EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/ Chapter 20: Allies and Ashes
🕑 Added 2025-06-23 22:30:46 +0000 UTCConstantine rode at the head of his host, flanked by General Andreas and the ever-composed George Sphrantzes. The army moved northeast along
Constantine rode at the head of his host, flanked by General Andreas and the ever-composed George Sphrantzes. The army moved northeast along the remnants of an old Roman road, its worn stones peeking through dust and summer-yellowed scrub. After the easy march to Domokos, the advance toward Velestino turned cautious, every ridge and grove watched for signs of enemy movement. The soldiers kept to tighter formations now. Scouts fanned out ahead and to the flanks, and no man strayed far from the column. They had already found two village wells fouled with carcasses and bitter herbs, the water poisonously undrinkable. Here and there, fruit orchards and vineyards lay trampled or burned. It was as General Andreas had grimly predicted in council: an emptied land, stripped bare to slow their advancement. And yet the army marched on, banners high but faces set in wary focus, every sense attuned to possible ambush in the quiet, ruined countryside.
For nearly two days they pressed onward through this gauntlet of abandonment. In places, blackened farmsteads still smoldered in the noon heat, tendrils of smoke curling up to a washed-out sky. Carrion crows wheeled above deserted fields, their cries the only welcome. Constantine’s jaw tightened at each new sign of Ottoman spite, a grain warehouse smashed and smoldering, a stone barn toppled and gutted by fire. The old Roman road, once a lively artery of empire, now felt like a trail of ghosts. Still, the men kept discipline. A few muttered curses for the Ottomans under their breath, but the ranks held formation, just as they’d been ordered. If Sultan Murad hoped to break their spirit with scorched earth, he would be disappointed, thirst and hunger might slow them, but it only steeled the Crusaders’ resolve. Knights from Burgundy rode with handkerchiefs pressed to their noses at the stench of rotting crops, while Byzantine infantrymen exchanged knowing, hardened glances. They all understood: no easy victory would be handed to them on this soil.
By the midday of the second day, the small hills opened onto the southeastern plains of Thessaly, and the town of Velestino came into view. Velestino’s modest cluster of stone and timber homes straggled along a low hillside, overlooking patches of parched farmland. A windmill by the road had been torched, its charred vanes creaking softly in the hot breeze. Grain warehouses near the small central granary lay in ruin, one had its roof collapsed inward, blackened by fire, the stores of wheat inside reduced to a reeking mush. As the army approached the outskirts, a pall of smoke hung over the village, carrying with it the acrid odor of burnt grain and scorched earth. The fields around Velestino, normally green with summer crops, were nothing but trampled stalks and ash. In one smoldering field, a crude wooden crucifix had been erected and scorched, a cruel taunt left by retreating Ottoman soldiers. General Andreas muttered a prayer under his breath at the sight, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight and the anger it barely concealed. Constantine said nothing, but he guided his horse forward with a grave expression, absorbing every detail.
A low whistle from General Andreas drew Constantine’s attention to the roadside. “There, Majesty,” Andreas said quietly, pointing with his sword. A half-dozen figures had emerged hesitantly from behind a crumbling stone wall by a burned orchard. They were villagers, a few old men and women in homespun clothes, and at their head an Orthodox priest in soot-stained robes. The priest, a stooped man with a long grey beard, raised his hand in a gesture of peace or benediction. Constantine lifted his arm and signaled the column to slow. Armor clanked and horses snorted as the great procession came to a halt on the edge of Velestino. Dust settled around marching feet. For a moment, there was uneasy silence. The villagers peered out with a mix of hope and fear written in the lines of their faces. Behind them others now appeared in doorways and lanes, a handful of children, a middle-aged woman clutching a cloth-wrapped bundle, a limping farmer supported by his wife. Perhaps two hundred souls remained in this town, and their eyes were wide with uncertainty at the armed host now at their threshold.
Constantine dismounted slowly, handing the reins to a guardsman. The Emperor kept his posture humble and made no ostentatious display of rank, stepping forward among his officers as simply one leader among many. Dust covered his traveling cloak and dulled the gilded trim of his armor; he looked more a road-weary commander than an Emperor in that moment. General Andreas and George Sphrantzes fell in a few paces behind him. Seeing the approaching Byzantine officers and the purple cloak of Constantine, the elderly priest’s eyes suddenly brightened with recognition. He hobbled forward and then, to the surprise of the onlookers, sank to his knees in the road. Tears carved clean lines through the ash on his cheeks. “Welcome, Basileus!” At this, the villagers nearby gasped or murmured prayers, for now, they knew for certain who stood before them. Constantine, moved by the sight, reached the priest in a few strides and gently took the old man’s hands, urging him up. “Father, rise,” he said softly in the same tongue. Up close he could see the priest was perhaps sixty, gaunt and bruised by recent hardships. The man’s eyes shone with cautious joy as he staggered upright, still gripping Constantine’s hands as if to assure himself this was real.
