EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II / Chapter 46: A House by the Sea
🕑 Added 2025-09-23 00:32:20 +0000 UTCConstantine floated on his back in the gentle Ionian Sea, eyes closed against the spring sun. The only sounds were the soft swish of water around him and the distant cries of gulls. This was a moment he had dreamed of in his former life, drifting in Greek waters, a trip once delayed again and again by his ex-wife’s excuses. Now fate had brought him here, and the reality felt almost as soothing as the dream.
“Careful, Majesty,” came a semi-laughing call nearby. “Floating out here is becoming a habit.”
Constantine squinted one eye open. A few yards away, Theophilus was bobbing in the calm sea as well, shaking droplets from his hair. It struck Constantine that it was good to see him this way, not frowning over ledgers, not wringing coin from every corner, but loosened by salt and sun.
“I could do worse than make a habit of this,” Constantine replied, stretching lazily. “Perhaps I’ll start a trend. If the Emperor swims for pleasure, maybe others will join me instead of gawking.”
Theophilus chuckled. “Or they’ll say the Emperor’s gone mad, bobbing about like a seal.”
Constantine barked a short laugh. “Better a contented seal than a miserable landlubber.” He rolled upright and treaded water, gazing toward the empty beach. Not another soul in sight beyond their small party. In his old life, no beach was ever this deserted; there would have been crowds and clutter. Here, every stretch of sand felt untouched and new. The thought pleased him immensely.
“Shall we head in, sire?” Theophilus asked, pushing wet hair off his forehead. “I believe I smell chamomile waiting.”
Constantine nodded. “Lead the way.”
They swam toward shore with easy strokes. The water was cool against his skin, but the sun above was warm, a perfect balance. Soon his feet touched the sandy bottom. Constantine rose and waded onto the beach, water streaming from his tunic and legs. A servant hurried over with a linen towel.
“Thank you,” Constantine said, taking it and briskly drying his face and chest. A brisk breeze off the sea raised gooseflesh on his arms, but he welcomed the invigorating chill.
Under a striped canvas canopy set up on the sand, a low table bore pitchers of chamomile, watered wine, and a platter of olives and dates. A few of Constantine’s senior officers lounged there in the shade, their usual formality set aside. They wore simple light shirts and trousers, and two had even kicked off their boots to wiggle their toes in the sand. This seaside gathering had become a weekly ritual of companionship and relaxation.
As the Emperor approached, the officers started to rise to their feet. Constantine waved them back down. “At ease, gentlemen. This isn’t a drill.” He grinned, pulling on a plain purple robe that a servant held out for him. “Enjoy the morning, physician’s orders.” That earned a few chuckles.
Constantine settled into a folding chair under the canopy. He accepted a small clay cup of chamomile and inhaled the fragrant steam. Up the gentle slope behind them stood his new villa: a modest, large square house of white limestone with a flat roof, its entire seaward side open in airy colonnades. Sunlight and salt breeze could flow through it freely. The design was minimalist and strange to local eyes, but Constantine loved it. After years spent in fortress walls, he finally had a home by the sea, just as he’d always dreamed.
He had little time to savor the view. A guardsman approached and bowed. “Your Majesty, General Andreas is here. He’s just arrived from the castle.”
“Show him in,” Constantine said, setting aside his cup. He rose to greet his general.
Moments later, Andreas trudged across the sand toward the canopy, boots sinking slightly with each step. Dust from a hard morning ride clung to the hem of his cloak. He removed his helmet as he neared, revealing a square, weathered face.
Constantine met him halfway. “Andreas!” he called warmly. “Welcome back. You’re just in time to join our little seaside respite, though a bit late for a swim.”
Andreas pressed a fist to his heart in salute, but a smile twitched his lips. “Majesty, I’ll spare everyone the sight of me flailing in the waves. I prefer dry land.” He eyed the beads of seawater still glistening in the Emperor’s hair. “Isn’t the water freezing?”
“Brisk,” Constantine corrected, laughing. “Good for the body. Better than a cold bath in December, I promise.”
The general gave a little shiver in mock horror. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Come, sit,” Constantine said, guiding him under the canopy. “Have some wine and catch your breath.”
A servant poured red wine into a cup and offered it to Andreas, who accepted gratefully. As the general drank, his gaze wandered up to the white villa overlooking the beach. “So it’s true,” he remarked. “You’ve built yourself a house down here by the shore. You really do prefer this place to Clermont Castle, don’t you?”
Constantine followed his gaze to the villa’s clean lines. “Absolutely,” Constantine affirmed. “Clermont is a fine fortress, but it’s cold and claustrophobic, especially once summer comes. Here by the water, I can breathe easy.” He gazed at the sparkling horizon. “I always wanted a little house by the sea.” He nearly said Florida, recalling a far-off sunlit coast from his old life, but caught himself in time.
