EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II / Chapter 30: The Taunt That Unlocked the Gate
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 00:48:02 +0000 UTCEdessa Heights
Constantine squinted against the noonday glare as sunlight shattered off the roaring cascade beside him. Edessa’s great waterfall hurled itself from the cliffs in a silver torrent, misting the air with cool spray that fought the warmth of a summer breeze. The Emperor rested his gauntleted hands on the stone parapet at the cliff’s edge. Below, the land fell away in terraces of rock and scrub toward the plains. For a moment, he allowed himself a rare breath of relief; the height and the water at their backs made this perch feel like a refuge ordained by nature.
General Andreas stood at his side, one boot propped on the lower battlement as he peered out. Two signal officers hovered a few paces off, colored pennants at the ready. On the far horizon, tiny specks of red and green fluttered against the dusty gold of late-summer fields, Ottoman banners massing in the distance.
But here, above the thunder of the falls, the enemy looked small and far away. Constantine felt the tension in his neck ease a little. “Not an easy approach,” he murmured, tracing the broken ridgelines with a leather-clad finger. Sheer cliffs and churning water guarded their flank.
Andreas barked a dry laugh. “If the Turks fancy a climb, we’ll gladly lend them rope.” He slapped the stone merlon with an open palm, raising a small burst of dust. “Our cisterns are fatter than a monk’s belly after Lent. Let them try thirst or steel, Edessa won’t oblige either easily.” His grin was fierce under his beard.
The two signal officers exchanged slight smiles at the general’s bravado. Constantine managed a faint smile in return, the corner of his mouth twitching under a fine sheen of mist. The joke was crude, but it did lighten the gloom for a heartbeat. In that moment, the waterfall’s rumble sounded almost like laughter from the earth itself.
Constantine closed his eyes and listened, truly listened, to the cascade’s endless chorus. He felt the vibration of it in the stones under his hands. Water, the lifeblood of this fortress city, rushed in abundance; the thought steadied him. He whispered almost to himself, “We have time on our side.” Perhaps the mountain and the water would guard them well and force the Sultan to balk.
A scuff of boots on wet stone made Constantine turn. George Sphrantzes was hurrying toward them along the parapet walk, robes flapping around his legs. The Emperor’s senior aide and old friend had obviously ridden hard: mud splashed his boots and sweat pasted his dark hair to his brow. The momentary ease in Constantine’s chest tightened again at the sight. George’s expression was grave, eyes lowered until he drew close and saluted briskly.
“My Emperor,” George panted softly, catching his breath. “The Ottoman vanguard was spotted cutting through the far orchards South of Edessa.” He glanced at Andreas, then back to Constantine, swallowing. “And there is word from the East, Hunyadi’s riders have been sighted on the Agras trail. They’ll arrive before dusk, God willing.”
Constantine’s pulse quickened at the twin news, good and bad twining tight in his gut. Relief that their allies were near battled with the dread of how little daylight remained before Murad’s troops closed in. He rapped a knuckle on the parapet stone, thinking. The plan had been to secure Edessa’s high ground and wait for the Hungarian and Serbian allies, a tenuous plan, balanced on timing and terrain. Now that moment was at hand.
Andreas exhaled through his nose, a bull readying for a charge. “We’ll hold the pass, Majesty. Their damned banners will kiss the dirt before they ever see our walls.” Despite the bravado, his hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. Constantine realized he was doing the same, fingers grazing the worn leather of his own sword-hilt in an unconscious search for reassurance.
The Emperor drew himself up. He cast one more look out over the sun-drenched landscape, the distant Ottoman banners like bloodstains on the edge of vision, the craggy hills embracing Edessa’s flank. He ran his finger slowly along the jagged mountain silhouette as if tracing the shape of fate. Under his breath, Constantine mouthed a fervent plea: “The mountain chooses our side.”
By dusk, the western pass into Edessa glowed with the last hues of twilight. Constantine stood at the open west gate, torchlight flickering over stone as he strained to pick out figures on the narrow goat trail that snaked down the ridge. At first they were only shadows moving uphill in the blue-gray gloom. Then came the clatter of hooves on rock and the low murmur of weary men. One by one, armored riders emerged around the final bend, faces gaunt with exhaustion but eyes lit by the recognition of safety at last.
John Hunyadi rode at the front, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. Dust and sweat streaked the Hungarian warlord’s creased face, and a dirty bandage was tied hastily above his left elbow. At his side came Durad Branković, the Serbian Despot, his cloak torn and a spatter of dried blood on its hem.
