EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Chapter 60: Now what?
🕑 Added 2025-02-17 22:23:06 +0000 UTCLate January 1433, Glarentza
The cold sand pressed against Constantine’s bare feet as he ran along the shoreline, the rhythmic thud of his soldiers’ footsteps merging with the crashing waves. The salt-laced wind whipped against his skin, filling his lungs with the crisp morning air. He welcomed the burn in his muscles, the strain in his calves—it grounded him, reminding him that no matter the weight of empire and duty, his body remained strong.
The men running beside him understood why their Despot trained this way. He was not simply their ruler; he was one of them. They ran as a unit, each breath shared, each stride mirroring the next. For Constantine, these moments were a brief escape—no courtiers, no politics, just the raw simplicity of movement and discipline.
Ahead, the Ionian Sea stretched endlessly, its surface shifting under the pale winter sky. The sun had barely begun its ascent when one of the officers running beside him, Manuel Laskaris, suddenly slowed.
“Despot,” Manuel called, his voice firm but edged with curiosity. “There’s a ship.”
Constantine followed his gaze, shielding his eyes with one hand as he spotted the vessel in the distance. It moved deliberately toward Glarentza’s harbor, its dark sails stark against the pale mist rising from the water.
“A ship?” Constantine murmured, furrowing his brow.
Manuel wiped the sweat from his forehead, keeping pace beside him. “Strange to see one this time of year. Most merchants avoid the winter waters unless their business is urgent.”
“Or desperate,” Constantine added, eyes narrowing. “And that is no merchant vessel.”
Manuel nodded. “A messenger, then? Or worse—one carrying trouble from across the sea.”
Constantine exhaled sharply, refocusing. He gestured toward the men still running ahead. “We’ll find out soon enough. Let’s finish the run.”
They pressed on, the ship a dark omen lingering on the horizon.
Castle of Clermont, Glarentza – Late Morning
The hall was silent, save for the distant echo of boots on stone as Constantine entered. The morning’s exertion still clung to his skin, the salt of the sea and sweat drying on his arms, but his mind had long since shifted away from the shore.
A ship arriving in the heart of winter was no trivial matter. He had known, even before stepping into the hall, that whatever news it carried would not be good.
Two men stood before him, their faces weary, their cloaks still damp from the journey. The older of the two, Diocles Argyropoulos, had been a known follower of Emperor John—a man whose loyalty to the imperial family stretched back generations. The younger, Alexios Doukas, bore the unmistakable weight of a man who had seen too much in too short a time.
Constantine stepped forward, his expression shifting from measured authority to something more familiar as his gaze settled on Diocles Argyropoulos.
“It has been many years, old friend,” Constantine said, his voice carrying a warmth that momentarily cut through the tension in the hall. “I did not expect to see you again under such circumstances, but it is good to have you here.”
Diocles gave a weary smile, the lines on his face deepened by age and hardship. “And it is good to see you, Despot. Though I wish our journey had been made under better skies.”
Constantine’s eyes flickered between him and the younger man, Alexios Doukas, whose haggard features told of restless nights and urgent flight. His warmth was quickly tempered by concern.
“You have braved winter waters, risked the storms that prey upon these coasts.” His voice lowered, edged with curiosity. “Whatever has brought you here—it could not wait for a safer voyage in spring?”
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Diocles sighed, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his message. “No, Despot. It could not.”
Constantine’s stomach tightened.
“Then speak,” he said, his tone no longer welcoming but wary. “What has happened?”
Diocles met his gaze and took a breath. “Despot, your brother, the Emperor is dead. Assassinated in the palace.”
The words struck like a blade to the chest.
Constantine remained still, though the world around him seemed to tilt.
John is dead.
It shouldn’t have been a shock. John had always been a man too willing to place his fate in the hands of others. Still, an assassination? And in the heart of his own palace?
“How?” he asked, the word cold, measured.
Diocles hesitated only a moment before speaking. “There was a coup in the capital.” He glanced at Alexios before continuing. “Theodore and Demetrios turned against John. They stormed the palace, cut down his guards, and murdered him.”
Constantine inhaled slowly. Theodore? That he could believe. His brother had never hidden his ambitions. He had been simmering with resentment for years, waiting for the right moment to claim what he saw as his due.
But then Diocles continued, and the air in the room seemed to freeze.
“After the deed was done, Demetrios turned on Theodore. He betrayed him—had him killed. It was all planned.”
A long silence followed.
Constantine’s hand tightened into a fist.
Theodore was reckless, but he was no fool. Had he truly believed Demetrios would share power? Or had he, even in the end, failed to see the knife coming?