Andreas nodded, his expression somewhere between admiration and amusement. “It’s a fine spot, I’ll grant. And I hear you built another for old Plethon?”
Constantine’s eyes glinted. “Just a small one further down the coast. The scholar spends his days reading Aristotle by the waves now. A reward for all his wisdom.”
Andreas chuckled. “He’ll live to a hundred with such luxury.”
The general then cleared his throat, setting aside the empty cup. “Majesty, before I forget, congratulations are in order. News has reached us about your betrothal to Lady Katarina.”
Constantine inclined his head. “Thank you. Yes, it’s official. We’ll be wed by summer’s start, if all goes to plan.”
“A good match,” Andreas said sincerely. “Far better than that Burgundian bride.”
“I thought so as well,” Constantine agreed. “A Burgundian princess might have brought more glitter, but also more headaches. Katarina’s alliance is closer to home.”
“And closer to our hearts,” Andreas added with a grin. “And, if I may speak freely, I hope she favors her mother in looks. Her father is a fine ruler, but not exactly Apollo himself.”
Constantine laughed, shaking his head. “Fortunately, all reports say the lady inherited her mother’s beauty and grace. In any case, she brings valuable support.” His smile turned a touch wry. “And perhaps a bit of personal happiness too. I won’t complain about that.”
“You deserve it,” Andreas said warmly.
Constantine gave a modest shrug, though he was pleased. Talk of the upcoming marriage brought a brief lightness to the morning, but soon Andreas’s face grew more serious.
“I have updates from the north, Majesty,” the general began.
“Go on,” Constantine said, folding his arms loosely and listening.
“Macedonia and Thessaly are stable,” Andreas reported. “Our forces there have kept order through the winter. We avoided any major famine.”
“Thank God,” Constantine murmured.
“However,” Andreas continued, “administration in those territories is shaky. Right now we have army captains and a handful of local priests trying to handle governance, collecting taxes, settling disputes, and frankly that can only go on for so long.”
Constantine grimaced. Soldiers could enforce peace, but they weren’t suited to running towns and villages. “We need to install proper governors and scribes, yes. We need more educated people badly; maybe we can hire locals and train them.”
“We’ll need funds for salaries and training,” Andreas noted. “Otherwise the temptation for graft and heavy-handedness will grow.”
“We’ll address it,” Constantine assured. He glanced over at Theophilus, who was already making a mental note. “We’ll allocate resources at the next council meeting. Theophilus, remind me to set aside money for staffing Macedonia and Thessaly’s administration.”
Theophilus raised his chamomile cup in acknowledgement. “Of course, Majesty.”
Andreas looked grateful. “That will stabilize things on the front.”
He moved to the next point. “Now, about the army. You authorized six thousand new recruits… I’m pleased to report we have every one of them mustered and in training. In fact, more men volunteered than we could accept.”
Constantine’s eyebrows lifted. “Truly? More than six thousand?”
“Yes. We could easily enlist another six thousand if we had the coin and equipment for them,” Andreas said. “Men are coming from all over: Macedonia, Thessaly, even Epirus, drawn by the promise of steady pay and victory. The Ieros Skopos spirit is strong.”
A smile tugged at Constantine’s lips. It was gratifying to know the cause he’d preached was drawing men in. “That is excellent news,” he said. He tapped a knuckle lightly on the arm of his chair. “And we will be able to arm them all eventually. The new Pyrvelos barrels bore true. Steel, locks, and stocks cut to one pattern. From here on, we can produce at least a thousand a year, more as we add mandrels and hands.”
Andreas’s brows climbed. “A thousand?”
“At the least,” Constantine said, the quiet pride checked but present. “Come after dinner and shoulder one. We proofed three on the stand, no bulge, no hairline. You’ll hear them sing against the bank.”
The general’s grin came despite himself. “At that rate, we’ll make ourselves unassailable.”
“Firepower and mass production is the key, brother,” Constantine answered. “An army with many thousands of Pyrveloi is an argument no captain can shout down. We’ll use these recruits to double the tagmata in good order, training first, discipline always, then powder and shot to finish the lesson.”
He let the sea wind lift a corner of the robe at his wrist, then added, almost as if speaking to the horizon, “But steel ashore won’t rule what matters if we leave the water to others. We’ll have ships, too. The yard will lay its first great ship, I was telling you about; the Portuguese masters have been here a while now.”
Andreas nodded, sober again. “Then we’ll be strong on land and learning the sea.”
