EMPIRE REWRITTEN
patreon
Book II/Chapter 15: The Arrival at Lechaion
🕑 Added 2025-06-05 22:35:32 +0000 UTCLechaion - Corinth, late May 1434
Jean II de Croÿ stood at the prow of the Venetian ship, one gloved hand gripping a damp rope as the vessel glided toward Port Lechaion. A hot late-afternoon breeze carried the brine of the Corinthian Gulf and the faint perfume of sun-baked pine from the hills beyond. Below him, the sea was a deep blue mirror broken only by the rhythmic splash of oars and the crack of canvas sails catching the wind. Each time the breeze shifted, the sail above flapped sharply, like distant thunder. Jean narrowed his eyes against the glare of sunlight on water, focusing on the harbor ahead.
As the Venetian vessel drew nearer, the shouts of dockhands and mariners reached Jean’s ears across the water. He could make out Greek voices calling instructions in measured cadence, and the creak of capstans winding in heavy ropes. On the crowded wharf, dozens of figures hurried to and fro: orderly lines of workers hefting crates, rolling barrels, and guiding horses down sturdy ramps from the holds of newly arrived ships. Jean’s ship had slowed to await its turn; Lechaion’s few piers were already occupied by Venetian galleys and Papal transports offloading men and matériel. The harbor was too small to receive the entire fleet at once, forcing the rest to anchor a short distance out in the gentle swells. Jean felt the deck beneath him vibrate as his own crew struck sails and dropped anchor, the heavy chain rattling out through the hawse. Impatience tugged at him, after weeks of voyage, every knight and soldier aboard was eager to set foot on solid ground, but the scene ashore gave him pause.
Lanterns bobbed on the pier as Byzantine soldiers in neat lines passed crates from hand to hand, their movements methodical despite the din. These were not scraggly irregulars or simple laborers; Jean could tell by their disciplined bearing and uniform tunics emblazoned with military insignia that these men were trained soldiers aiding alongside the dockworkers. At intervals, an officer wearing a distinctive cloak strode down the wharf, directing the flow of men with crisp gestures. Just beyond the docks, a cluster of merchants or quartermasters, distinguished by their ledger scrolls and the purposeful way they supervised, organized newly landed supplies. Jean watched with growing surprise as they meticulously checked off items, called out orders for wagons, and efficiently guided each group of arrivals onward. The chaos he had anticipated was instead a concert of well-rehearsed roles.
A few of his own knights had gathered near the prow to peer at the shore. Sir Gilles, a grizzled veteran at Jean’s side, let out a low whistle. “By God, they run a tight dock,” Gilles murmured, leaning on the pommel of his sheathed sword. Jean only nodded silently. He recalled other ports he had seen in the East, places where indolence and disorder seemed the rule. But here, in this little Byzantine harbor, there was a sense of discipline he normally associated with the best camps of Burgundy or Venice. It was an unexpected sight, and it stirred an uneasy admiration in him.
At last a harbor officer signaled that Jean’s ship could send boats in to dock. Eager activity erupted on deck as the crew lowered a boat. Jean descended the ladder into the bobbing craft along with two of his captains, while behind them the first divisions of Burgundian infantry carefully followed. The oarsmen pulled towards the pier in quick, powerful strokes. As the gap closed, the clamor of the port grew louder and more distinct: Greek, Italian, and even rough German curses mingled in a polyglot cacophony. A Byzantine sergeant stood at the landing point, directing arrivals: waving one group of Italian mercenaries toward a waiting guide, pointing another group of archers to where they should stack their baggage out of the way. When Jean’s boat drew alongside the pier, this sergeant snapped to attention and bowed with a fist to his chest in salute.
"Welcome, my lords!” he called in a thickly accented Latin voice, quickly offering his hand to help Jean step onto the dock. Jean’s boots touched the solid stone of Greece for the first time. He straightened to his full height, adjusting his sword-belt, and looked around. The sun was dipping westward, casting a gilded light on the scene. He noted how even the dockworkers gave a respectful berth as he and the other Burgundian nobles came ashore. A line of Venetian sailors hauling a crate paused just long enough to nod in deference, then continued on their way.
