EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/Chapter 11: Proclamation at Buda
🕑 Added 2025-05-26 19:29:49 +0000 UTCBuda, Palm Sunday(March 27), 1434
The bells of Buda tolled in solemn celebration as Sigismund rode through the cobbled streets on Palm Sunday. Under a crisp spring sun, worshippers in fine tunics and rough wool alike milled between churches clutching branches of willow – humble stand-ins for the holy palms of Jerusalem. Soldiers in polished mail stood at intervals, their eyes scanning the crowds. The air smelled of candlewax and mud, incense drifting from chapel doors into the bustle. It was a day of devotion and festival, yet an undercurrent of tension rippled beneath the surface.
Nobles, clergy, and burghers pressed forward to catch a glimpse of their aging monarch on horseback. They cheered, but their voices carried an edge of uncertainty. Emperor Sigismund inclined his head to them, one gloved hand raised in benediction or command, it was hard to tell which under his taut smile. Inside, his stomach churned with purpose and anxiety alike. Today would mark the start of yet another campaign, one more holy war proclaimed in his long reign. And he felt every year of his age in his bones this morning.
Inside the great hall of Buda Castle, banners hung from carved rafters, the red and silver stripes and the double cross of Hungary, the black imperial eagle of the Holy Roman Empire, and a dozen crests of the gathered magnates, each bearing the colors and arms of Hungary’s noble houses.
The hall was packed shoulder to shoulder: Magyar lords in fur-lined cloaks, bishops and abbots in violet robes, knights with sword-hilts jutting at their sides. The murmuring assembly fell silent as Sigismund mounted the dais. Palm Sunday Mass had only just concluded at the castle church; many present still clutched blessed fronds in one hand and sword pommels in the other. Sigismund noted this, and a flicker of grim humor crossed his mind, the dual devotions of faith and war on open display. He took a moment to gaze over the expectant faces. Sunlight slanted through high arched windows, motes of dust swirling in the beams. He caught the intent eyes of Archbishop Szécsi near the front, the anxious frown of his Chancellor, the stony calm of a Teutonic envoy by a pillar. These men awaited his word. God give me strength to make them believe, he thought, drawing himself up to his full height.
Sigismund’s voice, when he spoke, echoed off the stone walls with a resonant authority that belied his 66 years. “Lords and brothers in Christ,” he began, spreading his arms in a gesture that was both stately and sincere. “We gather on this holy day not only to commemorate our Savior’s humble entry into Jerusalem, but to chart the course of Christendom’s future.” He paused, letting the gravity sink in. Quiet enveloped the hall; even the restless mailed guards at the doors were still. “Our world stands at a crossroads. To the East, the darkness of tyranny spreads. Sultan Murad II, that infidel lord, tightens his grip on lands that for a thousand years shone with Christian glory.
A low rumble of assent rolled through the ranks of nobles. Sigismund pressed on, voice rising. “For decades, we have battled enemies of the faith within and without. I see here men who bled with me on the field against heresy”, he nodded briefly, thinking of the long Hussite wars – “and those who recall Nicopolis and the cost of our division.” At that, a few heads bowed; Nicopolis was a painful memory. Sigismund felt a stab of old shame but transformed it into steely resolve. “We have learned from those wounds. And now, by God’s grace, we are offered a second chance.”
He lifted one hand, as if to display that grace. “News has come from our Greek brethren. They have won a great victory at Domokos. The Turk was driven back in southern Greece by the valor of Emperor Constantine Palaiologos and his brave men. His voice reverberated, and a sudden cheer erupted from one side of the hall. Sigismund allowed himself the smallest smile of encouragement. He saw Count Garai and Lord Rozgonyi exchange startled, hopeful looks. “At Domokos, Christian banners flew high and the Crescent fled. I say, God’s favor revealed itself there. And if God is with us, who can stand against us?”
“Nobody!” shouted a burly baron, raising his fist. “God wills it!” cried another voice from the back. A swell of excitement caught many, a ripple of Deus vult murmured on numerous lips. Sigismund let the clamor build a moment. He felt the old energy spark in the hall, a mix of piety and bloodlust he knew too well. His heart thudded; he gripped the edge of a podium to steady a slight tremor in his leg. The weight of his gilded ceremonial sword hung at his waist, a reminder of promises made.
