EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Chapter 73:March and Siege
🕑 Added 2025-03-28 17:14:53 +0000 UTCMarch to Neopatras
Dawn of the next day saw the Byzantine army streaming out of Zetouni’s northern gate, bound for Neopatras. The rising sun painted the eastern sky in pink and gold as long files of pikemen, musketmen, and cavalry wound their way along a country road following the Spercheios River valley. Father Nikolaos himself walked at the head of one column with his raised cross until the town’s outskirts, blessing the departing soldiers like a shepherd sending his flock to pasture. Many townsfolk of Zetouni stood by the roadside, waving kerchiefs and shouting praises to the Emperor and the saints. Children ran alongside for a few hundred paces, laughing and trying to keep up until their parents called them back. Constantine, riding with the vanguard, allowed himself a smile at the heartfelt sendoff. These people saw his army as liberators and protectors, not conquerors, a vital distinction he was determined to uphold.
The route to Neopatras led westward across fertile plains dotted with olive groves and then gradually into foothills. The villages of Moschochori and Leianokladi lay on their path, and news of the Byzantine advance had reached these hamlets overnight. As the army approached Moschochori, they found the road lined with villagers holding icons and greenery. The moment Constantine’s banner came into view, the villagers erupted in acclamation. Women in homespun dresses tossed laurel branches and wildflowers before the marching soldiers, creating a carpet of green and color on the dusty road. Old men bowed and clasped the calloused hands of passing pikemen in gratitude. One aged villager, leaning on a staff, managed to walk up to Constantine’s horse. He pressed a small wooden icon of Saint George into the Emperor’s hand, his voice quavering: “For you, my lord—Saint George for victory. We have kept him hidden from the Turks; now he rides with you.” Moved, Constantine thanked the man and handed the icon to one of his standard-bearers, who raised it high. A cheer went up from both villagers and troops at the sight of the warrior saint’s image leading them forward.
Through Moschochori and on to Leianokladi, the reception was the same. People offered cheese, onions, and freshly baked flatbreads to any soldier who wanted them. Captain Andreas made sure to keep the army orderly, no looting or bullying would be tolerated, and all provisions were properly requisitioned rather than seized. George Sphrantzes, riding in a wagon for a short rest, took notes of supplies given, intending for the Empire to compensate these communities later. The army’s discipline and respect for the locals only heightened the villagers’ sense that a just liberation was at hand. Many able-bodied young men volunteered to guide the soldiers through the local terrain, and a few even took up old spears or hunting bows to join the march. Constantine initially hesitated to accept untrained volunteers, not wanting to leave villages defenseless or families without sons, but in the end, some insisted so fervently that he allowed a handful to come along as auxiliaries and scouts. Their local knowledge proved immediately useful, one of them pointed out an old Byzantine-era stone bridge over a river bend that let the army bypass a muddy stretch of road, saving time.
As midday approached, the columns began ascending into the lower slopes of Mount Oeta. Neopatras lay nestled on a hillside ahead. The path narrowed again as they climbed; around one bend, they encountered a crudely felled tree blocking the way. It looked recent—perhaps an attempt by retreating Ottoman forces to delay pursuit. Constantine’s engineers set to work at once, chopping it apart and hauling off the obstruction. While halted, some soldiers took the chance to refill their water flasks in a clear stream rushing down from the heights. The water was cold and sweet, a welcome refreshment in the gathering early summer heat. Overhead, the sun beat down, but many of the soldiers felt that even the elements favored them: a light breeze blew at their backs, as if nature herself wanted them to reach Neopatras swiftly.
That afternoon, the vanguard cresting a ridge caught their first glimpse of Neopatras. The town’s stone houses and the gray walls of its old castle gleamed on the green hillside. Beyond, the dark bulk of Mount Oeta rose, guarding the town’s rear. Sphrantzes squinted toward the fortress. Through the clear air, no Ottoman banner could be seen flying above the ramparts, only a lonely flagpole. It seemed the Turks had not even bothered to raise their colors that morning, a possible sign of demoralization. Constantine ordered the army to approach in battle order regardless. They unfurled the imperial banner and the great scarlet cross-emblazoned flag of the Byzantine army. Drummers beat a steady cadence as ranks of infantry fanned out, prepared in case of a last-ditch defense or a trap. The silence from the town was uncanny: no alarm bells, no shouts from watchmen—only the echo of Byzantine drums rolling back from the hills.