“Thank you,” Jean replied, in careful Latin since his Greek was limited. “We are glad to arrive safely. The fleet?” He gestured back toward the anchored ships, indicating the many men still waiting to disembark.
The sergeant said in halting Latin, “Yes, all will come. This way, sir” He motioned for Jean to follow along the pier. “We have camp prepared just inland. His Majesty awaits you there.”
Jean nodded his acknowledgment, turning briefly toward the anchored fleet where his men still waited their turn to disembark. Before moving on, he signaled to one of his squires to fetch his horse from the ship, choosing to wait a few moments on the dock while it was led ashore.
As the squire hurried away, Jean paused, stretching muscles stiffened from days at sea, and allowed his eyes to wander across the busy waterfront. Modest warehouses and weathered storage sheds lined the shore, their plaster walls bathed in a soft, amber glow from the sinking sun.
His eyes were quickly drawn to something utterly unfamiliar—large, striking images displayed prominently on the walls of several buildings, unmistakably crafted from paper. He stepped closer, captivated by the clarity and vividness of the scenes.
The largest of these immediately drew Jean's attention. Brilliant red and black pigments portrayed a commanding figure, unmistakably Emperor Constantine, mounted on a magnificent charger, sword raised defiantly towards the sky. Surrounding him surged ranks of armored soldiers in dynamic poses, advancing under the emblematic double-headed eagle banner.
Jean moved closer, curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar, audacious spectacle. Beneath this striking imagery ran a single bold line of text, starkly inked in heavy black Greek letters. He paused, brow furrowing slightly, lips silently moving as he struggled to decipher the foreign script. The Greek alphabet stirred distant echoes from long-ago schooling sessions in Burgundy, lessons reluctantly undertaken and quickly forgotten. He squinted at the lettering, managing to recognize perhaps one or two characters with uncertain familiarity.
“I—ee... rho?” he murmured uncertainly, stumbling over syllables that tasted strange on his tongue. He shook his head, momentarily frustrated by his limited memory. Whatever the phrase said, it clearly carried weight and significance; the typography alone seemed almost defiant, forceful in its clarity. Even without comprehending the exact meaning, Jean felt the intended effect: here was a proclamation, a rallying cry emblazoned proudly and boldly for all to witness.
He stepped back, still puzzled but increasingly intrigued. Clearly, these posters were meant not just for locals but also for newcomers like himself, shaping perceptions even before a foot left the harbor. Jean smiled faintly, a grudging admiration taking root, whatever the words, the Byzantines had certainly mastered the art of presentation.
Jean climbed into his horse, a black stallion that snorted at the unfamiliar smells of the Eastern harbor. Gathering his reins, Jean rode at a walk behind the sergeant, with his captains and a small retinue falling in naturally. They left the busy port and took a packed earthen road that led away from the glittering shoreline. Not far beyond the warehouses, the military camp spread across a flat expanse of dry grass and packed dirt between the port and the low walls of Corinth’s outskirts. Rows of tents stretched out in impressively straight lines, their colored pennons fluttering lightly in the breeze. As Jean passed, he noted how orderly everything was: cookfires were arranged in neat clusters, supply wagons parked in designated rows, latrine ditches dug at the far end of the camp away from the living quarters. Such attention to sanitation and organization was uncommon in many Western armies he’d known, where noble knights often left such details to chance or to lower attendants. Here, it appeared the Byzantines took their encampments seriously, like a well-designed miniature city of war.
Riding through the camp, Jean caught sight of various units at drill or tending to their tasks. A group of archers sat fletching arrows in the shade of a canvas pavilion, their movements unhurried but efficient. Blacksmiths were at work near a portable forge, the ring of hammer on metal punctuating the evening air as they sharpened swords and repaired armor. And off to the right, on a flat drill field dusted gold by the setting sun, a full company of Byzantine Tagmata soldiers was maneuvering in formation. Jean unconsciously reined in his horse to watch.
