EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Chapter 66: The Emperor’s Gamble
🕑 Added 2025-03-06 23:51:30 +0000 UTCGlarentza, a Month Later
A faint scent of herbs and heated water lingered in the air as Emperor Constantine stepped into the modest hospital he’d commissioned on the outskirts of Glarentza. It was little more than a two-story stone structure with a series of simple rooms for patients. Its windows were thrown wide to let in the coastal breeze, and beyond the open doors, sunlit farmlands stretched toward the distant sea.
He paused at the entrance to examine a makeshift chart prepared by Damianos, the monk administrator. It listed the names—or descriptions, since many patients were illiterate—of those receiving treatment inside. Though only a few wards were filled, Constantine felt both pride and apprehension stirring in his chest. So many here had never known anything but the haphazard care of traveling physicians or the kindness of monastery infirmaries.
Inside the main hall, several rough-hewn cots stood in tidy rows. On one of them sat a man in a threadbare tunic—a farmer by the looks of his sun-scorched hands—head bowed as a surgeon’s assistant carefully cleaned a wound on his forearm. In a far corner, two soldiers rested on cots, their bandaged limbs propped atop rolled blankets. They were the victims of a recent pirate attack on a Byzantine trade ship.
Constantine approached the surgeon, a lean man named Isidoros, who was preparing a fresh cloth. “Ensure it’s boiled before you bind the wound,” Constantine said, his voice quiet but firm. “Clean tools save lives. Do not forget that.”
Isidoros nodded with a humble dip of his head. “As you command, Emperor.”
A wooden basin beside him still steamed from the boiled water within. Not long ago, the notion of plunging metal instruments into near-boiling water had been met with incredulity. But word had spread that injuries treated here were less prone to the dreaded fever that often claimed lives after even minor cuts. Now, despite lingering skepticism, more and more townsfolk found their way to these halls in search of help.
Constantine moved on, pausing at the bedside of one of the wounded sailors. The soldier’s leg was swaddled in a clean white bandage, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.
“How fares your leg?” Constantine asked, leaning close enough that the young man could see the concern in his eyes.
The soldier blinked, awed and uncertain. “It... it aches, my Emperor. But the surgeon says I’ll keep it. I—” His voice trembled, astonished that the Emperor himself had come to check on him.
“Good,” Constantine said gently. “Rest and mend. We need every man willing to guard these waters.” The soldier offered a shaky smile, still disbelieving at the attention bestowed upon him.
Further along, Constantine saw a mother cradling her feverish child. Two nuns stood nearby, quietly praying while a physician examined the child’s breathing. Constantine murmured a soft prayer under his breath—for the child and for this entire endeavor to succeed.
He was about to speak with them when a guard in the familiar crimson-and-black livery hurried into the hall. “My Emperor,” the guard said, bowing, “apologies for the intrusion, but there is urgent news. An agent has returned from Albania.”
Constantine straightened. “Where is he?”
“He awaits at the castle. His report concerns Aristos’s actions in the north.”
A spark lit in Constantine’s eyes. “Then let us not keep him waiting. Have the surgeons continue their work here; I’ll speak with them upon my return.”
With a final sweeping gaze over the hospital wards, he bid a quick farewell to Isidoros and headed outside, leaving behind the murmurs of patients and the heady fragrance of boiled cloth and medicinal herbs. A growing crowd of townsfolk stood nearby—some waiting to be seen, others merely curious. As Constantine passed, a handful offered shy thanks or crossed themselves in reverence, uncertain but hopeful. Yet he also noticed the furrowed brows of several older women who whispered among themselves—doubtful, perhaps fearful, of what they saw as an unnatural merging of faith, herbs, and boiling water.
He made his way through the bustling streets, noting the mix of relief and skepticism on the people’s faces. The hospital’s expenses weighed on the treasury, as Theophilus—and even George Sphrantzes—had repeatedly reminded him. Yet the cost of gold seemed a small price to pay if it meant preserving health and boosting the loyalty of the populace.
At last, Constantine reached the castle. Stone steps led him up to the great hall, where the messenger awaited. Constantine gestured for him to rise.
“Speak,” he commanded, voice taut with anticipation. “What news from Albania?”
The messenger swallowed. “My Emperor, Aristos and our allies managed to take Gjirokastër—if only briefly. Turahan Bey arrived shortly after with a large Ottoman force. Our men were forced to retreat north, hoping to meet with the other Albanian forces along the mountain passes.”
Constantine’s expression hardened, worry flickering in his eyes. “They captured Gjirokastër but couldn’t hold it. So be it. What of Aristos? Did he survive?”
