cp47

Constantine rose before dawn, long before the first shafts of sun crept over the Hexamilion. From the battlements, the chill of the early morning air bit through his cloak, but it wasn't the cold that made his hands tremble. His fingers twitched involuntarily, and a familiar, absurd thought forced its way into his mind: God, I'd kill for a cigarette.

The craving gnawed at him, sudden and sharp, like a phantom limb reaching back to a life that no longer existed. He'd never been more than a casual smoker—one or two after long meetings, maybe during those moments at parties when a conversation lulled and lighting up was an excuse to linger. But here, now, on the edge of a battle that might very well decide the fate of this fragile wall and everyone behind it, the need clawed at him like a physical ache.

He could almost feel the cigarette between his fingers, the dry paper against his lips, the sharp burn of the first drag. For a moment, he could even see the smoke curling upward, disappearing into the mist like thoughts he'd rather not confront. It was ridiculous, really, to yearn for such a trivial comfort in the face of everything else. Yet, in this brutal reality, where survival came with no guarantees and every decision could spell disaster, he would have given anything for a moment of that old, careless normalcy.

The mist shifted over the isthmus, restless and serpentine, and Constantine forced himself to focus. Below, the Ottoman encampment stirred, its quiet hum carried on the wind—clattering timber, muffled orders, the occasional cough of a sentry. A soundscape of preparation and intent. Violence brewed there, waiting to spill over the wall and into his world.

He took slow, measured steps along the ramparts. Below him, the trenches lay newly dug and still slick from the night's dew. His men, Sforza's Italians, and Thomas's loyal retainers stood to watch, eyes ringed with fatigue but sharpened by dread. They had glimpsed the size of the enemy force—multitudes stretching away beyond the horizon—and recognized its formidable intent.

A few days earlier, the first wave of the Ottomans, nearly ten thousand aḳinci under Turahan Bey, had descended on the countryside, ravaging land and livelihoods with dispassionate efficiency. Smoke from the ransacked villages had hung in the air for days—an acrid reminder that the real horror had only begun. Now the second wave—countless foot soldiers, Sipahi cavalry, Janissaries, and even the Duke of Athens Antonio I Acciaioli leading a small contingent—moved in like an incoming tide. They established a fortified encampment, a bristling perimeter of timbers and planks only a kilometer from the Hexamilion wall. Their campfires dotted the gloom, a field of smoldering orange eyes that never blinked.

Constantine paused at a crenellation, surveying his own artillery below. Drakos cannons stood in a neat row, polished metal dull in the predawn light. He ran a gloved hand over the cold stone of the battlements, as if sensing some hidden prophecy in the rough masonry. The men operating the guns—Pyrvelos marksmen and crossbowmen perched close to them—remained silent, each lost in private calculations of who would live to see another sunrise.

A discreet cough at his shoulder broke his reverie. Captain Andreas had approached, a slight stoop in his posture betraying the weight of sleepless nights. He wore the worry plainly on his face.

"Our preparations?" Constantine asked quietly.

"All is as you ordered, my Despot. The trenches are ready, the men…" Andreas hesitated. "They've seen the enemy encampment. They're a bit rattled, but they'll hold."

Constantine allowed himself a brief glance at the mist-veiled Ottoman fortifications. "Let them see it," he murmured. "They need to know what we're up against." A pause long enough for the wind to stir the fog along the wall. "And the cannons?"

Andreas lip twitched. "Cleaned, loaded, and sighted. We will hit them before they know what's coming."

Constantine nodded. "They'll move soon, perhaps in the next day or two, once all their pieces are in place. When they come, it'll be with everything they have."

Behind them, a horse's whinny sounded faintly from within the fortress courtyard. The resonant clank of harnesses drifted up: supplies being shuffled about under George's orders, or perhaps Sforza's men taking inventory yet again. Somewhere in the Hexamilion shadows, priests and monks intoned their prayers—low, steady murmurs threading through the gloom, binding soldiers and defenders alike in a wary hope that faith might yet conquer fear.