When he spoke again, Sigismund’s tone was solemn, almost fatherly. “We stand at the threshold of history. Our Holy Father in Rome, Pope Eugenius, has called upon me, upon us, to rise in defense of Christendom’s very soul. I gave His Holiness my word that Hungary and the Empire will not falter. I promised to raise thirty thousand soldiers to the Cross.” He drew a deep breath and projected from the diaphragm as if addressing each man individually. “Today, before you all, I renew that pledge. As your King and as Holy Roman Emperor, I formally proclaim: We go to war against Sultan Murad II.”
A great roar answered him. Swords scraped from scabbards, thrust toward the rafters in salute. “War on the Turk!” rang voices across the hall. For a charged instant, unity reigned; fear was drowned in fervor. Sigismund’s blood surged at the sight, blades glinting in the sunbeams, noblemen and clergy alike shouting approval. The Emperor raised his own sword high, its jeweled crossguard catching the light. “For Hungary! For Christ!” he bellowed. His throat burned with the effort, but he held the sword steady even as his arm ached.
The hall broke into commotion. Some wept openly in emotion; others embraced. But even amid the enthusiasm, Sigismund’s keen eyes picked out the less elated faces. In the rear, a few lords clustered in quick, quiet conversation rather than cheering, men of the border counties, who knew the Ottoman terror firsthand. He could imagine the doubts spilling forth already. Near the dais, old Bishop Albin clapped mechanically, worry etched in his wrinkled face – calculating, no doubt, the funds the Church would need to contribute. Sigismund felt a bead of sweat slide down his temple. The burst of passion was already giving way to the cold realities. He lowered his sword and signaled for calm.
“My lords!” he called, regaining their attention. “We will have challenges ahead. Sacrifices will be required from each and every one of us. But I tell you, these burdens we bear for the highest cause on earth – the preservation of Christ’s realm.” His voice gentled. “I ask for your allegiance in this endeavor, as you have given me in peace and in past wars. Together, we will muster the banners of Hungary, of the Empire, and march as one holy army. We will strike south, through Serbia, to the very gates of Edirne and beyond. We will relieve our Eastern brethren and show the Sultan that Europe’s heart still beats strong and united.” He let that vow hang, then concluded firmly: “May God Almighty bless our purpose. Amen.”
Council of War
Night fell over Buda with a chill wind off the Danube, rattling the shutters of the palace council chamber. Inside, a single brazier and clusters of candles cast flickering light upon gathered faces. Sigismund sat at the head of a long oaken table nicked and scarred by years of use. Around him huddled a half-dozen of his most trusted men. They spoke in low, urgent tones, their breath making faint vapor in the drafty room. Despite the hour, the Emperor was wide awake, adrenaline yet coursing from the day’s events. But in the intimate glow of this council, his face was grave, eyes shadowed with the weight of what must be done.
“We have perhaps two months before the bulk of our forces can be ready to move,” Sigismund said, pressing a hand flat against a map spread before him. The map’s corners were held down by an ornate chalice, a dagger, an inkwell, and the Emperor’s own fist. His finger traced a route from Buda southwards. “If the levies are raised without delay, we can march by the end of May, June at the latest. We cannot afford hesitation; Murad may already know, and if not, he will soon enough.”
Across the table, Miklós Garai, the kingdom’s Palatine, nodded reluctantly. “Word travels faster than an army,” he said. Garai’s lined face was drawn with concern. “He’ll know we come.”
Sigismund grunted. “Let him know. It might sow fear, after Domokos. Murad has tasted defeat recently.” He allowed a thin smile. “He’ll recall how his soldiers broke at Domokos, he may think twice before meeting us in open battle.”