About a hundred infantrymen moved as one body, practicing a pike drill. They wore matching tunics beneath their armor, and each man’s head was protected by a gleaming steel helmet that caught the light. Instead of the mismatched patchwork of gear Jean had expected from levies, these soldiers boasted breastplates of polished steel and carried long pikes that they handled with deadly precision. At a shouted command in Greek, unfamiliar, but clearly effective, the lines of men shifted seamlessly from a marching column into a broad front, pikes snapping down in unison to form a bristling hedge of spear-points. The evening air filled with the drumming of boots stamping the earth in perfect time. In a swift, fluid motion, the formation pivoted to face an imagined foe, holding their leveled pikes steady as a rock. Even from a distance Jean could see the discipline in their ranks: no man lagged, no gap opened in their wall of steel. It was an impressive feat of coordination, the kind he had only seen among the best mercenaries or the most drilled companies of the Holy Roman Empire. But here, improbably, it was the Greek Emperor’s soldiers demonstrating the arts of war with a professionalism that made Jean’s eyebrows lift.
His horse shifted under him, and Jean realized he had halted on the road to stare. Sir Gilles and the others had also pulled up behind him, equally transfixed by the sight. One of the younger knights breathed, “By Saint George… They drill like the Romans of old.” Jean heard a note of astonishment, and grudging admiration, in the man’s voice that mirrored his own feelings.
Romans, as these Greeks still styled themselves, indeed. In that moment, watching the Tagmata unit execute a flawless wheeling turn as they transitioned formation, Jean was struck by the living echo of ancient legionary discipline. A memory came to him unbidden of campfire tales: Western knights jesting that the Greeks were effete, more inclined to plots and prayer than open battle. Jean himself had half-believed those slights; after all, Constantinople had fallen before, and the Eastern Empire’s glory had long seemed spent. But here before his very eyes were soldiers of this “spent” empire moving with vigor and discipline that any captain in Burgundy would envy. He felt a flush of excitement at the prospect, if Constantine’s infantry could hold a line like that, and if his own armored knights could smash into the enemy at the decisive moment, what victories might they secure together? In joint operations to come, he imagined Burgundian lances charging out from behind those pike lines, the Greeks maintaining the line’s integrity while Western cavalry broke the foe. Instead of frustration or condescension, Jean now found himself eager. These men will not break and flee; they will stand. And that meant his own men could ride into battle with confidence at their flank.
A horn sounded from the center of camp: two short blasts. The drill on the field concluded promptly. With almost ritual precision, the Tagmata soldiers snapped their pikes upright and began to march off in columns, their drill-master barking a final commendation that made a few of them grin through their stoic facades. Jean allowed himself a small smile as well. He dug his heels lightly into his destrier’s sides and continued on, following the sergeant toward a large striped command tent visible near the camp’s heart.
When they reached the tent, two guards in lamellar cuirasses and crimson cloaks flanked the entrance, spears in hand. They crossed their weapons briefly, then parted to allow Jean and his retinue inside upon recognizing the sergeant leading them. Dismounting, Jean handed his reins to a page and took a moment to straighten his travel-stained doublet and brush a bit of sea-salt from his boots. He wanted to present himself with dignity becoming a Burgundian lord, even here in this austere forward camp. Lifting the tent flap, he stepped into the command pavilion.
Inside, the air was cooler and heavy with the scent of paper, candle wax, and a trace of incense. The space was lit by a few hanging oil lamps that cast a warm glow on a large table strewn with charts of Greece. Around the table stood two men deep in discussion. One, dressed in half-armor with the purple mantle of state over his shoulders, was Emperor Constantine XI. Jean recognized him at once from both description and the imperial bearing that seemed to fill the tent. Constantine’s dark hair and neatly trimmed beard were touched with strands of silver; the lines of recent campaigns etched faintly around his eyes. Yet he looked vigorous and alert. Beside him stood an older, powerfully built officer with iron-gray hair and a weathered face, Arxistratigos Andreas, the Emperor’s top general and close confidant. Andreas wore a simple breastplate and had a broad sword belted at his waist. He exuded a soldier’s calm authority.
