EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II / Chapter 24: Weighing Stone and Blood
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 21:24:15 +0000 UTCThe sun was already high when the first cannon was rolled into place.
Early June heat shimmered across the blackened earth outside Larissa’s western gate. Flies swarmed over charred wheat stalks and the broken beams of ruined farmhouses. A dry wind blew from the east, sharp with the scent of dust and old ash. Constantine stood beneath a faded command awning at the edge of the forward camp, watching as soldiers maneuvered the wheeled Drakos cannon into position atop the sloped earthen berm, its iron-rimmed wheels crunching over packed dirt.
Ropes creaked. Sweat-soaked soldiers grunted as they moved the gun into alignment. Behind them, mixed teams of Burgundian, Italian, and Greek sappers, began preparations for the long trenchwork, pick and shovel striking earth as they marked the first lines of the outer cordon. Farther back, officers barked orders as a second cannon came forward, its wheels rattling over uneven stone.
Constantine said nothing. He merely watched, one gloved hand resting on his belt. He wore no cloak despite the hour; the sun pressed down like a held breath, slow and punishing. Sweat gathered beneath his collar, traced the line of his spine with the deliberation of a blade. For a fleeting moment, the towers of Larissa stirred an image from a film he’d once seen, dark stone rising behind drifting smoke, a city defiant and doomed. It was one of the few memories from the 21st century that still surfaced unbidden, more rare now, and fading more each year. The details blurred even as they came. He let it pass. Beside him, General Andreas shaded his eyes beneath the brim of his helmet, jaw set like carved granite.
A few paces behind, George Sphrantzes moved briskly between command tents, a leather folio clutched under one arm. He had spent the morning in quiet consultation with Jean de Croÿ, aligning the needs and obligations of the Burgundian contingent with the broader logistics of the camp. Food, forage, water discipline, the machinery of an army too large to improvise. Even now, aides moved to his direction, distributing new orders with practiced speed. There was no shouting, only urgency honed by habit.
By midday, the battery was ready. A silence spread across the forward lines as the gunners made final adjustments, ramming powder, shot, and wadding. In the distance, Larissa's citadel loomed behind its scorched outer neighborhoods, stone walls glinting faintly under the sun, towers watching, waiting.
Constantine gave the signal with a slow downward motion of his hand.
The first shot cracked across the plain like a thunderclap. Smoke billowed. The cannon recoiled with a screech and groan. A heartbeat later, the cannonball struck, stone cracked from the outer wall of the west gate tower, sending a burst of dust into the air like powdered ash.
A second shot followed. Another cloud of powder smoke. Another distant impact, higher this time, the outer parapet of the same tower lost a jagged tooth of stone.
Then came the response, a ragged volley of arrows, falling well short, and a crude bombard shot that tumbled into an empty field. Smoke drifted thin over the rooftops, a child’s answer to a man’s blow.
Andreas snorted. “They know we outrange them.”
Constantine allowed himself a low breath, almost a smile. “Stone for stone, they cannot match us.” His hand tightened on the map case at his side. “If I gave the word, Larissa would fall.”
The words hung there, half truth, half temptation.
After the two warning shots rang out and the smoke drifted toward the city, a truce flag was raised. A Byzantine herald rode out under guard, bearing a scroll. The parchment was stiff with wax seals, the script crisp and unyielding: a demand for the immediate surrender of Larissa, issued in the name of Emperor Constantine XI Palaiologos and Champion of Christendom.
The envoy rode out under the white flag of truce, a scroll case tucked beneath his arm. He stopped at the midpoint between camp and city, his horse stamping nervously on the heat-shimmered road. For a while, nothing moved atop the walls.
Then, slowly, defenders appeared at the main gate. A half-dozen figures emerged, their forms indistinct behind the haze, but clearly armed. One stepped forward to take the scroll, no ceremony, no word. The gates closed again behind them with a heavy boom.
The envoy remained there in the sun for nearly an hour, mounted and motionless, the flag of truce fluttering idly beside him. Once, a shape moved along the wall walk, observing him. A second time, someone shouted something in Turkish he couldn’t quite make out. He didn’t flinch.