“And now?” Constantine forced the words out.
“Demetrios has been crowned Emperor.”
The cold in his veins deepened.
“The Sultan backs him,” Alexios added bitterly. “He has already secured his throne with Ottoman support. He rules with their hand on his shoulder.”
Constantine exhaled slowly, his mind racing through the implications.
His brothers were dead. Constantinople had fallen—not to a siege, but to treachery from within. And Demetrios, their mother’s most wayward son, had sold himself to the Turks.
He looked at Diocles and Alexios, the weight of their words still settling.
“Is my mother safe?”
Diocles nodded. “She lives. But she refused to acknowledge Demetrios. He has sent her to a monastery in Selymbria.”
Of course, she had refused. Helena Dragas was not a woman who bent easily, even to her own sons.
Constantine took another slow breath, willing himself to remain composed. His mind drifted briefly to the history he had once known, the past that had once seemed inevitable. John had not died like this. Theodore had not perished by treachery.
His actions had caused this world to change in unexpected ways—not only through his victories against Murad and his printing presses, but in every aspect.
Finally, he straightened, his voice steady despite the storm brewing beneath the surface. “Then we have much to discuss.”
The empire was bleeding.
The council chamber flickered with the warm glow of candlelight, casting long shadows against the stone walls. Outside, the winter wind howled through the streets, rattling wooden shutters and sending bursts of chill through the cracks in the castle walls. Inside, however, the air was thick with tension.
Constantine sat at the head of the table, his fingers pressed together as he looked at his two trusted advisors. Theophilus Dragas was seated to his right, his usual composed demeanor unshaken, though his eyes carried the weight of grim realization. Georgios Gemistos Plethon, on his left, stroked his beard thoughtfully, his keen mind already dissecting the crisis at hand.
“Demetrios has the throne,” Constantine said at last, his voice low but firm. “And the Ottomans hold him.”
Theophilus leaned forward, his expression darkening. “Then, in truth, Constantinople is under the Sultan’s shadow. Demetrios may wear the purple, but he is no emperor—he is Murad’s steward in all but name.”
“Not officially,” Plethon interjected, his tone measured but filled with certainty. “But in spirit, yes. And if the people do not yet see that, we must make them.”
Constantine’s gaze locked onto the philosopher. “What do you suggest, Plethon?”
Plethon leaned forward slightly, the candlelight flickering against the deep lines of his face. “The Ieros Skopos network can be used to spread the truth of Demetrios’s treachery. In Morea, in the Duchy of Athens—perhaps even in the capital itself.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “The people must learn that their emperor was murdered in cold blood, not by a foreign invader, but by his own kin. And more than that, that Demetrios does not rule as a Byzantine sovereign, but as a mere extension of the Sultan’s will.”
Constantine exhaled slowly. A war of words before a war of swords. It was not the decisive strike he longed for, but it was the only battlefield they could fight on for now.
“And the West?” he asked, shifting his focus to Theophilus. “Would they recognize my claim?”
Theophilus nodded, already anticipating the question. “They must. The Pope, the Venetians, the Genoese—all have vested interests in Byzantium’s survival. And more importantly, they rely on us for trade, for books, for knowledge.” He gestured slightly. “Demetrios will bring the city further into Ottoman dependency. That alone will concern them. They will not abandon their investments so easily.”
Plethon’s gaze sharpened. “Then you must be crowned.”
Constantine arched a brow. “Here? In Glarentza?”
“No,” Plethon said, his voice firm. “In Mystras. A formal ceremony, legitimate in the eyes of our people and the world. Mystras carries weight—it is a city of culture, history, and authority. A proper coronation must be held swiftly, and letters must be sent to the courts of Europe proclaiming you as the true emperor.”
He let his words settle before adding, “The Latin world may not love us, but they will not love a Sultan’s puppet, either.”
Constantine exhaled through his nose. It made sense. He could not march on Constantinople. Not yet. They lacked the army, the fleet, the resources to challenge Murad head-on. But what they could do—what they must do—was declare themselves, build legitimacy, gather support, and prepare for the day when the empire could be reclaimed.
He turned to Theophilus. “Send word to Captain Andreas at the Hexamilion. I want him on high alert for any movement—whether from the Ottomans or from Demetrios” He paused, considering. “Also, dispatch a message to George Sphrantzes in Mystras. He must begin preparations for the coronation.”
Theophilus inclined his head. “It will be done.”
Plethon leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. “In the meantime, we must also prepare the Morea for what is to come. There will be those who hesitate to recognize you. Some nobles will fear Ottoman reprisal, others might see an opportunity to maneuver for their own gain. We must ensure that our base of support is strong.”
