EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Chapter 72: Through the Hot Gates
🕑 Added 2025-03-27 13:37:43 +0000 UTCAt first light, Emperor Constantine’s army broke camp at Bodonitsa. A small garrison of Byzantine troops and local volunteers remained behind to hold the newly won fortress, but the primary host now turned north.
Before the march, Orthodox priests walked among the ranks, swinging incense and sprinkling holy water. One gray-bearded archimandrite held aloft a gilded icon of the Theotokos, Mother of God, its painted face catching the dawn’s glow. Soldiers and officers alike crossed themselves as the clergy chanted prayers for protection.
Constantine removed his helmet and bowed his head to receive a final blessing; the priest touched the icon to the Emperor’s forehead and murmured, “May the Lord guard your coming and going.” Thus consecrated, the army stepped forward, banners with the double-headed eagle unfurling in the morning breeze.
They entered the fabled pass of Thermopylae, the “Hot Gates” of legend. Steep slopes of Mount Kallidromon still pressed close on their left, while to the right the land slanted away toward reed‑cloaked marshes and the glimmering Aegean Sea. Time, however, had softened the choke point’s grip: what once funneled ancient hoplites shoulder‑to‑shoulder had broadened into a rough roadway wide enough for wagons to negotiate, though the cliffs remained near enough for travelers to feel their stony weight. Centuries of mudslides and neglect had choked parts of the old road, forcing Constantine’s engineers to labor at clearing fallen boulders and felling a few scraggly pines that blocked the way.
Warm sulfuric steam drifted from hidden hot springs, carrying the faint smell of brimstone. Many in the column grew silent with awe or curiosity; they all knew this was the hallowed ground where, long ago, a brave few had held off the hordes of an eastern invader.
Constantine rode near the vanguard, leading on horseback under the imperial standard. As hooves and boots trod the ancient earth, he found himself reflecting on those ancient heroes. Leonidas and his Spartans had shed their blood here against the Persians; now, nearly two millennia later, Greek soldiers marched again through Thermopylae to face another eastern empire. He wondered if the spirits of those warriors watched them now. Captain Andreas ordered a halt at one particularly tight bend where the cliffs loomed oppressively.
Scouts jogged ahead, eyes peeled for any sign of an Ottoman ambush. None came, the enemy had melted away from the pass. Still, Andreas directed a team of engineers to shore up a crumbling ledge so the cannons could be brought through safely. Men strained with ropes and levers to maneuver the heavy Drakos field cannons along the treacherous path, inch by inch.
Despite the difficulties, morale was high. Soldiers exchanged grins and remarks about how the Turks must be quaking beyond the mountains. Even the grizzled veterans admitted it felt as if God’s favor was guiding their steps; each obstacle overcome in the Hot Gates was a victory in itself.
By midday, Constantine’s army emerged from the northern end of the pass onto broader ground. The rugged defile opened into rolling terrain, and far ahead across a fertile plain they could see their next objective, Zetouni.
Known to the ancients as Lamia, this town and its fortress guarded the approach to Thessaly. Constantine paused at a rocky outcrop overlooking the plain. He raised an arm, signaling a brief rest while the columns re-formed. As men caught their breath and adjusted their armor, the Emperor gazed out at Zetouni’s distant walls and the shimmering Gulf of Lamia beyond. That narrow gateway had once been a grave for heroes; today it had delivered the Byzantines into the heart of central Greece.
Behind him, the long line of troops and wagons snaked out of the mountain shadows, stirring dust under the midday sun. Constantine allowed himself one deep breath of the open air. The hardest part of the march was over, now the liberation of Zetouni awaited.
Liberation of Zetouni
The approach to Zetouni was cautious but swift. Constantine dispatched advance scouts on horseback to probe the roads leading to the town. They found no organized resistance – only a few abandoned Ottoman outposts and watch fires still smoldering.
A surprising scene unfolded as the imperial army drew within sight of Zetouni’s walls later that afternoon. Instead of facing arrows, the Byzantines saw the town gates already ajar and Greek townspeople crowding the battlements.
The flag of the Ottoman garrison had been lowered and was nowhere to be seen. In its place, locals had draped improvised banners bearing the cross and even a crude rendition of the Byzantine double-headed eagle hastily painted on cloth. When Constantine’s gold and crimson banners came into view, a great cheer rose from the walls.
