EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/Chapter 10: Fires of Preparation
🕑 Added 2025-05-23 00:37:04 +0000 UTCEarly Morning – Glarentza Beach, February 1434
A dull grey light crept over the Ionian Sea as Constantine’s bare feet pounded the wet sand. The February dawn air was sharp in his lungs, each breath mingling with the brine. He ran at the head of a small cadre of officers, all matching his stride in determined silence. Foamy waves licked at their ankles. Constantine felt the bite of cold saltwater and grit on his feet, but he welcomed it, the sting kept him awake, focused. The only sounds were the surf’s rush and the rhythmic crunch of feet on sand.
At a gesture from Constantine, they slowed to a jog. One of his officers, Marcus, mustered the nerve to break the silence. “There's talk among the men, Your Majesty,” Marcus said between measured breaths. He was a broad-shouldered veteran with close-cut hair, trying not to sound too eager. “Rumors from the docks and taverns. They say the crusade is gaining strength, the Franks, the Hungarians... even Burgundy. might come. The men wonder if this could finally be the time, our chance, to reclaim Constantinople.”
Constantine kept his eyes on the horizon, where the first pale sun broke through scattered clouds. Constantinople. The word alone made his chest tighten with old longing. He nodded slowly, still catching his breath from the run. “Perhaps,” he answered. His voice was low and even, giving little away. “But victory comes step by step, not in one reckless charge.”
Marcus wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. A cool breeze off the sea steamed lightly from their exertion. “Of course, sire,” he said, lowering his tone. The officer’s youthful enthusiasm tempered at Constantine’s caution.
Constantine paused, hands on hips, drawing in the salty air. He fixed Marcus with a firm but not unkind look. “We’ll take back the Queen of Cities one day,” he said, “but not by outrunning our supply lines or our wits. One step at a time.” He bent down and scooped a smooth pebble from the sand, rolling it in his palm thoughtfully. “No tripping over our own feet. Agreed?”
Markos managed a faint smile. “Agreed, Your Majesty.” The other officers murmured assent. They all respected Constantine for this: a seasoned ruler who led them in morning drills like an ordinary soldier, and who spoke plainly even about the grandest ambitions.
A gull cried overhead, circling against the brightening sky. Constantine tossed the pebble into the waves and began walking back toward the dunes where their horses waited. Behind him, the men fell in line, breath steadying. The brief conversation was over. But as he pushed aside thoughts of Constantinople, Constantine allowed himself a final glance towards the east. Beyond those horizons lay the city they yearned for. Step by step, he reminded himself, brushing sand from his feet before pulling on his riding boots. There was much to do before their banner flew again over those distant walls.
By mid-morning, a low roar filled the outskirts of Glarentza. Constantine stood before the new blast furnace, its large stone chimney belching smoke into the pale winter sky. The furnace towered above a timber-and-stone foundry complex, radiating waves of heat that fought off the February chill. Inside the casting hall, the air shimmered. Soot streaked the faces of workers hauling charcoal and pumping great leather bellows with a steady whoosh. The glow of molten iron pulsed from a tap at the furnace’s base, spilling into a sand mold in a shower of sparks.
Elias and Luca Ardemani waited just inside the hall, bowing their heads in respect as Constantine entered. Both men were grinning with a craftsman’s pride.
“It’s running well, Your Majesty,” Elias reported over the din, almost having to shout. He led Constantine along a narrow aisle between clanging workstations. “The new furnace burns hot and steady. We’re smelting more pig iron every day.” As if on cue, a team of smiths levered shut the furnace tap, while another crew began breaking the cooled iron into manageable blooms. The bright orange chunks were carted off toward the finery forges for further refinement.
Constantine surveyed the operation with narrowed eyes, taking in every detail. The heat prickled his face; the scent of hot metal and charcoal hung thick. He picked up a steel bar that had been cooling on the rack and felt its lingering warmth seep into his calloused palm. “Impressive,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Steel production at this scale… who would have thought we’d see this in the Morea?”
