EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/Chapter 13: The Crusade Begins
🕑 Added 2025-05-31 11:30:01 +0000 UTCConstantine set the pointer down and stepped away from the slate board. The chalked numbers and unit names would remain for any who wished to review them, but now the focus shifted. He moved back to the table and, rather than sitting, remained standing by his high-backed chair. “Now that we have reviewed our own forces,” he said, “we must turn to the wider war that looms. Alliances and foes beyond our borders gather their hosts even as we speak.” His voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of gravity. At this, a subtle change rippled through the room, the straightening of shoulders, the tightening of jaws.
Constantine’s eyes sought out George Sphrantzes, who stood at his left. Sphrantzes stepped forward into a shaft of morning sun that slanted through the narrow window, a roll of parchment in his hands. As the empire’s chief diplomat, he had spent months corresponding with foreign courts and merchants, gathering intelligence on their newfound allies and the movements of the Ottomans.
“George,” Constantine said, gently ceding the floor, “pray share with us the latest news of our allies and the campaign to come.”
George Sphrantzes unfurled the parchment with a soft crackle. His fingertips bore ink stains, and there were faint shadows under his eyes, a testament to long nights pouring over dispatches. Yet he spoke with crisp authority. “Honored sirs,” he began, addressing the room as a whole, “what we had hoped for, and some feared might never happen, is now upon us. A crusade is in motion.”
He inclined his head toward Constantine almost gratefully, as if to acknowledge how far they had come since the first days they arrived in the Morea. “King Sigismund of Hungary, His Imperial Majesty, has announced he will soon march south to confront the Turk.” A whisper of approval spread among a few officers, news of Western promises turning into action was heartening. Sphrantzes allowed himself a slight smile. “After some delays, it seems Emperor Sigismund is gathering his banners. Our envoys report that even now Hungarian troops muster along the Danube. By month’s end or early next, Sigismund intends to lead his army down through the Balkans.”
Constantine felt a swell of cautious optimism. Sigismund was aging, but still a formidable force. If the King of Hungary marched, it would draw Ottoman attention like a lodestone.
Sphrantzes cast a brief glance around the chamber before continuing. “There is more good news. The Republic of Venice has formally committed its fleet to our holy cause. As we speak, Venetian war galleys prepare to carry reinforcements from the West.” He placed a forefinger on the map, tapping the island of Corfu in the Ionian Sea. “Burgundian forces, some of the finest knights and men-at-arms from Duke Philip’s domains, will sail from Venice to Corfu, where Venice holds safe harbor. Alongside them will be companies of Italian mercenaries, seasoned condottieri from Lombardy and beyond.” Sphrantzes glanced up, meeting the astonished gazes of a few around the table. “Their mustering and transport are being funded jointly by His Holiness the Pope and by Cosimo de’ Medici of Florence, whose coffers have opened generously for the crusade.”
A low rumble of acknowledgment spread among the officers. Whispers of Papal support and Medici gold had long drifted through campfires and corridors, glimpses passed down through rumor or half-confirmed dispatches. Some in the room had even been privy to fragments of the correspondence, or heard hints in closed-door briefings. But hearing it now, declared plainly by Sphrantzes, the names spoken aloud and the fleets in motion, gave the alliance shape, real and imminent. In the shadows near the wall, an older captain crossed himself out of habit, murmuring, “So it begins…” before falling still beneath Constantine’s thoughtful, unreadable gaze.
Sphrantzes allowed a faint smile at the reaction, then pressed on. He moved his finger eastward from Corfu across the map. “From Corfu, the Venetian fleet will ferry our allies onward to the Gulf of Corinth. They intend to land at the port of Corinth, within a few weeks’ time.” His voice echoed slightly in the hall’s stone vaults as he outlined the path. “There, at Corinth, these Burgundian knights and Italian mercenaries will rendezvous with our forces.”
At that, Constantine gave a firm, confirming nod. He leaned forward, gauntleted hands splaying on the map. “We will be ready to receive them,” he said, tone steady. His grey eyes flickered over the map’s painted hills and coastlines as if already charting the march northward.
But even as the promise of fresh troops hung in the air, another concern quickly surfaced. Logothete Dukas, the master of provisions of the army, cleared his throat. “Honored Sphrantzes,” he ventured, brow furrowing beneath a mop of iron-gray hair, “these reinforcements, three, four thousand extra fighting men, by the sound of it….”He hesitated, casting a worried glance toward a fellow officer across the table. “Our stores here are already pressed as it is,” he said, voice low but taut. “We’re struggling to cover our own needs for the coming campaign, how in the name of Christ are we meant to feed and supply thousands more once they land on our shores?”