“I am Gerasimos, of the church of St. Nicholas here,” the priest managed, voice thick. He glanced behind at his townsfolk, who now pressed forward slowly, curiosity overcoming fear. “We have been waiting and praying for deliverance… and God has sent you.” Gerasimos’s gaze flickered to the Crusader banners in the distance, then back to Constantine’s face. Lowering his voice slightly, he added, “Ieros Skopos.” The words were nearly a whisper, but they carried tremendous weight. Constantine felt a subtle spark of pride. He exchanged a quick, knowing look with George Sphrantzes. The priest’s invocation of Ieros Skopos was a sign that the message had spread even here. Plethon’s network of monks and agents had done their work well, sowing hope and the promise of liberation among the Orthodox faithful. It grows, Constantine thought, a solemn satisfaction warming him. Maintaining a gentle smile, he inclined his head to Gerasimos, but otherwise kept his reaction modest. Around them, some of the Western knights shifted in their saddles, not understanding the Greek words but clearly sensing the emotion in the exchange.
On Constantine’s orders, water and bread from the army’s packs were shared with the villagers. Father Gerasimos crossed himself and praised God quietly, explaining to Constantine that most of Velestino’s populace had fled to the hills days ago when the Ottoman garrison left. “They drove the young and strong with them, pressed into service carrying their wagons,” Gerasimos said bitterly. “The rest of us hid as best we could. We feared… we did not know if you would come or if the infidels would return to punish us.” His eyes welled again, and he looked around at the banners and tents being raised. “But you came. Thanks be to God, you came.”
Constantine clasped the priest’s shoulder gently. “Have faith, Father. You and your people are under our protection now. The Ottomans will not return here.” Father Gerasimos nodded, wiping his eyes, and began to shepherd some of his flock toward the town’s small chapel to offer prayers of thanks. Meanwhile, Constantine’s men moved efficiently to secure the area. They found the Ottoman barracks on the north end of town empty save for filth; the enemy had left nothing of use. True to Ottoman practice, even the storehouse of tools and iron fittings had been torched, a strategic withdrawal aiming to leave only ashes for the Crusaders.
By late afternoon, the allied army had fully occupied Velestino. The military camp sprawled just south of town on a stretch of fallow pasture by the road. Tents sprouted in neat rows where wheat shocks once stood. Veterans posted pickets along the perimeter, and a troop of Burgundian crossbowmen established a watch on a low rise overlooking the southern approach to the Gulf of Pagasae. Inside the town, a few companies of soldiers doused residual fires and cleared debris to make the place habitable. Constantine insisted on strict orders that no soldier was to commandeer a home if a villager still occupied it; instead, vacant structures would serve as infirmaries and storehouses. Though weary from the march, the men toiled with a will, aware that each hour of daylight left was precious to prepare defenses and rest. The Emperor himself kept a low profile as he went about inspecting the arrangements. He traded his conspicuous purple cloak for a plain travel-stained mantle, looking little different from any other high-ranking officer.
Later that evening, as dusk settled over the camp, Constantine convened a council of war in a large striped pavilion pitched on the southern edge of Velestino. The summer sky was streaked with purple and copper through the tent’s open flaps. Inside, a single oil lamp hung from the center pole, casting a wavering glow over maps spread on a wooden campaign table. General Andreas stood by Constantine’s side, a handful of other commanders clustered respectfully at the margins, and a delegate from the Burgundians to relay information back to Jean de Croÿ. George Sphrantzes was absent for the moment, busy cataloguing supplies in the makeshift camp depot. The air was thick with the day’s heat and the scent of sweat and leather armor. Despite the success so far, a somber mood clung to the gathering; the evidence of Ottoman ruthlessness surrounding them had dispelled any notion that this would be a triumphant parade north. Constantine was leaning over the map, a sketch of Thessaly and the Gulf, when the tent flap rustled and two messengers entered, dusty and winded. They bore the insignia of the Venetian navy and the Papal fleet respectively, their tabards sweat-stained from hard riding. All eyes turned as they knelt on the rugs before the Emperor.