Finally, a figure emerged from the gate again, a younger officer this time, helmet under one arm, a sealed scroll in hand. He did not dismount. He handed over the reply, said something curt, and turned back.
When the envoy returned to camp, his cloak was streaked with dust and sweat. He dismounted before the command tent and handed the scroll to Constantine with a short bow.
The Emperor took it, broke the seal, and read in silence.
Then he passed it to Andreas.
The general’s brow darkened as he read. “He calls us pamphleteers,” he muttered. “‘Pamphleteers and play-actors. The city has stood for centuries and will not fall to men of paper and press.’”
Constantine’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
George Sphrantzes, standing just behind them, let out a quiet chuckle. “Well, at least they’re reading,” he said dryly. “Though I’m not sure which frightens them more, our sermons or our siegeworks.” He thumbed the edge of his folio and added, “They may mock the press, but I’d remind them we’re quite famous for our cannons too.”
Nearby, someone asked the envoy quietly, “Did you notice anything worth remarking?”
The man shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not much,” he said. “But the ones I saw looked… alert. Rested. Determined enough. They didn’t laugh.” He paused. “That’s something.”
News of the refusal spread through the camp before the dust had settled. By nightfall, Constantine had called his council. The lamps burned low, their smoke curling over maps of Thessaly spread like wounds across the table.
Thomas spoke first, impatient, eyes flashing.
“They mock us and we let it stand? Larissa holds grain, coin, and pride. Take the city and the men march fed. Leave it, and we don’t look cautious, we look beaten. Beggars asking leave to pass. The empire cannot afford to look small.
And what have we preached if not the Ieros Skopos ? You lit that fire, brother. Men followed. They expect more than words. They expect stone fallen, gates broken, the cause made flesh. Give them proof they can touch, and the countryside will rise with us. Ride past, and our own banners look like painted lies.”
George Sphrantzes did not rise from his seat. His voice was calm, clipped, the cadence of a man reciting ledgers.
“We have powder for two sieges. Two, no more. Spend it here, and Thessaloniki waits unchallenged. And when Murad comes, we meet him with stones and prayers. Numbers do not bend to pride.”
Thomas wheeled on him, his voice hardening.
“So we trust a fortress at our backs to stay quiet? Hope these garrisons show us mercy? That is not caution, George. That is folly in a clerk’s robe.”
Jean de Croÿ lifted a gauntleted hand, his French thick but precise.
“On this, the prince is right. No captain marches with an enemy citadel behind him. Larissa is the keystone of Thessaly. Take it, and the rest follows. Leave it, and every village watches us with doubt. A general who will not break a fortress earns no fear, no respect. Even in Burgundy, such a march would be called disgrace.” His eyes locked on Constantine. “A house is not raised by placing the roof before the foundation.”
At last, Andreas leaned forward, voice flat as steel.
“I have seen sieges that promised crowns and left only graves. Every stone of Larissa would cost us powder we can’t spare and men we can’t replace. Weeks lost before we even face the Sultan. Yes, we could take it. But it would bleed us. I would sooner gamble on the coast than see this army bled white against these walls.”
Silence settled. All eyes turned to Constantine. He laid his palms on the map.
In his mind, he saw it: towers burning, banners torn down, the roar of triumph. He felt it surge in him, sharp and intoxicating, the vision of himself as conqueror. He wanted it. Wanted it fiercely. For a moment, it tasted like blood in his mouth.
And then he tasted what would follow: powder gone to cinders, bodies in alleys, Thessaloniki left waiting, Murad warned.
That was not victory. That was hunger.
He drew a steady breath.
“We came here offering peace. They chose defiance. And yes, we could take Larissa. But we would bleed for it, time, powder, men we will need when the Sultan himself comes.
I know what we have preached. I know the fire we lit. And yes, to pass Larissa may look like weakness. It may make the banners we raised seem like painted lies. But a cause is not proved by one shattered gate. It is proved by victory entire brother. Our purpose has never been Larissa. Our purpose is Thessaloniki, to join with Sigismund, to strike before Murad is ready. If we squander ourselves here, we give him that time, and we face him broken, alone.
