EMPIRE REWRITTEN
patreon
Chapter 68: The Road to Livadeia
🕑 Added 2025-03-13 22:56:34 +0000 UTCConstantine rode at the head of his column, the early sping sun casting long shadows over the dusty road from Glarentza. His cape fluttered in the breeze as he glanced back at the men following him. They had departed from Glarentza at first light, leaving behind the glittering Ionian Sea, and now every mile East felt heavier underfoot. Yet there was purpose in their steps. Constantine could sense it in the determined silence of the column and the way even the tired men kept pace. The Emperor himself bore an immense weight on his shoulders: the fate of a reborn empire rested on this campaign, and each stride took them closer to Ottoman-held lands.
As they passed the hill town of Chalandritsa, a small cheer went up. A contingent of local militia and conscripts waited by the roadside under a tattered banner. These were hardy men of Achaea, perhaps a hundred in all, eager to join the imperial army. Constantine raised his hand in greeting, allowing himself a faint smile. Their commander bowed stiffly, sweat beading on his brow. “Your Majesty, Chalandritsa sends what men it can,” the man said, voice hoarse but proud. Constantine nodded in gratitude. “Every man counts. Join our ranks,” he replied. The newcomers fell in line, earning claps on the back from the imperial soldiers.
Two days later, the column wound through the pine-clad hills toward Kalavryta. The sound of a distant horn echoed off the slopes as they approached the town’s stone fortress perched above green hills. Suddenly, riders emerged from the gates, at their head Thomas Palaiologos, Constantine’s younger brother. Thomas wore a broad grin beneath his helmet, and behind him trailed 800 troops in neat formation. When the brothers met, they clasped forearms tightly.
“It is good to see you safe, brother,” Constantine said, voice warm. He looked Thomas up and down, noting the dust on his armor from riding. Thomas laughed lightly. “And you, Emperor. I wouldn’t miss this fight for the world. Me and my man stand with you.” He gestured back at his troops, roughly organized into companies of spearmen and light cavalry. Constantine’s eyes shone with gratitude. He knew Thomas had marched these men quickly from their mountain homes to rendezvous here. “With your 800 and the others gathering, our cause grows stronger,” Constantine replied. He lowered his voice, just for Thomas. “But your presence means even more to me. We fight together, as family—united.” Thomas placed a gloved hand on Constantine’s shoulder. “Always, my Emperor—always, my brother.” The brief moment of affection passed, and both turned to the practical matters of merging their forces.
By late afternoon, the expanded army continued northward. Thomas rallying the newcomers with youthful enthusiasm, veteran captains coordinating supplies, and Constantine himself riding up and down the line exchanging encouraging words. With Captain Andreas to Corinth to prepare the way, Constantine relied more on his own presence to guide the men. He remembered a lesson from years past: an emperor must share in the hardship of his soldiers. So he paused often to walk beside the infantry, leading his horse rather than riding.
The Fires of Corinth
Four days later, the imperial army approached Corinth. As they trudged along the isthmus road, the Acrocorinth, Corinth’s mountain fortress, loomed into view, crowned with fortifications glinting in the late sun. Below it sprawled the city of Corinth. The gates opened, and Captain Andreas dismounted and knelt briefly as Constantine came forward.
“Rise, my friend,” Constantine said, also dismounting. The two clasped each other in a quick embrace. Andreas’s armor smelled of forge-smoke and oil. “Welcome to Corinth, Emperor,” Andreas said formally, then broke into a grin. “You’ve made good time. We’ve been busy readying things here.”
The Emperor’s arrival was greeted with cheers from the Corinth garrison and townsfolk lining the streets. New barracks of timber and whitewashed stone flanked the road, and hundreds of local troops stood at attention. Constantine raised an arm in salute as he passed. Reviewing the garrison, he noted their neat uniforms and their newly forged pikes and swords. These were not the tattered, demoralized Byzantines of years past, these were rejuvenated soldiers, chests proud, resolved to defend their empire. Pride swelled in Constantine’s chest at the sight of them. Many were young men of Corinth and nearby villages who had grown up under the shadow of Ottoman raids, now finally given a chance to fight back.
Andreas led Constantine and Thomas through the bustling military quarter. The air rang with the clang of hammers on anvils. They soon arrived at the new forges for cannons, built just outside the city walls along a diverted stream. “We finished construction on these forges only a few months ago,” Andreas explained over the din, shouting to be heard. Inside a large shed, several blacksmiths and artisans paused from hammering out sword blades to bow to the Emperor. Beyond them, a massive furnace roared with flames. Two shirtless smiths carefully poured molten bronze into a long cylinder mold—clearly the casting of a cannon barrel.
