EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/ Chapter 21: Bread and Steel
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 22:54:36 +0000 UTCGeorge Sphrantzes arrived in Demetrias under a hazy mid-morning sun. The small port lay quiet, its harbor waters glinting yellow-grey under
George Sphrantzes arrived in Demetrias under a hazy mid-morning sun. The small port lay quiet, its harbor waters glinting yellow-grey under light filtered by distant smoke. Numerous Venetian galleys bobbed at anchor, their banners of St. Mark stirring faintly in the sea breeze.
George noted the transformation of the docks: not the clang of battle, but the din of arrival, ropes creaking under strain, sailors barking orders in half a dozen tongues, the thud of crates hitting planks. Venetian marines patrolled in loose formations, watchful but relaxed, their presence a quiet assertion of control.
Ashore, Admiral Alvise Loredan waited flanked by a knot of officers. He cut a lean, angular figure in sun-bleached armor, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. By his side stood Cardinal Francesco Condulmer, robes trimmed with dust from travel. The Cardinal’s red mantle made a bright slash against the dull, smoke-stained buildings. Despite the grime of campaign on both men, they greeted George with practiced smiles. George inclined his head in respect, first to Loredan then a deeper bow to the Cardinal, and offered the formal greetings from Emperor Constantine.
“Demetrias is yours, Messere,” George said in fluent Italian, voice polite. “We are heartened to find it in Christian hands.” He let his gaze drift across the busy deckhands unloading barrels from the galleys. The implication hung: the promised supplies had arrived.
Loredan’s smile edged wider. “You are welcome, Signore Sphrantzes. Venice is always pleased to receive a friend in arms.” His eyes were the color of steel, and just as unyielding. “We found no gate to batter, only empty quays and neat absences,” he added lightly. “They slipped into the hills days ago and carried their stores with them. Smashed the wells, too. Cowards, or careful.” He shrugged. “So the town is ours; it cost us nothing and gave us little.”
George clasped his hands behind his back to hide the flicker of satisfaction. “A ruin is better than a firetrap,” he said evenly. “And the supplies?”
“Intact,” Loredan said. His gaze drifted toward the wharf, where sailors were rolling casks onto waiting carts under the eye of uniformed officers. “Brought from Negroponte, Nauplion, even Venice herself. Enough for our own men and your share, as agreed.”
The Cardinal nodded in agreement. “Christian charity must guide us.” Condulmer’s voice was smooth and mild, but it carried an unmistakable weight. He stepped forward, extending a ringed hand in a gesture of blessing or warning, it was hard to tell. “We did not sail under holy banners only to hoard bread from allies, after all.”
Loredan’s jaw tightened a fraction. For a beat he was silent, eyes flicking from the Cardinal’s serene expression to George’s neutral smile. Then he gave a short laugh, breaking the tension. “But of course. We share a common cause against the infidel.” He gestured broadly at the bustling harbor. “Your wagons will be filled. Grain, salt fish, oil, canvas. My quartermaster has your list.”
“Venice is exact in her promises,” George replied. He felt the caution behind Loredan’s courtesy, every sack of grain was a ledger entry, every favor to be tallied and collected. Still, relief stirred beneath George’s ribs. Every barrel, every sack, was a link in the chain that kept an army moving and alive.
They began to walk along the wharf. George kept pace beside the Admiral while the Cardinal drifted a step behind, listening. The boards creaked under their boots. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead.
“So you found Demetrias completely empty?” George asked, resuming the discussion. “No sightings of Ottoman forces at all?”
“None,” Loredan confirmed. “Not so much as a single janissary hat left behind. It seems they’ve retreated in full.” He narrowed his eyes toward the northern horizon, where haze blurred the distant hills. “They’re regrouping somewhere further north, I wager, perhaps Larissa or beyond. Sultan Murad plays at shadows, avoiding a fight on open ground.” There was a contemptuous edge to his words, but also frustration. Venice’s Admiral had hoped to find glory here, George realized, and instead found only an empty harbor.
Cardinal Condulmer interjected softly, “His Holiness will be pleased that Demetrias fell without bloodshed. Better a swift occupation than a costly siege, yes?” He offered a faint, conciliatory smile between the two laymen. The Admiral inclined his head with a polite murmur of agreement, though something in his posture remained tense, guarded.
George decided to probe the matter that had been on his mind since he arrived. He slowed his steps, turning to regard the waterfront. Two Venetian ensigns snapped smartly atop the small stone fortress overlooking the port. George spoke as if musing on the view. “It has been many years since these walls flew any banner other than the Sultan’s.” He paused, then added in a lighter tone, “Many in Glarentza will rejoice to see them under Byzantine control once more.”