He turned to Luca Ardemani. “When I was a young soldier, we scrounged for mail shirts and made do with rusty blades,” Constantine said, raising his voice so the men nearby could hear. “Now we produce our own quality steel. This furnace, these forges, they’re as crucial as any battalion. With them, we fashion our future.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a spark of satisfaction in his eyes. The short monologue carried over the clamor of the workshop, and a few workers straightened with pride at the Emperor’s words. Constantine allowed himself a brief smile, hard-won progress deserved acknowledgment.
Luca cleared his throat, eager to deliver his report. “Sire, the armorers have hit full stride.” He guided Constantine to a long wooden table laden with finished armor pieces. The steel cuirasses lined up there gleamed dully in the low light, each hammered to a smooth curve. Beside them were piles of open-faced helmets, each with a reinforced brow to ward off sword blows. Luca picked up one polished breastplate and turned it for inspection. “We will produce enough cuirasses and helmets for a large part of your Men. By the time the crusaders arrive, a significant portion of our ranks will march with solid plates on their chests and helms on their heads.”
Constantine ran a hand over the cool metal breastplate. It was plain but sturdy, an emblem of pragmatism. He gave a single firm nod. “Good. We won’t send our men to fight half-naked or outfitted in rags. Not this time.” He recalled bitterly how poorly equipped many Byzantine troops had been in even the few past wars. That would not be repeated if he could help it.
Elias stepped forward, a ledger in hand, excited despite himself. “We’ve also expanded our artillery, Your Majesty.” The older man’s voice carried an energy that belied his austere appearance. “Fifteen new field cannons are now cast and fitted onto carriages.” He gestured toward the far end of the hall, where a row of squat bronze cannons sat gleaming, each mounted on a sturdy oak carriage with iron-shod wheels. A few artisans hovered over one, tightening bolts and checking the alignment of its trunnions.
“Fifteen” Constantine repeated, as if testing the weight of the number. It was an achievement, though he couldn't help but wish they had managed twice as many.
“And that’s not all,” Elias continued, flipping a page in his ledger. “We’ve produced around three hundred and forty new pyrvelos for the tagmata” At the mention of that amount Constantine raised an eyebrow.
“Not bad Elias,” Constantine murmured. He exchanged a glance with Theophilus, who had just entered and come to stand at his shoulder.
“We’re experimenting with new designs as well,” Luca interjected, clearly enthusiastic. He motioned for the group to follow to a side workbench. There, an unfinished barrel lay secured in a vice. “Steel-barreled guns,” Luca said, patting the half-formed barrel. Its surface was rough, partially drilled out from solid metal. “We’ve been trying new drilling techniques to bore out the barrels more precisely. If we can make a reliable steel barrel, it would be lighter and cheaper than bronze.”
Constantine leaned in to examine the bore. The inside was still scored with tool marks. He could smell the tang of metal shavings and lamp oil. “And how has your success been so far?” he asked.
Luca grimaced and glanced at Elias, who answered candidly, “Limited, Your Majesty. We’ve had a few prototypes forged, but… one burst during testing last week.” He pointed to a distant corner where a twisted piece of metal lay discarded, a failed barrel, blackened and split like an overripe pod. “The steel quality isn’t consistent yet. We’re learning as we go. Our drilling bits snap, or the metal cools unevenly.”
Constantine straightened up, folding his arms over his chest. His face remained impassive, but he absorbed the news carefully. “I see. Keep at it, but take no unnecessary risks,” he said. I’d rather have ten good ones than a hundred that blow up in our faces. Understand?"
“Just so, sire,” Elias nodded. Luca’s disappointment was evident, but he mustered a respectful smile. “We’ll refine the process. In time, we’ll crack it.”
A sharp clanging nearby punctuated his words, two hammermen at a finery forge were rhythmically pounding the impurities out of a glowing hot ingot of pig iron. Each strike sent a shower of sparks cascading to the ground. Constantine watched the twin hammers rise and fall in sync, powered by the waterwheel-driven cam above. The sight was almost mesmerizing, a dance of muscle and machinery forging raw iron into malleable steel.
