EMPIRE REWRITTEN
patreon
Chapter 69: The Siege of Livadeia
🕑 Added 2025-03-17 23:03:16 +0000 UTCIn the pale hours before dawn, Constantine quietly ordered the camp broken. Guided by Theban scouts familiar with the terrain, the Byzantine army slipped silently out of Thebes, beginning its swift march along an ancient Roman road toward Livadeia. To maintain speed, Constantine brought only essential supply carts and the field artillery, leaving the largest bombard in Thebes under a small guard to follow later if necessary.
Over the next two days, the imperial forces moved swiftly and quietly across plains and gentle hills, resting only briefly and marching again at first light. Constantine rode near the vanguard, listening to the rhythmic sounds of marching boots, the creak of leather harnesses, and hushed conversations. On the second evening, Thomas approached him, voice low: “Scouts report clear paths ahead. If fortune favors us, we’ll surprise them yet.” Constantine nodded thoughtfully, anticipation tightening in his chest. A quick and decisive victory at Livadeia would be invaluable; he silently prayed the defenders would choose reason and surrender peacefully.
Two days after their departure, the dawn’s first glow found the Byzantines poised at the outskirts of Livadeia. The town stretched below, nestled in a mist-shrouded valley. Livadeia’s walls appeared gray and gold in the emerging daylight, medieval battlements encircling the town. Dominating the scene, a fortress stood high upon a steep hill, like a crown overlooking the valley. Through the heart of Livadeia ran a shimmering river, catching the first rays of morning sun.
Within moments, alarm bells began to toll from inside the town, the swift approach of Constantine’s army could no longer remain hidden. Though complete surprise had been lost, the Ottomans were clearly unprepared for the rapidity of the Byzantine advance. On the battlements, sentries scrambled hastily to their positions, still bleary-eyed from sleep and visibly shaken by the sudden appearance of thousands of soldiers outside their walls.
Constantine acted swiftly. Before the garrison could fully muster, he ordered his trumpeter to sound a parley. Under a hastily raised white banner, a small party rode forward toward the main gate, an officer sent by Constantine, flanked by a standard-bearer and a translator. Behind them at a distance, cannons were quietly being unlimbered and infantry deploying into formation, though Constantine hoped they would not need to fight.
As the small delegation came within earshot of the gate, the officer raised his voice, his tone carrying the authority of Constantine’s rank: “To the commander of Livadeia! I speak in the name of Constantine, Emperor of the Byzantines. We have come to reclaim this town for our empire. Open your gates and surrender, and you will be treated with mercy. Resist, and you will meet the sword and the cannon. Choose wisely!” His words echoed off the walls.
For a moment, there was silence from the town. Then, a figure emerged atop the gate tower—a stout man in a turban and armor, likely the Ottoman officer in charge. He shouted back in Turkish-accented Greek, “Go back the way you came, Byzantines! This is Ottoman land. Your so-called empire is dust. If you retreat now, we will spare you. Otherwise, we will mount your heads on these walls!” The defiant reply was followed by an arrow loosed from the battlements that whistled well past the officer’s party, more a show of contempt than true aim.
From his position further back, Constantine’s jaw tightened as he saw the refusal clearly communicated. He raised a hand in a curt gesture, signaling the party to return. There would be no more words.
Riding back to his lines, Constantine’s expression was grim beneath his helmet. He met Andreas and Thomas midway, where they waited tensely. “They refuse,” Constantine said simply. Thomas spat, anger flashing in his eyes. “Fools. They could have lived.” Andreas nodded, already turning to signal the artillery crews. “We’ll make them regret that decision, my Emperor.”
Constantine took one last look at Livadeia’s walls and gave the final order: “Bring up the cannons. Commence bombardment.”
With practiced speed, Byzantine engineers moved the cannons into position. They focused on a section of wall to the left of the main gate that looked slightly lower, perhaps an older repair, a potential weak point. The gunners loaded powder and shot into the Drakos cannons.
“Fire!” shouted the artillery captain. A deafening boom shook the morning as the cannons discharged. A cloud of sulfurous smoke enveloped the guns, and all eyes followed the stone balls as they hurtled toward the wall. With a resounding crash and a spray of masonry, one projectile struck near the parapet, knocking loose chunks of stone. Cheers arose from the Byzantine lines. Two more cannons followed, pounding at the heavy wooden gates.
