Glarentza – Spring 1435

Constantine could smell the salt through the open shutters of the barracks hall. Morning light slanted across the long oak table where maps of western Greece lay pinned with daggers. The harbor murmured far beyond the stone walls, gulls crying, but inside the chamber, a focused quiet reigned. Constantine stood at the head of the table, palms resting flat on a scuffed chart of the Ionian coast. Around him, his officers gathered in a semicircle. They waited for his nod to begin. He gave it with a single sharp dip of his chin.

General Andreas stepped forward first, clearing his throat. He placed a finger on the map, tracing two diverging lines that converged near the Gulf of Patras. "The strategy is set, Majesty," he began, voice low and firm. "We strike on two fronts, as planned. Prince Thomas marches from Neopatras with one tagma, about two thousand men, including one thousand pike infantry. He'll be cutting through the Pindos foothills and the inland mountain routes." His finger moved east of the drawn coastline, over ridges inked in green. "His route takes him toward Angelokastron from the northeast. Rough terrain, but the scouts report those passes are clear and basicaly unguarded."

Andreas glanced up, eyes bright with confidence. "Thomas should reach Angelokastron within a fortnight. He'll pin down any of Carlo Tocco's garrison there." A faint smile tugged his lip. "If they have the sense, they'll surrender once our banners crest their hills. Regardless, Thomas's presence inland will keep any potential Albanian warbands from pouring south unopposed." He shifted, and the light caught a tiny scar on his cheek, a souvenir from Domokos. "Meanwhile, our main force, two tagmata, marches to Kalogria and sails across the Gulf of Patras under the Kyreneia and the two cannon ships. We put ashore at first light on the firm beach south‑east of Messolongi, seize the low headland and the coast road, and throw a camp on the dry rise behind the strand.

Constantine listened in silence, eyes following every movement on the map. The general's tone was professional, but beneath it ran a current of barely contained eagerness. He almost sounds over-sure, Constantine thought. Well, victory breeds that. He let Andreas continue uninterrupted.

"Our purpose is twofold gentlemen," Andreas went on, voice rising a notch. "First, liberation, these are Orthodox Greek lands suffering under Carlo Tocco's decay. We bring them back into the fold of the Empire. Second, preemption, we deny Venice or any upstart warlord the chance to snatch these territories in the power vacuum." He curled his hand into a fist over the gulf. "Murad is dead, his armies broken. The Turks are in disarray. We cannot allow the Venetians to creep in or Albanian warlords to carve out realms while the Ottomans reel. We must move quickly, before others do." He stepped back then, giving a crisp nod toward Constantine. "That is the overview, Majesty."

Constantine met the general's eyes and offered a slight approving tilt of his head. Andreas's confidence was infectious; around the table the officers murmured assent and thumped fists to breastplates. After the crusade of the last year, they all hungered for another swift stroke of victory. Constantine could feel it in the charged stillness of the room, in the way even the younger captains stood a little straighter.

He turned to Admiral Manuel Laskaris, who was already stepping forward, a rolled parchment in his hands. Laskaris wore a simple blue surcoat, a silver anchor badge gleaming at his collar. He spread the parchment, revealing a neatly drawn timetable annotated with tiny ship icons. "Your Majesty, gentlemen," Laskaris began, voice smooth and resonant. "Regarding the sea crossing from Kalogria. Timing and coordination will be everything." He tapped the first column of notes. "We have assembled sufficient transports, mostly local merchant cogs and a few larger vessels, to carry our forces in two waves. The first wave will take roughly half the troops. The second wave follows half a day behind with the rest of the men, horses, and supplies."

Captain Kallistos, standing at the edge of the table, frowned slightly. "Admiral, what of Venetian ships?" he interjected. Kallistos was a younger officer, lean and hawk-nosed. He commanded one of the tagmata and had a reputation for meticulousness. "The Venetians patrol these waters. If they decide to bar our way…?"

Laskaris inclined his head. "Why should Venice step in? In reason they would not, but reason is a poor shield on the sea. It is a fair question to ask, nonetheless."Our intelligence suggests Venice has minimal naval presence along the gulf right now. Their nearest squadron is based out of Corfu, and they're busy escorting merchant convoys."

A wry smile. "Even so, we're not sailing undefended. The Kyreneia will lead as our flagship, and the other two cannon-armed ships will flank the convoy. If any Venetian banner appears and attempts to interfere, they'll get our warnings loud and clear." The Admiral's tone was confident, almost cavalier. Constantine noted the subtle emphasis: warnings, not attacks. Laskaris continued, pointing again to the timetable. "Barring unforeseen weather, we should have men ashore at our chosen landing site by mid-morning."

