EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II / Chapter 28: Orders Before Dawn
🕑 Added 2025-07-22 13:00:12 +0000 UTCThessaloniki Blockade Line, Gulf of Thermaikos, just past midnight
The sea was slick as black lacquer under a humid sky. It didn't breathe. It didn’t move. It merely held its weight against the hull of the Santa Lucia, a Venetian blockade galley moored farthest east of the crescent line. From its deck, Thessaloniki’s walls were a rumor, a jagged silhouette where sea met land, but even that had vanished in the murk. Tonight, a low mist clung to the sea like breath held too long, not true fog, but a salt-hung murk that softened outlines and turned lanterns into ghosts.
“Your throw,” said Matteo, yawning behind the back of his hand. He was lean, raw-boned, barely twenty, with the kind of wiry restlessness that made him useless at dice and even worse at sleeping. Sweat darkened the collar of his linen shirt and matted his hair into points.
Enzo scratched at his beard and tossed the dice onto the makeshift plank between them. “Three,” he muttered, squinting at the results. “Saint Nicholas piss on me. Three again.”
Matteo grinned, teeth flashing in the gloom. “You’ve lost six in a row. That’s a sign. Time to change saints.”
“Time to change your damned luck,” Enzo growled, flicking the dice toward his companion. His voice was rough from salt air and too many campaigns. His left knee creaked when he shifted, a memento from Treviso, but he bore it the way sailors bore most things: with curses and silence.
They sat cross-legged beside the deck lantern, its flame dimmed by a bronze shield to keep from drawing notice. Around them, the rest of the watch crew muttered or snored in blankets soaked with sweat. Above, the lookout swayed in the crow’s nest, his silhouette barely visible against the pale wash of cloud.
Matteo rubbed his neck and glanced toward the sea. Nothing. No wind, no waves, just the faint slop of brine against hull. “I swear, this air’s got weight to it,” he said. “Like the sea wants to crawl aboard and lie down beside us.”
“You’re just looking for omens.”
“No, I’m looking for air that doesn’t choke me.” He leaned back on his elbows. “In Crete, the nights had breath. Even the storms came clean. Here? Here the sky sits on your chest and asks what you did with your life.”
Enzo chuckled low in his throat. “Philosophy now, is it? Must be losing more than coin.”
Matteo smirked. “Blame the Byzantines. They’ve got us all talking like bookmen. That card game of theirs, what do they call it?”
“‘Ena,’” Enzo said, mimicking a haughty accent. “A game of balance and rhythm and spite. Or so says the red-bearded one. Alexios?”
“Aye, him. Taught it to the lads on the San Marco. Played once. Didn’t make a damned bit of sense.”
“It’s not meant to. It’s meant to make you feel clever. So when you lose, you blame the world.”
Matteo laughed. “So it is like marriage.”
Another beat of quiet. The sea creaked under them, gently, like a breath that had nowhere to go. A gull cried far off, ragged and lonesome.
Then: a sound.
Matteo’s smile faded. He sat up straighter, frowning into the dark.
“What?” Enzo asked, glancing at him sidelong.
“Did you hear—?” Matteo held up a hand. Listened.
Nothing. Just the sea. Just the fog pressing in like a second skin.
Enzo shook his head. “You hear ghosts. Go roll again.”
“No, I—” Matteo stood slowly. His hand drifted to the rail, fingers brushing the damp wood. He peered out toward the eastern rim of the blockade arc, where nothing should be, no ship, no lantern, not this close to shore.
Then he saw it.
A ripple. A shift. A shadow gliding just under the cloudline, fast and low and wrong.
“Enzo,” he said. Not loud. Not panicked. But tight.
“What now?”
“Look.”
Enzo followed his gaze.
Twenty shapes emerged from the fog like sharks drawn to blood. Fustas. Shallow-hulled, oar-driven Ottoman raiders, low, fast, and cruel. No sails, just sleek timbers and long rows of oars biting the black water in perfect rhythm.
No lights. No war cries. Just speed.
And direction, right toward them.
“Christ,” Enzo breathed.
Matteo was already turning. “The bell.”
Enzo took two steps
The first arrow took Matteo in the throat. It hissed like a whisper, and then he was down, a thump and a gasp, blood blooming black on his shirt.
Enzo froze.
Then the second arrow struck him in the shoulder as he lunged for the bell. He staggered, hand slamming into the iron tongue just once. The clang rang out across the deck like a shot.
The third arrow caught him beneath the ribs. He collapsed beside Matteo, both men sprawled across the planking, their blood mixing with the condensation pooling on the deck.
The bell swayed once more, aimless and thin.
Then silence.
The fustas surged forward.
On the foredeck, a lantern crashed to the planks. A sailor screamed. Someone shouted for arms. Steel scraped. Then came the fire, crude clay pots lobbed by hand, arcing over the rail to shatter against the aft rail and ignite the tar-stained ropes. Flame bloomed along the galley’s side, licking its way toward the powder stores.
And still the Ottomans rowed.
Behind them, the blockade line began to stir, a ripple of movement, shouts, boots on deck, bells clanging in uneven echo.
