EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/Chapter 1: When Kings Take Notice
🕑 Added 2025-04-21 21:07:23 +0000 UTCThe late afternoon sun cast a golden veil over the plain as Emperor Constantine and his victorious army approached the walls of Glarentza. The city’s fortifications glowed in that honeyed light, banners bearing the double-headed eagle of the Palaiologos fluttering proudly from the ramparts. At the sight of the Emperor’s column returning home, villagers and townsfolk poured out along the road, their cheers rising in waves. A chorus of horns sounded from the battlements, long, sonorous notes of welcome, followed by the joyous pealing of church bells. The gates of Glarentza creaked open to receive the heroes. Peasants from surrounding villages had gathered with flowers in their arms; children scampered at the roadside, faces flushed with excitement; and the air itself seemed to tremble with jubilation.
As Constantine passed under the arch of the gate on his horse, a great roar of celebration erupted. “Long live the Emperor! Long live Constantine!” voices shouted, mingled with cries of “Ieros skopos”. Petals of laurel and wildflowers rained down from balconies and rooftops, citizens flinging them by the handful.
Constantine pulled his horse to a halt in the main square, where an impromptu reception awaited. A raised platform had been draped with the imperial purple, and priests in embroidered stoles stood ready to offer blessings. As the Emperor dismounted, his boot hitting the cobblestone with a firm thud, a herald in crimson robes stepped forward. The man’s voice rang out over the din, magically cutting through the crowd’s clamor: “Citizens of Glarentza! By God’s grace, welcome home Constantine XI, Basileus and Autokrator of the Romans, victorious over the infidel!” A fresh round of cheering nearly drowned the herald out, but he continued, listing titles and honors: “Protector of Christendom, and hope of our empire!” Each accolade sent the crowd into new paroxysms of delight. Constantine raised a gauntleted hand then, and slowly the noise subsided to an excited hush. In that lull, one could hear the crackle of torches being lit against the early evening and the distant cry of gulls over the harbor. Men and women gazed up at their returned sovereign with shining eyes.
“Good people of Glarentza,” Constantine's resonant voice filled the air, “this victory belongs to every Roman who loves our homeland.” He gestured broadly to the crowd and his battle-weary soldiers. “It belongs to these brave men who fought at my side, and to you, who kept faith and courage alive here at home.” A murmur of approval spread through the listeners, and soldiers straightened proudly despite their wounds.
“Through God’s mercy,” Constantine continued with conviction, “we have dealt a powerful blow to our enemies, proving that our empire endures and will never yield to tyranny!” Cheers burst forth briefly before quieting again as he raised a hand. “Yet tonight’s joy is only the beginning. Hard work lies ahead to secure our victory. With unity and determination, we will reclaim our empire's glory.”
The crowd held its breath for a moment before erupting into jubilant applause. “Long live the Emperor!” Shouts blended with laughter and joyful tears as flowers rained upon the platform. Musicians played lively tunes, and soon the entire city was swept into celebration.
That night and throughout the next day, festivities engulfed Glarentza. Bonfires crackled on the beaches below the harbor walls, while across the city, freshly made posters: bold, stencil-style depictions of Constantine and the triumphant army, were plastered on walls and street corners, reinforcing pride and unity among the citizens.
The Emperor decreed two days of public feasting: oxen were roasted in the squares; wine flowed freely from casks provided by merchants; children staged mock battles with wooden swords in the streets as their parents clapped along to folk songs.
The council
On the morning of the third day, the city of Glarentza was calm and bright, bearing only gentle traces of the prior days’ merriment, a stray ribbon fluttering from a balcony, petals scattered on the flagstones of the main square. In the castle of Clermont, Constantine convened his council to chart the course forward. The broad table dominated the space, upon which lay maps, reports, and freshly delivered letters from abroad.
Constantine stood at the head of the table, to his right sat Theophilus, his deep-set eyes shone with pride as he gazed at his returned liege. To Constantine’s left was the venerable Plethon. Standing further down the table was George, his sun-browned face was split by a grin he could hardly suppress; the glow of victory had not yet left him. Also present were a handful of junior secretaries and guards standing at attention by the doors, but the council’s core was these four men, the Emperor, and his three trusted advisors.
As soon as they had assembled, Theophilus and Plethon stepped forward. “Your Majesty,” Theophilus said warmly, bowing his head with respectful sincerity, “the city has truly come alive these past days. Glarentza has sorely needed such celebration.” He glanced briefly at Plethon, who nodded in gentle agreement.