Loredan halted. The Admiral’s eyes sharpened and his smile thinned. “Under the winged lion, for now,” he corrected, voice cool. “Venice secured this town and its safety. The lion of St. Mark keeps watch here.” His gloved hand tightened on the hilt of his sword; leather creaked softly.
A nearby gull screeched and flapped away, cutting through the sudden silence. George felt his heartbeat in his throat. He forced a calm nod, as if conceding a minor point. “Of course. For now,” he echoed evenly. “We’re grateful for Venice’s protection.” He could sense the air between them taut as a bowstring.
Cardinal Condulmer cleared his throat gently. “What matters is that Demetrias is in Christian hands at last,” he said, stepping forward with a genial spread of his hands. Sunlight caught motes of dust floating around his crimson sleeves. “We are all here as allies. When God grants us victory over the infidel, the proper governance of these lands can be discussed.” He gave Loredan a pointed look, tempered with a mild smile. “Unity, dear friends. We must not allow lesser quarrels to divide us.”
Loredan held George’s gaze for a moment longer, then released the tension in his stance with a sigh. “Quite right, Eminence.” He turned back to George and inclined his head stiffly. “Forgive me. The heat of campaign frays the manners of even Venice’s finest.”
George offered a gracious dip of his chin. “There is nothing to forgive. These times test us all.” His voice remained courteous, but inside he carefully noted Loredan’s reaction. Venice had no intention of relinquishing its prize easily. They all understood that now, even if courtesy papered it over.
A sailor approached to inform the Admiral that the wagons were assembled and awaited Sphrantzes’s inspection before loading. Loredan waved him off. “One more matter,” he said to George. “Our fleet will not tarry here long. The Ottoman navy is still bottled up, perhaps at Thessaloniki or further east. We intend to sail north to the Thermaic Gulf shortly, to cut off any seaward escape and be closer to your next objectives.”
George inclined his head. “Emperor Constantine will be glad to hear it. He plans to march the army toward Larissa immediately. Meeting in the Thermaic Gulf will allow us to coordinate when we approach Thessaloniki.”
“Just so,” the Cardinal affirmed. “We shall await correspondence from His Majesty as you progress. Send word and the fleet will rendezvous as needed.” His eyes met George’s, and the Byzantine sensed both support and shrewdness in that gaze. “Our strength lies in cooperation. We must keep each other informed.”
“Agreed.” George felt the weight of the Cardinal’s words. Keep your allies close, and wary, he thought. “I will relay everything to His Majesty directly. And on his behalf, I thank you both for the provisions and the swift action here at Demetrias.”
There were polite bows all around. Loredan reached to clasp forearms, a show of equals, with a grip just shy of a test. George met the pressure and let a measured smile rise. "Safe travels, Admiral."
“And to you, Ambassador,” Loredan said, releasing his arm. “We shall see each other again soon, under hopefully more… eventful circumstances.” A ghost of wry humor touched his lips, as if to say he’d rather meet amid cannon fire than conference tables.
The Cardinal raised his hand in a blessing as George stepped back. “May God guide your road, Sir Sphrantzes. We will pray for the Emperor’s success.”
“By His grace,” George replied. With a final nod, he turned and made his way toward his waiting horse. He could feel both men’s eyes on his back as he departed.
Crossing the dusty quay, George let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His shoulders were tight. The meeting had gone as well as could be hoped, a bit of tension, yes, but no open rift. He had extracted the supplies and a tentative promise of continued support. Still, the encounter left him uneasy. He glanced back once. Admiral Loredan was already striding away, barking new orders to his men, while Cardinal Condulmer gazed out to sea, hands folded as if in prayer.
By the evening of the next day, George returned to the camp at Velestino. The ruined town was coming alive under Imperial hands: campfires flickered among roofless stone huts and cookpots.
Inside the war tent pitched on the outskirts of the town, Emperor Constantine waited with General Andreas. A single oil lantern cast a dim golden circle across a wooden table strewn with maps. Constantine looked up as George entered, dust still clinging to his boots and travel cloak. The Emperor’s face, lean and sun-browned from the march, was calm but expectant.
“Welcome back, George,” Constantine said quietly. He stood with hands braced on the table, a posture of controlled tension. Even in repose, there was an energy coiled beneath his tiredness. Andreas, looming at his side, gave a brief nod of greeting, shadows cutting stark lines on the older general’s face.
George bowed. “Your Majesty. General.” The lantern light etched highlights in the sweat on his brow. “The meeting at Demetrias went… as well as could be expected.”