Behind them, a column of knights and footmen trudged forward, some leaning on their pikes or each other. Horses frothed at the bit, ribs heaving; many pack mules had been left behind or lost. Yet despite the toll, the sight of Edessa’s walls and the Emperor waiting at the gate lifted every head a little higher.
Constantine stepped forward as the dust-caked column drew to a halt before the gate. The man at its head swung down from his horse stiffly, armor creaking. Broad-shouldered, grim-faced, his tabard streaked with blood and road grime, Constantine knew at once who it must be.
“John Hunyadi?” he asked, voice steady but cool.
The Hungarian gave a single nod, his breath still ragged from the climb. “Emperor Constantine,” he replied. Not warm, but not hostile. Just two men meeting at last, each measuring the other in silence.
For a moment neither moved. Then they clasped forearms, a soldier’s handshake, firm, sharp, without pretense. Respect earned not through smiles, but through endurance.
“We left a trail of dead horses from the Vardar to your ridge,” Hunyadi said, tone dry. “But yes. We made it.”
“Your timing is a mercy,” Constantine said. “Edessa holds, for now.”
Another figure approached behind him, leaner, limping slightly, a white bandage darkening at the edge of his temple. “Despot Durad Branković,” the man said, inclining his head. “I bring what remains of Serbia with me.”
Constantine returned the nod. “You honor us, my Despot”
Durad’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “Your walls caught the light just before sunset. A good omen. Even for an old wolf with fading eyes.”
Constantine studied the man, pale with fatigue, but unbowed. He stepped forward and placed a hand lightly on Durad's shoulder. “Come inside,” he said. “There’s water. And a place to stand.”
Around them, aides and soldiers mingled quietly, exchanging clasped hands and tired embraces. Hunyadi’s quartermaster barked hoarsely at a couple of his men to begin unloading what supplies remained. “Get those wagons inside the walls! Water for the horses, quick now!” he growled, already shoving a barrel toward the courtyard. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and the iron tang of dried blood, the odors of a hard march that did not need to be spoken aloud.
A young Greek ensign hurried over carrying a ceramic jug of water and a few dented tin cups. He offered the first cup to Hunyadi, who raised it in thanks and drank deeply, water spilling down his chin and darkening the dust on his breastplate.
The next cup went to Durad . Durad stared at the cup for a moment, his eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. Then, with a low chuckle, he poured the water out onto the flagstones at his feet. “The stone drinks for us,” he rasped, watching the water splatter and vanish into the ancient rock. The nearby soldiers murmured in rueful agreement; they all knew the taste of sacrifice. Durad clapped the startled ensign on the arm by way of thanks, and handed the empty cup back with a faint grin.
John Hunyadi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened to his full height. Reaching behind his saddle, he took his battle-worn banner, a crimson flag marked with the black raven sigil of his house, and pressed it into the hands of the Greek ensign. The young man’s eyes widened as he accepted the foreign standard. “Plant it where the Turks can see,” Hunyadi said, his voice low but firm. The ensign nodded vigorously, emboldened by the gesture. He sprinted off toward the ramparts, the red banner streaming like fire in the torchlight.
Constantine watched the exchange with a swelling heart. The arrival of these allies, scarred, depleted, but unbroken, breathed new life into Edessa’s defense. On the parapets above, a few of the city’s defenders raised quiet cheers or crossed themselves in thanks as word of who had arrived rippled through the ranks.
Night settled fully over the camp and fortress. Across the dark expanse of plains below, points of orange light flared one after another. Ottoman signal fires were being lit on distant hills, relaying the news of the Christian reinforcements toward the Sultan’s camp. In answer, Edessa’s own beacon fires were kindled atop the western tower, their glow washing against the night sky. Torchlight flickered along the walls as watchmen took up posts.
For a brief moment, the two lines of fires, Ottoman and Allied, regarded each other across the valley like staring eyes. Then the wind rose with a lonely howl through the cliffs, and the lights swayed and danced, echoing the unspoken promise and threat hanging in the air.
Ottoman camp
The air inside Sultan Murad’s command pavilion rippled with heat. By midday the up-valley wind blew hot and dry, carrying the dust of the Rizari Flats against the silk walls of the tent. Outside, cicadas droned in the scrub and an unseen banner rope clinked restlessly against a flagpole in the gusts.
Murad sat at a low wooden table piled with maps and a freshly drawn sand-table diagram of the Edessa terrain. He rolled a jagged iron arrowhead between his thumb and forefinger. Its point caught the light now and then, flashing as he turned it in thought.
