded sharply, already planning the formation.
Constantine then turned toward Admiral Laskaris, who stood with arms behind his back. “Admiral, once the army is on the move, you will take the fleet westward toward Cephalonia.” Constantine’s tone shifted slightly. “We need to know the situation on the islands. If Carlo Tocco’s hold is as weak there as it is here, we may persuade the garrisons of Cephalonia or Ithaca to come over to us without any bloodshed.” Laskaris inclined his head, a wolfish grin tugging at his grey-streaked beard. “Take soundings at the ports, show the flag, let them know we’re in the neighborhood,” Constantine continued. “But do not engage if you meet serious resistance. We’re not scattering our strength on storming islands just yet. This is a reconnaissance and a show of presence, nothing more, until we can assess their loyalties.”
“Understood, Your Majesty,” Laskaris replied. “We’ll be cautious. We will make for Cephalonia at first light.”
With that, Constantine swept a final glance around the gathering. His senior officers’ faces reflected a mix of excitement and determination in the lamplight. The plan was set. “God be with us, gentlemen,” the Emperor said quietly. “We move at dawn.” A chorus of bows and salutes followed as Constantine exited the tent and stepped out into the crisp night air. The camp was already settling into disciplined quiet under the stars, save the soft footfalls of sentries and the gentle nickering of tethered horses. Constantine breathed deeply. The salt marsh scents of the coast mingled with the faint woodsmoke from the soldiers’ cookfires. Everything was in order. Cautious optimism filled his chest. If the rest of the campaign proceeded with this level of smoothness, the region would be restored to the empire with minimal hardship. Still, he reminded himself, step by step.
Grey light spread across the eastern sky as Constantine’s army set out from the coast. The dawn chorus of birds was just beginning, intermingling with the soft clank of armor and the creak of wagons as the column assembled. Constantine rode near the front, astride a dappled grey charger. The banner of the double-headed eagle was carried ahead of him, its gold thread catching the first rays of sun. General Andreas was at his right hand, and Captain Kallistos had already pushed on with the scouts further up the road. Behind them stretched a disciplined host. Every man knew his place, every detachment its duty. The sense of calm order was almost eerie in this quiet landscape. Only the caw of distant gulls and the rustle of the breeze in the olive groves accompanied the tramp of boots on the damp earth.
As the sun climbed higher, the army passed through one of the small villages Kallistos had mentioned. A cluster of whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs huddled by the roadside. Here and there, curious faces peered from doorways and garden walls, farmers and their families drawn by the uncommon sight of imperial troops. Constantine made a point of riding at an easy pace and lifting a hand in greeting. An old man in a doorway crossed himself and called out, “Welcome, Basileus!” Others murmured blessings or waved timidly. The Emperor noticed more than one villager with bruises or bandaged arms, signs of recent mistreatment. He exchanged a knowing look with Andreas. The mercenaries’ depredations were clearly real. But now, as the villagers saw the imperial banners and organized ranks moving past without marauding, hope kindled in their eyes. Constantine pressed his lips thin, feeling the weight of responsibility. These people expected deliverance from lawlessness; he was determined not to fail them.
By late noon, the road climbed into rockier terrain. Low hills dotted with sage and cypress rose to either side. The scouts reported that Angelokastron lay just ahead, beyond the next ridge. Constantine called a brief halt in a sheltered hollow where the main force could remain unseen. He rode forward with a small party, Andreas and a pair of standard-bearers, to get eyes on the fortress from a distance. The path bent around a crag, and there it was: Angelokastron, a modest stone fortress perched on a rocky hill above a narrow valley. Its walls were old and not especially high; no grand citadel, just a stout keep and a curtain wall protecting a tiny town at the hill’s foot. From this vantage, Constantine saw a few thin plumes of smoke rising from chimneys in the town below the fort. Fields and olive groves surrounding the hill looked only partially tended. There was no sign of any enemy patrols outside the walls. In fact, aside from a lonely goat wandering near the road, the landscape was still.
He studied the quiet hill for a long moment, then straightened in his saddle. He had no intention of grinding down this paltry garrison with a costly assault if it could be avoided. He gestured to one of his aides, who unfurled a scroll, an offer of surrender and amnesty prepared the night before.
Under a white flag, a herald and two riders trotted forward across the open ground toward Angelokastron’s gate. Andreas kept the infantry in formation but ordered pyrvelos forward into cover, just in case of treachery.
The herald halted at a respectful distance from the fortress. In the crisp morning air, his words carried clearly up the slope: “By order of His Imperial Majesty Constantine, Emperor of the Romans, defenders of Angelokastron, hear this.” The herald’s Greek proclamation was likely only partly understood by the mercenaries, so a second officer shouted an Italian translation. “Your lord’s power is broken. His lands are forfeited. We offer you your lives and freedom from harm. Open your gates in surrender and you will be spared. Any man among you who wishes may take service under the Emperor’s banner with full pay and pardon. Or if you prefer, you may depart unmolested, laying down your arms. But if you resist, no quarter will be given.”
A tense silence fell. The garrison’s answer was not immediate. On the walls, the figures had paused their frantic running. Constantine waited astride his horse at the head of his ranks, motionless except for the billowing of his cloak in the breeze. His heart beat steadily; he was patient. He knew fear and greed were at war now in those mercenary minds. They had no loyalty to Carlo Tocco, not outnumbered and unpaid as they were. Would they gamble their lives out of pride? Or seize the chance to save their skins and even gain employment under a richer master? Only moments passed, though it felt longer, before an answer came. With a creak audible even down in the valley, the gates of Angelokastron shuddered open. A single figure in mismatched armor stepped out, holding aloft a white cloth. Others slowly followed, weapons sheathed or held low. A relieved exhale swept through the Byzantine lines.
Constantine allowed himself a brief exhale. “Stand ready, but hold,” he instructed quietly, and the order was relayed down the line. He would not fully trust until formalities were done. He nudged his horse forward at a walk, descending toward the opened gate with Andreas and a cohort of guards. As they neared the town entrance, the scene clarified: a half-dozen mercenaries, the apparent leaders, had formed a humble line just beyond the gatehouse. They looked dusty, underfed, eyes flicking nervously between the approaching Emperor’s party and the ranks of spears arrayed on the slope. One threw down his sword belt on the ground in a gesture of surrender; another hastily did the same. Their captain, a wiry man with a thick black beard and a dented breastplate, stepped forward and fell to one knee. In halting Greek he declared, “We yield to the Basileus. The fortress is yours.”
Author’s Note:
Sorry for the delay! As a thank you for your patience, an extra chapter will be dropping later this week!
Also, I’m glad to share that the Duke of Burgundy won the poll for the next side story, so look forward to that soon!
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
We’ll be getting into those details in the upcoming chapters, so stay tuned!
RENAISSANSE SI
We’ll be digging more into that in the next chapter. As for rations, haven’t really given it much thought yet!
John Nguyen
Has Skanderbeg taken any Tocco lands, or has he only occupied regions that were occupied by he Turks? Is the Tocco civil war over or was it still going at this time?
Hugo23
Oh that's not good, if Tocco can't even pay the garrisons that means his rule is really weak. Rural muttering among the Greek peasants and some mouthy priests are one thing, but having soldiers not under discipline and clearly not properly supplied? He's gotta be having some serious domestic troubles, on the level of lord in coma and the wife and steward can't agree on what to do levels. Out of slightly idle curiosity, have you given any thought of military rations? Between the cost of wood and individual preparation time it seems like something Theophilus or George would think about in the background.