Constantine’s eyes flicked to the satchel and back to George. “Tell me.”
George began to report, keeping his tone measured and factual, though his heart was still pounding from the delicate diplomacy. "The Ottomans had already abandoned Demetrias, not a single skirmish. Loredan has taken charge of the town. They provided the supplies as agreed, and we’ve begun distributing them to the quartermasters."
A faint breath of relief escaped Andreas. He had been standing with arms crossed; now he uncrossed them, leaning forward. “Good. Men don’t march far on empty stomachs.”
Constantine nodded in gratitude. “Well done, George. We would have struggled to push on without that supplies.” The Emperor’s voice was low, sincere, but an undercurrent of concern remained. “How did Loredan seem? Willing to cooperate?”
George hesitated a half-beat, recalling the Admiral’s steely gaze. “Cooperative, yes, but very much the Venetian. He’s not giving anything for free.” He met Constantine’s eyes. “He made it clear Demetrias is under Venice’s protection. I hinted at our Empire’s rightful claim, and he bristled.”
Constantine’s jaw tensed; Andreas muttered a curse under his breath. The Emperor exchanged a knowing glance with his general. “We expected as much.”
George spread his hands in a calming gesture. “Cardinal Condulmer intervened before things grew too heated. He seems intent on keeping this alliance on track. Under his mediation, we agreed to set disputes aside until after the war.”
Andreas snorted softly. “After the war, when they’ll no doubt press us to reward them with land anyway.”
Constantine held up a hand, tempering Andreas’s frustration. “One battle at a time. At least the Cardinal is keeping Loredan in check for now.” He turned back to George. “Did they give any word of their next move? Will they stick to the plan?”
“Yes, Majesty.” George wiped a streak of sweat and dust from his forehead with a sleeve. He realized only now how exhausted he was, but he pressed on. “Loredan plans to sail the fleet north to the Thermaic Gulf. They’ll position near Thessaloniki. The Admiral expects us to keep in correspondence as we advance.”
“They mean to have a hand in retaking Thessaloniki, no doubt,” Andreas said. “Venice will want a claim on that prize too, if it comes to it.”
Constantine’s mouth twitched in a faint, humorless smile. “They can want what they like. We’ll handle that bridge when we cross it. For now, their ships can at least cut off any Ottoman reinforcements by sea. That is to our advantage.”
George allowed himself to exhale and placed both hands on the back of a chair, steadying himself. “The Admiral and Cardinal both stressed unity. They will wait for our word, but they expect results. I sensed an impatience, Majesty, a desire for a decisive blow.” He glanced down, voice quieter. “If we falter or delay too long, I worry Venice’s enthusiasm will wane.”
Constantine stepped around the table. In the lantern’s glow, his dark eyes gleamed with resolve that bordered on grimness. He reached out and briefly squeezed George’s shoulder, a rare gesture of gratitude. “We won’t falter. You’ve bought us time and bread, George. That’s more than half the battle.”
George felt the tension in his spine ease slightly at the Emperor’s confidence.
Constantine continued, turning his gaze to Andreas. “The path is clear now. We strike north at first light.” Each word landed firm, brooking no doubt. “We must take Larissa swiftly, before Murad musters whatever he’s planning up north and decides to sweep back down. If we hesitate, all this,” he motioned around at the ruined town and by extension the recaptured land behind them, “will be for nothing.”
Andreas thumped a fist to his breastplate in salute. “The men are ready, Majesty. Their blood is up after marching this far. They won’t turn back now.” Despite his confident words, George did not miss the flicker of weariness in Andreas’s eyes. Fifteen thousand lives riding on one man’s orders, the weight bore on him as well.
Constantine inclined his head, acknowledging both the vow and the unspoken weight behind it. He looked to George again. “You’ve done enough for today. Get some rest; you’ll march with my staff tomorrow.” A hint of warmth touched his voice. “Now I need your wits sharp for what comes next.”
George managed a tired smile. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
He moved to depart, but paused at the threshold. “One more thing, sire.” Reaching into his satchel, George drew out a sealed parchment. The red wax bore the imprint of the Papal insignia. “A letter from Cardinal Condulmer, his formal blessings and an offer of prayer for our efforts. Likely meant for morale.” He handed it to Constantine, who turned it thoughtfully in his fingers.
“A token of goodwill,” Constantine murmured. “Or a reminder that Rome is watching.”
“Perhaps both,” George said softly. He bowed once more and took his leave, the echoes of his footfalls fading into the night.