Gathered around the table were the key figures of his war council. Halil Pasha, the Grand Vizier, knelt on a cushion to Murad’s right, sweat beading on his brow despite the shade. Across from Halil stood Zaganos and Karaca Bey, both war commanders in their prime, eyes fixed on the sand-table. Turahan Bey, older and scarred, leaned over the diagram with hands planted on the table’s edge. And slightly apart from the circle, Prince Alaeddin Ali sat cross-legged, his youthful face intent and flushed with both heat and anticipation.
A crude relief map of Edessa and its surroundings had been sculpted in the sand before them. A strip of blue glass chips represented the waterfall river cutting through the cliffs. Small wooden markers showed the Sultan’s forces arrayed on the plain, and a cluster of pebbles marked the city of Edessa perched atop its heights.
Murad’s dark eyes drifted over the model as one of his scouts finished a report. The man described steep approaches, narrow goat paths, and defenders newly reinforced by “armies of the Hungarians and Serbs”, the Sultan’s lip twitched at that exaggeration. In truth, it was likely Despot Durad Branković and a few thousand, but even a few thousand fresh infidels in a mountain stronghold could cost him dearly.
Karaca Bey cleared his throat softly. “Edessa is well-chosen ground, Majesty. Storming those heights would bleed us white.” He spoke in the careful tone of a man who had advised caution many times before. “We might encircle the city and wait. The enemy’s allies would be forced into a defensive posture. Time favors us, their supply lines are long and ours are secure.”
Zaganos Pasha shook his head, a few drops of sweat flicking from his brow onto the sand-table. “Time cuts both ways,” he countered. “If we sit, the infidels gain courage. More might slip through to join them, or worse, they could slip away in the night and harass our flanks.” He stabbed one finger down at the pebble representing Edessa. “Better to smash the rock now, before it gathers more moss.”
Murad said nothing yet. He only listened, thumb still grazing the sharp edge of the arrowhead. His generals’ voices swirled around him in the heat. From the corner of his eye, he noted Prince Alaeddin studying the sand-table as if it were a chessboard ready for his move.
It was Turahan Bey who spoke next, his voice low and rough like gravel. “There is another way.” Turahan reached over the table and drew a line in the sand with his callused finger, arcing around the western side of Edessa’s marker. “The Agras road. A narrow pass. We can send a corps to flank around and cut off their rear. The Greeks chose Edessa thinking no one could get behind them, we’ll prove them wrong.” He glanced at Murad. “Force them to either retreat out of their nest or be trapped in it.”
Halil Pasha rested both palms on his knees and leaned close to the sand-table.
“Majesty, we could camp here a year and move nothing but shadows. The waterfall keeps his cisterns brimming, and that goat-track over the ridge lets mule trains slip in after dusk. A siege without thirst or hunger is only theatre. The cliff is a butcher’s stair: any man who tries those switchbacks will die twice, once to the fall, once to Constantine’s guns. We would spend janissaries like water and never reach the gate.”
A hush rippled around the pavilion. Murad’s gaze lingered on the pebble that marked Edessa; the candlelight made it glint like a taunt. Halil’s voice lowered, urgent but controlled:
“So we must make him come down. Leave a mask to rattle sabres at the ridge, but take the strength of the host south, down the Egnatia, across Thessaly, into the Morea. Torch every barn, every vineyard. Constantine cannot watch his homeland burn from the safety of a cliff. Pride and duty will drag him after us.”
Across the table Turahan Bey exhaled through his teeth, nodding once: the plan smelled of horse and open country, not cliff dust. A younger agha objected that a cornered man fights hardest; Halil cut him off with a tight flick of two fingers.
“Better a desperate emperor on open ground than one who fights with the cliff on his side.”
Murad rolled the iron arrowhead between thumb and forefinger. The pavilion cloth snapped in the plains wind, carrying the faint tang of trampled millet. At length he spoke, each word a tapped nail:
“Halil speaks wisely. Break camp at sunset. Let the drums thunder until full dark, then let silence tell them nothing. We lure the cliff-emperor onto open earth, draw him down, then smash him like a beetle beneath a heel. Every janissary, every horse, every gun rides with me for Larissa and beyond. We leave only empty tents and cold fires for the cliff to ponder.”
His eyes locked on Halil’s.
“Vizier, you will draft the words. But ensure the tone is mine.” A thin smile ghosted over the Sultan’s lips. “Let it sting his pride. Invite the Emperor to honor his ancestors in open combat, or condemn his people to fire and ruin if he hides behind his crags.”