But for the Santa Lucia, it was too late.
Her decks caught light. Her masts shivered. Her oars clacked in panic.
Farther west, aboard the San Marco, the night still held its breath.
Anchored near the arc’s center, her lamps were dark, her men at rest.
Loredan was awake before the knock.
He had not undressed. He never did, not when the sky felt too low and the sea too still. The cot beneath him was narrow and clean, a single woolen blanket folded along the edge. A lamp swung above, unlit. Outside, the Gulf slept under a haze of fog and rising heat, thick even at night, pressing in like a damp hand.
Then: the knock, sharp, fast. Not the rhythm of respect. The rhythm of alarm.
“Enter,” Loredan said, already moving.
The door cracked open. A young officer stood there, half-armored, eyes too wide. "Signal from the Lucia, a bell, then nothing. Now fire on the eastern flank.
Loredan crossed the cabin in three strides. “Fire?”
“Yes, sir. Starboard watch spotted it eastward, it’s burning fast.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed. He stepped out onto the main deck in bare feet. The boards were warm beneath him, even in the night air. He moved to the rail, shoved aside a curtain of hanging oilcloth, and stared east.
There, just beyond the first curtain of fog, a glow, not flickering, but spreading. Orange tongues against grey vapor. A fire.
“Lucia,” he muttered.
Behind him, boots hit the deck. Another officer. “Sir, I’ve got movement on the water, east and south. Fast.”
Loredan turned. “Crew to stations. I want bow lanterns hooded, stern lights doused. Wake every soul that has a sword or an oar. Now.”
A flurry of nods. Orders relayed down ladders and over bulkheads. Below deck, sailors tumbled from hammocks. Cannon crews rolled their guns to ready lines. In the hold, powder horns were unlocked.
Loredan stayed still at the rail, watching the fire grow brighter.
“Sir,” the first officer said, voice tight. “We think it’s an Ottoman squadron. Small, fast hulls. Galiots.”
Loredan didn't blink. “Fustas.”
“Yes.”
He didn’t curse. He didn’t move. He just said, “Then they’re not here to fight. They’re here to run through.”
A moment of silence. Then Loredan turned to the helmsman.
“Raise anchor. Turn us broadside. Bring the forward gun to bear. If they approach, I want a shot at the lead vessel. If they don’t… we wait.”
A pause.
“If they get past us—”
“They’re headed to the city,” said the officer.
Loredan nodded once.
Smoke thickened eastward. Now two ships burned, one fully engulfed, its mast a pillar of fire. Shouts echoed faint across the gulf. Metal striking metal. A scream.
Loredan spotted a third flame, smaller, farther inshore. A fire galley lit from within, perhaps hit by one of their own.
“They want to break the blockade line,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “They rowed dark. And fast. Ottoman pirates. Men who’ve done this before.”
The Skirmish, brief and brutal. It did not last long. The Ottomans hit the eastern arc like a blade: twenty fustas, five veering to distract, the rest rowing full-force toward the harbor channel. Only three Venetian galleys responded fast enough to engage directly.
Of those, one took a flaming pot to the bow and caught light, not sunk, but out.
Another rammed, locked, fought, and drove its attacker back.
The third, the Ancona, was lost. A fire arrow struck its powder store before the gunners even fired. It exploded mid-call to arms. The shockwave buckled two nearby decks. Men and wood hit the water in pieces.
Loredan saw it all in flashes, a commander's eye, not for chaos but ratio. How many through. How many lost.
Seven fustas slipped past the blockade line, oars flashing red under the flames. Four reached the old breakwater of Thessaloniki’s outer harbor. Two turned back. One vanished, sunk, or escaping into deeper fog.
By the second hour after midnight, the fires had dimmed. The wounded had been pulled. Aboard the San Marco, the deck was scrubbed free of blood and ash with seawater and sand. Loredan stood at the stern, arms folded, watching as his signal officer returned.
“They used the attack to deliver supplies,” the officer said. “ Probably food. Could be powder.”
Loredan said nothing.
Then another signalman approached from the bow. “New message, sir. From the land.”
He handed over a rolled slip of cloth, torched at the edge for weatherproofing.
Loredan read it. Just four glyphs.
Requesting immediate offshore conference. Flagged by Constantine himself.
He looked up at the pale sky, fog curling across the water.
“Now what,” he muttered.
A gust of hot wind blew in from the south. He turned to the helmsman.
“God’s will I’ll sleep one night this week.”
Then louder, sharper: “Signal the line. We weigh anchor. Half sail.”
The bell rang twice.
The tent smelled of sweat, wine, and old dust. A low brazier hissed in one corner, its coals shedding more smoke than heat. The maps were already unfurled when Loredan stepped inside, brushing sea salt from his shoulders. His cloak was still damp, and his boots left a faint trail across the canvas floor.
Constantine looked up from the table. He did not rise.
“We saw the fires,” he said.
Loredan nodded once. "You saw the light. The dark was worse."
Andreas, arms crossed, leaned against a support post near the entry. George stood beside Constantine, folio tucked under one arm. Jean de Croÿ was already seated, fingertips resting lightly on the map’s edge.