Townsfolk waved handkerchiefs, olive branches, and even icons held high in thanksgiving. It seemed the Ottoman soldiers had fled in the night, unwilling to face the advancing Byzantine army. The garrison’s flight was so hasty that they left behind crates of arrows and half-cooked meals on their hearths. Many had thrown off their uniforms to mingle with fleeing refugees heading north.
Cautiously, Captain Andreas led a vanguard detachment through the open gate. They were met not with an ambush but with tearful laughter and outstretched hands. Greeks of Zetouni – men, women, and children – pressed forward to welcome their liberators.
A few Ottoman stragglers who hadn’t escaped lay bound and disarmed in the streets, captives of the locals who had overpowered them once news spread that the Turks were abandoning the town. The Emperor entered on horseback, flanked by Thomas and George Sphrantzes, to the peal of the town’s church bell ringing joyously.
One by one, soldiers removed their helmets, astonished and moved by the greeting. Elderly women approached to kiss Constantine’s stirrup and the hem of his red cloak, thanking him through happy sobs. Young boys scampered alongside the horses, trying to touch the soldiers’ spears as if in awe of heroes from legend.
Constantine dismounted in the central square, which a stone church and a modest old Roman-era fountain dominated. As his boots touched Greek soil, now free of Ottoman rule, he knelt and made the sign of the cross. The crowd hushed as the Emperor bowed his head in prayerful gratitude; the only sound was the crackle of a few torches and the distant call of a freed dove flying above.
Among those who stepped forward to greet the Emperor was the local priest of Zetouni, Father Nikolaos. Clutching a brass-handled cross to his chest, the priest’s eyes brimmed with tears of joy. He offered Constantine a loaf of bread and salt in the traditional Greek welcome. “Your Imperial Majesty,” Father Nikolaos said, voice trembling with emotion, “welcome to Zetouni, liberated by God’s grace.
We have prayed for this day.” Constantine rose and embraced the elderly priest, who smelled of incense and candlewax. “Father, we come as fellow Greeks and Christians, not as conquerors. We thank you for your welcome,” the Emperor replied warmly. At that, more cheers echoed off the stone houses of the square.
As soldiers moved to secure the empty Turkish barracks and organize billets, Constantine drew Father Nikolaos and his top officers aside on the steps of the church. They spoke in low tones amid the jubilant chaos.
The priest, still catching his breath from excitement, relayed what he knew of the situation in the region. Neopatras, he explained, was ripe for liberation next. “My Emperor,” Nikolaos said, pointing westward, “the fortress of Neopatra lies only a short march from here, in the hills beyond the Spercheios River.
The Ottoman garrison there is small and vulnerable. Not long ago, many of their soldiers were withdrawn north to Thessaly and Epirus. Rumor has it they were sent to reinforce against Albanian rebels or perhaps to bolster Larissa. Only a token force remains in Neopatras – two score of men or so – and they are demoralized.” The priest’s eyes shone as he added, “If you strike soon, they will surely flee or surrender as we saw here. The Turks are in disarray, fleeing before your banner.”
George Sphrantzes stepped forward, ever the practical advisor, and asked quietly, “Father, have there been any other Ottoman movements we should know of? Any forces gathering nearby, or strongholds still holding firm?”
Father Nikolaos nodded thoughtfully. “We have heard that garrisons in smaller villages to the east have pulled out, heading either to Domokos or back toward Thessaly. The Turks seem to be abandoning the countryside in panic. Only the larger forts with substantial troops, like Domokos to the north, remain manned. And even there, they say the enemy is shaken by how quickly you have advanced.” The priest’s face grew solemn. “But take heed, Emperor—some Turks have vowed scorched earth as they retreat. In villages a day’s ride east, they burned crops and took revenge on Greek peasants when news of Bodonitsa’s fall reached them. Evil still lurks even in retreat.” Constantine’s jaw tightened at that; the thought of his people suffering retaliation weighed on him. He placed a reassuring hand on Nikolaos’s shoulder. “Thank you, Father. Your counsel – and the courage of your flock – will not be forgotten. We will be on guard.”