Theophilus coughed quietly, drawing Constantine’s attention. “Your Majesty,” he said in a low tone, eyeing the glinting bronze cannons and piles of materials around them, “all this is magnificent, truly. But I must mention, the costs…” He hesitated as Constantine regarded him.
“Go on then,” Constantine said with a dry smile, already expecting what was coming. Theophilus had long since become the ever-present voice reminding him of the price behind every ambition, a necessary counterbalance to Constantine’s relentless spending.
Theophilus gestured at the cannon row. “Bronze does not come cheap. We’ve been importing copper and tin at higher and higher prices.” If we continue casting so many bronze guns, we’ll empty our coffers before the army even sets sail.” He lowered his voice further, not wanting to dampen the smiths’ morale.
Constantine considered this grimly. War was as much coin and credit as blood and steel. He looked back to the ruined steel barrel on the bench, an embodiment of both promise and setback. “You’re right,” he said finally. “Bronze has bled us enough. Elias, Luca, redouble your efforts with iron and steel. We can’t afford to rely on bronze for ever. If iron can be made to serve, then make it serve.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Elias said. Luca nodded firmly. The determination in their faces reassured Constantine. These were men who took pride in solving problems.
He allowed himself a thin smile to ease the tension. “Our coffers may be lighter, Theophilus, but better that than my soldiers go unarmored or our walls unarmed.” He ran a hand along one of the bronze cannon’s barrels, feeling the maker’s marks etched into it. “In any case, we’ll not be hoarding gold while the enemy gathers strength. Spend what we must. I’ll answer to the accountants later.”
Theophilus responded with a wry chuckle. “I suspect the accountants will have to answer to you, sire.” He inclined his head, conceding the point. Practical as he was, even he knew there were moments when purse-strings had to be loosened.
Constantine took one last look around the foundry floor. In the orange glow, workers fed the furnace with fresh ore and charcoal. The air rang with the music of progress: the bellows’ exhale, the hiss of quenching metal, the constant hammering shaping their armaments. This was what might tip the scales when the crusade began. Not prayers, not bold speeches, but preparation—hard, unglamorous, thorough preparation. He felt a swell of resolve.
“Excellent work, all of you,” he said loudly for everyone’s benefit. His words carried, and many laborers paused to straighten their backs as he spoke. “Our Empire isn’t rebuilt in a day. But every cannon, every breastplate, every pýrvelos you forge here brings us one step closer to victory. Never forget that.”
A few proud shouts of acknowledgment answered him above the clamor. Constantine exchanged a final nod with Elias and Luca. Then he turned on his heel, Theophilus falling into step beside him, and together they walked back out into the cool daylight. The roar of the furnace faded behind them as they left the industrious heat for the open air.
Clermont Castle loomed atop the hill, its honey-colored stone walls catching the pale winter sun. By the time Constantine and Theophilus approached its gates, a light breeze had picked up, carrying the scent of the sea. Constantine’s legs ached pleasantly from the earlier run, and a sheen of sweat and forge-grime clung to his skin beneath his cloak. He felt alive and focused.
They rode up the winding path to the castle on horseback, a pair of honor guards clattering behind. As the gates creaked open to admit them, Constantine slowed his horse and glanced back toward the west. From this height he could see the glitter of the Ionian Sea and just beyond the curve of the coastline, the port of Glarentza where they had run at dawn. In the hazy distance, tiny sails of fishing boats bobbed. Closer, within the castle’s outer yard, the daily routines were underway: soldiers drilled with pikes in the courtyard, and servants hurried about with baskets of provisions from the morning market.
Constantine dismounted, handing his reins to a groom. He gestured for Theophilus to follow as he strode into the great courtyard. A pair of hounds lazing by the well sprang up and trotted after the Emperor, tails wagging, recognizing a familiar friend. Constantine gave one a brief pat before mounting the stone steps toward the keep two at a time, energized by what he’d seen at the foundry.