When the first Byzantine scouts reached Neopatras’s outskirts, they discovered the truth: the Ottoman garrison had already abandoned the town mere hours before. A few townsfolk emerged from hiding to report excitedly that around daybreak, the Turkish soldiers packed up and rode out in a hurry. “They were shouting at each other, fearful of being cut off,” one Greek farmer explained. “They said the Byzantines were coming from Zetouni and dared not face you. Their commander ordered a retreat toward Domokos.” However, the Ottomans hadn’t left without mischief, in their parting spite, they had destroyed the small wooden bridge over a ravine on the main road into Neopatras, hoping to delay any pursuers. The gap was narrow, with the stream below still passable, but it forced a brief halt. Constantine soon arrived and surveyed the broken bridge with a grim expression. Engineers assessed the damage; it was quickly decided that infantry could wade through the shallow stream, and the cavalry could find a ford a bit upstream. The artillery, however, would need a temporary plank or causeway. Without wasting time, Andreas ordered wagons dismantled and their planks laid down to create a makeshift crossing. Within an hour, the imperial troops were filing into Neopatras.
As anticipated, Neopatras fell into Byzantine hands without a fight. The reception, however, was no less ecstatic for being bloodless. The citizens of Neopatras, emboldened by the Turks’ flight, threw open their doors and rushed into the streets to greet Constantine’s forces as liberators. Many of these people had suffered under an Ottoman bey for years, and their joy now overflowed. Women ululated from balconies in celebration, and men embraced any Byzantine soldier within reach. Constantine entered the town on horseback but soon dismounted to walk among the people, signaling he came in peace and friendship. He made a point of halting a group of his own eager soldiers who were about to ransack the abandoned Ottoman governor’s residence. “These goods will be inventoried and returned to the people or the state, not looted,” he declared. The men obeyed, and nearby townsfolk, seeing the Emperor’s fairness, bowed with gratitude. One elder approached Constantine with a shy young girl—his granddaughter—and said, “She was born the day the Turks came years ago, and she has never known a free Neopatras until today. God grant you many years, Basileus.” Constantine gently lifted the little girl in his arms so she could see the Imperial banners flying now over her hometown. It was a small moment, but for those who witnessed it, it symbolized the restoration of hope for the next generation.
Evening found the Byzantine camp happily ensconced in and around Neopatras. The imperial banner now fluttered atop the ancient castle, replacing the Ottoman crescent. In the castle’s chapel, a dusty little Orthodox church neglected under Turkish rule, priests and monks gathered to perform a thanksgiving service. Constantine, his officers, and many townspeople crammed into the chapel, whose icons and frescoes glowed in the candlelight once more. Together they sang a doxology, their voices rising with the same hymns their ancestors had sung centuries before within those stone walls. “Χριστὸς Ἀνέστη! – Christ is Risen!” an old priest exclaimed joyously, even though Easter had passed weeks ago. In spirit, it felt like a resurrection of faith and freedom in this town. After prayers, the priests proceeded through the castle and the streets, swinging incense and chanting hymns of deliverance, effectively blessing the old fortress and the entire community, now free of infidels. Soldiers stood at reverent attention as holy water was sprinkled on the gates and walls to cleanse the stain of the Ottoman occupation.
Constantine himself participated earnestly. He held a beeswax candle and followed the cross in procession, reflecting on how rare and precious these moments were, to liberate a fortress and immediately rededicate it to God. When the procession returned to the castle’s courtyard, a priest led the final benediction: “Lord, in former times this stronghold guarded Your people. Today we return it to that sacred purpose. Let this castle of Neopatras stand again as a shield for the faithful. Bless our Emperor and his warriors as You once blessed David against Goliath. Amen.” A resounding “Amen” rolled through soldiers and townsfolk alike. In that twilight hour, with the castle’s ancient stones glowing in lantern light and the distant song of nightingales in the air, many felt a profound assurance that God indeed smiled upon this campaign.
Toward Domokos
The next morning, Neopatras bustled with activity as Constantine’s army prepared for the next phase. The Emperor left a small contingent of troops in the town, both to secure this latest gain and to organize the region’s defense. Local volunteers were enlisted into a militia to help guard the walls, operating under a seasoned Byzantine officer.