Constantine remained by the table, turning the sealed letter in his hand. Andreas stepped closer, lowering his gravelly voice. “Sphrantzes did well. But he’s right, the Venetians will not bleed for us forever. We should be prepared for them to look to their own interests soon.”
Constantine nodded absently. “They already are, Andreas. Loredan eyed Demetrias like a merchant sizing up a prize catch. He’ll eye Thessaloniki even more so.” He set the letter down. “But we’ll worry about their price later. First, Larissa.”
The Emperor’s voice hardened on the city’s name. Andreas, ever sensitive to Constantine’s moods, studied his liege’s face. “It will be a hard fight,” he said quietly.
Constantine’s hand curled into a fist on the table, knuckles whitening. “I know.” For a moment, his composure slipped; weariness and something like sorrow crossed his features. “To think what this land has endured… We passed fields of ash and graves. And still more will burn before this is over.”
Andreas laid a rough hand on Constantine’s forearm, a soldier’s comfort. “It’s the only way, Constantine. There’s no reclaiming our home without pain.”
Constantine met his general’s eyes. In them Andreas saw reflected the same burden he carried, the knowledge of what tomorrow might cost. The Emperor inhaled slowly and straightened, armor plates scraping softly. “At dawn, then.”
Andreas bowed his head. “At dawn.”
March to Larissa
Dawn broke in a thin, pale line over the western hills. The army left Velestino behind in disciplined silence, marching north along a rutted dirt road that wound through the Thessalian plain. The rising sun revealed a landscape of ghosts: blackened fields stretching out on either side, the skeletal remains of orchards and cottages still smoking from Ottoman torches. A bitter smell hung in the cool morning air, ash and burnt grain, mixed with the tang of distant sea breeze.
Constantine rode at the front of the column. General Andreas was at his right hand, helm on, eyes scanning the horizon beneath a furrowed brow. The men marched behind in grim focus, the crunch of their boots and hooves the only steady sound. Conversation was scarce; each man was alone with his thoughts of what lay ahead.
By midday, the sun beat down harsh and bright. Heat shimmered over the charred plain. Constantine raised an arm to halt the column as a cloud of dust surged from the horizon, riders returning at speed. At the head of the scout force rode Prince Thomas, bareheaded, sweat-dark hair pasted to his temples. He rode low over the neck, urgency in the set of his shoulders; behind him the men strung out in a line of galloping hooves and sun-flashed steel.
Constantine urged his own horse forward at a trot to meet him, Andreas close behind. Thomas reined in sharply, his mount’s flanks frothing. Dust striped his face; his eyes still held the spark of the charge.
“Report, brother,” Constantine called out, formality giving way to familial concern for an instant. He eyed Thomas quickly for any sign of injury.
Thomas’s chest rose and fell as he caught his breath. Dust coated his boots and the hem of his cloak. "Your Majesty, we hit an Ottoman patrol," he called, voice carrying to the ranks edging closer. "Cavalry, three miles ahead, hid in a copse by a dry streambed. They loosed the charge as we passed."
Andreas spat a curse, his hand already resting on his sword hilt. “Casualties?” he demanded tersely.
Thomas shook his head, a fierce grin breaking through. “They didn’t expect scouts that far forward; we saw the snare in time. Only six of ours fell, God rest them, and a few were wounded. We cut down at least a dozen of theirs.” His smile faded as quickly as it came. “The rest broke and fled north. They’re riding hard for Larissa, I wager.”
Constantine absorbed the news with a tight, measured nod. The first blood of this leg of the campaign had been drawn. Even if it was a small clash, it meant the Ottomans were not entirely gone, they were watching, nipping at their heels. “They know we’re coming, then.”
Thomas wiped grime from his forehead with the back of his glove. “Aye. They’ll blow the horn at the garrison” He cast a glance down the column at the men adjusting their grips on spears and shields, overhearing every word. “We should expect more such attempts, Your Majesty.”
Constantine’s face was set, the lines of fatigue replaced by resolve. “They want to delay us. Slow our advance, bleed us if they can.” He raised his voice to ensure those nearby heard him clearly. “We won’t be slowed by tricks. General,” he turned to Andreas “double the scouts on our flanks and vanguard.”
Andreas thumped a fist to his chest in acknowledgement and immediately began barking orders to his captains. Riders peeled off to extend their screen on either side of the marching column, vanishing into the smoky haze in pairs.
Constantine directed his attention back to Thomas. For a moment, he allowed himself a brother’s pride in the young prince, flushed with victory, reckless and brave. He tempered it with a curt pat on Thomas’s armored knee. “Well done. But ride with more care now; I need you in one piece for the main event.”