Constantine’s eyes widened at the sight. “How many cannons have you produce?” he asked, inspecting another finished cannon that lay cooling on its trunnions. The black metal gleamed in the firelight. Andreas wiped sweat from his brow and answered proudly, “We have cast fourteen Drakos cannons and one large bombard so far, with more on the way. Enough to batter some holes in Turkish walls, I’d wager.”
To demonstrate, Andreas guided them outside where a team of engineers were readying the new bombard for testing. The massive gun was positioned atop a rampart facing an empty hill outside the city. Constantine and Thomas covered their ears as the fuse was lit. With a thunderous boom, the bombard hurled a stone ball into the sky. A distant crump sounded as the projectile slammed into the hillside, gouging earth and stone. Soldiers nearby let out impressed whoops. Thomas whistled low. “That will shake the Turks’ courage,” he remarked. Constantine nodded, satisfaction on his face. The Emperor stepped forward and laid a hand on the warm cannon’s flank, feeling the energy still thrumming through the metal. “Excellent work. We’ll need every advantage we can get,” he said. He took a moment to personally thank the sweating cannon-founders and smiths, acknowledging their vital role. Soot-stained and tired, the workers beamed at the recognition from their emperor.
Night fell, and campfires bloomed across Corinth as the main army settled in around the city. Constantine, however, had little time to rest. As he and his commanders gathered for a war council in the citadel, George Sphrantzes finally arrived with his reinforcements. Sphrantzes entered the torch-lit hall accompanied by three thousand soldiers from the south. He bowed deeply. “Forgive my lateness, My Emperor. We made all haste,” George said. Constantine crossed the room and embraced him. “You are just in time, George. Your presence heartens me more than you know.” Sphrantzes smiled, his travel-weary eyes crinkling. He quietly pressed a hand to Constantine’s arm and surveyed the room of assembled leaders.
Council of War
Around a large oak table spread with maps of Greece, Constantine and his commanders convened. The flicker of oil lamps cast dancing shadows on the stone walls as strategy was laid out. Constantine stood at the head of the table. To his right sat Thomas Palaiologos and Captain Andreas; to his left, George Sphrantzes, quill in hand to jot down notes. Lesser officers ringed the table’s far sides, eager but silent until called upon. The Emperor let his gaze fall on the men. In their eyes, he saw a mixture of determination and anxiety.
Constantine cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he began, his voice low but steady, “we have gathered a formidable force through our preparations.” He gestured to Sphrantzes, who unfurled a paper. Sphrantzes read the tally: “Our combined forces are around 12,000, including 750 Pyrvelos, 34 field cannons, and 400 cavalry.” He looked up. “More volunteers may join as we advance, but this is our core.”
Murmurs circled the table—12,000 men against the vast Ottoman Empire sounded both bold and perilous. Constantine raised a hand for silence. “Quality and courage will have to substitute for quantity,” he said. “We will strike hard and fast, taking the enemy by surprise wherever possible. Our aim is to reclaim our homeland piece by piece, not to meet the Sultan’s full might in open battle—at least not yet.” The men nodded. This had been Constantine’s mantra since the campaign’s inception: swift movement, surprise, and seizing strategic points before the Ottomans could muster a counter-force.
Thomas leaned forward, pointing at the map. “We stand here at Corinth. The last friendly stronghold to the north is Thebes.” His finger traced the route.
Captain Andreas tapped the map where Thebes lay. “Aye. Once past Thebes, every mile is enemy ground. The first major target would be Livadeia, here.” He circled a spot northwest of Thebes. “It’s a well-fortified town under an Ottoman garrison. From what our scouts report, Livadeia’s walls are old but thick, and there’s a castle on a hill that commands the area. The Turks have held it for a few years, using it to control the local villages and the road.”
Sphrantzes added, “Livadeia is key. If we take it, we not only secure Boeotia, but we also cut off the Ottoman route from Thessaly into Attica. It will free the countryside around it. However, its garrison will likely fight stubbornly. They know they are an anchor of Ottoman authority there.” He looked to Constantine, concern in his eyes. “We should be prepared for a siege.”
Constantine crossed his arms. Siege warfare meant time and casualties, two things he was loath to spend. “We will first attempt a demand for surrender,” he said firmly. “I have no desire to spill blood needlessly. If the garrison yields Livadeia upon our approach, we spare them and our men. But,” and his voice hardened, “if they refuse, we will bring up our cannons and blast their walls to rubble.” There was a quiet intensity in the Emperor’s tone that made it clear he would not shrink from force.
The commanders exchanged looks. Thomas thumped the table lightly. “With our cannons, I daresay any town’s walls in Greece will tremble.” He was eager, confidence running high after seeing Corinth’s preparations. Andreas gave a grim smile. “That they will. But let’s not underestimate them. We should move quickly so they have no time to call for help from other Ottoman forces.”