By mid-morning, the main host marched out of Neopatras toward the north. Domokos was now their target, the last significant Ottoman-held fortress before the broad plains of Thessaly. The route turned more rugged as they advanced. The army had to ascend into the foothills of Mount Othrys, leaving the gentle Spercheios valley behind. The terrain became a patchwork of scrubby heights, narrow defiles, and rocky outcrops. Here and there, dense thickets of oak and chestnut clung to the hillsides, offering potential cover for foes. Everyone sensed that the easy part of the campaign was ending; unlike the half-abandoned towns behind them, Domokos was likely preparing to fight. Constantine ordered the columns to tighten their formation.
Before long, advance scouts encountered the first signs of Ottoman resistance. Riding ahead on a winding mountain path, a pair of Byzantine scouts suddenly found themselves peppered by arrows from a rocky ridge. An Ottoman scouting party revealed itself, light cavalry archers who had been shadowing the Byzantine movement. One scout took a grazing arrow to his thigh as he and his fellow fell back to warn the main force. Captain Andreas reacted swiftly, dispatching a troop of his own cavalry to chase off the harassers. A brief skirmish ensued in a wooded hollow: the Ottoman scouts, a dozen riders, fired a few volleys, then wheeled their horses and disappeared into the trees, unwilling to be caught. “They’re testing us, probing,” Andreas muttered as he surveyed the treeline. He knew these tactics—the enemy was trying to delay the Byzantines and gather information on their strength.
As the day wore on, more Ottoman scouts darted in and out of contact. At one narrow gorge, a felled tree had been laid across the path, and from above, a small band of Turkish infantry rolled stones down when the Byzantines approached. Shield-bearing infantry rushed forward under Constantine’s orders to cover the engineers, who scrambled to clear the obstruction. Tumbling rocks bruised a few men, but a volley of pyrvelos sent the Ottoman skirmishers scattering. Two were captured after they tripped on the rough ground, trying to flee. Under questioning, these captives revealed they were local conscripts from around Domokos, sent to slow the Byzantines. They spoke of Domokos’s garrison being on high alert, “like a beehive stirred by a stick,” and that messengers had been sent to call for reinforcements from Larissa in the north. Constantine, hearing this report, exchanged a look with Sphrantzes—a relief force could soon challenge them. There was no turning back now, but the window of uncontested advances was clearly closing.
Despite these minor clashes, the Byzantine army pressed on methodically. Constantine dispatched his scouts far and wide: agile Greek mountaineers who knew how to move unseen among the crags, and a few Albanian recruits adept at irregular warfare. These scouts confirmed that no large field army lay ahead, only small bands like those already encountered. However, ominously, columns of smoke were spotted in a few directions. Whether they were signal fires or villages being burned by retreating Turks was unclear. Either way, it was a sign that the Ottomans were actively responding.
By the time the sun began to dip toward the western peaks, Constantine’s forces came within sight of Domokos. The town sat perched on a series of hills overlooking a wide plain stretching north, the beginning of Thessaly. Domokos’s castle was a stout stone structure on the highest point, its walls reflecting the late afternoon sun. Surrounding it was a modest town with a circuit of lower walls hugging the slope. As expected, unlike Zetouni or Neopatras, Domokos showed no sign of surrender. The Ottoman flag fluttered defiantly above the battlements, and even from a distance, the Byzantines could hear the blare of trumpets and war drums from inside. The garrison was making a show of readiness. Small knots of Ottoman cavalry were observed withdrawing through the gates, likely the same scouts and skirmishers falling back to the fortress now that the enemy host had arrived.
Constantine ordered his troops to encamp just out of bowshot from the walls, on a rise that commanded the main road. The Byzantines moved efficiently, well-trained from prior sieges: pikemen and musketeers established a perimeter, while engineers identified good spots to position the cannons come morning. The Emperor rode around the prospective lines, planning carefully. Domokos would not be taken by bluff or surprise; a siege was inevitable. The army had been marching for days, but their resolve only hardened at the prospect. Many remembered the bloody Siege of Livadeia not long past, they were prepared to do the same here if necessary. Still, Constantine decided to give the garrison a chance that night. Through a herald, he called out to the defenders in both Greek and Turkish, offering honorable terms if they capitulated peacefully: “Open your gates, yield the fortress, and no harm shall befall you or the townsfolk. Resist, and you will meet the fate of those who defied us at Livadeia.” His words echoed against the walls. The answer from Domokos was a volley of arrows; clearly, the garrison had chosen to fight.