“In that order,” Constantine said, and the hint of a smile returned. “One step at a time, and no waste. Give it time, and in a few years, we’ll have a fleet worthy of the empire. Then our control of the Mediterranean will no longer rest on Venetian friendship or Genoese mercy.”
Andreas raised his refilled wine cup quietly. “To that day.”
Constantine clinked his cup against it. “To that day,” he echoed, smiling.
For a moment, they drank in companionable silence. The late morning sun danced on the water, and a light breeze fluttered the edges of the canopy. It struck Constantine how peaceful this little corner of the world was, even as so much turmoil brewed just beyond the horizon.
Andreas cleared his throat gently. “One more thing, Majesty. News from abroad, developments I thought you should know.”
Constantine set his cup aside, giving the general his full attention. Andreas’s tone prepared him for something significant.
“It’s about the Ottomans,” Andreas said. “And also… about Epirus.”
Constantine’s brow creased. “Go on.”
“First, the Turks,” said Andreas. “The child Mehmed is dead. Edirne calls it fever; our man there swears it was Ali and his pasha‑regent who ended it in the cradle. Either way, Ali and his pasha‑regent have their hands full. The Karamanids are besieging Ankara, and an ex‑Ottoman Anatolian bey has declared himself autonomous.”
Constantine sat up a fraction, salt drying tight on his skin. “That will keep their captains looking over their shoulders.”
“Exactly,” Andreas answered. “They’re tied down, stamping at brushfires.”
Theophilus’s voice was mild and flint at once. “Regencies breed wolves.”
Constantine gave a single nod. “Good, let them fight each other. Let’s have some breathing space. Mercy for the dead boy,” he added, crossing himself once; his eyes stayed on the line where sea met sky. “But as for the realm, instability buys us time.”
Theophilus murmured in agreement. “ Unlikely to launch new campaigns against us any time soon.”
Constantine gave a solemn nod, then drew a breath. “And you mentioned Epirus?”
“Yes,” Andreas replied. “News from the west. An Albanian leader named Skanderbeg has made a move. He’s seized Ioannina.”
Constantine’s eyes narrowed, then widened by a degree. The name tugged at some half-shelved page in his other life, a leader out of mountains and legend, the kind of captain whose story outlives his bones. “Ioannina? The city is in Skanderbeg’s hands?”
“By all accounts,” said Andreas. “The Ottomans left only a token garrison there after taking it a few years back. With them preoccupied, Skanderbeg marched south with his Albanian troops and took the city, likely with local support. Many welcomed him.”
Constantine let out a low exhale. Ioannina was the center of Epirus, a rich, fortified city by its lake. “That man is audacious,” he said, but the word carried a measured respect. The half-memory kept pressing: charismatic, quick, a commander who made hard country fight for him. Not a petty robber-lord, he thought. Take him seriously, or pay for it later.
“And he’s not stopping at Ioannina,” Andreas added. “Rumor says he intends to claim all of Epirus, the remaining lands of the Tocco family. Arta, Rogoi, perhaps even the coastal forts. He wants the whole region under his banner.”
Constantine exchanged a meaningful look with Theophilus. Epirus had long been fractured: partly under the Tocco family, partly under Ottoman sway. Now Skanderbeg sought to unite it under his rule. That could set a formidable principality on Byzantium’s northwest border.
“And what of Carlo II Tocco?” Constantine asked. “How firm is his hand at Arta?”
“Doubt he’ll put up much of a fight. Honestly, if Skanderbeg pushes, Tocco will likely crumble or flee.”
Constantine absorbed that. It was a power shift he hadn’t anticipated so soon. A strong, independent Epirus could be ally or enemy, depending on how he played it. And there was another concern closer to home.
“My brother will be interested to hear this,” Constantine said, rubbing his chin. “Thomas has been eyeing those lands himself.”
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Yeah, I’ve thought about the house security too! On the barrels: bronze is saved for cannon, steel we can make in bulk. The water-driven mandrel and reamers give us straighter, safer bores right now.
John Nguyen
Did Skanderbeg and the other Albanian leaders take part in the battle of Edessa or did they sit out the Crusade?
John Nguyen
How does Skanderbeg feel about Constantine? And how bad is his PTSD from Domokos? Did Skanderbeg and the other Albanian leaders take part in Edessa or did they sit out the Crusade?
Pearl of the Orient
Why isn't he using the lathe he introduced earlier in the story for boring barrels? I've seen wooden 16th Century examples with a hardened steel and iron bit powered by windmills. With work he can adapt them for metalworking When this house becomes widely known it will become a target for infiltrators and assassins. This is every bodyguards' nightmare security scenario.