Inside Livadeia, chaos erupted. The Ottoman garrison, perhaps still gathering arms, now rushed to man the walls under fire. They returned fire with arrows and a few sporadic shots from a couple of primitive small culverins, but the suddenness and intensity of the Byzantine barrage clearly rattled them. From the hilltop castle, a tiny muzzle flash signaled that the Ottomans had a cannon of their own—they fired downhill toward the Byzantine lines. The cannonball thudded into the earth harmlessly, well short of the guns. The angle was too steep and the range too far to hit the attackers effectively. “They can’t depress their guns enough to reach us properly!” Andreas laughed, shielding his eyes to watch the castle.
Constantine observed the bombardment with steely focus. Every crash of stone on stone was one step closer to breaching the walls. His hands were clasped behind his back as he paced just behind the gun crews, trusting them to their work. On the walls, he could see the Ottoman commander gesturing frantically, likely urging his men to hold and return fire.
After a week of concentrated bombardment, Livadeia’s outer wall sections were crumbling. Two large holes in the chosen wall segment, one breach was now nearly man-sized, rubble piling at its base. The gate, hammered by repeated hits, sagged on broken hinges. Smoke and dust blanketed the town’s edge, and the morning air stank of gunpowder. Constantine knew it was time. He turned to his trumpeter and nodded. The call for assault rang out, a high clarion cutting through the haze.
“Pyrvelos and Infantry, forward!” Constantine shouted, drawing his sword and taking his place at the head of one formation. The Byzantine soldiers, adrenaline coursing, surged from their cover and rushed the walls with ladders and ropes. Constantine wanted to lead the charge himself, but Andreas firmly insisted that the Emperor stay slightly back to direct the overall attack. Reluctantly, Constantine acceded—his place was to command, though every fiber of him wanted to be shoulder-to-shoulder with his men in the breach. Still, he rode closer now, into the fray just behind the second wave, to see and be seen by his troops as they stormed Livadeia.
The first assault team reached the gaping breach in the wall where the cannons had done their work. Amid swirling dust, Byzantine soldiers clambered over the shattered stone. They met the Ottoman defenders in ferocious hand-to-hand combat on the breach itself. Swords clanged, men shouted in Greek and Turkish alike, and screams of pain mingled with battle cries. An Ottoman spearman thrust at the first man over the rubble, impaling him, but was cut down by a Byzantine right behind his victim. More Imperial troops poured in, fanning out onto the wall walk and the streets just inside the walls.
At the main gate, Thomas’s contingent smashed through the weakened doors with a makeshift battering ram, a felled pine log carried by ten men. The gate burst open with a splintering crash. Thomas himself was among the first through, his sword flashing in the dim light under the gatehouse. Desperate Ottoman troops met them in close combat. Thomas parried a strike from a scimitar, riposting to fell his foe, and pressed onward with a shout: “For the Emperor! Ieros Skopos!” His men echoed his cry, pushing the enemy back step by step.
Soon the city of Livadeia was engulfed in chaos and brutality. Byzantine soldiers flooded the narrow streets, engaging pockets of Ottoman resistance. Some townswomen and children ran for shelter or cowered in doorways as the fight swept through. The local Greek populace, having endured Ottoman rule, mostly hid until the outcome was clear. In some places, bolder civilians even tripped up Ottoman soldiers or pointed hiding enemies out to the invading Byzantines. Here and there, small knots of Ottoman defenders threw down their weapons and attempted to surrender to avoid slaughter. Most of those who yielded were disarmed and corralled under guard, but in the heat of battle, some were cut down regardless—years of pent-up fury were being unleashed. Constantine had ordered mercy for those who surrendered, but controlling bloodlust amid street fighting was nearly impossible.
Within three hours, the town of Livadeia was in Byzantine hands. Constantine entered through the ruined gate on horseback once it was secure enough. The sun was high, illuminating scenes of devastation: bodies littering the breaches and streets, several houses on fire from stray sparks, the air thick with smoke and dust. He saw his banner, the imperial double eagle, being raised atop the central marketplace by a group of soldiers, eliciting ragged cheers from his men and some tearful shouts of joy from Greek townsfolk peeking out from their homes. A sense of grim victory settled over Constantine. Livadeia was taken, far more swiftly than he had feared.