The two broke off their conversation as Jean approached. Constantine stepped forward with a welcoming smile that reached his gray eyes. “Lord de Croÿ, welcome,” the Emperor said in Latin, extending a hand. His voice was warm, threaded with genuine gratitude. “Your arrival heartens us all.”
Jean bowed deeply, then clasped Constantine’s forearm in greeting. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he replied, respectful but not meek. He was a representative of Duke Philip of Burgundy and of the Crusade, after all, and bore himself with proud dignity. “It is an honor to finally meet you. I bring cordial greetings from Duke Philip, and from His Holiness the Pope, who both entrust me with this sacred mission by your side.”
Constantine nodded. “We have awaited you with great anticipation. And you could not have come at a better hour.” He gestured for Jean to join them at the map table. Andreas gave Jean a polite incline of his head, a greeting from one military man to another.
“I must first congratulate Your Majesty,” Jean began. He rested his gauntleted hands on the table, eyeing the colored lines drawn across the maps, lines of march, battle sites, supply routes. “News of your victories has traveled even to England and Burgundy. The Battle of Domokos” he inclined his head in admiration, “and others like it have astonished and inspired us. Many in the West could scarce believe it at first: the Roman Empire winning pitched battles against the Ottomans” A wry smile touched his lips. “I will confess, even I harbored some doubts as we sailed from Venice. But what I have seen today…” He recalled the efficient port, the drilling Tagmata. “Your army’s discipline, the order in your camp, the fine equipment of your soldiers, it all speaks to an empire rising anew. It rivals the best forces of Europe. I commend you, sincerely.”
Constantine’s face lit with pride tempered by humility. “You honor us, Lord Jean,” he said. “We have worked hard to reform and strengthen our armies. My soldiers know what they fight for.” He tapped the map gently with a forefinger, where a small drawing of a double-headed eagle marked Constantinople. “For our homeland, for Christendom. That clarity has steeled their spines.” Andreas gave a satisfied grunt, adding, “Discipline and good steel help too.” The general’s Latin was blunt, and he smiled faintly as he said it.
Jean met the older man’s eyes. “General Andreas, I presume?”
“Yes,” the grizzled soldier confirmed. “Andreas, Arxistratigos of his Majesty’s forces. We are glad to have your knights and men with us at last.”
Jean inclined his head. “They are glad to be here. Many of us have long yearned to strike back at the Turk. Now, together, we have that chance.” He straightened, placing both hands on the table and adopting a tone of earnest gravity. “Your Majesty, General, my men are at your disposal. We are all servants of the same cause, the holy cause, to drive the infidel from these lands.”
Constantine’s gaze was steady. “Indeed. A decisive blow must be dealt, one that will break the Sultan’s advance and perhaps turn the tide of this war for good.” The Emperor’s voice grew firmer, resonating with conviction in the enclosed space of the tent. “Every victory thus far has been but a step. The enemy reels, but he is not yet fallen. We must hit hard, and soon, before he can regain footing.”
Jean nodded, feeling the weight of that truth. “The Pope and the princes of the West understand this,” Jean replied. “They have placed great hope in this alliance. His Holiness speaks of this campaign as the sword that will pierce the heart of the Turk.” He allowed a small, mirthless smile. “Though as men of war, we know that talk in Rome or Dijon is far removed from steel on the field. It will fall to us here to make good on those hopes.”
“So it will,” Andreas agreed, his tone grim and resolute. “We have an opportunity now that may not come again. The Turk is stretched thin after his recent defeats. If we press now, united, we might achieve what decades of futile efforts did not.”
Constantine glanced at Jean and gestured to the maps. “Tell me of the forces you have brought, my lord. Sphrantzes has informed us roughly, but I would hear it from you.”