As dusk settled, Constantine convened a quick council with his key commanders in the town square, beneath a hastily raised imperial banner. The sweet smell of incense from a thanksgiving service inside the church mingled with the smoke of victory bonfires lit by citizens on the ramparts.
The Emperor’s face was illuminated by torchlight as he addressed George Sphrantzes, Captain Andreas, and his brother Thomas. “The tide of fortune seems to be turning,” Constantine began, his voice measured but carrying a current of emotion. “In a matter of days, we have marched through Thermopylae and taken Zetouni without a fight.
Our enemy flees at our approach. Thanks be to God, the vision of a free Greece no longer seems a distant dream but is happening before our very eyes.” He gestured around at the celebrating town. “Every village that raises our flag, every church bell ringing freely, is a sign that the long night of occupation is receding.”
He paused, scanning the faces of his officers. By the torchlight, Thomas’s young face was flush with excitement, Andreas appeared steadfast and attentive, and Sphrantzes’s eyes gleamed with cautious optimism. Constantine continued, voice ringing louder so that nearby soldiers and townsfolk could hear as well: “But we must not grow complacent.
For every step we take forward, the Ottoman Sultan’s anger grows. We are entering lands long under the Turk’s yoke; with each liberated town, we strike a blow to his pride and power. He will not remain idle. The shifting tides can easily shift again if we are reckless.” The Emperor’s gaze drifted upward for a moment as if seeing beyond the dark sky. “When we set out, many thought us foolish or desperate. Now, the impossible is becoming reality. See how God favors our cause, yet we must show ourselves worthy of His aid.
Our forefathers defended these lands with blood; now it falls to us to reclaim them with wisdom and courage.” The assembled men thumped their fists to their breastplates or nodded firmly, moved by his words.
After this brief speech, Constantine turned to his inner circle for their counsel on the next steps. He trusted these men to voice honest opinions. Thomas, his youngest brother, could barely contain his eagerness. “Brother, this is our chance to press our advantage!”
Thomas exclaimed, eyes bright. He pointed in the direction of Neopatras and beyond. “The Turks are on the run. If we strike Neopatras at first light, we’ll catch that feeble garrison before they can either fortify or flee with all their loot. And beyond Neopatras lies the road to Domokos and Thessaly. We can keep this momentum and perhaps free all of Greece up to Larissa before the Sultan can react. It’s a golden opportunity.” Thomas spoke quickly, slicing the air with his hand for emphasis. His enthusiasm was infectious; a few nearby officers murmured agreement, inspired by the prospect of continuing the string of victories.
George Sphrantzes cleared his throat gently, the man’s measured voice providing a counterpoint. “Your Majesty, our progress is indeed heartening, but Thomas speaks of a rapid advance – I feel compelled to raise the matter of logistics.” He glanced at the Emperor and around the circle. “We have pushed far from our original bases in the Morea in a short time. Our supply lines now stretch back through Livadeia and Thebes, all the way south. Every new stronghold we take needs a garrison left behind, which thins our ranks for the field. Food and ammunition must be brought up to sustain us. We should ensure that Livadeia, Bodonitsa, and now Zetouni are secure and provisioned before moving further. Perhaps we should send messengers back to Thebes or Glarentza to organize supply caravans, and to bring any reserve troops forward.” He gave a polite nod to Thomas. “We all wish to capitalize on this success, but if our men run out of bread or powder in the mountains, enthusiasm alone won’t carry the day.” Sphrantzes’s words brought a sober hush; some of the junior officers looked at one another, realizing they had been riding a wave of adrenaline that might not last forever.
Captain Andreas weighed in next, his voice gravelly from years of barking orders on the battlefield. “We’ve dealt the enemy a strong blow, that’s certain. But George is right—we can’t ignore our rear. Also, consider the risk: an Ottoman force could be lurking out there,” he gestured toward the dark silhouettes of hills to the north and west, “waiting to catch us overextended. Perhaps some force from Domoko or Thessaly might try to cut our supply road at Thermopylae, trapping us up here. We’ve been lucky that the garrisons lost their nerve so far. At Domokos, the enemy may decide to fight hard, and Murad could send cavalry raiders behind us.” He folded his arms across his chest. “In short, we must be bold and careful. Taking Neopatras seems low risk given what Father Nikolaos reports, and it will further secure our flank. But before any push beyond that, I’d scout aggressively. We should send our best scouts out toward Domokos and even towards the Thessalian plain tonight, under cover of darkness, to learn what we can of enemy movements.”
