EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Chapter 63: The Dawn of Rebellion
🕑 Added 2025-02-24 23:22:18 +0000 UTCThe Port of Glarentza – Late March 1433
The briny scent of the Ionian Sea hung thick in the air as the port of Glarentza stirred to life with the coming of spring. After a few months of sluggish trade and harsh winter winds, the docks were once more a place of movement, noise, and industry. The wooden piers groaned under the weight of men and cargo as ships, their sails taut in the morning breeze, jockeyed for position.
Venetian and Genoese vessels lined the harbor, their banners snapping crisply in the breeze, but they were no longer the only ones. From the bustling markets of Marseille to the ports of Portugal and Castile, traders had begun making the long voyage, drawn by the new lucrative market—the books of the Morea Publishing House.
Constantine stood at the edge of the main quay, his heavy cloak shifting slightly as he surveyed the city he had transformed. The morning sun gilded the sea with streaks of gold, casting warm light over Glarentza’s bustling waterfront. Where once crumbling Latin ruins had marked its skyline, new buildings now stood—tall warehouses, expanded wharves, and grand merchant halls where deals were struck in Greek and Italian. Glarentza was no longer a relic of the past; it was a city of the future, its fortunes tied not only to the tides but also to the knowledge it now exported to the world.
The sounds of commerce filled the air—dockworkers heaved barrels of olive oil, wine, and fine Moreote paper onto waiting carts, merchants haggled over silks and spices, and the sharp scent of fish being gutted mingled with the warm aroma of baking bread from nearby market stalls. But the loudest voices, the most eager hands, belonged to the book traders.
They swarmed the Morea Publishing Store, the grand establishment near the port, its boldly inscribed sign catching the eye of every merchant who passed through Glarentza. Situated at the end of a wide, meticulously paved street, the building had become a landmark of trade and learning—a destination spoken of in the bustling markets of Venice, Genoa, and even distant Iberia.
Inside, scribes and clerks worked tirelessly, cataloging the latest arrivals—theological works, treatises on history and philosophy, and meticulously reproduced copies of ancient Greek and Roman texts. Traders pored over inventory lists with eager anticipation, desperate to secure the most sought-after titles before their rivals. Some murmured in hushed excitement over rumored new editions, while others negotiated bulk orders, knowing these books would fetch fortunes in their home ports.
What had once been a mere experiment had now transformed into an empire of knowledge, its influence stretching across the Mediterranean, shaping commerce, scholarship, and faith alike.
“Have you the new edition of Plato’s Republic?” a Venetian trader asked eagerly, his fingers drumming against the counter.
“I must see the latest theological works available,” an Aragonese insisted, his Greek heavily accented. “I have an order from a bishop in Valencia.”
Nearby, a Genoese merchant frowned as he scanned an inventory list. “Ten ducats for a Bible?” he muttered. It was a sum that stung—but one that these merchants gladly paid, knowing that in their own lands, these books would sell for far more.
Word spread across the Mediterranean about the immense success of Morea’s printed books, and now traders who once sailed only for silk and spices came for knowledge. The demand had soared so high that shipments to the Papacy, Venice, and Genoa were already secured before the books even left the presses.
Yet Constantine’s attention was not on the trade. His gaze remained fixed on a galley mooring at the farthest pier, its oarsmen drawing their long sweeps into the hull as it drifted into position. Two figures, cloaked and travel-worn, disembarked with swift, purposeful steps, their movements betraying both urgency and fatigue. His agents.
He turned to the men standing beside him—Captain Andreas, his most trusted military officer, and Theophilus Dragas, his cousin and right hand now that George Shrantzes was governor of Mystras. Both men had watched over the mission’s progress from afar, awaiting the news.
“They’ve returned,” Constantine murmured.
Andreas, his sharp brown eyes squinting against the morning sun, gave a short nod. “We’ll soon see if their journey was worth it.”
The agents moved through the crowded waterfront with single-minded purpose, their dark cloaks billowing in the brisk, salt-laden wind. The docks were a riot of motion and noise: dockworkers hoisted heavy barrels onto splintered carts, sailors haggled with crooked merchants over crates of spices and wine, and beggars clamored for coins in shrill voices. Despite the clamor, the agents pressed on, weaving through knots of laborers and sidestepping half-drunken soldiers just stumbling off their ships. Their boots clattered against the warped wooden planks, each echo swallowed by the crash of distant waves.
At last, they spotted Constantine standing beneath the shadow of a building. Even from afar, his bearing marked him as a ruler—his posture erect, his gaze calm yet watchful. His retinue stood at a respectful distance, forming an invisible boundary between him and the milling throng. When the agents reached him, they immediately dropped to one knee in the traditional Byzantine gesture of fealty, fists pressed against their hearts.