I would rather seem weak for a season than lose the war forever. Thessaloniki is the prize, not this stone.”
He traced the road eastward with a finger.
“At dawn we march for the coast. The fleet meets us there. Then we strike what matters.”
Andreas bowed his head. “At dawn.”
George murmured, “At dawn.”
Thomas clenched his jaw, but after a long pause gave a single, reluctant nod.
Jean de Croÿ’s eyes lingered on Constantine, doubtful, measuring, but in the end he inclined his head.
One by one they rose and left the tent. Andreas ducked into the night first, muttering orders to his aides. George stayed behind long enough to stack his folio neatly, then looked at Constantine and said, almost quietly, “You chose rightly. But right choices can still be judged as cowardice.” He bowed and slipped out.
Thomas lingered longest. He stood at the far end of the table, fists knotted at his sides, breathing hard. At last he said, “You speak of restraint, brother. But men follow those who feed them, not those who starve them of glory.” He did not wait for an answer. He strode out into the night.
Constantine remained alone. The map lay spread beneath the lamps, roads and rivers like veins across the parchment. He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself.
When he emerged, the camp was alive with quiet movement. Fires glowed in shallow pits, soldiers hunched around them, polishing weapons, boiling thin stews, laughing too loudly at half-heard jests. Word of Larissa’s defiance had already spread, and with it the expectation of battle. More than once he caught the look in a soldier’s eyes, eager, hungry, when they saw him pass. One bold voice called from the shadows, “When do we storm the walls, Basileus?” Others chuckled, waiting for his reply. Constantine only lifted a hand in acknowledgment and walked on.
He passed the siegeworks where the cannons loomed silent, their mouths pointed at the city. Beyond, the towers of Larissa rose unbroken, lanterns glowing faintly along the wall walk, the crescent banner stirring in the wind. They seemed to watch him, as though the city itself knew the choice he had made.
For a long moment he stood there, staring at the walls, the fire in his blood urging him to give the order he had denied. He could almost hear it: the thunder of cannon, the crash of stone, the surge of men through a breach. Victory, immediate and blazing.
He turned away. If he looked longer, he knew he might not march at dawn.
Comments
Blitzer
^^^^
Björn Thies
While I think that THIS time to lift the siege was the right descision, I have to do a little critticism here. All the counsils are just the same. Thomas proposes something aggressive, George proposes a cautious reaction, Constantine choses the milddle groud. Thats repetetative and beginningly annoying.
pls don't ban me
to be fair i was expecting something like the french knight in monty python but in a ottoman version.
Hugo23
Sigismund is in a position where he is forced to attack, Constantine is in a position where he is forced to risk an attack without being able to retreat. Murad has to be straining logistically speaking, he lost a decent raider force, a decent chunk of an army at Domokos, an entire force in Albania and raised his army for a hard campaign for the third year in a row. This isn't even including any opportunistic strikes other powers took! An army that's disciplined core has been whittled away facing a motivated and pissed off army...
russell marsh
Thomas must be taking behind the shed and remind him that it's one thing to give alternate options it's another to constantly taking the most bloody ones. His losing the tree's to the forest. His anger is going to get people killed only to satisfy his thrust for reckless glory. Nevertheless I'll take my Calvary to the coast to see if the fleet have arrived By your will my Emperor
Empty Crate
Hmm this feels like were walking into Murads trap. Iworry that by the time Constantine arrives in Thessaloniki well find out Sigmunds host got destroyed by Murad
Ben Robbins
TFTC. That is likely the right decision. As with any sort of leadership, there is a great deal of risk management involved.
Elaine
good chappie
Mineseikea
After they take Thessaloniki and get supplies they can move with sigismund to curb stomp the Turks. With Thessaloniki’s fall and another decisive defeat for the ottomans I have a feeling the garrison of Larissa will surrender when Constantine comes back. That said I really want the battle chapters.
