EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Chapter 58: Men, Money, and Steel
🕑 Added 2025-02-10 17:40:34 +0000 UTCGlarentza barracks, late October 1432
The flames flickered against the stone walls of the war room, casting long, wavering shadows over the maps and parchment-strewn table. Smoke curled from the iron sconces, mixing with the sharp scent of burning wax and the faint tang of ink. The air was thick—thick with tension, thick with the weight of decisions that could shape the future of an empire hanging by a thread.
Constantine had just returned from inspecting the recruits, his mind still focused on what he had seen. The morning drills had become a fixed tradition over the last two years—a ritual designed to instil discipline, endurance, companionship, and strength in the men who would one day stand against the enemy. The recruits were becoming professional soldiers as they learned his system.
He had watched with satisfaction as the officers led the recruits through their paces, correcting stances, ensuring formations were tight, movements sharp. The morning gymnastics—running, endurance drills, strength training—had started as an innovation, but now they were as much a part of the routine as weapons practice. Constantine ran with the troops a couple of times a week, not only to lead by example but because he found something unexpectedly satisfying.
He hadn’t always been fond of running. Back in his old life, when he was still married, Ellen had insisted they go running together every Sunday morning in Central Park. He had grumbled about it back then, preferring a slow morning with coffee and a book. But now, that memory was something else entirely—a distant thread connecting him to a past that felt both near and impossibly far away. And somehow, here in this world, running had taken on a different meaning. It was a test, a challenge, and a way to ground himself in reality, clear his thoughts, and push the limits of both his body and mind.
After today’s session, the recruits had stood in formation, breath still heavy from exertion, awaiting his assessment. Constantine’s gaze had swept over them, their tunics damp with sweat, their chests rising and falling. He knew the look of true exhaustion—but he also knew determination when he saw it.
“You’ve done well today,” he had proclaimed, his voice carrying across the training yard.
One young soldier stood out—a recruit with an unshaken stance, his eyes burning with quiet resolve. Constantine recognized that fire. Without hesitation, he reached into his belt pouch and retrieved a small silver token, stepping forward and placing it firmly into the soldier’s palm.
It was a habit of his—one he had started last year. Each year, a couple of soldiers would receive this token, not as a mere reward, but as a mark of challenge. A reminder that their fight was not just against an enemy, but against weakness, doubt, and complacency.
“This is not a gift,” Constantine had said, his voice firm. “It is a challenge—to you, and to every man standing here. Every day, you must forge yourselves anew, shaping mind and body into something unbreakable. Strength fades, but discipline endures.”
A murmur of approval had rippled through the ranks. They were starting to believe.
Now, back in the war room, that same fire still burned in Constantine’s chest—but war was not just fought in the training grounds. It was fought here, on paper, in strategy, in decisions made long before a single sword was drawn.
Across the table, Theophilus Dragas observed him in silence, arms crossed, his sharp gaze scrutinizing every detail. The reports before them held the cold, hard truth of their situation—supplies, troop numbers, fortifications, and the ever-present burden of cost.
A knock at the heavy wooden door broke the quiet.
“Enter,” Constantine called.
Theologos stepped inside, the dim light catching the gold trim of his dark red tunic. He moved with the discipline expected of an officer, yet there was a stiffness to his posture, a slight hesitation in his step. This was his first formal report before Constantine, and the weight of the moment was not lost on him.
He bowed deeply before clasping his hands behind his back.
“Despot,” Theologos said, his voice steady but betraying the slightest edge of unease. “As per your orders, I bring the latest reports.”
Constantine studied him for a moment, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers pressed tightly together. A good officer, competent, but young in his role. He knew that pressure well—he had felt it himself, not just as Constantine Palaiologos, but as Michael Jameston, standing before executives and clients, needing to project confidence even when doubt gnawed at his gut.