However, above, the castle on the hill still stood defiant. During the fight for the town, the Ottoman garrison’s remnant, perhaps a hundred or more soldiers, along with their commander—had retreated up the steep path to the castle, slamming its gates shut. That citadel, perched on a rocky outcrop, was a fortress within a fortress. It overlooked the town and would be difficult to storm. Even now, as Constantine’s forces began securing Livadeia below, a cannon shot from the castle thundered out, smashing a section of an already ruined house near the town square. It was a futile gesture of defiance; the ball hurt no one, but it was a reminder that the enemy still held the high ground. Archers from the castle also loosed the occasional arrow down, forcing those in the open to take cover.
Constantine surveyed the castle, shielding his eyes with a gauntleted hand. His blood was up from the battle, and he was eager to finish this. “We cannot consider Livadeia truly ours until that castle falls,” he declared to the officers gathering around him. Andreas stepped up, helmet under his arm, face smeared with soot. “I agree, Your Majesty. But that is a damned hard nut to crack. It sits on a sheer hill.” Thomas approached, breathing hard but exhilarated from the fight. He had a shallow cut on his cheek, though he seemed not to notice. “We could starve them out,” he offered. “Surround the hill and wait.”
Sphrantzes walked over, having directed some mopping-up operations. He looked at the castle pensively. “Starvation could take weeks. Time we might not have—any day, an Ottoman relief force could march from the north if they get word.” Constantine frowned. He refused to lose momentum. “No, we cannot afford a long siege here. We must take the castle, and soon. Andreas, bring up the cannons. We’ll haul at least one gun close enough to batter their gate or walls.”
Andreas blinked sweat out of his eyes. “It will be tough, Emperor, to drag a cannon up that slope or even partway. But we’ll try.” He barked orders to some nearby engineers. Soon, with ropes, winches, and sheer muscle, a team of men began the arduous task of moving one of the cannons along the winding path that led partway up the hill, stopping within range of the castle’s main gate. The castle’s defenders realized what was happening and started shooting bolts and rolling rocks downhill in response. The Byzantine cannon crew raised improvised mantlets to protect themselves as best they could.
Meanwhile, Constantine rotated fresh troops to surround the base of the hill, encircling the castle so no one could escape. The siege of Livadeia’s castle had begun in earnest.
Throughout the rest of that day, the Byzantines bombarded the castle sporadically and probed its defenses. The single cannon, positioned precariously on a ledge, managed to fire a few shots that cracked against the castle’s stout walls, but accuracy was poor given the upward angle. Musketeers tried to pick off any exposed defender on the battlements, but the Ottomans wisely kept their heads low. An attempt at negotiation, shouting up offers of surrender terms, was answered only by curses and another cannon shot from the castle that smashed apart the Byzantines’ makeshift mantlet, killing two engineers behind it. Constantine seethed at the refusal. He saw the Ottoman flag still fluttering atop the castle tower and resolved it would come down or the structure would be torn stone from stone.
As dusk fell on the first day of the castle siege, the Byzantines made their first assault. Under cover of darkness, a group of volunteer soldiers, mainly Thebans and a few of Thomas’s men, attempted to scale a less-guarded side of the hill using ropes and grapnels. They moved quietly, cloaked in black against the night. Constantine watched from below, tense. For a few minutes, it seemed they might reach the walls undetected. But a sentry’s torch high above suddenly flared, and a shout rang out in Turkish—alarm. The defenders had spotted movement. At once, a hail of arrows rained down. Cries echoed in the darkness as some of the Byzantines were hit, their bodies tumbling down the rocky slope. The rest of the party retreated hastily, dragging their wounded with them. The attempt had failed.
Frustration mounted through the next day. Constantine ordered constant bombardment at first light. Finally, by afternoon, the repeated pounding partially shattered the wooden gate, and one section of wall nearby showed a crack. Seeing this, Constantine readied a second assault. He personally rallied three hundred men, some of his best swordsmen and armored infantry, under Captain Andreas’s direct command, to storm the damaged gate. The assault would go up the main path, using mantlets and shields to guard against arrow fire as much as possible. Thomas volunteered to lead as well, but Constantine chose Andreas, reasoning that Thomas had already done much and that another capable leader could take this dangerous task. Andreas accepted with a pleasure nod, drawing his sword with a flourish.
At Constantine’s signal, war drums beat and a horn sounded. Andreas’s assault party trudged up the steep path toward the castle gate in tight formation, carrying a large mantlet in front like a moving wall. Arrows and quarrels peppered it, a few finding gaps and striking men who cried out. The steep incline made the approach agonizingly slow. Partway up, a huge stone hurtled down from the battlements, crashing into the formation and knocking several men off their feet with bone-breaking force. The rest pushed on, stepping over their fallen comrades. Constantine watched with bated breath from below, his fist clenched so tightly on his sword hilt that his knuckles went white.