Constantine accepted the inevitable. He drew his cloak about him as a cool night breeze swept down from the hills. “Prepare for siege operations,” he instructed his generals. “We invest the town at first light.”
The siege
At dawn, the siege of Domokos began in earnest. Constantine’s forces surrounded the town on three sides, leaving only the north facing the Thessalian plain partly open to watch for any relief force. Byzantine cannons, positioned strategically on hillocks southeast and west of the fortress, opened fire with a deafening roar. The Drakos cannon hurled stone balls against the walls, shaking them without yet creating a breach. Ottoman archers and a few arquebusiers retaliated fiercely, arrows and bullets raining down on the Byzantine siege lines. Wooden mantlets rolled forward, shielding Byzantine musketmen and cannon crews who crept closer, picking off defenders on the battlements. Soon, a cacophony filled the air—the deep boom of cannons, the snap of bows, and the crack of muskets mingling with the commanders’ urgent shouts.
Constantine focused his artillery fire on a critical corner tower dominating the town’s gatehouse. Over several days, trenches advanced methodically, bringing Byzantine forces within mere yards of Domokos’s main gate. Inside the fortress, tension mounted. Muslim refugees from the surrounding countryside had flooded into town before the siege began, quickly exhausting food and water supplies. Reports filtered back to Constantine through spies and sympathetic locals, describing mounting unrest. Greek townsfolk resented the Ottoman soldiers’ refusal to surrender, leading to brutal reprisals. The hanging of a Greek merchant who openly wished for rescue hardened Constantine’s resolve, prompting him to remark gravely, “Their fear of us is matched only by their fear of Murad. We must shorten their agony.”
As the bombardment intensified, the targeted corner tower finally crumbled under sustained artillery fire, collapsing into rubble. A cheer arose from the Byzantine lines. Constantine ordered an immediate feigned assault to probe the defenders’ strength. Volunteers stormed forward, briefly raising the imperial banner atop the breach before fierce Ottoman counterattacks forced them to retreat, costing several Byzantine lives.
The soldiers endured several restless nights marked by Ottoman raids. One dark night, Ottoman sipahi cavalry burst from a sally port, aiming for the cannons on the western hillock. However, Constantine had anticipated such moves. Caltrops scattered across the ground halted the attackers’ momentum, sowing confusion among their ranks. Captain Andreas swiftly countered with a spear charge, decisively routing the raiders. Among the captured prisoners was a subashi who grimly revealed the deteriorating morale inside Domokos, hinting that no Ottoman relief might arrive.
Conditions inside Domokos worsened drastically as the siege lines tightened. Fires erupted, some from Byzantine bombardments, others set by desperate defenders trying to obscure Byzantine movements with smoke. Civilians, trapped and starving, began clashing openly with Ottoman soldiers over dwindling provisions.
By midday, a courageous group of Greek civilians attempted escape, sprinting toward the Byzantine lines with makeshift white flags. Smoke swirled behind them. Constantine ordered covering fire, successfully shielding their flight.
Many arrived barefoot and trembling, eyes hollow from hunger. Their accounts, of spreading disease and brutal Ottoman reprisals, deepened Constantine’s urgency to end the siege quickly.
The arrival of a large bombard from Thebes, laboriously positioned within range, marked the siege’s turning point. Its enormous stone balls struck the castle’s main gatehouse, shattering wooden gates and severely weakening the walls. Desperate defenders scrambled to shore up their defenses, but morale had already fallen. The final blow came at dawn when a second thunderous bombard shot fully breached the gatehouse, leaving an opening wide enough for a concerted assault.
With a trumpet’s call, Byzantine troops surged forward, shouting, “ For the Emperor! ” Thomas Palaiologos led the charge into the breach, his guards swinging their swords in fierce combat. Captain Andreas coordinated a flanking assault, swiftly overcoming the remaining defenders around the damaged corner tower. Intense fighting erupted throughout the town and into the inner keep, but Ottoman resistance was soon overwhelmed. By midday, the fortress had fallen, the imperial double-headed eagle proudly unfurled atop the castle.