The concern is valid,” Sphrantzes acknowledged, raising one hand as if to placate the room’s sudden unease. The sunlight caught motes of dust as he gestured. “Venice is informed of our limited provisions. As part of their commitment, they have agreed to carry not only men but also grain, salt pork, dried fish, beans, significant stores from their depots in Apulia and Corfu. The Pope’s envoys are provisioning additional supply ships from Ancona to accompany the fleet.” He inclined his head reassuringly toward Logothete. “It will not be enough to sustain an army indefinitely, but it should carry us through the initial weeks.”
Constantine drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table’s edge. Sphrantzes continued, voice projecting to all corners of the hall, “Furthermore, once our forces have joined at Corinth, the combined fleets of Venice and the Papacy will not remain idle.” He slid his finger further east on the map, to a long island hugging the Greek mainland. “They will next sail around the Morea and up to Negroponte.”
At the name of that harbor, several men nodded in understanding. Negroponte was Venice’s major stronghold in the Aegean, a wealthy island with ample stores. Sphrantzes tapped the spot where the fortified town of Chalkis was marked. “At Negroponte, the armada will take on fresh water, food, and other necessities. The Venetians have granaries there brimming with last year’s harvest. Our Latin allies intend to stock their holds so our soldiers will have enough bread and barley as the campaign advances.” A faint note of pride entered his tone as he added, “Even our own modest squadron will join them, what galleys and transports we have scraped together. They are few, but they will fly the double-headed eagle beside the Lion of St. Mark and St. Peter’s keys.”
Constantine felt a warmth in his chest at those words. He pictured the banners, imperial purple, Venetian crimson, Papal white and gold, flapping side by side above a line of ships cutting across the wine-dark seas. It was a sight that had seemed pure fantasy only a few years before. Now, by God’s grace, it would be reality. He tightened his mailed hand into a fist of resolve atop the table.
Sphrantzes was not finished. He traced a path up the narrow channels of the Aegean with a fingertip. “From Negroponte, the fleets will be poised to support our push north. As our armies advance on land, the ships can shadow the coast, ferrying supplies or even troops further up if needed.” His finger halted just short of a small gulf indentation on the map, near Thermopylae. “The goal is to maintain a flexible supply line. Once our ground forces reach Zetouni, the fleets will stand ready to assist the final drive toward Thessaloniki.”
At the mention of that city, a palpable current stirred the chamber. Thessaloniki, once the empire’s second jewel, had been handed over to the Venetians in desperation, a bitter surrender when Constantinople could no longer defend it. And yet the Turks had taken it still, four years past, sweeping away the West’s brief custodianship in fire and blood. Now, with the city hanging before them once more, not just as a military objective, but as a symbol of return, a dangerous hope bloomed. Constantine felt his pulse tighten in his throat. Around the table, he saw that same mix in his officers’ eyes: grim resolve, yes, but also the sharp edge of territorial awareness. If they took Thessaloniki back, whose would it be?
George Sphrantzes, ever cautious even in optimism, lifted a finger in warning. “But, gentlemen, mark me well, speed will be of the essence.” He swept his gaze around the table, making eye contact with each commander as if to imprint urgency on their souls. “We cannot afford to be drawn into long sieges or stalled by every fortress along our road. The Sultan will surely rally his forces the moment he learns of our advance. Every day’s delay gives Murad time to gather a greater army against us.” Sphrantzes’s tone was firm, almost fatherly. “Unless a stronghold blocks our path directly and can be taken swiftly with minimal cost, we are to bypass it. Leave a small detachment to observe or contain it if necessary, but do not linger.”
Constantine gave a curt nod of agreement, and a few men thumped fists lightly on their breasts in assent. Sphrantzes went on, “Thessaly must be swept and liberated as quickly as humanly possible. Its towns and castles should fall like wheat before the scythe. We aim to break the Turk’s grip on the countryside and deny him resources. But we do not tarry to besiege every last keep flying the crescent. Our eyes must stay fixed on the true objective.” He brought his fist down, slow but firm, atop the map right on the inked circle of Thessaloniki. “That city is our first major goal. The spearpoint of this crusade. Everything we do drives toward it.”
A silence followed Sphrantzes’s final pronouncement, a silence of acknowledgment and steeled resolve. Constantine realized he had been holding his breath again. He exhaled slowly and straightened to his full height. The Emperor swept his keen gaze over his council. Even Logothete the master of provisions now nodded, his earlier worries tempered by the clarity of purpose laid out before them.