He offered Theologos a brief nod, allowing a small but reassuring smile to touch his lips. “You’ve been handling things well,” he said, his tone calm yet firm. “The reports coming from the barracks have been thorough. Speak freely.”
Theologos blinked, exhaling almost imperceptibly, the tension in his stance easing just slightly.
“Yes, Despot,” he said with more confidence.
Constantine motioned for him to proceed.
“Regarding the recruitment efforts,” Theologos began, “we have two thousand four hundred men currently undergoing training in pike formations, soon to be assigned to the tagma units. Another two hundred and fifty are in Pyrvelos training. Additionally, ten field cannons have been forged, and their crews are in active training.”
Constantine gave a slow nod. Good. They were expanding, growing—but not nearly fast enough. Not fast enough.
“And the Hexamilion?” he asked, his voice measured.
Theologos turned slightly toward Theophilus, who took over.
“Captain Andreas is overseeing the defenses. Three tagma of pike infantry, two hundred Pyrvelos marksmen, and ten field cannons have been strategically positioned. An additional seven hundred men are stationed across the Duchy of Athens in garrison duties.” He paused, flipping through a parchment. “Twelve hundred more are being trained at the Hexamilion camp. Additionally, the forges in Corinth are fully operational—they have just completed two Drakos cannons.”
Theophilus tapped a section of the report, his expression tightening. “Captain Andreas is meeting our timetables. His leadership is solid.” He exhaled, rubbing his temple. “But the costs... they are spiraling beyond our initial estimations. It is nearly twice what we had projected.”
Constantine exhaled slowly. A familiar frustration twisted in his gut. The burden never relented.
“And what of Mystras? How is my friend George faring?” he pressed.
Theologos nodded. “George Sphrantzes has recruited one thousand men, many of them Albanians from the villages northeast of Mystras. They are en route to Hexamilion for training, mostly to reinforce our garrisons.”
Theologos continued, “Additionally, the new dormitory sections in the barracks are completed. The new recruits will no longer have to sleep in makeshift tents outside.”
A small relief. Constantine allowed himself a brief nod. Infrastructure. Stability. Discipline. These were the foundation stones of an army that could endure.
“And provisions?” he asked, shifting his focus.
“For now, we face no major issues,” Theophilus replied. “Food supplies are stable. Gunpowder stocks are sufficient but will need replenishing before the next year.”
Constantine nodded again. “Good. Keep monitoring closely.”
Theologos gave a deep bow and excused himself.
A moment of silence stretched between Constantine and Theophilus, the only sounds the soft crackling of fire and the distant clank of armor from the courtyard below.
“You will never rest, will you?” Theophilus finally said, his voice laced with dry amusement.
Constantine smirked. “Would you rather I be content with what we have?”
Theophilus sighed, rubbing his temples. “No. But we are already expanding faster than we can sustain. The treasury is holding, but just barely. We simply spend too much.”
Constantine straightened, his hands resting on the table’s edge. “We need more recruits. More men. The Ottomans are not going to sit idle.”
Theophilus crossed his arms. “And where, exactly, do you propose we find these men—and more importantly, how do you expect us to pay for them? More mercenaries? Sforza’s company already drained our coffers last year.”
Constantine gave him a measured look. Theophilus had always been cautious, pragmatic—but lately, he was becoming downright whiny. Every conversation these past couple of months seemed to circle back to expenditures, costs, budgets.They even paused ship construction at the new shipyard to cut costs. He understood the necessity of watching the treasury—he wasn’t blind to their limitations—but they couldn’t afford to think small. Not when their survival depended on being bold.
“Yes, I know. Sforza had been useful, but costly. His absence left a gap—one that had to be filled,” he admitted, his fingers drumming against the wood. They needed more gold, more resources, and more ways to sustain their expansion.
His mind drifted back to a conversation he had a few nights ago over dinner with Niccolò, the Genoese trader. They had spoken at length about the Banco di San Giorgio, the powerful Genoese institution that financed wars, managed debts, and wielded immense influence over trade.