Pausing under an archway, he turned to Theophilus with brisk authority. “Send riders immediately to summon my brother Thomas, Captain Andreas, and Sphrantzes,” he said firmly. “Tell them I need them here as soon as possible. The final preparations for the crusade must begin without delay.”
Theophilus inclined his head. He flipped open the small leather notebook he kept at his belt and quickly jotted down the orders. “Understood, sire.” Theophilus looked back to Constantine, his thin lips twitching in a half-smile. “At last, the crusade. They’ll be relieved to finally get these orders, Your Majesty.”
Constantine gave a short hum of agreement. “it’s finally time.” He could already picture Thomas’s eager grin and Sphrantzes’s quill scratching furiously over parchment as plans took shape. There was relief in transitioning at last from preparation to active planning.
They passed into the shadow of the covered walkway leading to the keep. Theophilus slowed his pace, his expression turning more reflective. “Speaking of preparations, sire… there’s also the matter of that letter.”
“Which letter?” Constantine asked, though he suspected the answer. He kept his tone flat.
“The one from Trebizond,” Theophilus said. He produced a folded parchment from inside his vest. The wax seal was broken, Constantine had read it earlier and handed it off. “We haven’t discussed your response.”
Constantine breathed out through his nose, a hint of dry amusement in the sound. He reached for the parchment and glanced at the ornate script once more, even though he had its contents memorized. “John IV Megas Komnenos,” he said, almost chuckling at the grandiosity with which the Emperor of Trebizond styled himself. “Our friends on the Black Sea… He’s seeking what he calls a ‘closer familial alliance and mutual protection pact.’”
Theophilus raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance in his own sly way. “A familial alliance, is it? That wouldn’t happen to involve marriage, would it?”
Constantine refolded the letter briskly. “John offers me his young niece’s hand.” His lip curved wryly. “In any case, the meaning is clear. He wants the protection of an alliance with us. And he thinks dangling a bride might entice me.”
Theophilus’s eyes glinted with restrained humor. “You do attract no shortage of marriage proposals, Majesty. That’s the third one this winter, by my count.” He ticked off on his fingers in mock seriousness. “One from Georgia, one from Burgundy, and now Trebizond. A lesser man might get a swollen head.”
Constantine snorted, folding his arms. “A lesser man might also forget how quickly fine words turn to chains.” He tapped the letter against his palm, then handed it back to Theophilus. “John’s proposal is far less appealing than the one from Burgundy. Trebizond’s a small, precarious state. They want much and can offer little. I’ve no desire to be drawn into their quarrels for the sake of a dubious alliance and a marriage I do not want.”
Theophilus nodded, tucking the parchment away. “Understandable. John Komnenos likely hopes to hitch his cart to our horse, now that we’re gathering strength. He sees you rising, and he fears being left behind, or trampled underfoot by the Sultan.”
Constantine’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at that last word: the Sultan. The looming shadow behind all these maneuvers. “He’s right to be afraid,” Constantine said quietly. “Trebizond won’t last long on its own. But I can’t save every stray lamb simply by wedding it to my flock.”
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Those are some fair points, the Balkans are a tough region to tame, especially with such entrenched Ottoman control. There’s definitely a lot more to explore in the coming chapters (and Book 2 overall!), both strategically and narratively. Looking forward to digging into how it all unfolds!
Stapet
It is really nice that this is picking up steam, I wonder whether the crusade will even manage to achieve the goal, truth be told the balkans at that time have been under Ottoman occupation for too long and the area between Domokos and Constantinople is too large for Constantine to occupy even if he manages to conquer all of it.
RENAISSANSE SI
It’s possible down the line, but don’t expect anything right away, that kind of move would take time.
Mariusz Zonk
Is Constantine planning to make contact with Karaman and Ak-Koyunlu? They are also not friends of the Ottomans and have proven this many times.