Constantine cleared his throat and spoke into the quiet, his voice low but resolute. “My friends,” he began, the address personal, almost gentle, as it echoed in the chamber. “You have heard the plan our allies and envoys have wrought. The crusade gathers not just in dream, but in reality. At long last, we have a chance, perhaps our last, to strike back at the Turk and reclaim what was stolen from Christendom.” He felt emotion swelling in his chest, hope, determination, and a heavy awareness of the peril entwined with both. It lent a raw edge to his words. “But Sphrantzes speaks true: speed is our salvation. We must move as swiftly as ever an army has moved through these lands. There will be no time for complacency or second-guessing once we set forth.”
He placed a hand on the map, fingers splaying protectively over the route from Corinth upward. “The final objective, our Ieros skopos, is clear and unchanging. We march to Thessaloniki,” Constantine said, voice rising a notch as he looked from man to man, “and there we will join with King Sigismund’s host coming from the north. In the shadow of Thessaloniki’s walls, our two great armies shall become one. That is the moment we strive for above all. Nothing, no temptation of glory along the way, must distract us from making that junction.”
He curled his hand into a fist over the map, as if two halves of a force were clasping together. “Divided, we are vulnerable. United, we stand a chance to prevail against Murad.”
A murmur of assent, grim and earnest, swept the table. The various commanders straightened their backs, as if the very thought of unity with the crusaders of Hungary and Burgundy gave them strength. Yet even as the council absorbed Constantine’s declaration, an undercurrent of realism and concern rippled through the assembly. They were soldiers and many had witnessed grand plans go awry in the cruel fortunes of war.
It was Andreas, the Arxistratigos, who spoke next. The senior commander, broad-shouldered, stepped forward into the circle of morning light. He inclined his head respectfully toward Constantine. “Your Majesty,” he began, weighty on his tongue, “we will march with all speed and discipline, as ordered. But…” He let the word settle before continuing, voice steady but edged with caution. “We would be remiss not to consider the what-ifs. War rarely follows the lines we draw on maps.”
Constantine inclined his head for Andreas to continue. The older man’s hand rested on the pommel of his sword, his voice steady as a metronome. “We pin our hopes on King Sigismund’s army. Yet what if God forbid, the Sultan moves faster or strikes first? What if Murad brings his might against Sigismund in the north and defeats him before ever he can reach Thessaloniki?”
A palpable chill touched the edges of the room at those words. Several men lowered their eyes. Sphrantzes’s shoulders tensed; he folded his arms into the deep sleeves of his cloak, frowning down at the map as if searching it for an answer. Constantine felt the weight of the question keenly, it was the darkest scenario they might face, one he had contemplated in his private fears.
Captain Kallistos, a newly appointed commander of one of the new tagmata, let out a slow breath and spoke into the hush. “If… if that came to pass,” he said, voice hushed as though speaking of a great calamity, “then our crusade would be left cut off. We would stand alone deep in enemy-held lands, with the Sultan’s full host free to fall upon us.” His hand unconsciously tightened on the hilt of his sheathed sword. “It could be a doom for us.”
“We cannot face Murad’s entire army without the Hungarians,” muttered another officer, a thread of unease in his voice. “At least not unless we have a battlefield prepared in advance, as we did at Domokos. That ground was chosen, fortified, and bled for.”
Constantine raised a hand, and the murmuring died. Though his face was grave, there was a steely calm in his eyes. “If Sigismund is lost,” he said quietly, “then indeed the road ahead would darken.” He let his gaze drift to the narrow pass of Thermopylae marked on the map, envisioning it. “We would have to adjust swiftly. Our army might need to fall back to defensible ground before Murad can trap us in the open.” His voice did not waver as he spoke these grim contingencies. “Behind fortifications, or positioned on defensible ground of our choosing, we can throw him back, just as we did at Domokos,” said, firmer now. “And this time, we’ll have even greater numbers and more firepower at our command.”
Some of the men exchanged uneasy looks. The thought of retreat and evacuation was bitter, even if pragmatic. Constantine pressed on, “Make no mistake: without Sigismund, we would be unable to press further north. Attempting to take Thessaloniki or fight Murad in open battle without our Western allies would be folly, suicide.”
At that blunt assessment, silence fell. It was one thing to rally behind hopes, another to acknowledge potential ruin. Yet the council members nodded reluctantly, better to speak the hard truth now than to blunder blindly later.
Sphrantzes stepped forward again, drawing back everyone’s attention. “We pray such a disaster does not occur,” he said, voice somber. “All our intelligence from the north suggests King Sigismund marches with a formidable force and veteran commanders. He will not be easily swept aside. Still, the Sultan is wily, and his cavalry are swift. He may seek a decisive battle early.”