“Emperor,” the elder of the two greeted, his voice hoarse from weeks of hard travel. Fatigue clung to him like a second skin, but there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes. Urgency radiated from every tense line of his body.
Constantine nodded and motioned for them to rise. “Stand,” he said, his tone firm yet not unkind. “You’ve come far. We will speak privately.”
He pivoted on his heel and led them away from the teeming docks, where the smell of fish and tar hung thick in the air. His personal guards cut a path through the onlookers. A few curious stares followed, but most returned to their business, content that their Emperor’s affairs were far above their station. Soon, the noise faded to a dull roar behind them as Constantine guided the pair toward the fortress gates—a stone battlement perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the sea.
They passed through a narrow courtyard filled with stacked crates and spare weapons, weaving between patrolling soldiers who snapped to attention at the Emperor’s approach. A set of heavy wooden doors led inside the sea fortress proper, and torches flickered in wall sconces, chasing away the cool dimness of the corridors. Eventually, they entered a modest chamber: its high-beamed ceiling lent it a sense of openness, while a single narrow window allowed a shaft of sunlight and a gentle breeze to drift in from the harbor. The only furniture of note was a sturdy oaken table, upon which lay a parchment map of Albania and Western Greece, inked with the winding courses of rivers and the sharp lines of mountain ranges.
Constantine gestured for Theophilus and Andreas—his trusted confidants—to gather near. The two agents remained standing, their bearing tense. Their message could not wait on formalities.
“Speak,” Constantine commanded softly, yet the urgency in his voice was unmistakable. He took his place at the head of the table, eyes fixed on the men.
The elder agent inclined his head. “The rumors are true, Emperor: Albania has risen in full revolt against the Turks.”
He paused, searching Constantine’s gaze. Seeing that the Emperor was ready for every word, he pressed on. “Andrea Thopia, a local noble with considerable influence, delivered the first blow. He ambushed an Ottoman detachment in central Albania. Emboldened by his success, others followed suit, and now the rebellion spreads like wildfire.”
Constantine’s expression grew intent. “Who else fights?”
“In the south, the noble Depë Zenebishi has returned from exile,” the agent continued. “After instigating a revolt in nearby areas, including Këlcyrë, Zagorie, and Pogon, his forces have besieged the southern city of Gjirokastër, which serves as the capital of the Sanjak of Albania. At Këlcyrë, his men successfully captured the castle, but the siege of Gjirokastër is prolonged and still ongoing. In the Shkumbin Valley, Gjergj Arianiti—once an Ottoman hostage—escaped from Edirne. He’s since built a following of fighters. He strikes at the Turks whenever he can.”
He paused, allowing the import of his words to settle. Constantine leaned over the map, tracing a finger along the southern passes. “And the Ottomans themselves?” he asked quietly.
“They are losing their grip on Albania by the day,” the agent answered. “Murad’s forces were forced to abandon Vlorë, leaving it in the hands of local rebels. Garrisoned strongholds in the highlands have been surrounded and cut off from supply lines. Hoping to stamp out the uprising swiftly, they dispatched an army of ten thousand under Ali Bey to retake control—but Gjergj Arianiti lured them into an ambush near Buzurshekut. The Ottoman force was shattered, with few survivors.”
Andreas, who had been listening intently, let out a low whistle. “That’s a serious defeat,” he muttered. “Losing that many men in the mountain passes will sting the Ottomans deeply.”
Theophilus folded his arms, his thoughtful gaze lingering on the spread of rebel territory marked on the map. “They’ve won battles, but the Turks will undoubtedly return in force. Murad won’t let an uprising fester on his frontier.”
“They will indeed return,” the elder agent affirmed, his voice grim. “We’ve heard talk that Murad may lead the next offensive himself to crush the rebellion once and for all.”
A chill swept through the room, despite the salt-scented breeze drifting from the narrow window. The Emperor knew well the gravity of facing Murad on the battlefield.
“How many rebels can the Albanian lords muster?” Andreas asked, shifting his weight anxiously.
“They are scattered, but growing in number,” the agent replied, hesitating only a moment. “Depë Zenebishi has between two and three thousand in the south. Gjergj Arianiti musters nearly four thousand in the central regions. Others like the Thopias and Muzakas are rallying more every day. Altogether, perhaps ten thousand. But they fight with meager arms: hunting bows, rough pikes, and whatever Ottoman gear they can capture. Organized training is scarce. Their supply lines are fragile.”
Constantine exhaled slowly, turning to Theophilus and Andreas. “They have courage and a swelling tide of recruits,” he said, “but little in the way of proper weaponry, no strong supply network, and no broader alliance to sustain a true war. If we do nothing, they’ll be overrun once the Ottomans bring their main armies.”