A younger man in breastplate and travelling cloak leaned forward, bracing burly hands on the table. This was John Hunyadi, a rising star among the Hungarian captains, here by the Emperor’s invitation. His black hair fell to his shoulders, framing a frank, weathered face. “Even a frightened wolf will bite when cornered, Majesty,” Hunyadi said. “Murad might avoid a pitched battle if he feels weak, or he might lash out faster to crush us before we gather full strength.” He tapped the map, indicating the Serbian frontier. “If I were in his place, I’d send raiding parties north now, to burn our mustering fields, harry our supply lines. The southern counties should brace for incursions within weeks.”
Sigismund listened carefully. The young Transylvanian’s reputation as a strategist was growing, and despite Hunyadi’s relative youth, Sigismund valued practical counsel. The Emperor’s gaze drifted to the map’s bold lines depicting the Danube and the Morava valley leading down to Thessaloniki. “We’ll reinforce the border forts at once,” he agreed.
He turned to his Chancellor, György Székely, a thin man whose ink-stained fingers fiddled nervously with a quill.
“Chancellor, tomorrow you will pen letters bearing my seal, to the Lords of Bohemia, the Princes of the Empire, and even the King of Poland. Remind them that the Pope has spoken, and that duty rides not far behind his blessing. Offer them glory, spoils, pious phrases—whatever gilded bait their pride still bites. But waste no time. If any beyond our borders mean to march, their stirrups should be tightening already.”
Székely bowed his head in acknowledgment, though his lips tightened; all present understood the truth. Bohemia, still raw from heresy and civil war, would be wary. The German princes moved at their own pace, wary of commitments not their own. And Poland, an aging king with careful eyes, might send courteous words, but little steel.
The Emperor’s eyes swept the council. “We must assume Hungary stands largely alone, apart from our Serbian neighbor.” He tapped Smederevo on the map, the Serbian despot’s seat. “Đurađ Branković will join us with his forces once we reach his lands.” Sigismund paused, considering Đurađ’s position. If he keeps his word, he thought but did not say. Out loud, he continued, “Serbia gives us a corridor south. We’ll march through his country along the Morava. Past Niš, then on toward Thessaloniki.”
“Through Niš… and Sofia, perhaps?” Palatine Garai mused, tracing the path. “It’s the old Roman road. Good for moving troops.”
Hunyadi interjected, brow furrowed. “If we go as far as Sofia, we edge near the Sultan’s seat in Edirne. Risky. The aim is Thessaloniki and to join with Constantine’s army, yes? We could cut more westerly after Niš, through Skopje and down the Vardar valley. Avoid the main Ottoman garrisons.”
Sigismund pressed his lips together. These details would need refinement later; much depended on Ottoman movements. “That is one option,” he acknowledged. “We’ll have scouts ahead to guide us on the safest route. The key is to reach Thessaloniki swiftly and relieve it – whether it is still in Turkish hands or already besieged by Constantine’s forces.”
At the mention of Constantine, a subtle energy passed through the room. Archsbishop Szécsi made the sign of the cross. Even in this small council, the Byzantine Emperor’s name commanded respect. Sigismund felt his own pride and caution mingle. “His Majesty Constantine XI,” Sigismund said, using the imperial style deliberately, “has proven a most innovative commander. His tactics at Domokos were… unexpected.” A faint chuckle escaped him. “I’ve read the reports, he repurposed what was at hand to shape the battlefield, armed many of his men with firearms, and drilled them to hold formation, not break ranks for plunder."
Hunyadi’s eyes glinted with interest. “They say he even wields some cannons in the field. If that’s true,” Hunyadu allowed himself a wolfish grin. “It will be good to fight alongside a man who understands how war is changing.””
“Just so,” Sigismund agreed, though inwardly he felt a twinge of an old ache, the sting of being upstaged. For years, the Hungarian king had been Europe’s bulwark against the Turk; now a Greek upstart was winning renown. He’s earned it, Sigismund reminded himself. And we need him. Aloud he added, “Constantine’s rise forces the Sultan to guard his flanks, we’ll make him split his gaze. A messenger will ride at once with word of our declaration and our intended route. If God wills it, we’ll squeeze Murad between hammer and anvil.”