“How bad?” Constantine asked.
Loredan exhaled through his nose, slowly. “They sent a corridor. Twenty fustas, rowing silent. At least seven got through. Three reached the city. One of ours exploded. Two others burned. We took losses.”
“Supplies?” George asked.
“Most likely,” Loredan said. “Powder, food? Possibly more. The ships were light and fast. This was no improvisation.”
Constantine’s fingers tapped once against the rim of the table. “So the Ottomans are no longer reacting. They’re acting.”
“They’re in full swing,” George said quietly.
Loredan studied their faces, then asked, flatly: “Where’s Sigismund?”
Silence.
“We don’t know,” Constantine admitted. “No signal. No messenger. Not even a rumor."
Loredan’s jaw clenched. “You really don’t like to give me good news, do you?”
George didn’t smile. “We don’t get much of it.”
Loredan let the silence stretch a moment longer. “Murad?”
“Marching here,” Constantine said. “From the north. It could be two days out. Three at most.”
“Lovely,” Loredan muttered. He glanced around the tent, at the maps, the angled oil lamps, the tired, half-shadowed faces. “So you’re telling me: Murad is coming. The north is silent. The city is resupplied. And now, what? You want a miracle?”
“No,” Constantine said. “Just your fleet.”
Loredan raised a brow.
“We’re lifting the siege.”
The words landed hard. Not loud, not dramatic, just absolute.
Loredan stared. “You’re what?”
Jean de Croÿ said nothing, but his brow creased. George didn’t flinch. Andreas shifted his weight, then said, “Not to be the doomsayer, but the most likely scenario is Murad has already defeated Sigismund. That would explain the silence. And if that’s true, we’re next.”
Constantine nodded. “If we stay here, we fight outnumbered, unfortified, on open ground, with a hostile city at our side. That’s not a defense. That’s a tomb.”
Loredan exhaled sharply. “So you want to move the entire host. South?”
“That was our first thought,” Constantine said. “Board as many men as possible. Evacuate by sea. Relocate along the gulf.”
Loredan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There’s not enough hull space. I’d have to make runs. Maybe two days just to pull the infantry.”
“You could take the artillery,” George said. “That would speed the march for the rest.”
“Some of it,” Loredan allowed. “I could have those aboard by first light.”
Andreas was already shaking his head. “Platamonas? That’s our nearest fallback. But if we pull further back toward Larissa,” Andreas said, “we’ll be marching straight into their teeth. That fortress could stall us just long enough for Murad to catch up and then we’re pinned, with no room to maneuver.”
Constantine nodded slowly, his expression tightening with quiet disappointment. “Exactly.”
“So we don’t go south,” George said, steady and certain. “We go west, still the best course, all things considered.”
Loredan turned toward him. “Into the mountains?”
“Into West Macedonia,” Constantine said. “Higher ground. Defensive terrain. Roads narrow enough to choke cavalry. And time, time to figure out what happened to Sigismund.”
Loredan frowned, lips pressed in a line. “And if Murad bypasses you and takes the coast?”
“Then you hold the blockade as long as you can,” Constantine said. “Stall him.”
Loredan leaned both hands on the table. “I can hold the sea, but if there's no army pressing the city, they'll supply it overland. We’ll be blockading a harbor that feeds itself from the rear.”
“Then pull back,” Constantine said. “Once he reaches the city, fall south to Negroponte. Regroup. Anchor at Chalkis."
The Venetian studied him for a long moment. “You’re asking me to cover your retreat with ships, buy you days with sailcloth and guesses.”
“I’m asking you to do what you already do better than any man on this coast,” Constantine said, without heat.
That silenced the tent. Even Andreas nodded once.
After a long pause, Loredan exhaled through his nose and straightened. “Then I’ll hold the line, as long as there's a line to hold.”
“Good. It’s settled, then,” Constantine said. “We break camp at first light. March west. Gather what information we can. Watch the roads.
George opened his folio, began scribbling the first courier orders.
Andreas stepped out into the soft breaze.
De Croÿ said nothing, but his silence was not resistance.
Loredan reached the flap. Just before he left, he looked back.
“And if Sigismund is alive?”
“Then he’ll find us,” Constantine said. “Or we’ll find him.”
Comments
Wen L.
Good tactical withdrawal to the west, but I'd probably add one more dimension, guerilla warfare. In the Greek War of Independence against the Ottoman Empire fought about 400 years later in the 1800s, mountainous terrain was used to divert Turkish forces, while greek fighters attacked supply routes of Ottoman forces. If Murad tries to resupply by land, Constantine can organize his forces to act as interdiction forces and seize supplies, lengthening his staying power and weakening Murad's hold on the city.
Eriach
Edirne is too far for Constantine to hit. But striking westward allows them to regroup possibly with the Albanians and possibly also with the Despotate of Epirus and see if he'll fold in with him.
Hugo23
This move actually puts some pressure on Murad, an army in being is dangerous to him right now. Even if he rushes to Thessaloniki he doesn't have information on their target, what if they strike Bulgaria? Or Edirne when he has the majority of his forces in the field?
