personal 2

After several days of marching, the combined forces of Constantine and Sforza finally arrived in Corinth. From there, they pressed straight onto the Hexamilion Wall without delay, their ranks carrying the residue of fatigue and fresh resolve in equal measure.

Constantine inhaled the morning air, tasting salt and damp earth as he led his horse toward the looming Hexamilion Wall. The structure spanned the Isthmus of Corinth with a grim permanence, its stones ancient yet charged with fresh urgency. Below its dark ramparts, workers scurried like ants, the clash of hammers and scrape of chisels blending with curt orders that reverberated off the walls.

At his side rode Sforza, silent but observant, his war-honed eyes measuring every gap and tower as they drew near the southern gate. His rough voice, when it finally came, carried that mixture of cynicism and hard-won respect Constantine had learned to value.

"It's a rare sight, seeing a fortress bustling like this," Sforza said. His words rolled out slowly, sanded as though he weighed each one before letting it go. "You've done well, Constantine."

Constantine gave a slight nod, maintaining an air of composure. Pride, in his view, was a luxury best spent elsewhere. He spurred his horse on, turning his attention to the gate. Thomas Palaiologos stood there with a crisp retinue, his youthful eagerness plain as day.

"Brother," Thomas called, stepping forward to clasp Constantine's arm warmly. "Your arrival couldn't be better timed. The men will be heartened to see you."

"And I them," replied Constantine, glancing toward the row of workers. "I hear the fortifications are all but complete."

Thomas's face lit with a flush of pride. "New trenches are dug, earthworks rebuilt—the whole wall is stronger than in decades. We've done everything short of begging the stones to hold forever."

"And the cannons?" Constantine asked, his tone sharpening as though seeking a weak seam in the mortar of Thomas's confidence.

Thomas gestured to a bastion farther along the rampart. "Niketas will explain. He's been testing them day in and day out. Claims they'll reach farther than anything the Ottomans can bring—if they even try to bring cannons this far south."

Constantine cast a considering look toward Sforza, whose expression betrayed neither agreement nor doubt. "We'll see," he said quietly, urging them onward. "Let's have a look."

The wall stretched before them as a monolith, its weathered stone reinforced with fresh mortar and braced by thick earthworks. The trench that ran parallel to its base gleamed in the sunlight, freshly dug and deepened to trap any advancing cavalry. The group moved briskly, their boots crunching over the packed dirt as they ascended a set of stairs to the first bastion.

Niketas awaited them at the top, his face smudged with soot and sweat but his bearing composed. He bowed briefly. "Despot," he greeted. "Your arrival is timely."

"I hear you've been busy," Constantine replied, his gaze flicking to the array of cannon placements nearby. The Drakos cannons gleamed menacingly, their barrels angled outward as if already hunting an unseen enemy.

"We have," Niketas confirmed. "These beauties here"—he gestured toward the cannons, his voice gaining a tinge of pride—"can outshoot anything the Ottomans bring. We've tested their range, and I assure you, they'll hit their mark before the enemy even knows what's happening."

Constantine stepped forward, resting a hand on one gleaming barrel. "You're certain, Niketas?" His tone was measured, carrying the weight of battles past. "We both know what depends on this."

Niketas met his eyes. "I've served the Ottomans, Despot. I know what they can muster. These"—he rapped a knuckle sharply on the metal—"will surpass their reach."

Constantine nodded, satisfied but not entirely convinced. "And the repairs? If one of these fails during the siege?"

Elias, standing nearby with arms folded, stepped forward at the question. The bell maker's rough hands bore the marks of a lifetime working with metal. "We've set up a workshop just behind the wall," he said, his tone brisk. "We can handle most repairs there. Nothing too fancy, but it'll keep us running in the long run."

The meeting chamber was cloaked in a dim and flickering glow, the wavering lamplight playing tricks across the strained faces of those gathered. A heavy wooden table stretched through the center of the room, its surface a battlefield of its own—maps strewn haphazardly, half-finished goblets of wine scattered among them, and wooden figurines marking troop positions and deployments. At the head sat Constantine, his expression etched with an intensity that silenced idle chatter. Around him—Sforza, George, Thomas, Andreas, and a few seasoned officers—waited, their expressions betraying a mix of apprehension and resolve.

Sforza leaned forward abruptly, breaking the heavy silence. His finger stabbed the map with a precision born of confidence. "Forget their cavalry," he growled. "Against fortifications like these, they're little more than show horses. No, Murad will send his infantry here"—his finger swept across the walls—"wave after wave. He'll try to drown us in sheer numbers."