Halil bowed his head, though his expression was troubled. “As you command, my Sultan.”
Murad took up a quill himself, testing its tip against his thumb before dipping it in ink. In bold, firm strokes he signed his name in Ottoman script at the bottom of the parchment, then added his seal beside it. He spoke aloud the final line as he wrote, each word deliberate, meant for more than just the paper: “Let him choose ash or open field.”
Council of the Allies
Night pressed in close around the council chamber, broken only by the wavering glow of torches mounted on stone pillars. The air was damp from the waterfall’s mist; through a narrow embrasure in the wall came the muted roar of water plunging into darkness below. Constantine stood at the head of a long oak table, one hand resting on the sealed scroll that lay unfurled before him. Gathered around the table was a half-circle of weary but attentive faces, John Hunyadi with his arms crossed and jaw set; Durad Branković leaning forward with both hands flat on the table; General Andreas looming near Constantine’s right shoulder. Just behind the Emperor’s chair hovered George Sphrantzes, while young Thomas Palaiologos fidgeted with the hilt of his dagger. At the far end stood Sir Jean de Croÿ, idly rolling a pair of mailed gloves in his palm.
Constantine cleared his throat, and the chamber fell fully silent save for the distant rush of the falls. He lifted the Ottoman scroll into the torchlight. The wax seal had already been broken, George had seen to its translation earlier, but now the Emperor read it aloud in Latin for all to hear. His voice was low and steady, though each word felt etched in iron.
“From Sultan Murad, Khan of the Ottomans, to Constantine, so-called Emperor of the Romans,”
Constantine began, his tone betraying no emotion. “You sit atop your hill, clinging to rocks and false hopes. I offer you one chance to preserve your honor and your people, come down and face me in open battle.“Otherwise, I will turn the Morea to cinders, torch every olive grove from the Isthmus to Mistras, and drive your people screaming through the ashes.”
He lowered the parchment. For a moment, only the water’s distant thunder spoke. John Hunyadi broke the silence first. The Hungarian warlord slammed a fist down on the table so hard the wood groaned. “At last,” he said, no anger, only fierce anticipation. A fire kindled behind his scarred eyes. “Sigismund died under that crescent banner. I’ll repay the debt in Turkish blood.” His jaw set, voice dropping to a vow. “Murad offers open ground, exactly what I prayed for. Our knights will ride through his sipahis like iron through flax, and your cannons will rake the gaps.” He stabbed a gauntleted finger at the map just south of Edessa. “Meet him head-on, break his line between lance and gun, and wipe this war clean on our terms.”
Durad Branković’s face tightened under the bruises and road-weariness. “On our terms?” he echoed, voice cool. “Out on the plains, we lose the terms that nature gave us, Hunyadi.” He gestured toward the window slit from which the damp breeze and noise of the falls issued. “Here we have water, high ground, walls at our back. Out there we’ll have sun and dust, and the Sultan’s horsemen circling like wolves.” He shook his head, dark hair swaying at his shoulders. “Murad wants us to abandon the very things that keep us alive. High ground is victory; the plains are graves. I’ve buried enough brothers on flat fields to know.”
General Andreas shifted his weight, armored arms folded over his chest. The torchlight carved stark shadows on his craggy face. “I remember one such field,” he said grimly. “A bright day, open ground. We rode out bold as lions to meet the Turk and were slaughtered to the last man.” His gaze dropped to the table’s scarred surface as if seeing ghosts there. “But if we stay, the Morea will be burned.” Andreas looked between Hunyadi and Stefan, his voice low. “There are no easy choices. Either way, the price is steep.”
Sir Jean de Croÿ lifted his chin, his face flushed in the torch-glow. “Messieurs, the Sultan taunts us because he fears to storm these heights, he wants to unnerve us. I say we oblige his request for battle. My knights did not trek across half of Christendom to cower behind Greek walls.” He offered a tight, thin smile. “If God grants us victory in the open, it will save many more lives than dragging on a siege.”
At that, Constantine’s younger brother Thomas stepped forward, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “Brother… lords… every man here knows we cannot hold Edessa indefinitely,” Thomas said, his voice cracking slightly with earnestness. “Our supplies dwindle by the day with two armies to feed. And Murad’s lines stretch thin in these hills, he cannot sustain his host here for long either.” He glanced toward Constantine, eyes shining with a mix of fear and hope. “If we wait, we risk withering slowly. But if we seize this chance… if we meet him now while his guard is up but his belly empty… perhaps we end it in one stroke.”