Theophilus inclined his head. “Exactly. For a revolt to outlast a single campaign, it needs reliable arms, training, and safe havens. And if Murad takes the field himself, a swift response on our part might be crucial.”
Constantine’s thoughts raced. If he acted now, he could fan this rebellion into a great conflagration—one that would bleed the Ottomans from the west. The timing was critical.
He looked at the agents again. “And the Venetians? How do they respond to this turmoil in their backyard?”
A flicker of irritation passed over the younger agent’s features. “They stand idle,” he said in a clipped tone. “They hold Durazzo and Scutari but do not commit troops. They fear provoking the Ottomans. But some of their captains whisper that if the rebellion shows true promise—if it looks like the Turks can be beaten—they might join in. Venice is ever cautious but rarely misses a chance to profit from a changing balance of power.”
Constantine tapped the table’s edge, his gaze flicking over the Venetian-held ports on the map. “They’ll wait until they see which side is winning,” he murmured, half to himself. “Their commerce depends on open seas and stable trade routes, but if they sense an opportunity to weaken the Ottomans without incurring too great a risk, they won’t stand by.”
He paused and let out a measured breath, then shifted his focus southward toward Western Greece. “And Carlo II Tocco? What news from his lands?”
The elder agent cleared his throat, his eyes briefly flicking to his companion. “Lord Tocco’s grip is faltering,” he said. “We’ve heard a steady flow of reports—priests, local elders, small-time Orthodox landowners—each lamenting Tocco’s mismanagement. They call for liberation, many invoking your name as the rightful ruler. Even Tocco’s own lords whisper that his power is waning.”
The younger agent nodded in agreement, gesturing at the map. “Outside Arta, he holds little with any certainty. The realm he once commanded is a shell of its former self. His war with Memnone over the last couple of years left him battered, and he lost significant territory. Now, he barely manages to defend his central strongholds. The people’s loyalty is paper-thin.”
Constantine listened with a sober expression. Western Greece had slipped from imperial hands long ago. Yet the locals still remembered, still yearned for the days when the Empire’s presence united their lands. A fracture in Tocco’s dominion opened a rare window of opportunity.
The Emperor let silence fill the room for a heartbeat, then rose from his seat, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the stone floor. His gaze fell upon the two agents, and the corners of his mouth curved into a faint, resolute smile.
“You have done well,” he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine respect. “Take your rest while you can. I will need you again before long.”
The agents bowed their heads, relief, and pride etched across their weary features. They withdrew from the room, leaving Constantine with Andreas and Theophilus. The Emperor stood by the table for a moment longer, eyes drifting over the map of Albania. Outside, gulls cried over the harbor, and somewhere beyond these walls, the fate of an entire region hung in the balance.
Before him lay a choice: to intervene and bolster the Albanian rebels, to pressure the ever-fickle Venetians, and perhaps reclaim Western Greece from Tocco’s feeble grasp. It was a chance to roll back the Ottoman tide, if only for a time. Yet the risk was immense.
Steeling himself, Constantine laid his hands flat on the table. “We have much to do,” he murmured, half to himself and half to the men at his side.
Andreas leaned over the table, his sharp gaze focused on the map. “It would not take much,” he mused, tracing the inked outlines of Tocco’s scattered holdings. “Preveza, Angelokastron, Vonitsa… Without a real fight, many of these towns would fall into our hands if we simply marched in.”
Theophilus folded his arms. “And if we did, what then?” His voice carried a measured tone of caution. “It is one thing to take them—it is another to keep them.”
Constantine nodded slowly, his thoughts aligning with Theophilus’ concerns. “If we seize these lands, we will be expected to hold them,” he said, his fingers tapping against the wood. “Garrisons will be needed in every castle and town, men stationed to defend roads and supply routes. Every new town we take will require administration, resources, and protection.”
Theophilus sat back, exhaling through his nose. “Overextension,” he muttered. “If we stretch our forces too thin, we risk losing everything when Murad turns his eyes south once more.”
A heavy silence filled the chamber.
The opportunity was undeniable. If Constantine struck now, the Byzantine banners could once more fly over lands lost to the Latins for more than a century. Orthodox Greeks under Tocco’s rule would welcome them with open arms. But reality was a harsh master—every gain had a cost, and the Empire’s resources were not limitless.
“We are not yet strong enough,” Constantine admitted at last, his voice steady but firm. “If we reach too far, we risk losing the Morea itself. We do not have the men to hold the region and still defend against the Ottomans if they strike at us in the south. For now, we let Tocco remain where he is.”
The decision was made, and though Andreas looked mildly displeased, he gave a curt nod. “Then we focus on Albania.”