How could something like that work for Byzantium? A Byzantine banking system? A structured way to manage funds, secure loans, and expand their economy?
It was a radical idea, but the more he considered it, the more it made sense.
But before he could explore the idea more, another knock came.
“Enter,” Constantine called.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and Elias, the master blacksmith, stepped inside. Soot streaked his face, smudging his forehead and the creases of his weathered hands. The familiar scent of molten metal and singed leather clung to his clothes, marking him as a man who lived and breathed the forge. In his calloused hands, he clutched a tightly rolled parchment, smudged at the edges with charcoal and grease.
“Despot,” Elias began, offering a quick but respectful bow. “I’m ready to report our progress.”
Constantine gestured toward a chair. “Sit, Elias.”
As Elias took his seat, Constantine leaned forward slightly, studying the blacksmith’s rugged appearance. The man had clearly come straight from the forge, the heat of the furnaces still radiating from his clothes.
“I see you’ve come straight from work,” Constantine remarked, allowing a small smile. “How is your family?”
Elias blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. He hesitated only for a second before his lips curled into a proud, soot-streaked grin.
“I enjoy working the forge myself, Despot. I can’t just stand there and bark orders.” He flexed his fingers slightly, as if feeling the lingering heat of the hammer in his grip. “And my family is well. My eldest son has begun working in the forge—he’s learning quickly.” There was unmistakable pride in his voice.
Constantine nodded, pleased. “Good. Great to hear that. A strong craft runs in the blood. I’m sure he’ll make you proud.”
Elias dipped his head in gratitude.
“Now,” Constantine continued, his expression turning serious as he gestured toward the parchment in Elias’ hands, “tell me what you have.”
Elias passed the report to Theophilus and cleared his throat. “Despite our best efforts, the production of Pyrvelos remains slow. We’ve increased from one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty per year, but it’s still far from the goals we set.”
Constantine’s jaw tightened. “Even with the artisans and additional blacksmiths we recruited?”
Elias nodded. “Even with the ‘production chain’ you proposed, my Despot. It helps, but there are still limitations.”
“What about materials?” Theophilus asked, scanning the reports. “Bronze costs have risen i see.”
Elias sighed. “We use a great deal of bronze. The cost to import it has increased. We’re spending almost three ducats per Pyrvelos. A full gold ducat of that is just for the bronze.”
Constantine drummed his fingers against the table. His mind drifted for a moment, back to the weapons of his previous life—steel swords, rifled muskets, even the mass-produced firearms of later centuries. Steel had been the foundation of military technology for centuries in the world he once knew. It was stronger than bronze, more durable, and far cheaper to produce on a large scale.
Constantine drummed his fingers. “What about steel?”
Elias shook his head. “Steel for firearms? It’s difficult to work with, Despot. Unlike bronze, which pours smoothly and cools evenly, steel can be unpredictable. If handled poorly, it can become brittle or develop impurities that weaken it. But if we can learn the right techniques, steel could be cheaper and stronger than bronze.”
He hesitated.
“Speak,” Constantine ordered.
“I’ve been experimenting,” Elias admitted, “with new techniques—specifically, improving the standardization of our casting molds. It’s helping with bronze casting and will boost our production to an extent.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “But there’s something else. I’ve been in contact with a Venetian merchant for several months now—careful not to reveal too much, of course—but he’s been asking about our Pyrvelos and cannons. In one of our conversations, he mentioned something… intriguing.”
Constantine narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”
“In Venice, they use finery forges—a more advanced method of refining iron into steel. It’s different from what we use here. More efficient. The Venetians have been improving these techniques for years, and from what I’ve gathered, they’re beginning to produce higher-quality iron and steel in larger quantities.” Elias paused, his expression thoughtful. “If we could learn how they do it… we might be able to replicate it ourselves. Not for cannons or Pyrvelos, our bronze casting is already superior, but for armor, weapons, and even better tools for the army. Stronger steel would mean sharper blades and sturdier armor.” He met Constantine’s gaze. “With the right knowledge, we could equip our men with weapons and armor superior to anything we have now.”