All eyes turned back to Constantine. The Emperor had listened in silence, fingers steepled under his chin and gaze distant. Now he straightened, letting his hands spread flat on the table. The firelight etched hollows of fatigue under his eyes, but also a resolve that hardened as he looked around at his commanders and allies. He saw in their faces the reflection of his own turmoil, Hunyadi’s barely restrained eagerness, Durad’s reluctant dread, Andreas’s somber recollection, Thomas’s pleading loyalty, Jean’s fierce confidence, and George’s anxious devotion. Most of these men had followed him through two brutal campaigns already. Two fields stained with blood had tested their cause; soldiers in the camps whispered that Constantine was a true warrior-emperor, perhaps even chosen by destiny. A third loomed, promised by Murad’s own challenge.
Constantine exhaled slowly.
“Our stand will not be on these walls. It will be on the plains.”
Constantine’s gaze swept the chamber. “We did not march to Edessa only to watch the Morea burned behind our backs. If we sit here, the Sultan will ride unopposed through our vineyards and monasteries, torching everything we have built. Here, within these walls, stands the greatest host we have ever gathered, Greek cannon, Hungarian and Burgundian lances, Serbian shields. With God’s mercy and our powder, we will prevail.”
Author note: The die is cast. Next chapter, the battle begins!
Comments
Gavriil Kourouklis
honestly you should established printing press and prints orthodox bibles and qurans , and ensure tax breaks if romans make more than 2 kids and share milli tech knowledge with mamluks in exchange, ships, grains, horses and etc.
Eaglestrike777
Gosh i wish I was in the future to read the next chapter X_x !
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you!
N O
It’s a bit difficult to predict without knowing the exact composition of forces, but off the cuff I’d say the play is probably to make use of the Burgundian heavy cavalry as a battering ram, have them smash through the ottoman lines. The cannons and support troops wreak havoc from a distance. Greek light cavalry screens the Turks. Then, after breaking through, the Burgundian's wheel around and crush one of the flanks against the infantry/gunners and then they all turn inward and sweep the ottomans away from left to right.
Kirra
If I remember correctly, they are in a sort of wait-and-see situation. If Constantine can manage to pull out a victory, it might lead to a full rebellion in modern Bulgaria.
Gavriil Kourouklis
Unless Constantine get's the cavalry to go around them and when they about to fall they unleash and attack their rears or go behind them which will make Murad ll get captured or die and possibly Mehmed ll being taken away back to Erdine
Max Müller
My guess for the force involved: byzantines: about 10.000 professionals with 40 cannons, almost all infantry Burgundian forces: about 2000 professional infantry, 2000 semi-professional infantry, 400 cavalry, 500 support troops like crossbows, engineers, etc serbians: maybe 4000 men, somewhat professional, maybe 1000 cavalry out of them remainings hungarians: maybe 4000 men, somewhat professional, maybe 1000 cavalry Murad: no clue
Zayari
Question, isn’t the ottoman territory like mid rebellion right now with the undercover priests “leros skepos” this might not turn out well for Murad even if he managed to scrape off a win!
Gavriil Kourouklis
How many soldiers on each side and next chapter or two I want to see Murad ll captured! as a Part Roman from my father side you must.! dont keep up waiting.
pls don't ban me
somebody forgot to read the art of war… on another tone, is gravity a correct word to be used in 400' ?
N O
Could we get a precise count of the forces both sides have available for the coming battle?
Bobby Hill
I hope Murad falls in this battle. It would be interesting to see how the tables turn.
Empty Crate
Hurrah Rohan has arrived yet the pickle were now in is yikes. Murad ignoring constantine and just burning through and razing the undefended Attika and Morea would be a nightmare/cataclysm of unbearable proportions especially since the garrison left behind is probably the bare minimum.
Elaine
good chappie
Mineseikea
I hope Constantine personally kills Murad and his son.
Anonykor
I figured they would lure them out. That’s what I would do. Wondering how Constantine is going to even the odds, as it seems a little bleak right now.
Hugo23
Oh Murad made a mistake. He put their backs to the wall, not for pride if he besieged them they could sit and wait for the next round. No he said stay and watch me kill everything you've worked for or fight me in open battle. That is no choice, to not fight is to let the dream and your reputation be forever stained. "He stood here, he didn't fight he stood and watched it all burn." But to fight, they know. Victory or Death, Either is fine.
russell marsh
TO HELL OR PLUNDER DOGS BROTHERS
ioshf fikry
This is it. Let every man cry out victory or death