Constantine replied, “Gjergj Arianiti and Depë Zenebishi hold the rebellion together, but they lack weapons and siege capabilities. We will send them what we can spare—a small but effective force: a few cannons, one hundred men, and spare armor. They will train the Albanians in pike formations and artillery warfare, help them hold the land they’ve already won, and strengthen the siege of Gjirokastër.”
Theophilus traced a line on the map, tapping the besieged city. “If Gjirokastër falls, the Ottomans will lose one of their most important strongholds in Albania. That will keep Murad’s attention away from us for now.”
Constantine’s gaze lingered on the map, considering the delicate balance they were attempting to maintain. “We play for time,” he murmured. “We need time to expand our armies, produce more firearms, and train our men. If we commit too much too soon, we will find ourselves overwhelmed when war comes to the Morea again.”
Andreas gave an approving nod. “Yes, a small force—seasoned, well-led. That will be enough to strengthen the Albanian resistance without tying us down.”
Theophilus sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. “It is a cautious plan.”
“Seems to be the only plan for now,” Constantine countered.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. Then, one by one, they nodded in agreement.
Constantine sat back in his chair, exhaling. “Andreas, send orders for the force to be assembled immediately. This meeting is adjourned.”
As the council dispersed, Constantine remained seated, his gaze fixed on the maps before him. He had made his choice. Now, he could only wait to see what history would make of it.
AUTHOR NOTE: The events of the Albanian rebellion depicted in this chapter closely resemble those that occurred in the original timeline.
A map of Albania will be provided in the following chapters.
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Yeah, Constantine definitely tried to play it safe—at least at first! The Vietnam analogy is a good one! The longer they bleed resources there, the better it is for him. But, of course, things never go exactly as planned...
Ethan Eichelberger
Albania provides a dramatic opportunity for Constantine. I’m rather surprised he’s not making a more substantial gamble against Murad, but history has been altered and Skanderbeg’s success is not guaranteed. The longer the Albanian conflict takes, the more problems the Ottomans will have though. I can picture Constantine trying to turn it into an Ottoman Vietnam.
RENAISSANSE SI
Oh, the Albanian campaign is going to be fun for sure.
RENAISSANSE SI
I wish the chapters were longer too, but the research takes a ton of time! For example, just for the Albanian revolt, I’ve spent over 15 hours digging into what actually happened to get a better understanding of the setting. Gotta make sure the details are solid before rewriting history! As for "the Morea"—it’s a bit of a mixed case. Historically, it’s just Morea, but in English, several sources do use "the Morea", kind of like how we say the Peloponnese. Both are technically fine, but I get why it might sound off.
RENAISSANSE SI
Yeah, weapons production is definitely Constantine’s biggest issue right now. He’s got the knowledge and some infrastructure, but scaling up is the real challenge.
RENAISSANSE SI
You're absolutely right! The colors are really similar because the Duchy of Naxos is basically an autonomous vassal of Venice (more or less), so I wanted to reflect that connection. But yeah, I could tweak it a bit to make the distinction clearer.
RENAISSANSE SI
Glad you're excited for the maps—there will definitely be plenty more as Constantine keeps expanding his reach! As for the agents sent after Maria and Petros… don’t worry, their story isn’t forgotten.
RENAISSANSE SI
That’s a really good point! Byzantine military ranks can be a bit all over the place, and with the way Constantine is reorganizing his forces, it make sense to adjust Andreas’ title at some point. As for whether he’ll actually lead this expedition… well, that’s still up in the air.
Hugo23
Slightly idle question considering that it seems likely that Andreas is the best choice Constantine has to lead the expedition. But is there any specific reason he is still called/is a captain? I'm not super well versed in Byzantine military ranks but considering the variety in Roman and the professionalization of his forces it seems pertinent.
Empty Crate
Ooo we finally get another zoomed out map as Constantine slowly rebuilds the Roman Empire. Can't wait to see what danger and exploits Albania has to offer. Though I will say thought the agents/ship was gonna be about the ones sent to capture Maria and Petros oh well the traitors will be caught eventually hopefully.
Pearl of the Orient
The shades of blue used on the map are near indistinguishable from each other.
Pearl of the Orient
He needs more cannons. He can't produce more firearms at the moment, it would be wiser to focus on cannons and better ammunition from beehive shot to explosive and bullet shaped shot
Mineseikea
I wish the chapters where longer, I honestly can’t wait. I hope Constantine retakes the entirety of the Roman Empire and destroys Islam, kill all ottomans, burn Mecca and destroy their stone. I want Rome to emerge victorious and last forever! Me thing that is bothering me some is how you write “the Morea” it’s not a the it’s just Morea. You don’t call NYC, The NYC, or Constantinople, The Constantinople.
russell marsh
Make the ottomans bleed in the hills and valleys of albanium death by a thousand cuts but be careful I can see the venetians move into western Greece if presented with an opportunity