George Sphrantzes steepled his fingers under his chin, his thoughtful demeanor at odds with the urgency in the room. "Then we must assume no fewer than thirty thousand men," he mused. "Likely more, if the whispers from Edirne hold any truth."

Thomas, shifting uneasily, spoke up, his voice tinged with youthful uncertainty. "Do we know for certain he's gathering there? Could this all be a feint?"

George's tone was dry, verging on sardonic. "As certain as one can be in matters of war. Merchants speak of movement—supply chains, caravans, the usual concentration of men for a major Ottoman campaign. Murad won't leave this to chance. He knows what the Hexamilion means to us. He'll come with everything he has."

"Then how long can we hold?" Thomas asked, his doubt cutting through the room like a blade. "If he brings his full strength?"

Sforza let out a derisive snort, leaning onto the table as though it were a bar counter. "Longer than he'd like, I'll wager. This wall isn't just stone; it's a fortress. Trenches dug deep, earthworks reinforced, cannons primed and ready. His first wave will bleed for every inch."

Captain Andreas, seated to Constantine's left, interjected with measured pragmatism. "And the second wave? And the third? We've seen this before. His numbers are a weapon in their own right. He can afford to lose men. We cannot."

"That's why we make every shot count," Sforza retorted. "Pyrvelos marksmen here, crossbows there, and cannons firing in coordinated volleys. We'll turn his advance into a slaughter."

Constantine raised a hand, his voice calm yet imbued with an authority that silenced the room. "Murad isn't a fool. He won't throw his men at the wall without a plan. Expect siege engines—ladders, towers, perhaps even trebuchets. He'll test our defenses with precision."

George's voice was quieter now, but no less insistent. "And his cannons. He'll bring them, as surely as he brings his men. They may not breach the wall outright, but enough sustained fire could weaken us in critical places."

Constantine's gaze sharpened. "Niketas assures me that our cannons have the advantage in range. If they deploy artillery, we'll counter it before they can find their mark."

A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the chamber, briefly lightening the oppressive mood.

Thomas, still restless, spoke again. "What about sappers? If they tunnel beneath us—"

Sforza cut him off with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "I've got men who've spent years digging, reinforcing, and countermining. If they try, we'll hear them coming. And when we do, we'll collapse the tunnels right on their heads."

The discussion shifted to logistics. George reported that their stockpiles of grain and gunpowder were sufficient for a prolonged siege. Andreas confirmed that their network of outposts and spies would provide early warning of any Ottoman fleet attempting a landing south of the wall. Venice's presence in the seas remained an obstacle to Murad's navy. For now, the prospect of an amphibious assault seemed unlikely.

"We will hold," Constantine said, his voice cutting through the deliberation like a sword. "This wall is more than stone. It's a symbol. If it falls, the Morea falls. And if the Morea falls, so does Byzantium."

The room fell silent, Constantine's words heavy with the weight of history. Even Sforza's bravado seemed to falter under their gravity.

After a pause, George spoke, his tone low but firm. "Murad's army is vast, yes, but not invincible. If we can outlast him—force him into a siege longer than he anticipates—"

"We bleed him dry," Andreas finished grimly. "Turn his numbers into a liability."

Constantine nodded, his gaze sweeping across the table, meeting the eyes of each man. "Then that's our plan. We fortify. We prepare. And when Murad comes, we give him everything we have."

The men nodded, some murmuring assent as they rose to leave. The scrape of chairs and shuffle of boots filled the chamber, but the weight of what lay ahead lingered.

As the last officer filed out, Constantine remained, his eyes fixed on the map. Quietly, almost to himself, he murmured, "Let him come. And let us see if he bleeds as we do."

The days that followed saw an unrelenting schedule of final inspections, drills, and adjustments to the Hexamilion's defenses. Constantine threw himself into the work, personally checking each bastion, trench, and watchtower. His habit of moving through the ranks without ceremony—offering a word here, a nod there—breathed confidence into the men. In the evenings, the fortress lights glimmered along the ramparts like distant stars. Even by torchlight, the clang of hammers and the rumble of carts continued, each sound a small reminder that the wall was a living thing.

Late one evening, as clouds gathered overhead and the scent of coming rain mingled with the sea's brine, Constantine finished his inspection rounds and descended into the sprawling camp near the wall. Clustered fires dotted the gloom, lending the scene a quiet intimacy—each circle of men its own little island in a vast, uncertain darkness. Anxious but resolute faces lifted as Constantine passed. Salutes snapped, and he returned them with gestures that communicated acknowledgment and reassurance.