Garai cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, one concern.” He looked apologetic for dimming the optimism. “Our coffers…”
“Spit it out, Miklós,” Sigismund murmured, rubbing his temple. “I’ve heard that tone too many times not to know where it leads. We’ve coin enough to start, but not to finish. The old tune.”
Garai nodded, the candlelight accentuating hollows under his eyes. “Thirty thousand men, as you pledged, even if half are feudal levies bringing their own arms, the rest will be mercenaries needing pay. We’ll have to hire German and Bohemian gunners, maybe Italian condottieri. And supply them. The treasury is already strained from… previous ventures.” He didn’t mention the costly Hussite wars aloud, but all thought of it. “We can levy an extraordinary tax, ask the Pope for extra funds. But it will take time to gather the money, and even then…”
“We do what we must,” Sigismund cut in firmly. He hated talking money. Gold was the lifeblood of war, yes, but it soured the nobility’s zeal quickly. “I’ll not douse the flame we lit today by quibbling over cost. Every lord who shouted God wills it in the hall will be expected to contribute men-at-arms and supplies. And I will contribute my crown if need be.” There was a steel in his voice that allowed no contest. This crusade will happen.
The men exchanged glances. They respected his determination, but the pragmatic worry remained on a few faces. “His Holiness rewards resolve, once our banners are flying, I trust Rome will loosen its coffers. And as ever,” he added, almost wearily, “indulgences may be offered. Souls saved, chests filled. Providence works in practical ways.”
Sigismund gave a curt nod. The Archbishop would handle milking coin from the Church’s side. “So be it. We squeeze every source. God will provide the rest.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand; they had grown stiff with cold and long writing earlier, drafting initial orders. Unconsciously, he reached to rub his knee where old battle wounds ached in the damp night. He could feel the weight of hours on him now, but there was still one critical matter to address before this council adjourned.
“Gentlemen,” the Emperor said, voice lower, “we’ve discussed allies afar and enemies ahead. But recall: unity is our strength. We cannot allow old grudges to fracture us once the hardships come.” His eyes settled on Hunyadi a moment, then Garai. Those two represented different factions in Hungary, a rising new warrior class and the established nobility. “I expect all my commanders to act as one body on this campaign. The slightest rivalry or disobedience in the field could doom the whole effort. I trust you all understand what I ask.”
A chorus of assent answered him, “Yes, Majesty,” “Of course.” Hunyadi thumped his chest in salute, while Garai bowed. Sigismund believed them, or at least believed in their fear of failure. He allowed himself to ease back in his chair. The candle behind him guttered, casting his face briefly into darkness.
“Very well,” Sigismund said quietly. “Make ready, then. We each have work before sunrise.” He used both hands to push up from his seat, stifling a wince as pain lanced his hip. The advisors rose as well, wooden chairs scraping. One by one they bowed and made to depart with respectful good-nights – all except Miklós Garai, who lingered as the others filed out.
Garai stepped closer, lowering his voice. “My liege… I have fought by your side since the Danube ran red at Nicopolis. I know your mind is set on this crusade. Just, take care of yourself.” His tone had the familiarity of an old friend more than a subject. “These coming months will be harsh. The body… isn’t as forgiving at our age.”
Sigismund managed a tired smile. In the lamplight his face showed its years: deep-set eyes framed by silver hair, a scar across his cheek from a saber long ago. “Worried I’ll collapse on the march, Miklós?” he jested softly. “I survived Böhme beer and Hussite bullets; a little Balkan road dust won’t kill me.”
Garai didn’t laugh. He simply placed a warm hand on Sigismund’s forearm, a bold gesture. “The realm needs you alive, old friend. I need you alive.” There was a sheen in the palatine’s eyes.
For a moment Sigismund was disarmed. He briefly covered Garai’s hand with his own. “Fear not. I’ve no intention of dying in a Serbian ditch.” He infused a confidence he partly didn’t feel. “God willing, we’ll both live to drink victory wine in Constantinople itself.”
Garai nodded, releasing the Emperor. “By God’s grace.” With that he took his leave, boots echoing on the flagstones as he disappeared into the corridor’s gloom.