Constantine met their gaze thoughtfully, allowing himself a faint, reflective smile. “Indeed,” he murmured, “our soldiers and our people earned this celebration. They needed a moment to savor their triumph and remember why they fought so bravely.” But soon the emperor’s eyes narrowed with renewed resolve, the softness retreating behind an expression of steely determination. “Yet victory is fleeting if left unattended,” he continued firmly. “Now we must set festivities aside and return our minds fully to the tasks at hand. Our gains must be consolidated swiftly, or all we have achieved may slip from our grasp.”
He motioned purposefully toward Theophilus. “Tell me, then, what news do we have?”
Theophilus straightened the stack of letters before him. “Your Majesty, in the last week we have received numerous congratulatory letters from the courts of Europe,” he said. “News of your victory over Sultan Murad has traveled fast, and it has made an enormous impression.” Theophilus allowed a faint note of satisfaction in that last phrase. With the Emperor’s nod of permission, he continued, picking up the first parchment.
Theophilus straightened the stack of letters before him, choosing carefully from the pile. “Your Majesty, I believe it would be most fitting to begin with Rome itself,” he said gravely, picking up the parchment bearing the papal seal. “We have here a letter from Pope Eugene himself.” At this, all around the table grew attentive. “The Pope praises your courage, hails you as a ‘protector of freedom and Christendom,’ and most significantly,” Theophilus paused deliberately, ensuring everyone understood the weight of his words, “he writes that he has already begun reaching out to kings and princes across Europe, urging them to join a new anti-Ottoman alliance, a true Crusade to push the Turks back.”
Constantine’s eyes sharpened at that news, restrained excitement flickering briefly in his gaze. He leaned forward slightly. “The Pope speaks openly of a Crusade?” he asked, voice firm yet cautiously hopeful.
Theophilus inclined his head respectfully, but there was caution in his expression. “Indeed, Your Majesty. Yet,” he added carefully, “we must remember that such declarations from Rome rarely come without conditions. We should expect Pope Eugene will want something substantial in return for rallying Christendom’s armies.” His tone grew serious and meaningful. “I speak of the Churches. Union, reconciliation, however we phrase it, the Pope will almost certainly demand that we resume talks about uniting the Orthodox and Catholic faiths.”
Constantine folded his hands thoughtfully, absorbing this reality with solemnity. Theophilus continued gently, “Our current strength, and our recent victory, will only deepen that desire.”
A brief, meaningful silence hung over the table. Plethon stirred gently, stroking his snowy beard with measured deliberation. “Your Majesty, I believe Theophilus speaks wisely. Yesterday, I myself received a relevant correspondence, from our friend Bessarion in Rome.”
At the mention of the scholar, all present looked up with heightened interest.
Plethon smiled softly, reading Constantine’s thoughtful gaze. “Bessarion writes that all Italy is astir with news of our triumph. He says you, Constantine, are spoken of favorably in the Curia these days. Indeed, he tells me the Pope himself praised your victory publicly during mass, calling you a ‘champion raised by Providence.’ Bessarion believes that the Papal court now views Your Majesty with newfound respect, perhaps as the savior they have long prayed for.”
George gave a low whistle, astonished. “So Bessarion confirms Rome’s sincerity?” he remarked thoughtfully. “It seems Rome is truly paying attention.”
Constantine allowed himself a cautious smile. “Then we must move swiftly before this momentum cools.”
George’s eyes lit with renewed vigor. He struck the table gently yet decisively. “Precisely. We have the Pope’s pledge and Bessarion’s confirmation, letters backed by seal and signature. We must press them now, urge them to act, to commit not just in words but in men, ships, and coin. A Crusade launched by next spring, while Murad is still reeling. Strike while the iron is hot.”
Theophilus raised a hand in gentle caution. “Yes, certainly. But again I remind you all, words cost nothing. Steel and blood are dear. Let us welcome Rome’s enthusiasm, but remain prepared for complications.”
Constantine nodded, understanding the gravity of that advice. “Indeed, Theophilus, your caution is noted. Now, what else from Europe?”
Theophilus moved to the next letter. “And from Florence, Cosimo de’ Medici writes personally to commend your bravery. He calls the victory ‘a beacon of hope for all Christendom’ and assures you that, I quote, ‘the treasury of Florence stands ready to support the defenders of our Faith, should the Turk be driven further back.’”
Constantine arched a brow, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Cosimo offering financial support? Expected,” he said, his tone dry but not unkind. “He’s no fool, his gold has already found fertile ground in our printing presses and the book trade here in Glarentza. This victory only sweetens his investment.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers lightly tapping the armrest as he glanced toward the tall arched window, where sunlight spilled over a city alive with purpose. “Cosimo may speak of faith and Christendom, but it is profit that sharpens his interest. “Gold follows faith, yes, but it follows profit even faster.”