The messenger gave a resolute nod. “He fought fiercely and managed to withdraw with most of his men. They aim to regroup farther north, near Krujë, I believe.”
Constantine exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Thank God. We cannot lose that foothold entirely.” Straightening, he addressed the guard, “See this messenger is fed and allowed to rest.” Then, turning back to the man, he added, “We’ll plan a response as soon as possible.”
His thoughts whirled. News from Albania could change everything.
“Summon Theophilus,” he said quietly to a nearby servant. “We have plans to discuss.”
The late autumn sun cast long shadows across Glarentza’s castle courtyard, heralding the chill soon to grip the region. Inside the council chamber, Constantine paced in slow, deliberate steps, the echo of his boots resonating off the stone walls. He had just exchanged greetings with Theophilus Dragas—his cousin and trusted advisor—before turning to face him fully.
Theophilus stood by a window, a shaft of golden light framing his composed features. In his hand, he held a small leather-bound notebook brimming with updates on book production and shipments of parchment. “You wished to speak with me, my Emperor?”
Constantine exhaled, allowing himself a brief pause before plunging into the news from Albania. “Aristos and his men have been forced back north from Gjirokastër,” he said, voice tight with concern. “Turahan Bey arrived, and our forces withdrew to avoid a rout.”
Theophilus pursed his lips. “And Aristos? Did the messenger say whether he’s—”
“Alive, yes. Still fighting.” Constantine leaned against a tall-backed chair, arms crossed. “They’re trying to join the other Albanian forces, but the situation is dire. Turahan has a strong foothold now.”
Theophilus nodded thoughtfully. “Then we must coordinate a response—either support them or draw Turahan’s attention away.”
“That is precisely why I summoned you. I need Andreas back from Hexamilion, and George from Mystras. We’ll hold a war council in a week—no later. Bring them here.”
Theophilus scribbled a note to himself, but before he could leave, Constantine’s voice softened. “One more thing, Theophilus—any news of the agents we sent to Genoa? They were supposed to find Petros and Maria.”
Theophilus’s gaze flickered with concern. “None yet. No letters, no messengers. It’s possible they’re still searching. Genoa is vast, and Petros has a knack for vanishing off the map when he chooses.”
A twinge of disappointment stabbed at Constantine. “I see...” he said at last. “Let me know the moment we hear anything.”
Theophilus bowed, then exited, leaving Constantine alone in the silent chamber, his hands clasped behind his back. Outside, the gulls cried over the harbor, their calls punctuating his deepening worries.
A week passed in a flurry of last-minute checks and hurried dispatches. Finally, the day of the gathering arrived. Seated at the head of a long oaken table in the castle’s war room, Constantine glanced around at the men who had come at his summons: George Sphrantzes, ever-watchful, hands folded behind his back; Theophilus Dragas, parchment at the ready, calm as always; Captain Andreas, straight-backed in a plain tunic befitting a soldier, his gaze reflecting steady determination; and Gemistos Plethon, silver-bearded and serene, an aura of scholarly gravity trailing him like a cloak.
Constantine began by addressing Captain Andreas. “Captain,” he said, his tone edged with urgency, “give us your assessment.”
Andreas straightened, his voice carrying the gruff precision of a soldier. “We have nearly seven thousand trained Pikeman troops, reliable men who’ve undergone thorough drilling. Seven hundred Pyrvelos and thirty-two field Drakos cannons. Enough firepower to pack a punch, but not enough to withstand the Sultan if he marches at full strength, I believe. In a pinch, we can summon another seven or eight thousand volunteer pike-bearers from our armories, but they will need time to assemble.”
Constantine’s gaze shifted to George Sphrantzes, who stood slightly off to one side, observing with his usual caution. “George, what do your instincts tell you?”
Sphrantzes inclined his head, choosing his words carefully. “Murad might not expect us to strike in Thessaly—he’ll assume we’re still fortifying here in the Morea. That could work in our favor. But if he senses a threat to his holdings, he may well march south in force. Turahan will be pinned between defending Albania and protecting Thessaly. The question is, do we have the stomach to face a Sultan enraged?”
The question hung in the thick air.
Theophilus Dragas, standing behind a small mountain of parchment, cleared his throat. “If we remain idle, Aristos and the Albanians may be crushed. A swift strike in Thessaly could draw Turahan back and give our allies in the north some breathing room. And frankly, I doubt Murad believes we’d be bold enough to venture beyond our defenses just yet.”
From his seat near the corner of the table, Gemistos Plethon regarded them with mild concern etched into the lines of his face. “Strategically, it’s a risky gamble. But fortune sometimes rewards the unexpected. Let’s not forget our promised aid from the Pope, Emperor Sigismund, Venice, and the Duke of Burgundy—though I fear those pledges may gather dust for years.”