Constantine solemnly walked through the shattered gate, surveying the high price of victory, piles of rubble, wounded soldiers, and frightened locals. He swiftly ordered discipline, ensuring protection and aid for the townsfolk. Ottoman dead, including their commander, were also buried. Climbing the ruined ramparts, Constantine gazed north across the vast Thessalian plain toward Larissa, aware that the Ottomans would soon respond in force.
As evening approached, Byzantines and townspeople gathered atop Domokos to offer a somber thanksgiving prayer led by a local priest, chanting the Trisagion hymn in memory of the fallen and in gratitude for their hard-won triumph. Constantine joined, quietly firm in his resolve, mindful that greater challenges lay ahead.
Author’s Note:
The latest chapters draw heavy inspiration from the historical campaigns of Constantine Palaiologos in mainland Greece during the years 1444–1445.
In reality, Constantine—then Despot of the Morea—launched an ambitious offensive against Latin and Ottoman-controlled territories in central Greece. He managed to force Nerio II Accianuoli to pay tribute in Athens and Thebes, and with the support of a Burgundian contingent, he pushed deep into Boiotia, Phokis, and even Thessaly.
One particularly striking moment from this campaign was the success of his governor at Vostitza (modern Aigion), Constantine Cantacuzene, who crossed the Gulf of Corinth and liberated towns in western Phokis. The people of Loidoriki were so moved by his leadership that they renamed their town "Cantacuzinopolis" in his honor.
That’s why, in the story, you’ll notice such fervent enthusiasm and joy from the liberated townsfolk—it echoes the genuine spirit of gratitude and hope that real communities expressed during this brief but powerful resurgence of Byzantine arms.
Although these conquests were eventually reversed by Sultan Murad II’s counter-invasion in 1446, they offered a fleeting glimpse of what could have been, and served as perfect narrative fuel for my alternate take on Constantine’s legacy.
Hope you enjoy how history and fiction intertwine!
Next chapter drops Monday as scheduled!
Comments
ioshf fikry
Constantine should post scout around velestino... should the ottomans march along the culf of artemision
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you! You nailed it—when even a subashi starts voicing doubts to the enemy, it’s a clear sign that cracks are forming. The Ottomans might still be strong, but morale is a slippery thing. And yep, Larissa’s no joke. It’s one of those strategic gems that just begs to be fought over. Whoever controls it doesn’t just hold a city—they hold the whole damn gateway to southern Greece. That said… Murad’s not the kind of guy to sit idle and let that happen. The storm’s still coming.
Hugo23
An excellent chapter and really shows how the locals feel about the Ottomans at this time, and the divides within themselves. For a subashi to openly speak to an enemy about morale problems amongst themselves really means that they are shaken. Also Larissa is... a tempting position, a stronghold on a river that just by it's sheer presence means nothing behind it could be held and no army could advance south without taking it.
RENAISSANSE SI
Absolutely! Now we’re really getting into the meat of it. The easy wins are behind them—what’s coming next will test every ounce of grit, planning, and firepower Constantine’s side can muster. Buckle up, the hard part of the campaign is just beginning.
Sir Gideon Ofnir - the All-Knowing
Now the hard part of the campaign starts...
RENAISSANSE SI
That’s a really good question. In contrast to the Livadeia garrison, I wanted this moment to highlight Constantine’s internal tug-of-war with his modern-day morals. Mercy here, brutality there—he’s still figuring out where he stands. Sounds like I didn’t communicate that clearly enough though, so thanks for pointing it out!
RENAISSANSE SI
Right? That whole region’s got layers of history stacked on top of each other. Maybe Caesar’s ghost is watching all this unfold with a smirk
RENAISSANSE SI
Haha yep, it’s Murad’s move now. You’ll get a peek into his POV in the next chapter—he’s not taking this lightly.
Mineseikea
Good chapter but I must ask why he have the ottomans a respectful burial? They oppressed the Greeks and during the siege killed them such as the merchant. Like oh no our enemy that has destroyed our empire, oppressed us and defiled us gets a good burial by our liberating emperor? Kinda the wrong message here, if nothing else if I was one of the Greek citizens I would have demanded the commanders head alongside the other ottoman defenders heads on pikes on the town wall.
ioshf fikry
You know farsala isn't that far from domokos..perhaps Caesar would bless his descendants
russell marsh
Now it's the Turks turn, your move Murad