At last, Andreas and his troops reached the shattered gate of the castle. With a roar, they threw aside the mantlet and rushed through the splintered opening into the courtyard beyond. For a moment, Constantine lost sight of them within the castle. He could only hear the clash of steel and screams echoing down the hill. Time stretched unbearably. Then a shout: someone atop the wall waved a torch—one of Andreas’s men. A cheer went up from the Byzantines below as they realized the attackers had gained a foothold.
But the victory was not yet complete. The castle interior was a labyrinth of keep, towers, and narrow passages. The Ottomans fought like cornered wolves from one building to the next. Sphrantzes hurried to Constantine’s side, an anxious look on his face. “We must send reinforcements, Majesty. If Andreas’s men are isolated in there…” Without waiting for permission, Thomas had already begun to rally another wave to go support Andreas. Constantine quickly assented and sent Thomas leading another two hundred men up the path.
It took over two hours of brutal, close-quarters fighting, but by sunset, Livadeia’s castle fell. Captain Andreas himself, bloodied and limping from a gash in his thigh, hauled down the Ottoman flag from the tower and raised the imperial banner in its place. A triumphant shout carried across the valley as those below saw the symbol of victory. Constantine closed his eyes briefly in relief. It was done—Livadeia, town and castle, was back in Byzantine hands.
The cost, however, had been high. As night fell, the army’s mood turned somber when the casualty reports came in. Over 164 Byzantine soldiers lay dead, scattered from the breaches of the town to the courtyard of the castle, and around 200 more were wounded—some gravely, unlikely to see another dawn. Fires were lit as medics and priests moved among the injured. The groans of the hurt and dying created a melancholy chorus beneath the celebratory shouts of a few hours earlier.
Constantine walked the makeshift infirmary set up in Livadeia’s churchyard, his face drawn. He bore each loss personally. Here was a young pikeman clutching a blood-soaked bandage where an arrow had pierced his shoulder; there, an older officer staring sightlessly at the sky, having bled out despite the tourniquet on his thigh. Constantine knelt by a boy no older than seventeen writhing from a gut wound. The boy tried to rise upon recognizing the Emperor, but Constantine gently pressed him back. “Rest, son. Rest. You have done enough,” he whispered, taking the boy’s trembling hand. The lad’s eyes brimmed with tears—of pain, or of apology for failing; Constantine could not tell. He stayed until a medic arrived with herbs to ease the suffering.
Finally, Constantine arrived in the castle’s courtyard, where the final fight had occurred. The stone ground was slick with blood. Bodies of Ottoman defenders lay strewn about, alongside a fair number of Byzantine dead. Soldiers were piling the enemy corpses on one side, while carefully laying out their own fallen comrades on the other for last rites. In the flickering torchlight, Constantine’s fury began to boil over. These losses… so many good men lost, lives that would never return to their families. And why? Because a stubborn garrison refused a merciful offer. They could have surrendered Livadeia that morning and walked away with their lives. Instead, they had cost him dearly.
Thomas, who had been overseeing the casualty count, approached with anger in his voice. “They made us pay in blood for every stone. They should pay in kind.” He nudged one of the Ottoman prisoners kneeling under guard—a handful of wounded and captured had survived the castle’s fall, perhaps twenty or thirty in all. Those prisoners looked terrified, and well they might be; some Byzantine soldiers guarding them were eyeing them with barely restrained hatred, swords still drawn.
Constantine’s first impulse was to order them all executed on the spot, a sacrifice to the slain Byzantines lying nearby. He stepped toward the prisoners. One Ottoman, clutching a bandaged arm, met Constantine’s gaze and spat on the ground, murmuring something in Turkish that sounded defiant. Rage flared in Constantine’s chest. He actually reached for his sword hilt, and the captives cowered, expecting a death blow.