“He’ll attempt to crush the northern army before it can unite with us, precisely to avoid facing us together,” Andreas added grimly.
Constantine gave a solemn nod. “Just so. Murad will likely move heaven and earth to prevent us from linking up. That is why every step we take must be as swift as a courier’s and as sure as fate. If the worst comes and Sigismund falls, then we conserve our strength, hold what we safely can, and live to fight another day.” He lifted his chin. “The crusade would not end with one battle, not so long as we still draw breath and have allies at sea. But we would have to temper our aims.”
The men braced themselves at that dour possibility. But then Sphrantzes raised a hand, signaling that not all outcomes were so dire. “Let us also consider,” he said, “the opposite scenario. Say King Sigismund meets Murad in battle, and triumphs, but at great cost.”
A few heads lifted at that, intrigued. Sphrantzes continued, stepping around the table as he spoke. “If the Hungarian and crusader armies manage to defeat the Sultan’s forces in the north, that would be a great victory for Christendom. Murad might be put to flight. But if Sigismund’s men suffer grievous losses in doing so, he may limp to our meeting point with far fewer soldiers than intended.” He stopped beside Constantine, eyes on the map’s stretch between the Danube and Thessaloniki. “We must prepare for that possibility as well.”
Constantine folded his arms across his chest, picturing the scenario. In truth, such an outcome bore both peril and opportunity. “If Sigismund wins a pyrrhic victory,” he said slowly, thinking aloud, “Murad’s main army could be broken for the moment. That might give us precious time. Thessaloniki’s garrison would be isolated, perhaps more easily persuaded to surrender or forced to yield if they know no relief is coming.”
“Aye,” nodded Kallistos. “The Turk at Thessaloniki might lose heart knowing the Sultan’s banner was driven from the field. Word of a Christian victory would spread like wildfire. The Christian populace under the Turk might even rise up in Macedonia, seeing a chance at deliverance.”
A spark of hope flickered at that idea, the thought of their countrymen rallying to throw off the Ottoman yoke as the crusaders advanced. Constantine managed a thin smile. “Indeed. A victory, even a costly one, could inspire revolts in Macedonia and beyond. That would only aid our cause.” His gaze lingered a moment on the northeast edges of the map. A quiet thought stirred, if the fires of rebellion caught there, perhaps even Iskander would rise.
Andreas tapped a finger on the table, voice still level. “However, with Sigismund’s strength much reduced, the burden to take Thessaloniki would rest heavier on our shoulders.” He looked to Constantine. “We would join with a weakened ally. Our combined numbers might be less than we planned.”
“True,” Sphrantzes agreed. “We might find ourselves besieging Thessaloniki with a smaller force than needed.” He pursed his lips, recalling grim accounts of past sieges. Thessaloniki is a vast city with formidable fortifications. Even a diminished Ottoman garrison could hold out for some time if determined and if they expect Murad to return with fresh troops eventually.
Constantine rapped his knuckles softly on the table, thinking. “If both our armies are bloodied but victorious, morale will nonetheless be on our side. That counts for much. We would have to be shrewd, perhaps attempt to negotiate the city’s surrender, offer terms to any Turkish commanders inside. They might be more inclined to yield if they know the Sultan has been driven back and we control the sea.”
He glanced at Sphrantzes, who gave a considering nod. Diplomacy could indeed come into play. “And if they do not yield,” Constantine continued, “we can maintain a blockade by land and sea. Thessaloniki sits on the water; with our fleets we can cut off any hope of resupply or escape for the enemy. A starving garrison cannot hold forever.” His voice hardened. “One way or another, if Sigismund wins up north, we shall have Thessaloniki back.”
Several men murmured approval at that, thumping fists lightly on the table. The image of an Ottoman garrison trapped and starving behind their own walls was a grim but satisfying one.
“Still,” Sphrantzes cautioned, “we should press our advantage quickly in that event. Murad will not sit idle if defeated. He will raise another army in time. We must secure Thessaloniki swiftly and even press forward.”
Constantine met his old friend’s eyes and gave a resolute nod. “Just so. We will not have the luxury of resting on laurels. Every victory we gain must be consolidated at once.”
The discussion did not end there. For another hour, the commanders and advisers considered each scenario carefully, dissecting possibilities and outlining responses. They spoke of supply shortages, unexpected storms that could delay Venetian reinforcements, and even the fickleness of their Western allies once battle was truly joined. Andreas calmly detailed alternate routes of retreat, while Admiral Laskaris underscored the fleet’s crucial role in maintaining a flexible lifeline to the sea. Questions rose and fell around the table, practical and blunt: Could they maintain unity if the Burgundians became restless? Would the Italians stay loyal if the Pope’s gold ran dry? And what if Thessaloniki fell swiftly but Venice pressed its claim on the city?