Andreas let out a low, humorless chuckle. “If ever! Latin lords have a knack for grand vows that go unfulfilled. We’d be fools to bet everything on a rescue from the West.”
Constantine nodded thoughtfully, recalling the letters of congratulations and lofty promises he’d received after his coronation. “If we wait, we might gather a stronger coalition in the coming years—but we leave Aristos and the Albanians to fend for themselves in the meantime.” He paused before continuing, “We should leverage what we do have. A thrust into Thessaly now, with Turahan off in Albania, could yield us strategic ground—perhaps cause chaos behind Ottoman lines. If the Sultan moves against us in force, we withdraw and burn whatever might aid him. If we strike swiftly, we might force him to split his armies.”
George Sphrantzes folded his arms, a somber look on his face. “Agreed. But be warned: if Murad himself rides out, our advantage will vanish in days. We risk turning Thessaly into our graveyard if we overextend.”
A heavy silence settled, punctuated only by the crackling of torchlight against the ancient stone walls.
Constantine lifted his hands from the table, resolve glinting in his eyes. “We have little choice. Let’s act—and act swiftly. Summon the army. We’ll move north to harass Turahan’s holdings. If the Ottomans answer in force, we’ll retreat and destroy anything of value to deny them its use. But if fortune smiles on us, we’ll carve out new ground and show Europe—and our enemies—that Byzantium still stands.”
Andreas gave a firm nod. “I’ll gather the forces and ensure our supply lines and retreat paths are secure.”
One by one, the men filed out—Andreas grim-faced but determined, Sphrantzes scanning the corridors with habitual caution, and Theophilus clutching his parchments. Gemistos Plethon lingered at the door, offering Constantine a parting bow before stepping into the hallway.
“Plethon,” Constantine called after him, his voice low, “any word from Iskander yet?”
The silver-bearded philosopher paused, sympathy evident in his eyes. “None, my Despot. I’ve heard nothing since he first set foot in Anatolia.”
Constantine pressed his lips together, disappointment flickering. “Very well. Keep me informed the moment anything changes.”
Plethon inclined his head. “You have my word,” he murmured, then slipped away.
Left alone in the wavering torchlight, Constantine ran a hand over an old map of Greece, tracing the routes soon to fill with marching feet and rolling cannons. His heart pounded at the risk, yet a flicker of anticipation burned within him. They would not wait for distant saviors; they would stake their claim on the empire’s future—or perish in the attempt.
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
You're right that things are heating up in Central Europe! Right now, we're in spring of 1433, and while the Hussite wars are winding down, the political landscape is still shifting. As for Sigismund, his coronation is definitely on the horizon, and the Pope certainly has his own plans. Will that include stirring up trouble on the Hungarian border to keep Murad occupied? Let’s just say we’ll be seeing more of that in future chapters! Stay tuned!
Thara
Its about summer 1433, the hussite war is nearing its end in Bohemia, Sigismund is about to be crowned Emperor in Rome, may be the pope can convince Sigismund to make some movement on Hungarian border to help distract Murad, may be a move on Wallachia?
RENAISSANSE SI
Ah, you’re thinking like a true investigator! I can’t say much—spoilers and all—but let’s just say there’s definitely more to uncover in future chapters.
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you!
RENAISSANSE SI
"Exactly! I took inspiration straight from the original timeline—if Christian rulers rushed to promise aid to Arianiti after his victories during the Albanian revolt, it’s more than plausible they’d do the same for Constantine, especially when he has even bigger wins to show.
russell marsh
TO HELL OR PLUNDER DOG BROTHERS
RENAISSANSE SI
Sharpen the swords! Count the provisions! War drums at the ready!
russell marsh
ASSEMBLE THE ARMY!
Pearl of the Orient
We’ll hold a war council in a week—no later We'll hold a war council no later than a week from today.
ioshf fikry
An attack eh.. unexpected but bold.. should it succeed it wouldn't only secure the rule of Constantine but inflame the fires of ieros skopos
Devourerofwords
Funny that you mention Sigismund. I wonder if our MC should consider recruiting Hussite Mercenaries. The Hussite Wagonfort tactics seems to be a better fit for the militia than part time drilling as pikemen.
Anonykor
If you hadn’t already told us what happened in the author’s note, I would have wondered if Maria had been killed to protect their lord’s reputation. The steward could have been paid off and it might be easier for him to hide since he’s by himself, and that’s if he’s being look for at all. I would recommend removing your explanation in the author’s note in the chapter from before, just to keep the mystery.
Elaine
good chappie