“Of course.” Jean drew himself up a bit. This was the contribution of his homeland and allies, and he was proud to enumerate it. “By God’s grace and Duke Philip’s will, Burgundy has sent a formidable contingent. I have with me four hundred heavy cavalry, knights and men-at-arms of noble blood and seasoned experience.” At this Constantine’s eyes gleamed; heavy cavalry were the sledgehammer of any medieval battle, and four hundred was no small number. “Additionally,” Jean continued, “two thousand infantry, drawn from Burgundy and the Low Countries, stout pikemen mostly, drilled and battle-ready.” He touched a finger to the map as he spoke, then moved it south. “Two hundred crossbowmen as well, chiefly Genovese and Lombard mercenaries hired with Papal gold. They are experts with the crossbow.”
Andreas crossed his arms, listening intently. Jean did not miss the approving nod the general exchanged with Constantine at the mention of crossbowmen; the Byzantines knew well the value of good missile troops. Jean went on. “We also bring a company of fifty arquebusiers, and around one hundred engineers and sappers travel with us, specialists in siege engines, mining, and artillery. Duke Philip is most keen that any stronghold closed to us might be cracked open. ”He allowed himself a hint of pride; Burgundy’s expertise in siegecraft was renowned, and this war would likely involve many formidable Ottoman-held fortresses.
“Excellent,” Constantine murmured. “With your engineers alongside our own and the cannons we have forged, no wall will withstand us for long.”
“And in total,” Jean concluded, “counting various supporting companies, Italians and Germans mostly, volunteer fighters and men of fortune, our allied force numbers roughly another two thousand souls.” He gave a thin smile. “Not all are front-line soldiers, but they carry swords and will fight. In all, we bring you nearly four thousand seven hundred fighting men, apart from the crews of the ships.”
As Jean finished, the tent fell quiet for a moment except for the soft flutter of the maps under a stray breeze. Constantine exhaled, a sound of satisfaction. “A mighty host by any measure. Truly, God has blessed this endeavor, to unite east and west in arms.” He extended his hand and gently clasped Jean’s shoulder. “You have done your part bravely, Lord de Croÿ, bringing these warriors safely to our shore.”
Jean inclined his head. “The seas were merciful, Majesty. Now that we are here, I pray we prove worthy of your trust, and that our combined arms will strike fear into the infidel’s heart.” He paused, then added with genuine feeling, “I have seen the resolve in your soldiers’ eyes. With such men alongside us, I believe we will make the Turk tremble.”
Andreas’s stern face softened briefly in a ghost of a smile. “They will be glad to hear such praise from a Frankish lord. Our men have much respect for Western knights, and they’ll fight all the harder knowing Burgundy’s finest ride with them.”
Constantine stepped back to the table, tracing a route northward from Corinth with his fingertip. “Our next move is already decided. With your forces arrived, we march without delay to Thebes.” He tapped the map where Thebes lay, in the region of Boeotia. “My brother Thomas will bring additional troops from Athens. He should be nearing Thebes by now.”
Author note: Jean II de Croÿ (c. 1390–1473) was a prominent Burgundian nobleman, diplomat, and military commander, closely tied to the powerful court of Duke Philip the Good. Historically, he played key roles in the complex diplomacy of the Hundred Years’ War and the internal affairs of the Burgundian Netherlands. His inclusion in Empire Rewritten reflects both his stature as a representative of Burgundian might and his position as a bridge between Western chivalry and the pragmatic politics of the late medieval world.
With Jean’s arrival, I wanted to offer a first glimpse of how an outsider might see Constantine’s reformed Roman army: the discipline, the propaganda, the ambition and to explore the slow turning of respect, doubt, and curiosity that such a force could inspire beyond its borders.
Comments
zerg colective
Quick question,where are the Romanian principates in all of this? They were fighting the turks as well and in the siege of Constantinople in 1453 in OT, Moldavia was the only one who sent troops when asked by the emperor
RENAISSANSE SI
Welcome aboard! That’s a great analogy, definitely a Man in the High Castle vibe for sure. And you’re spot on: the Karamanids have a golden opportunity here, far better than anything they ever had in our timeline.
Oguzhan PELIT
Caught up in 5 days. Captivating story and a bit unsettling as a Turk myself. Is this how americans feel watching the man in the high castle? This is also a golden opportunity for the karamanids. Will we see them at the gates of Bursa again?