Captain Andreas, limping but present, swiftly intervened. He moved close to Constantine and said in a low but urgent tone, “Your Majesty, a word.” Constantine paused, barely holding his anger in check. “Speak,” he hissed, not taking his eyes off the Ottomans. Andreas continued, “They deserve death, that’s certain. But perhaps there’s a better way, one that sends a message louder than corpses.” Constantine turned to him, brow furrowed, saying nothing yet. Andreas went on carefully, “I think of Emperor Basil II, after he defeated the Bulgars. He did not simply kill the prisoners. He blinded them, leaving one in a hundred with a single eye to lead the rest home. It was a merciful punishment compared to death, perhaps… but also a powerful message. The enemy’s king nearly died of shock when he saw his men return blind.”
Sphrantzes overheard this and stepped forward, his expression troubled. “Basil II… indeed did that. But it was a cruel act.” His voice was soft, cautionary. Constantine’s eyes narrowed as he weighed Andreas’s suggestion. The thought of replicating Basil’s infamous deed made his stomach twist; such deliberate cruelty was not something he had ever expected to consider. Yet, as he looked around at the corpse-littered courtyard and thought of all the families that would grieve tonight because of this obstinate garrison, his heart hardened. If a harsh lesson now could save hundreds of lives later by compelling other garrisons to surrender without a fight, was that not worth it? And these men before him, they had chosen to fight to the bitter end.
Thomas nodded in agreement with Andreas. “Fear is a weapon too, brother. Let all who oppose us hear what befell those who cost us dearly.” Some other officers murmured assent; the tale of Basil II’s brutal justice, though from centuries past, remained legendary among them. The message it sent was one of dread inevitability.
Constantine exhaled slowly, coming to a decision. “Very well,” he said, voice like iron. He would temper vengeance with cold logic. “Captain Andreas is right. We will make an example.” He raised his voice so those around could hear. “These prisoners will not be executed. Instead… blind them.” A hush fell as soldiers and prisoners alike processed the words. One captive began to wail in horror, begging in broken Greek for mercy. A few of Constantine’s men looked uneasy, but Thomas barked, “You heard the Emperor. You’d rather avenge your brothers with a clean death for these curs? No, they deserve worse.”
Under Constantine’s hard stare, the soldiers moved to carry out the order. It was a grisly business. Sphrantzes, unable to watch, turned away. One by one, the Ottoman captives were pinned down. A burly sergeant with a dagger stepped forward. For each prisoner, he carefully slid the blade across the eyes, mercifully quick, severing sight. Some of the prisoners fainted from shock; others screamed until their voices cracked. A few Byzantine soldiers looked pale at the task, but none protested openly. They all knew the Emperor’s will, and the memory of their fallen comrades was fresh and raw.
As Andreas had recounted, Basil II left one man in each hundred one-eyed. Here, the captives were far fewer. Constantine decided to spare one man’s sight in part: the Ottoman commander himself, who had been captured alive though wounded. That defiant officer who had insulted Constantine from the walls now had to be dragged before him, held up on his knees. “Open one of his eyes,” Constantine ordered coldly. The commander howled as the knife did its work—one eye gouged completely, the other mercifully only half-destroyed so he retained blurred vision. Shaking with pain, the Ottoman glared at Constantine through his remaining bloody eye. Constantine leaned down and spoke in broken Turkish: “Go. Find your way back to your Sultan. Tell him what happens to those who defy us.” The man, sobbing, was cast out of the castle gates along with the other blinded prisoners. The Byzantines gave each surviving captive a long stick to feel their way. The sun had fully set, and in the darkness, the group of maimed men fumbled and stumbled away down the road, guided by the half-blind officer’s weak sight and the sticks feeling the path. The echoes of their anguished cries faded into the night.
A terrible quiet lingered after the deed. Constantine’s face was as stone, but inside, a tempest of emotions raged. He told himself this cruelty was necessary, that it might save lives by avoiding future stubborn sieges. Yet part of him recoiled at having ordered such suffering. He recalled Basil II was revered as the Bulgar-Slayer; his act had broken the will of Bulgaria for generations. So must we break the Ottomans’ will, he thought, if the Empire is to be reborn. Steeling himself, he silently vowed that this grim measure would be the exception, not the rule—he would always prefer a swift surrender to such brutality.
Captain Andreas placed a fist to his chest. “It is done, Majesty. Word of this will spread like wildfire. I suspect the next garrison will think twice.” Constantine simply nodded. Thomas showed no remorse, only a fierce satisfaction. Sphrantzes approached quietly, his face drawn. The advisor did not speak of the blinding; instead, he said softly, “The men are asking your leave to begin burying our dead, sire.” Constantine’s expression crumpled with sorrow for a moment, the façade of wrath giving way. “Yes… yes, of course. See that they are honored and given proper rites. They died for the empire’s rebirth.” He then turned to practical matters. “We’ll rest the troops here for a day or two. Tend to the wounded. And ensure Livadeia is secured—post watch on the roads. If any Ottoman relief columns are coming, we must know.”