Constantine leaned over the wall, gazing into the swirling dawn. "So, Andreas," he said at last, lowering his voice to an intimate hush, "we wait."

And in the stillness, the Ottoman host seemed to shift like a restless beast—an invisible hand marshalling thousands of hearts and minds. From Constantine's vantage, it felt as though each breath he took was a small defiance. Because once the Ottoman tide broke upon the Hexamilion, there would be no turning back. Their lines would clash, walls would shudder, and the question lingering in every soldier's mind was whether those walls—and the souls that defended them—would endure.

They called it an encampment, yet to the observant, it stood as a meticulously disguised launching point for the storm quietly gathering within. Murad II paced a length of canvas corridor between rows of Ottoman officers, a man inclined to keep his own counsel even as he orchestrated a meticulous plan of siege. The air within the tents smelled of wet wool, scorched timber, and that faint tang of gunpowder that signaled both promise and peril. Murad's lieutenants—austere men with hawk-like glares—stood by, waiting for their Sultan's next command.

News of Constantine's early cannon barrage had arrived on the breath of a trembling messenger, his words stumbling in a mixture of fear and regret. Ottoman guns had been sighted too far forward; the Byzantine range proved better, their aim sharper. Several of Murad's own precious cannons lay crippled in the mud, wreathed in acrid smoke. Murad listened without apparent emotion, though his gaze flickered like a blade catching light. He offered no reproach, only a curt nod. The men understood that mistakes would not be forgiven a second time.

"Pull the cannons back," Murad said softly, crossing to a makeshift table where a map lay pinned by knives. "Far enough that Constantine's cannons must strain at their limit. We'll hide ours behind timber works—shields if need be." He tapped the parchment. "In any war, position is everything. Get it right."

His voice, though low, carried over the quiet murmurs of the assembled officers. One by one, they leaned in, absorbing every nuance of instruction. They knew that behind the veneer of calm, Murad's mind was a nest of calculations, endless permutations of assault and counterassault. His men did not simply obey him out of fear or respect—they obeyed because he rarely failed, and failure here meant more than lost cannons; it threatened the dream of empire.

Outside, the camp bustled with the disquiet of soldiers preparing siege towers, lashing timbers into place, and fashioning crude barricades. Occasionally, a stray cheer from the distant Byzantine walls drifted through the gloom, faint but cutting, like a distant mocking refrain. The Ottomans responded with hammers and saws, a symphony of readiness that was at once methodical and menacing.

Then came the arrival of the Şeyhülislam. He rode into the camp atop a tired-looking mule, surrounded by five hundred devout monks who formed a somber escort. The moment he appeared, word rippled across the ranks like electricity. Men who had stood unyielding in the face of cannon fire now craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the holy man. Even Sultan Murad, that hardened chess master of battles, stepped forward in an uncharacteristic display of deference.

The Şeyhülislam's sermon was delivered in measured, resonant tones, promising divine favor at precisely the appointed day—a day he alone would discern by charting the stars and the movements of the heavens. Watching Murad bow his head before this austere figure, the Ottoman ranks grew emboldened. Faith, after all, can be a more potent weapon than steel.

By dusk, the camp was ablaze with the fever of rumor and arrogance. Soldiers spat venom at the Christian defenders, their voices echoing along the rows of tents. They cursed, mocked, and hurled obscene threats toward the Hexamilion wall, daring God Himself to intervene. The promised hour was coming, or so the Şeyhülislam declared. For men at war, hope and hatred often share the same flame.

From the battlements, the Byzantines could see the swelling of Ottoman fervor—banners raised high, the rhythmic pound of drums designed to stoke courage in their men and erode it in others. Constantine, observing, reportedly told his officers that "noise doesn't breach walls—cannonballs do." Sforza, standing near, offered a nod of agreement, muttering a faint curse for such impiety.