He stopped at a modest fire where a group of soldiers lounged on stones and makeshift stools. Upon noticing Constantine, one young man sprang to his feet so abruptly that his scabbard clanged against the ground.

"Despot!" he said, voice high with nerves.

"At ease," Constantine murmured, motioning for the man to sit. He settled onto a smooth rock, feeling the heat of the flames against his legs. "Your name?"

"Apostolos, Despot," the soldier managed. His hands were tense in his lap, the grip of inexperience plainly visible.

Constantine studied the youth with a discerning eye—so much earnestness and fear bound up in a single countenance. "Your first battle?"

The soldier swallowed, nodding. "Yes, Despot. But I'm ready. I won't fail."

A gravelly chuckle came from a nearby figure, a seasoned veteran who leaned forward into the light. "He's all nerves, Despot, but let him see the whites of the enemy's eyes, and he'll fight like a lion."

Constantine turned to the older man. "You seem familiar. Who are you?"

"Polydoros," he replied. "I've been in your ranks since the campaign in the Echinades."

A faint smile crossed Constantine's lips. "Good. Men like you keep the army steady—especially for the young ones."

Polydoros nodded. "He'll be all right, Despot. Just needs to know he's not alone."

Constantine's gaze drifted over the other soldiers gathered around. The tension in their eyes was not merely fear of dying but of failing a cause that had come to mean so much. He had witnessed the forging of that cause just nights before—an idea that now threaded through the camp like a whispered promise.

Another soldier, shuffling closer to the fire, cleared his throat. "Despot, I was at the meeting about the Ieros Skopos. They said it's bigger than just these walls, and I've never felt so certain about anything in my life. I want to serve it, whatever it takes."

A hush fell. The mention of Ieros Skopos lit a flicker of excitement in Apostolos's eyes and sparked a knowing look in Polydoros's. Constantine took a moment before responding, aware that in these small fireside gatherings, words carried an almost sacred weight.

"It is bigger than all of us," Constantine said quietly. "It's an ideal that goes beyond our swords and our stones. A call to faith and identity that unites every Christian who has felt the weight of heathen rule."

He thought, fleetingly, of those late nights with Georgios Gemistos Plethon, shaping words into weapons that might breach the hardest bastions of fear. He recalled the lines of the manifesto: Rhomaioi! Faithful of the Church, heirs to Hellenic wisdom—arise from your despair! The phrase had resounded in his mind like a trumpet call.

He continued, voice low but steady. "In time, our words will travel far from this wall—to Anatolia, Thrace, to every place our people dwell. We will remind them of who they are. That's the Ieros Skopos. A spark that we pray will become a flame."

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, quietly at first, one soldier gave voice to a subdued cheer: "Ieros Skopos." Another took it up—"Ieros Skopos!"—and soon it spread around the circle. Finally, they looked to Constantine. He inclined his head, letting their fervor echo in the night air.

Later, when the camp had grown hushed and watchfires glowed like distant embers, Constantine found himself standing atop the southern bastion. Below, the labyrinth of trenches reached into the darkness. His cloak caught the wind that swept in off the sea, cool and briny. He gazed beyond the wall, toward an unseen horizon fraught with potential menace. On that far side lay the Ottoman threat, quiet tonight, but always present.

This fortress—this line in the sand—was more than stone. It was an assertion of will, buttressed by hope. And if the wall ever failed, that hope would be the last rampart.

The following day arrived under a sky the color of tarnished iron. Dawn found Constantine in his tent at the edge of the encampment, resting at last. He slept fitfully, half-lost in dreams of long-forgotten battles and the swirl of voices chanting "Ieros Skopos" into an endless night.

He woke to a firm rapping on the tent's wooden strut. A muffled voice: "Despot, forgive me—urgent news."

Constantine stirred, blinking away the remnants of sleep. He rose, belting his tunic as the tent flap parted to reveal a breathless officer. The man's face was wan in the soft morning light.

"Despot," the officer began, chest heaving as if he'd run the length of the wall. "Scouts have brought word: a large Ottoman party has been sighted northeast of here—perhaps a day away."

Constantine's eyes sharpened, all traces of drowsiness burned away by a wave of adrenaline. He stood fully, gripping the man's shoulder. "A scouting party, you say?"

"Yes, Despot. They seem to be surveying the area."

Constantine drew a breath, the faint tang of the sea's salt lingering on the air. It's time. The words were little more than a murmur, yet they carried the force of inevitability.