Constantine’s mind clicked into place. Industrial espionage. He had seen it in his previous life—corporations fighting tooth and nail for an edge, sending men into the shadows to steal the secrets of their rivals. If it worked in the modern world, why not here?
He didn’t need to be a metallurgist himself. What mattered was knowing who had the knowledge and how to bring it to the Morea.
He turned to Elias, his voice sharp and certain. “Prepare to leave immediately.”
Elias blinked. “Leave? To where, my Despot?”
“Rome first,” Constantine said. “Find Bessarion. He has the right connections—he’ll know who to talk to. From there, Venice. Find out about those techniques of theirs. I want names—craftsmen, metallurgists, anyone with knowledge worth having. Offer them gold, high wages—whatever it takes to bring that expertise back to us.”
Elias hesitated. “You want me to… steal Venetian metallurgy secrets?”
Constantine’s lips curled into a half-smile. “Not steal—learn. We take what works, improve on what we already have, and make it our own.”
Then, a thought struck him. In this time, there were no patents, no intellectual property laws. No treaties or courts to protect knowledge. But secrecy still had its guardians—guilds, workshops, states. They controlled their crafts by restricting apprenticeships, barring foreigners from learning their methods, and in some cases, forbidding craftsmen from leaving entirely.
He exhaled slowly. This would have to be handled carefully.
His expression hardened. “No—Elias, I’ve changed my mind. You’re too valuable to risk. Send an apprentice, someone who understands the techniques. He’ll travel with a few of my trusted agents, men who know how to be discreet.”
Elias frowned. “And if the Venetians suspect?”
“Then he vanishes before they can act.” Constantine crossed his arms. “No sudden moves. No obvious bribes. If Venice is too well-guarded, move on—Florence, Milan, even beyond. Italy isn’t the only place with skilled smiths.”
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “What I need from your apprentice is his expertise—a deep understanding of why their steel is superior, how they refine their iron, and anything else worth learning. If we know that, we can recreate and improve upon it here.”
For a moment, Elias was silent. Then he nodded. “I have someone in mind.”
“Good.” Constantine’s voice dropped, final and absolute. “Make sure he understands—if he’s caught, he knows nothing. He was never there.”
From the corner, Theophilus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “By the Holy Mother… you are truly mad.”
Constantine let out a short laugh. ‘I suspect you’d not wish for me to change, Theophilus."
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Yep, that would be an ideal number—8-10k solid, professional troops would make Constantine a serious threat in the region. Right now, though, his biggest hurdle isn’t just recruitment but the slow production of Pyrvelos. He’s got the strategy and the manpower potential, but without enough of those new firearms, scaling up is a challenge. Gotta walk before you run!
ioshf fikry
What is the number of men Constantine is aiming for? Around 8-10k professional troops?
RENAISSANSE SI
That means a lot! I’m really glad you’re enjoying the story. I’ll keep the chapters coming—thanks for reading and for your support!
RENAISSANSE SI
Unfortunately for Constantine, he doesn’t know the Bessemer Process. While he has some modern knowledge, high-speed steel production is out of reach for him. He’ll have to stick with more traditional forging methods.
Ethan Eichelberger
Man I need about 10 books of this. Every time I finish a chapter I just can’t wait the couple of days until the next one is posted.
Space Core
Does Constantine know about the Bessemer Process because if he does then he'll be getting a lot of steel for cheap if he can make it
RENAISSANSE SI
You're absolutely right—Constantine is methodically laying the groundwork for a top-tier professional force.
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you!
Elaine
good chappie
russell marsh
Ah reminds me of my basic training days on cold sweat planes of Oklahoma, you are forging something that is stronger then steel my Despot can't wait for it to be unleash on your enemies.