Night fell, covering the encampment like a conspirator's cloak. Soft lamplight glimmered on the edges of siege engines. Turahan Bey led a band of aḳıncı across the darkened plain—a probing attack, designed to peel back the layers of the Byzantines' defenses. Constant skirmishes teased out the weak points of the Hexamilion wall, and every musket flash illuminated fractions of the Byzantine fortifications.

In the quiet that followed, Murad waited, trusting that the Şeyhülislam's chosen moment would come. For every glance cast toward the northern stars, a plan was refined, a tactic sharpened. And beneath the black canopy of night, amid the ragged breath of war-weary men, the Ottoman host drew breath like a single living creature—coiled and ready to strike at the day of the Şeyhülislam's choosing.

They came at first light—not a scattered rabble of mercenaries but a disciplined host assembled under the color of prophecy. Days had passed since that eerie sermon of the Şeyhülislam, and now the watchers on the Hexamilion's battlements witnessed its ominous fruition. From Constantine's vantage point, the Ottoman camp looked like a restless sea, its occupants a swirling mass of harness and steel waiting for a single word to unleash them. That word now seemed imminent.

Below, on the charred and trampled plain, Murad's banners stirred. In their midst rode Şeyhülislam, mounted on a tall horse as promised, a drawn sword held aloft in his right hand—glinting in the pale dawn. His voice, carried by some unearthly resonance, tore through the hush of the moment. Not once, not twice, but three times, he roared commands to the faithful, each echo a hammer blow on the defenders' nerves.

"Now," Constantine muttered under his breath, leaning over the parapet to address his gunners. "Let them feel what prophecy cannot shield." He offered a curt nod, and within a heartbeat, the first of the Drakos cannons spat fire.

From the walls, the Byzantines watched in grim fascination as the Ottoman hordes advanced. It was a spectacle of choreographed menace. Men in heavy armor bearing shields, others laden with ladders, still more brandishing torches and iron hooks. Their footfalls converged into a thunderous cadence, accompanied by the hiss of thousands of arrows launched skyward—a deadly hail that arced with the precision of well-drilled archers. Beneath the steady drumming of war, standard-bearers shouted encouragements, brandishing the Ottoman banners.

Amid this swirling storm, Constantine's cannons let loose. Their roar shook the ramparts, sent plumes of stone dust drifting into the air, and opened ragged gaps in the surging Ottoman lines. Men screamed, forms thrown into brutal disarray, but the mass hardly paused. Turahan Bey—spearheading the irregulars—drove them forward, bridging the new craters with shattered timbers and the bodies of their own fallen.

Upon Constantine's signal, Pyrvelos marksmen took up position. Together with the crossbowmen, they picked off Ottoman warriors with unnerving precision. One instant, a tall commander in richly embroidered armor raised a sword; the next, he crumpled into the mud. The effect on the enemy formations was palpable: columns stumbled, and orders were lost. Yet Murad's presence loomed from the rear, stony-faced and unflinching, dispatching new troops to refill the ranks.

Smoke mingled with dawn mist, obscuring the defenders' vision. Ragged shouts cut through the gloom; you could almost taste the tension on the wind. From his vantage point, Captain Andreas relayed fresh instructions to the artillery crews, ensuring no man wasted a single shot. Down below, Sforza's Italians braced for the possibility of a direct assault on the walls, muttering curses at every fresh volley that rattled the stonework.

All the while, the Şeyhülislam hovered like some arcane overseer, presumably reading his stars and seizing the faithful's devotion. He pointed with his sword, and men swarmed forward with ladders and grappling hooks, eager to close the distance. The clang of steel meeting stone rang out as the first wave pressed against the moat and trenches. For a brief instant, everything seemed balanced on a razor's edge—whether the Ottoman fervor would overwhelm the Byzantine defenses or break against them like waves on a rocky shore.

"Fire!" Constantine's order was calm, but it sliced through the cacophony. A volley of canister shots tore through the front ranks of the attackers. Ladders snapped like kindling; men tumbled to the ground in tangled heaps. The defenders on the walls exhaled a collective breath—a momentary surge of confidence. But the next wave came on, unheeding. There were simply too many.