Theophilus set aside Cosimo’s letter and picked up the next. “From Burgundy,” he said, “a letter under the seal of Duke Philip the Good. It is a flowery piece” he smiled thinly, “the Duke congratulates Your Majesty as the ‘Scourge of the Turks and bulwark of the true faith.’ He recalls the crusading vow he made years ago. Philip writes that when a new Crusade is called, he ‘pledges a thousand lances of Burgundy to ride under the banner of the Cross, inspired by Emperor Constantine’s valor.’”
At this, George’s eyes lit up. “Burgundy’s knights… the finest chivalry of France, riding at our side. I’ve heard Duke Philip commands one of the largest armies in the West. If his enthusiasm holds, we might truly see a crusader host gather.” George could hardly contain his excitement at the vision: steel-clad knights charging the Ottoman lines in vengeance for all Christendom’s losses. For a man typically grounded in pragmatism and caution, this sudden spark of hope was striking, his voice carried the rare fervor of someone glimpsing a dream he’d long thought beyond reach.
But Theophilus tapped the table gently, drawing attention back as he moved on. “From Venice we have a dispatch as well,” he noted, holding up another letter. “The Doge Francesco Foscari sends formal congratulations and adds, diplomatically, that Venice looks forward to continued cooperation in securing the trade routes and holy sites. In plainer terms, the Republic hints it may support us, likely with ships or funds, if it aligns with Venetian interests.”
George nodded thoughtfully. "Venice values profit above piety, they always have. Right now, they’re reaping considerable rewards from our flourishing book trade.”
Constantine leaned forward slightly. “Indeed. Venetian merchants are woven deeply into the fabric of Glarentza’s prosperity. They won't wish to lose that advantage.”
George inclined his head in agreement. “Precisely why Foscari wrote at all. He sees potential gains here, or he’d have stayed silent.”
Constantine’s gaze sharpened, voice firm with conviction. “We’ll certainly need their galleys if we're to wrest control of the seas from the Turk.”
At this, Plethon stirred gently, stroking his snowy beard with measured deliberation. “Profit motivates them, yes,” he said softly, “but the Venetians have memory as well as ambition. They still feel the sting of losing Thessaloniki, and Negroponte and Crete could easily follow. If we continue to demonstrate strength, Venice might see supporting us as more than just profitable trade, it might become their best chance to safeguard their colonies.”
A silence settled over the gathering, each man quietly contemplating Plethon’s words.
Theophilus shuffled to the next letter. “From Aragon, Alfonso sends his blessings on our courageous Eastern brethren. He speaks of the victory as proof that God’s favor has returned to the Romans. There is talk that he, too, would join a crusade once his own affairs are settled.” Alfonso, Constantine knew, had styled himself a champion of the Church; he might relish a holy war if it cemented his prestige.
George gave a low chuckle, “Everyone’s eager now to ride to war, on parchment, at least.” There was a note of healthy skepticism in his voice, though his smile remained.
Theophilus raised the final parchment. “And here,” he said with a slight gravity, “is a letter from Emperor Sigismund.” At the mention of the Holy Roman Emperor, the room grew a touch more solemn. “Though Emperor Sigismund is aging, his letter is vigorous. He hails you, Sire, as ‘our noble brother in Christ’ and declares that your triumph over the Turk is an answer to his own long-held prayers. He writes that Europe must not squander this moment, and proposes that in the coming year, all Christian princes should unite for a Crusade to finally drive the Ottomans from Europe. Sigismund offers to lead an army from the north if one is assembled, to reclaim the lands of the Balkans that have fallen under the crescent.”
Constantine folded his hands before him, contemplating this wave of correspondence. The repeated mention of a Crusade, from Pope Eugene and now Emperor Sigismund, kindled a cautious spark of hope in his chest, one he had learned to guard vigilantly. "They speak openly now," he said quietly, "of a grand alliance, of uniting Christendom under the banner of a Crusade." His eyes met George’s, whose eager expression mirrored his cautious optimism. “We have longed to hear these words from both Rome and the courts of Europe. A united effort with the West could change the very course of history.”
Yet even as Constantine voiced this hope, Theophilus closed the leather folder of letters with a gentle, cautionary thump. He drummed his fingers softly on the polished surface of the table, choosing his next words with practiced care. “Your Majesty, these letters speak of unity and grand ambition, but we must not lose ourselves entirely in such declarations.” He glanced around the table, capturing each man's gaze in turn. “How often have we seen similar promises from the West vanish like smoke when the time came for action? Enthusiasm now may fade quickly when the price of steel and blood becomes clear. Words cost nothing.”