Constantine placed both palms on the table, leaning in. “After Livadeia, our next objective is Bodonitsa.” His finger pointed to a fortress north of Livadeia, in the foothills near the pass of Thermopylae. “Bodonitsa is an old castle guarding the roads from the North. It’s strategically important—control of Bodonitsa opens the way toward Zetouni and ultimately into Thessaly. If we take Bodonitsa, we secure our flank and gain a forward base to challenge Ottoman hold in central Greece.”
Sphrantzes exhaled, “Bodonitsa… I remember the Margrave of Bodonitsa held it in the time of our grandfathers. Now the Turks garrison it. It won’t be easily yielded either, but perhaps news of Livadeia’s fate will reach them first.”
Andreas chimed in with a wolfish grin, “If we do our job at Livadeia thoroughly, Bodonitsa’s defenders might lose their stomach to fight.” There were knowing looks around the table, Andreas had a reputation for ruthless efficiency. Constantine did not miss his captain’s implication and allowed it for now.
They spent the next hour discussing logistics: how to provision the march through Thebes, which scouts would ride ahead to reconnoiter the road, and the looming Ottoman response. “We must assume that the Sultan or his governors will not overlook these losses,” Sphrantzes cautioned softly. “If we succeed in capturing Livadeia and Bodonitsa, they will undoubtedly dispatch an army, despite Turahan Bey being at the Albanian front.”
Constantine met his old friend’s eyes. “I know. That is why we must fortify what we take and be ready. Perhaps we can draw the Ottoman armies into terrain of our choosing, narrow passes, fortified cities. Every fortress we reclaim can be a stronghold to slow their advance.”
Andreas thumped a fist to his chest, “Let them come. We’ll be ready at Thermopylae or wherever they dare.” A few men murmured in agreement, excitement tempered with the reality that those battles would be fierce.
At last, Constantine straightened and rolled up the maps. “Our course is set. We march at first light. Thank you, my friends. Get some rest, tomorrow, Thebes, and beyond it, the enemy.” The men stood and bowed as Constantine left the hall, Thomas at his side.
Thebes, the Last Bastion Before the North
The morning sun bathed Thebes in golden light as the imperial banners fluttered atop the city’s walls. The same walls that, only a year ago, had been wrested from the Turks under Constantine’s command now stood as a proud symbol of Byzantine resilience, manned by soldiers wearing the double-headed eagle of the empire.
Constantine rode at the head of his army, passing beneath the stone arch of the city’s gate. The soldiers of his Theban garrison stood in formation, their spears held high in salute. The streets were lined with townsfolk, some cheering, others watching in reverent silence. It was clear that while the city had grown accustomed to Byzantine rule once more, the scars of war still lingered in the wary expressions of its people.
John Leontios, the commander of the garrison, awaited him in the town square, next to the broken columns of an old building. A veteran warrior, John had overseen the city’s defenses and ensured Thebes remained secure. He stepped forward and saluted, fist over heart.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” John said, his voice steady. “Thebes remains loyal and steadfast in your service. The garrison stands ready, and provisions have been gathered for your continued march north.”
Constantine dismounted, removing his helmet so the people could see his face. “You have done well, Captain. The city stands strong.” He glanced around, taking in the sight of Theban soldiers patrolling the walls, their armor polished and spears sharp. “How does the garrison fare?”
John nodded. “We hold two hundred men here, trained and disciplined. The fortifications have been reinforced, as per your orders last year, and morale is high. However, there is troubling news from Livadeia.”
Constantine’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”
“The Ottoman garrison there remains entrenched,” John continued. “Reports place them at around three to four hundred strong. The local Greeks are restless under the rule of the Ottoman bey. They would rise if given a chance.”
Constantine exhaled slowly. The situation was as expected. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder in appreciation. “Good. We march at first light.”
Throughout the afternoon, the army resupplied. Waterskins were refilled at the fountains, bread was distributed from Theban bakers, and the final plans for the next phase of the campaign were drawn. By dusk, Thebes had become a hive of disciplined activity, readying itself for the march northward.
Comments
Gabriel Melnik
I'm miffled that Constantine hasn't done anything to dampen the sound of the anvils. At the minimum tying the anvils with chains could improve the hearing situation of the forges.
RENAISSANSE SI
Glad you liked the chapter! For reference, Morea has around 150-200k people, while the Duchy of Athens has about 50-80k.
Elaine
good chappie also it's be cool to see the population numbers gained from new territory to put the gains in better perspective if you're willing
russell marsh
The first true step of Byzantine Reconquista has begun.