Left alone in the chamber, Sigismund exhaled and sank back down, just for a moment. The map on the table fluttered at a corner from the draught under the door. Thirty thousand men… war on the horizon… He rubbed a hand over his face. He could still hear distant revelry from the city, news of the crusade would have taverns full and toasts raised tonight. Let them celebrate, he thought wryly. Tomorrow, the burdens begin.
Author’s Note:
Even in his later years, Sigismund led campaigns along Hungary’s southern frontier, passing through Belgrade, Smederevo, and the Iron Gates to shore up defenses and assert royal authority.
This chapter also introduces the legendary John Hunyadi, already a rising figure at court. A seasoned soldier with experience in Italy under the Duke of Milan, Hunyadi had returned to Sigismund’s service by 1433 as a trusted court knight and military creditor. Still a bit young, but ambitious and skilled, he was fast becoming a name to watch in the wars to come.
Finally, a historical note: the real Crusade of Varna was proclaimed at the Diet of Buda on Palm Sunday, 1443. That timing inspired this chapter’s call to arms, and more broadly, helped guide the historical accuracy of the events depicted.
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Yeah, you're pretty close with those numbers, maybe a bit less across the board, especially given recent losses and logistical strain on all sides. But yep, we're definitely in that ballpark. Can’t say too much without tipping into spoiler territory.
זאב ברנזון
You are wrong the real goal is overall Dominion over the territories that constitute Greece including Thessaloniki which is the primary war target Thessaloniki and it's surrounding regions are prefect for a provisional capital of the empire The region is rich with agricultural products metal gold And is an important population center With a deepnatural port Constantinople cannot be controlled without logistical support and manpower reserves from all of Greece
Kirra
So Sigismund will have about 30 to 40 thousand, and Constantine might muster at least 20 to 25 thousand. Karamanid should have around 40 to 50 thousand men. While I don't know the true strength of the Ottoman forces, it might be 80 to 100 thousand strong. Please remember that they have had some bloody losses in recent years, so this might be wrong. It will be interesting to see how this plays out, as the Ottoman forces are already overextended, even without a possible Bulgarian revolt. Edit: The Ottomans' total forces are a complete guesswork. The numbers I found were from 1453, and with the heavy losses in Albania and Greece, it's a complete guess of how many troops they could muster.
Wen L.
VVery exciting, but I worry about the Holy Roman Empire, Papal levies, Venetians, Burgundians, Polish, and Bohemian forces. In our history, they lost badly at the Battle of Varna, one year after the declaration of a crusade. The key is going to be military coordination, which The Polish charge was the last nail in the coffin of the ill-fated battle that saw a lot of bad military maneuvers. One core reason for their loss was the problematic coordination of the various armies, which unlike the unified Turkish army of Murad II, each army did their own thing under different leaders. I don't think Constantine can fix such a fatal flaw in war strategy, but I do think the Byzantine Empire can win the war for capturing the city of Constantinople. In order to win the war and still realistically lose the battle, it would require the larger allied Crusader force to act as cannon fodder distraction for the Ottoman army, in the West while Constantine sends a token force to assist, maybe under Thomas with orders to retreat when things turn. Byzantine main efforts could be a march towards the Bosphorus, securing the eastern Balkan coast, cutting off Turkish supply lines and opening a siege of Constinople while Ottomans are focused fighting the Crusaders. A mixed army is very hard to lead, different languages and chains of command will make defeat far too likely.. Even laymen understand this problem, people in modern business learn from our experience that dealing with different countries or even regions poses a greater risk of failure without an army of translators and support staff, hence why corporations have a lot of administrative staff coordinating operations, Michael being a modern businessman knows this rule as well, hence he probably could predict the failure of the allied forces without knowing the history or the problems of leading an allied army. Thus, borrowing an old Chinese strategem, "Make Noise in the East and strike the West" could offer a realistic chance at victory for Byzantine forces (built on the bodies of allies, but it wins a major strategic victory and flanks the Ottoman into withdrawal). I want our MC to win his empire and realistically achieve his goal of preserving Eastern Roman Empire.