Constantine listened to each in turn, nodding thoughtfully. Thomas’s boldness, George’s logistical prudence, Andreas’s caution, all were valid and valuable points. The Emperor felt a swell of pride in this small council; they were not sycophants, but loyal men giving him honest counsel, just as he needed.
At last he spoke, making the decision. “Thomas is right that we cannot afford to lose momentum—Neopatras will be our next objective, and immediately. We march at dawn.” Thomas grinned and thumped his fist to his chest. “However,” Constantine added, “we will do so with our eyes open. George, begin organizing wagons here in Zetouni to gather grain, salted meat, anything the townsfolk can spare for the army. We’ll repay them justly later. Also dispatch riders back to Bodonitsa and Livadeia to report our success and to urge them to send forward any supplies they can. Andreas, you have leave to send out scouts at once. Pick men who know the local terrain; perhaps Father Nikolaos can suggest some locals to guide them. I want to know what lies between Neopatras and Domokos—if any Ottoman forces are rallying.” Constantine placed his hands on his belt and concluded firmly, “Tonight we rest behind Zetouni’s walls and tend to the troops. At first light, with God’s blessing, we set out to liberate Neopatras. From there, we’ll judge the best course into Thessaly.”
The plan set, the council broke up. Before they dispersed, Father Nikolaos led a short prayer there in the torch-lit square, thanking God for the bloodless victory at Zetouni and asking divine guidance for the battles ahead. Soldiers began lighting campfires and sharing humble dinners provided by the grateful townspeople. As Constantine made his way to a small house offered for his lodging, he noted the mixture of relief and determination on everyone’s faces. The tide truly had turned, the only question was how far it would carry them.
Note: Surprise! A bonus chapter is dropping soon—yep, aside from the regularly scheduled one coming Monday.
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Hey, that's a really cool observation—I’ll definitely look into it! I love when readers bring in this kind of detail, especially with geology and historical geography. Appreciate you pointing it out!
Thara
From my geological understanding, Thermopylae shouldn’t be a pass anymore, with the sediment from the river constantly deposited, the shoreline has retreated significantly and by today the shore is some 3-4 kilometres away at the no narrowest point, considering that it has been 2500 years from time of the legendary battle to today and about 2000 years to the timeline date, the pass should be more like an open plain some 1.5-2 kilometres wide at the narrowest. Otherwise this is a very good chapter and I eagerly await how the Sultan responds to the advance.
RENAISSANSE SI
Yeap—that is the long-term goal: push the army closer to a 17th-century force, more in line with a Gustavus Adolphus-style army. Right now, it's kind of a hybrid between Spanish Tercio structure and early Swedish innovation. But yeah, mass-producing better muskets and cannons at speed and scale? Super hard in a late medieval economy/tech. It’s gonna take time—smiths, infrastructure, resources, logistics—all that good stuff. As for the rest… oh, we’re definitely going to explore those areas. The West, the East, the ideological clash, the rise and fall of false emperors and fractured faiths—it’s all coming.
Mineseikea
Well, luck runs dry however it can’t be to bad otherwise he would lose everything. It’s nothing else Constantine needs to reform his army to become more 1700. Where every man hade a musket. If he can give some advice on how to make them more accurate it would be fantastic. But that’s for the future. Bottom line is that he needs more guns and canons and more smiths making them. That is the secret to victory. Hope the Albanians can keep the ottomans occupied and that the false western emperor and his false empire falls to Constantine after he’s done taking back the east and making it Christian. Not to mention broken Islam so that they will never be a threat again.
RENAISSANSE SI
Totally fair to be nervous—Constantine's early success is impressive, but let’s be honest... he didn’t just roll the dice and get lucky. He saw the opening when Turahan marched into Albania and took it. But yeah… the Ottomans aren’t going to sit back and let him carve up Thessaly forever. The reply is coming—so enjoy the wins while they last. 👀
russell marsh
I'm nervous, if it's looks to good to be true then it's probably is.