Thomas nodded, a flush of both exertion and restrained excitement on his face. “We’ll be ready, brother.” He looked as though he might have said more, but instead he reined his horse around to resume position with the vanguard ahead.
As Thomas departed in a clatter of hooves, Constantine returned to his place and raised his arm to signal the column forward once more. The march continued, now at an even more cautious pace. Every rustle in the distant treeline drew wary glances, every ruined barn became a potential hiding spot for foes that were now proven to be shadowing them.
The scorched earth strategy of Sultan Murad lay bare all around. They passed a shallow well by the roadside; its stones were blackened with pitch. A dead crow floated in the water at the bottom. One of Constantine’s aides grimly noted the poison, likely dumped animal carcasses, and had the well marked to warn stragglers. There would be no quenching of thirst here.
On the third day, thunderheads gathered on the late afternoon horizon, casting the plain in an eerie half-light. The oppressive heat broke with a sudden brief shower that spattered the ashes, turning patches of road into black mud. Steam rose in twisting ribbons from the damp earth. Through the humid haze, the walls of Larissa finally emerged.
Constantine called a halt on a low rise overlooking the city. The last drops of rainwater trickled down his cloak as he dismounted. Before him, across a wide expanse of trampled fields, lay the ancient city of Larissa. Its outer neighborhoods were dark and still, much of the town outside the citadel walls had been torched, reduced to smoldering rubble. But at the heart of Larissa stood a formidable stone citadel, encircled by high ramparts of age-worn stone that still defied the centuries. Towers punctuated the walls at intervals, and even from this distance Constantine could see the glint of helmets and pikes along the battlements. The Ottoman flag, a crimson banner with a white crescent, fluttered defiantly above the main gate tower.
Andreas came to stand at Constantine’s shoulder, removed his helmet, and wiped a streak of soot from his cheek. Together they surveyed the enemy stronghold. Soldiers murmured as they too caught sight of their target.
Larissa did not look abandoned or easily cowed. It was awake and bristling, a beast backed into its lair, waiting with bared teeth.
“It’s intact,” Andreas observed, voice low. “They’ve burned everything around it, but the citadel stands ready.” He pointed toward the western wall. “There, see? Fresh earthworks. They’ve shored up weak sections.
“They’ve been busy,” Constantine muttered.
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Exactly! Venice thinks it’s scoring a win grabbing ports and playing supplier, but they’re kinda missing the long game. If this crusade actually works, they’re gonna have a rebuilt Byzantium next door.
RENAISSANSE SI
Exactly, everyone’s playing nice for now, but we all know the knives are just under the table.
RENAISSANSE SI
Sharp read. Venice does see the value in Constantine, they’re profiting off his books, watching Glarentza thrive, and enjoying the political capital that comes from backing a winning crusade. But Demetrias shows the old habits die hard. Loredan still plays the game like Constantine is a client, not a co-equal. That’s the mistake. They’re dealing with a man who’s building not just an army, but a whole new order, economic, ideological, even spiritual. Condulmer sees the shift; Loredan doesn’t. And in a war this big, misreading your allies can cost you more than any battle.
Pearl of the Orient
without that supplies.” Those supplies."
Kirra
I find it funny how Venice acts. Yeah, they can secure a valuable port for free, but if the crusade succeeds, they will have another powerful rival at their doorstep.
Mineseikea
I really want Constantine to humble Venice by taking all their ports and then crush their power by putting canons on ships. I also hope he annihilates the Turks and that the Greek people of Larissa poisons the ottoman garrison or something. They should see liberation at hand and try to aid the byzantines as much as possible.
Elaine
good chappie
Hugo23
Thomas says him instead of them when talking about casualities. I knew the Venetians were going to pull some sh*t but before blood has even been shed trying to lay claim to a port? The reminder on the supplies makes me think he was planning on charging Constantine's army as a "Well buy them or watch us sail away with them." Good on the Cardinal for slapping that down, I think Venice is forgetting that we aren't the Byzantine's of old or just the HRE/a crusader army that is just a personal project. Venice doesn't have friends, it has clients and rivals, enemies and customers. The HRE, Rome, Burgundian and Byzantine ports closing to Venetian shipping for even a short amount of time would be painful. Venice made a mistake in providing an internal enemy for the very divided crusader's. Paying in supplies and containing actions isn't respected, demanding compensation for it is downright disliked, pissing off the nephew of the pope and putting his alliance with Constantine at risk for Demetrias is next level stupid.
russell marsh
Well they finally made a stand. And Venetians being Venetians, all well as long as they don't take Thessaloniki then they can have the smaller port for now.