Over the next day, Livadeia transformed from a battlefield into a brief haven. The townsfolk, seeing the Byzantine soldiers now firmly in control and the Turkish soldiers gone or dead, emerged to offer what aid they could. Women brought bread, wine, and clean water for the wounded. Old men helped dig graves outside the walls for the fallen. A priest held a somber funeral service at dusk for the Byzantine dead, hundreds of soldiers bowing their heads in respect as prayers for the departed rose to the heavens. Constantine attended in person, kneeling at the front, tears glinting in his eyes as the names of notable fallen were read. He made sure to speak to many soldiers that day, comforting those who had lost comrades and praising acts of valor.
George supervised the redistribution of ammunition and supplies. Andreas organized the garrisoning of Livadeia, leaving a contingent of one hundred men, mostly local volunteers and a few soldiers unfit for rapid marching due to wounds, to hold the town and rebuild its defenses. The walls could be repaired in time; the main army had to move forward.
As the army prepared to depart two days later, Constantine held a final meeting with his inner circle on the castle ramparts overlooking the rolling countryside to the north. The consequences of the victory at Livadeia were already unfolding: delegations from nearby villages had come to pledge loyalty to the Emperor, bearing gifts of cheese, grain, and a few oxen.
“It begins,” Sphrantzes said with a hopeful smile. “The people believe in us. They see we can win.”
Constantine remained cautious but pleased. “We must make sure we do not betray that belief. We will protect them from retribution.” He also knew these popular uprisings could provoke a fierce Ottoman backlash if not shielded. Time was pressing. They had to secure more strongholds before the Sultan sent a large force south.
From the ramparts they could see distant plumes of smoke—signals, perhaps, from Ottoman beacons or fleeing soldiers. Word of Livadeia’s fall and the horrifying punishment dealt to its garrison would travel fast. Constantine traced a line on the horizon with his finger. “Our next target lies there: Bodonitsa.” He turned to his assembled officers. “Have the men break camp. We march within the hour.”
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Yep, Bodonitsa is pretty close to the Hot Gates! It’s a strategically important spot, especially for controlling movement through the region. Definitely a place to keep an eye on
RENAISSANSE SI
Glad you're enjoying the chapters! Great question—I'll be posting a map of the region with the next chapter so you can follow the campaign more easily.
RENAISSANSE SI
Thanks for the edits!
RENAISSANSE SI
Glad you enjoyed the chapter! You're right—Constantine has to work with what he has, but he’s definitely thinking ahead. A proper mortar would be a game-changer, especially against those pesky hilltop fortifications. Let’s see how fast he can push artillery development!
RENAISSANSE SI
Thanks!
RENAISSANSE SI
Constantine will surely try his best to restore Rome’s glory! As for reaching America… well, let’s just say there are plenty of challenges to handle closer to home first. But who knows?
Andy Worcester
I'm guessing Bodonitsa is important as it's located near the Hot Gates.
Sweetlaxer
Awesome last couple of chapters! Is there a good map that you recommend to follow the campaign?
Pearl of the Orient
news of Basil II’s deed Remove "news of" the Bulgar Slayer’s deeds are ancient history by this point.
Pearl of the Orient
pleasure nod Pleased nod. Pleasure nod implies a sex act being performed, which is not the tone of the entire story
RENAISSANSE SI
Glad you enjoyed it! And yeah, Murad definitely not going to ignore this one... Things are only going to get more intense from here!
Empty Crate
And so goes the campaign that will harken Constantine the Turk Slayer and restorer of the Empire!
russell marsh
Do what must be done show no hesitation show no mercy
Ben Robbins
TFTC. TBH, Constantine did what he had to in the context of the time. He needs a to think about a mortar and/or a howitzer to deal with higher elevation fortifications.
Elaine
good chappie
Mineseikea
For the glory of ROME. Maybe it will be to much to expect but I hope Constantine manages to restore the Roman Empire to it’s heights and start colonization of America. I also hope he destroys Islam and burns Mecca to the ground and destroy their ugly stone.
Hugo23
I have a sneaking suspicion that this will make Murad take Constantine more seriously.... An excellent chapter to be sure!