Constantine nodded, absorbing the truth in his words. They could not afford division—not now.
He sat back, exhaling slowly. The pieces were in motion.
Within a month, the coronation would take place. The letters would be sent. The Ieros Skopos network would whisper Demetrios’s betrayal into every shadowed corridor from Morea to Constantinople.
For now, it was all they could do.
That night, Constantine stood alone on the battlements of Clermont Castle, gazing at the dark, restless sea in the distance. The wind had a sharp bite to it, rolling in from the Ionian depths, carrying with it the briny scent of salt and the distant whisper of waves crashing against the shore. The moon hung low in the sky, its silver glow shimmering on the water, stretching toward the horizon like a path leading to the unknown.
He had stood here before—many nights, many times—seeking solace in the vastness of the sea, as if its endless expanse could provide the answers he sought. But tonight was different. Tonight, he carried the weight of a world shifting beneath his feet.
His mind replayed the events of the day in unrelenting clarity. John—dead. Theodore—betrayed and slain. Demetrios—enthroned in the capital with Ottoman chains wrapped around his wrists. His brothers were gone, and the empire he had sworn to defend had been stolen from within.
History had begun to slip through his fingers.
A slow exhale left his lips, curling into the cold night air. He had taken the name of an emperor destined to fall: Constantine XI Palaiologos. In another life, in another time, that name had been a death sentence—his reign the last breath of a dying empire.
But this timeline was no longer the one he had once known. Far from it.
He turned the thought over in his mind again, measuring it against the memories of a past that had not yet come to pass. John had not died this way. Theodore had not been struck down in treachery. Demetrios had never ruled Constantinople. These were not mere ripples in time; they were fractures—deep and irreversible.
Yes, he had known his actions would change the course of history. The introduction of the printing press, the spread of knowledge, the victories against Murad—he had accepted that these things would reshape the future. That was the point. That was why he had fought so hard, why he had embraced this strange, impossible fate.
But this—this was something else entirely. This was a side effect of huge proportions, one he had never anticipated.
The pieces of the world were no longer falling into familiar places. He had spent years preparing for a future he believed he understood—one where the great clash with the Ottomans still loomed on the horizon, one where the weight of the past had already dictated its course. But now? Now he had no map, no guide.
And that terrified him.
Because if this could happen—if his presence had set in motion a coup that had never been, had undone the fates of his brothers—what else had he changed without realizing it?
What other fractures in time had he already caused?
What other unseen consequences would his actions bring?
The future he had once known was now nothing more than a fading specter, slipping further and further beyond his grasp.
His fists clenched at his sides. Was that a gift? Or a warning?
The sea offered no answers. It never did.
The wind howled through the stone parapets, carrying with it the sounds of the sleeping city in the distance. Glarentza lay in quiet slumber, unaware of the tides of history shifting in the darkness. But Constantine knew. He felt it in his bones.
Would he steer Byzantium toward survival? Could he? Or had his very presence in this world only hastened its doom?
The thought lingered, unwelcome and heavy.
Comments
Bobby Hill
promise the pope the ability to set up a Catholic Albanian Kingdom. By this point Catholicism was at a good 50/50 split in the minds of Albanians. It can be framed as saving Christendom from Mosulman hordes and saving fellow Catholics from abuse. Not quite so hard in that light.
RENAISSANSE SI
A crusade sounds great on paper… but getting the West to actually commit? That’s a whole other battle. Let’s see how Constantine plays his cards!
RENAISSANSE SI
Thanks!
RENAISSANSE SI
Right? That moment of realization hits hard—he thought he was just nudging history, but now he’s knee-deep in rewriting it. No turning back now!
RENAISSANSE SI
Now that’s a title worthy of the task ahead! Let’s see if Constantine can earn it and make Roma Invicta more than just a dream.
RENAISSANSE SI
He's carrying the weight of an empire on his shoulders—let's see if he can forge a new path forward!
RENAISSANSE SI
Constantine’s resolve will be tested like never before. Steady nerves and a stout heart indeed!
Bobby Hill
It is time to call upon the West, the Crusade to retake the heart of Eastern Rome must begin!
Elaine
good chappie
Hugo23
I can't even imagine going from the mindset of an opportunistic interferer to the realization that the world is changing because of his actions.
Pearl of the Orient
One day Constantine will be able to mint Roma Invicta once more. When he bears the title of Aurelius Restitutor Mundi
ioshf fikry
Constantine now must bear the cross of roman redemption alone.
russell marsh
Steady nerves and Stout hearts are needed now.