George leaned forward, unwilling to let the warning dampen the gathering optimism. "You’re right, Theophilus, words alone are cheap," he admitted, “but I say this time the West truly sees something new.” His voice rang with conviction, the confidence of one who had witnessed Ottoman power crack on the battlefield. “At Domokos, we broke Murad’s army, and at Athens we reclaimed what was ours. These were victories no Western lord thought possible until now. Pope Eugene and Emperor Sigismund speak openly of a Crusade precisely because they finally see an emperor who can stand and win against the Sultan." George’s eyes flashed brightly, his voice taking on a compelling urgency. “There has never been a better moment for them to rally. This opportunity may never come again.”
Theophilus seemed ready to counter, but Plethon gently raised his hand to intercede, bridging the gap between caution and enthusiasm with calm authority. “Both of you speak truths we must heed,” Plethon said softly, his deep, measured tone filling the chamber. “Never before, at least not since the days of Emperor Manuel, has the West shown such unified interest in supporting us. The Pope’s appeal is genuine, and Emperor Sigismund’s proposal is equally serious.” His clear, penetrating eyes turned to Constantine directly. “Yet even as we pursue these offers vigorously, we must remain mindful of how we arrived at this turning point. No knights of the West or fleets of the Papacy reclaimed Athens, nor routed the Janissaries at Domokos. Greeks alone, our own soldiers, our own blood, achieved those victories.” He paused, his voice carrying quiet pride and resolve. “Thus, we welcome Western aid, but never again must we place our fate solely in foreign hands.”
Constantine listened carefully, absorbing Plethon’s words with thoughtful silence. His finger tapped lightly upon the table, the subtle sound echoing the solemnity of his resolve. "Exactly so," he finally said, his voice firm with conviction. "We shall seek every alliance and press every pledge of support. But if, when the time comes, we find ourselves standing alone again, we will stand ready nonetheless."
Plethon leaned back, folding his arms as his mind worked through the implications. “Of course, coordination will be key,” he pointed out. “We would need firm agreements from Sigismund’s camp, from Venice, from Burgundy and others about timing and objectives. There will be many moving pieces.”
Constantine gave a grim chuckle, “We will effectively be attempting to herd cats, each ally will have their own agenda. But if we all share one common goal, driving out the Ottomans, we must harness that.” He looked to Theophilus. “This will require deft diplomacy as much as military might.”
Theophilus nodded in agreement. “Rest assured, sire, I have already begun drafting replies to these letters, expressing your gratitude and intent to meet their goodwill with action. But perhaps more is needed than letters.” He glanced up meaningfully.
Constantine straightened in his chair, his decision already made in his mind. “Indeed. Which brings me to the next point.” He surveyed the faces of his council, savoring the significance of the moment. “I have resolved to travel to Rome immediately,” he announced, “to speak with Pope Eugenius myself and formalize these plans in person.”
Author note:
First chapter of Book II! - In a new collection for easier browsing.
In real history, Pope Eugene IV and Emperor Sigismund were inspired by the Albanian revolt to push for a Crusade, but plans collapsed when the revolt faltered. In this timeline, Constantine’s even greater victories spark even greater enthusiasm, reviving hopes for a united Christian front against the Ottomans.
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Welcome aboard! Glad to have you here, love your insights! You've absolutely nailed it: the Byzantine "tercios" shaking up Western European military traditions will definitely cause some delightful chaos. Can't wait for you to see how it all unfolds!
Jan Mantsch
Cant wait for the Knightly European Armies to witness the Byzantine "Tercios" and to wittness them in action. Mater of fact in any potential coalition this will be a pain to work arround sice the armies funcion on two different levels of dicipline and competance. France/Burgundy is curently enamored with the crossbow, the Germans, Bohemian and Hungarians just got the wake up call about gunpowder in the Hussite wars and are scrambeling to utilise it themselfs or in deep deep denial about it, Add to that chaos the rise of the Habsburg dynasty who really want the Emperorship back and this whole endever is built on some really shaky foundation.
RENAISSANSE SI
Good catch! That line was more florid language on the Duke’s part, think of it as a pompous declaration rather than a precise military breakdown. By “lances,” he meant knights in general, and of course, knights never ride alone, they bring their whole little entourage of squires, infantry, and crossbowmen. So yeah, it’s less “1,000 guys with pointy sticks” and more a flashy way of saying a respectable mini-army.
Hugo23
Out of slightly idle curiosity the phrasing of Lance's from Burgundey is slightly muddled. Do you mean lance as the actual weapon or Lance the organizational unit of armies at the time? Because 1,000 knights are helpful, 4-5,000 men including infantry and crossbowmen coming with them even more so.