“Rise and report,” Constantine said, bidding them stand. One messenger, a lean Venetian lieutenant with sun-reddened cheeks, stepped forward and bowed again. “Your Majesty, we bring news from Demetrias.” At this, General Andreas’s head lifted with interest. The Venetian spoke Greek haltingly, with a thick accent: “The crusader fleet has taken the port, as planned… but there was no battle. The Turks abandoned Demetrias before our arrival.” He glanced at his counterpart, a young priest acting as secretary to the Papal legate, who nodded in confirmation. “Abandoned too?” General Andreas echoed, exchanging a look with Constantine.
The Papal secretary answered in polished Greek, “Yes, General. The Ottoman garrison slipped away by night a few days past. Locals say the soldiers rode off toward Larissa” The Venetian lieutenant added, “Our ships entered the harbor at dawn yesterday without resistance. Not a single arrow fired.” He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. “Captain-General Alvise Loredan came ashore with the first companies of Venetian marines. They raised St. Mark’s flag over the harbor fort immediately. Demetrias is now secure under Venetian authority.”
A silence followed those words. Constantine’s face revealed little, but Andreas let out a tight breath, half scoff and half grunt. Venetian authority. It was not unexpected, the Republic of Venice never missed an opportunity to plant its banner on valuable ports. That Loredan had declared control on the very day of occupation was a bold stroke of territorial assertiveness.
The Emperor exchanged a wry look with Andreas and then addressed the messengers: “Thank you. This is good news, Demetrias taken with no blood spilled and our supply line to the sea established.” His tone remained diplomatic. “Inform Captain-General Loredan and Cardinal Condulmer that I am pleased by the fleet’s success and will send an envoy to confer with them at first light.” The Venetian officer bowed, relief evident that the Emperor’s response was measured. The Papal secretary stepped forward. “Your Majesty, His Eminence Cardinal Condulmer also sends word: the fleet has offloaded a great quantity of provisions at Demetrias’s docks – grain, salted fish, wine, powder, in anticipation of your army’s arrival. They stand ready to distribute supplies as needed.” He hesitated, then added delicately, “Of course, the Venetian commanders are organizing the storage of these goods within the town.” In other words, the Venetians already controlled the material, too. Constantine managed a thin smile. “Naturally. Convey our gratitude to His Eminence and to the Captain-General. We shall coordinate the transfer of supplies soon.”
The messengers bowed and were sent to eat. The tent reshaped around those who remained.
“Venetian authority,” Andreas said, as if tasting a coin. “Did we expect anything else? They’ve counted the piers.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, smoothing out a headache.
“Let them be custodians,” Constantine said. “Custodians answer for losses.” He traced the road from Velestino to Demetrias without touching the map. “The important thing is flow. Flour, not flags.”
He meant it, and still misgiving leaned a shoulder into his thoughts. Plethon had said it often: Western aid counts by the barrel and expects the barrel back with interest. Allies arrive with accounts already open.
General Andreas grunted, conceding the point. “True. Fortune favors us thus far. No skirmish, and the Turks running before us.” He crossed his burly arms. “It won’t last, but… we’ll take the luck while it comes.” He allowed himself a brief, weary smile. The day’s march and the grim sights along the way weighed on even his veteran spirit. Constantine gave a similar tight smile. “Indeed.” He turned to the tent entrance, where a young subaltern waited. “Fetch Sphrantzes,” he ordered quietly. “And have him bring his folio.” The officer saluted and departed into the twilight. A few minutes later, George Sphrantzes entered, carrying under his arm a leather folio bulging with correspondence and inventories. He bowed to Constantine, then nodded respectfully to Andreas and the others. “Majesty, you sent for me?”
Constantine gestured to the messengers’ empty cups on the table. “News from Demetrias, George. The port is ours, or rather, our allies have claimed it. No resistance, no casualties.” He summarized the situation in a few brisk sentences: the Ottoman withdrawal, Loredan’s flag-raising, the supplies waiting under Venetian lock and key. Sphrantzes listened intently, his sharp diplomat’s mind already weighing the implications. By the time Constantine finished, a faint frown had settled on George’s brow. “As expected, then,” Sphrantzes said softly. “Venice wastes no time.” He tapped the folio he carried. “I have copies of our agreements with the crusaders… none explicitly cover territorial control of liberated ports. I suspect the Venetians interpret that omission as license.”
“They would,” Andreas muttered. “We could complain and gain only the odor of ingratitude.”
“We won’t,” Constantine said. “We cannot displease men who command the ships we depend upon.” He looked to Sphrantzes. “At first light, ride to Demetrias with a small escort. Take letters of thanks and instructions for the quartermasters. Secure provisioning for our army from the fleet’s stores.”
Sphrantzes inclined his head. “Majesty.”