Each scenario drew cautious answers from Constantine and Sphrantzes, but they left nothing glossed over or unconsidered. The room grew warmer as the April sun climbed higher outside, voices occasionally breaking into overlapping debates before calming again under Constantine’s measured gaze. Slowly, confidence settled in: no outcome would find them wholly unprepared. Every question, fear, and contingency had been laid bare on the table, stark as the map spread beneath their hands.
Finally, silence took hold once more, solemn and expectant. Constantine surveyed them all, feeling both pride and a great responsibility. Each scenario had been discussed openly, each risk faced in words. Now it fell to him, as their leader in this endeavor, to bind these threads of hope and fear into a single resolve. He drew a deep breath. The scents of the hall filled his lungs, beeswax, parchment, a hint of salt air from the nearby sea and grounded him in the moment.
“Lords, captains… friends,” Constantine addressed them one final time, his voice ringing clearly against the stone. He stepped out from behind the table, unconsciously adopting a stance as if he might embrace each man in turn. His scarlet cloak, embroidered with the golden double-headed eagle of the Palaiologoi, caught the light as it swayed with his movement. “We have journeyed a hard road to arrive at this day. Many of us here have fought together for years with scant hope of aid, enduring defeat and hardship. How often have we looked westward, praying for the help of our fellow Christians? And now, at last, that help comes.” He gestured toward the west, as if through the very walls toward Rome and Burgundy. “Knights from distant lands cross the sea to stand with us. The Pope himself blesses our enterprise. The banners of Venice will fly beside our own.”
He let that image linger, then his tone grew steely. “This chance was hard-won, wrung from the hands of doubtful princes by diplomacy, faith, and yes, gold. We cannot waste it. We must seize this moment as a man seizes the hilt of a sword offered in dire need.” His gauntleted hand closed in a fist, knuckles whitening.
Constantine’s eyes shone as he went on. “Each of you knows your duty; you would not be here if you did not. When we depart this hall, return to your men and make ready. Spread the word: the crusade has begun. Tell them that at long last, the trumpets of holy war sound and the hosts of Christendom assemble to vanquish the foe.”
A few voices uttered approval, some murmured assent, others whispered prayers of thanks. Constantine raised his hand high for silence, not in rebuke but to ensure his final words would etch themselves into every heart present. The light from the window cast a halo about his dark hair and bearded profile as he spoke:
“I do not promise an easy road. I do not promise victory without cost. The enemy we face is formidable and will not yield an inch without drawing blood. But I do promise you this.” He lowered his hand and his voice, speaking with iron conviction. “As long as we remember why we fight, whom we fight for, we will not falter. We fight for our families behind us, for our faith, and for our brethren who languish under the Turk’s yoke. We fight for the very soul of our empire. This is not mere ambition or the whim of princes, it is a holy duty laid upon us all.”
He thumped a fist lightly over his heart. “This is our Ieros skopos. Never forget it.
Author’s Note:
As promised, here is the extra chapter, the second half of the war council and the unfolding plans for the great crusade. The stakes rise, the path is set, and the banners of Christendom begin to stir.
Deus vult!
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
The echoes of old battles still have something to say!
Wen L.
Great war council meeting with a lot of potential outcomes and allusions. Love that you pointed to Thermopylae when describing good defensive ground. Make me think of 300 spartan warriors :)
RENAISSANSE SI
That’s exactly the tightrope Constantine’s walking, he’s offering everyone their dream prize, but keeping all those ambitions from tearing the whole thing apart? That’s the real battle. And yeah, nothing steels an army like knowing their leaders see them.
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you!
Hugo23
Excellent chapter! These guys needed to hear their doubts and fears aloud, when the blood hits the floor they know that their leaders have an answer. That's what makes them hold firm, it what lets an army stay together through defeat or delays. They know that their trust is rewarded because their leaders made sure that every one of their fears were openly and honestly assessed. Thessaloniki... a prize for Venice, a holy cause for the Pope that lets his prestige dominate in Italy, a chance to expand his influence and prestige for Duke Phillip. A much needed coin purse to dangle for Sigismund to his restive nobles and army. Above them all? The person who called them the original owners of it and the deft diplomatic hand that dangled faith, gold, steel and prestige that drew them in. Funnily enough each of them could get exactly what they wanted... if they let Constantine have control, but can he manage the ego's?
Elaine
good chappie