“And,” Constantine added, lowering only his tone, “take the measure of intent. Are they fortifying for our cause or their ledgers? How tightly will they hold the keys? Listen more than you speak and bring back what you hear in what is not said.”
“Just so,” Andreas said, laying a heavy hand on Sphrantzes’s shoulder. “No banging on tables. We need them. Don’t let the smile blind you.”
“I will count the smiles with the barrels,” Sphrantzes said. “I depart at dawn. It’s a short ride if the roads don’t break. I’ll prepare letters and a list of carts and mules to move whatever they let us move.”
Constantine gave him a warm nod. “Go on, then. And get some rest tonight, tomorrow may be taxing.” Sphrantzes managed a wry chuckle as he bowed. “I shall rest on the ride, if need be.” With that, he withdrew to make ready for the delicate mission ahead. The tent fell quiet once more, save for the muted chorus of crickets beginning outside and the low crackle of the oil lamp’s wick. Constantine rolled up the map of Thessaly, his thoughts already leaping ahead to the next steps, Larissa looming to the northwest, and beyond it the great prize of Thessaloniki where King Sigismund would hopefully descend.
But for now, one day at a time. He allowed himself a long breath, as if to exhale the day’s dust and tension. “We’ll resume at first light,” he said to Andreas and the other officers. “For tonight, ensure the men eat and sleep. Double the watch rotations, I won’t have an Ottoman scout creep up on us here.” The generals saluted, and the council dispersed into the night. Constantine lingered a moment, stepping out of the tent to gaze at the camp. Torches flickered along the earthen perimeter and the silhouettes of sentries with spears could be seen atop a nearby hillock under the rising moon. In the town, a few lights glimmered in windows, families taking courage again to kindle hearth fires now that safety had returned. From the chapel, a faint echo of chanting drifted on the breeze: Father Gerasimos and his flock praying for deliverance, or giving thanks. The Emperor’s eyes drifted in that direction, and he bowed his head briefly in respect. Then, with a tired sigh, he turned in to snatch what sleep he could.
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
It does look short-sighted, but from Venice’s angle, a crusade is the perfect moment to expand their power projection. High risk, high reward… and very on brand for them.
RENAISSANSE SI
Exactly, Murad’s still the elephant in the room, and Constantine knows it. For now, it’s all about threading the needle: keep Venice close, and make sure the real fight isn’t lost chasing side squabbles.
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you!
RENAISSANSE SI
It’s a messy table with too many knives and not enough bread. Big egos, clashing agendas... things are only going to get trickier from here.
RENAISSANSE SI
You and Constantine both 😅
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you!
RENAISSANSE SI
Haha exactly, Venice rarely misses a chance to grab a port. It’s going to be a very delicate dance from here…
Gavriil Kourouklis
Woah chill
N O
I know a lot of people will say this make sense for Venice to do, but this reads to me as incredibly short sighted and stupid to do from their point of view. Their biggest asset is their navy, and Demetrias isn’t an Island. Unless they’re planning to backstab the crusade they’re setting up a power with a direct land border that will want that land back, fresh off the victory of a crusade and with a moral, strategic, and actual claims to the holding. If I were Venice I’d be terrified to take anything because it might be used as an excuse to try to seize all their Greek holdings as lost territories of the empire.
Mineseikea
Defeat the turks, take Constantinople, build up the Byzantine army with guns and all that. All captured ships gets canons, and now byzantines rules the waves. Force Venice to give up all Greek lands and if they are unwilling sail to the harbor in vencine and open fire until every ship in the harbor sinks and destroy venices power. After that invade Anatolia and the rest of former Roman land and burn every mosque, Quran and convert every Muslim by force if necessary and burn media to the ground and destroy their ugly stone and make its gravel in the imperial palace. And the eastern empire is properly restored.
Ben Robbins
It's fine. Deal with the big problem (the Ottomans) first, then deal with Venice. Keep in mind Venice has limited manpower to call upon, so every place they take as their own stretches them closer to the breaking point. There are also levers that can be used to negotiate with Venice. The same cannot be said of the Ottomans (other than a cannonball to Murat's face).
Dr.Pine
Lovely chapter
Hugo23
Dammit Venice could you chill for once in your life? Although considering the phrasing of the agreement I have a feeling they are in for a rude awakening, especially if Constantine just kind of... shows up at the gates and asks the townspeople. Hopefully they don't make the singular mistake of thinking Constantine won't just put a fort at the point and making two ports and half an island useless to them if they push him too far.
Sif
I won't be surprised if the Crusader armies are already getting sick of Venice. It's a Crusade to liberate Christian lands, and they cause problems with their principal ally for little gain.
Elaine
good chappie
russell marsh
I knew this would happen ugh