Constantine gave a small nod. "There is no cause for Venice to hinder us. That is not their style, they will not spend blood for Tocco, not while their factors wait on great orders of our paper and ink." His gaze moved to Kallistos, inviting him forward.

Captain Kallistos stepped fully forward. He held a wax tablet filled with scribbled notes which he scarcely glanced at, he had them committed to memory. "Majesty, on the matter of the army's readiness and the landing procedure," Kallistos began briskly. "Both tagmata are mustered and well drilled. Veterans from Domokos and Edessa form the backbone, and the newer recruits have been integrated into their files under experienced officers." He stood square-shouldered, pride in his voice. "They know what's expected. Morale is high, perhaps a bit too high," he added dryly, one corner of his mouth lifting. "We've had to rein in some overeager young soldiers boasting how they'll chase the Latins into the sea."

A rumble of assent came from Andreas at this, and Constantine caught the general's approving nod in the corner of his eye.

Kallistos continued, eyes on Constantine now. "As for the landing itself: we've organized the troops into boat teams and practiced embarking and disembarking as you ordered. First wave will be primarily my tagma. The men know to form up immediately on the strand, pikes out front, and pyrvelos gunners right behind, cavalry last due to the time it takes to get horses ashore." He gestured as if arranging invisible pieces. "The landing site we've chosen is a broad, gentle shoreline. Sandy ground, good footing, and importantly", he allowed himself a brief grin, "within a half-hour's march of a small fishing jetty that our advance agents have… repurposed for our use. We can offload cannons there if surf is calm. Captain Dukas can speak more to that."

Constantine felt a subtle unclenching in his chest. Kallistos was thorough, he'd left little to chance on the tactical end. The Emperor gave an approving hum. "Discipline above all, Captain. On the beach, every man has his place. I trust you to see it done. I find it most unlikely we'll meet any resistance at the landing, but it is well to have the men drilled for it, should fortune prove otherwise."

Another figure cleared his throat. Captain Aristos stepped out of the shadows near the back wall, where he'd been leaning. Not so long ago, he'd been that skeptical young officer sent to Albania with a handful of men; he had since earned his place here a dozen times over. He inclined his head respectfully to Constantine. "Majesty. I want to raise a concern about the Albanians in the region." His voice carried a gravelly undertone, the result of shouting commands in the mountains of Albania.

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He stepped nearer to the map, pointing north of Arta. "Word from our contacts," he said carefully, "suggests some Albanian bands are on the move near the upper Achelous valley. Possibly the forces of Losha's kin."

A low growl of disapproval came from Andreas. The general muttered, "Vultures," under his breath. Aristos nodded. "Just so. Vultures."

But I know a few of them, Majesty.I fought alongside the Albanians two years ago, and I've broken bread with their chieftains. They respect strength, and they remember who helped light their revolt against the Turks." He allowed a thin smile. "If we encounter Albanian forces near Arta, I'd ask permission to parley. I believe i can sway them to coordinate with us rather than against us, and failing that, a firm warning from an old friend might make them think twice before crossing our path."

Constantine absorbed this. From the corner of his eye he saw Andreas grimace, the blunt general probably had little patience for bargaining with Albanians. But Aristos had proven his savvy in that rugged theater. Constantine clasped his hands behind his back. "You have my permission to attempt contact, Captain, if circumstances allow. But do so cautiously." He fixed Aristos with a firm stare. "Be cautious but firm in any talks. We cannot afford misunderstandings."

Aristos bowed his head. "Yes, Majesty."

Satisfied, Constantine turned now to the last man who had yet to speak: Logothete Dukas, his chief logistics officer. Dukas wore no armor, only the sober robes of a senior bureaucrat. He had an ink-stained quill tucked behind one ear and half-moon circles under his eyes, testament to many late nights spent calculating the sinews of war. At a nod from Constantine, Dukas stepped forward and opened the ledger to a bookmarked page.

"Majesty, esteemed sirs, provisions and matériel for the campaign have been assembled and accounted for." His voice was reedy but steady. He ran a fingertip down columns of figures as he spoke. "We have loaded onto the transports: grain and hardtack to sustain four thousand men for three weeks." He flipped a page. "Powder and shot: we carry fifty barrels of gunpowder, carefully sealed."

Dukas looked up with a faint, tired smile. "We've tried to prepare for everything, Majesty. Even spare horse shoes and nails, the farriers insisted." A few of the officers chuckled quietly at that.

He went on, tapping another entry. "Just a moment—" Dukas murmured, fingering the page as if looking for the exact line. " The landing site infrastructure is also in hand. As Captain Kallistos mentioned, we've had agents operating in the area quietly. Local Greek fishermen sympathetic to our cause have reinforced that old jetty in the past weeks, under guise of repairing storm damage." The logothete allowed himself a hint of pride; it was clear he relished these details. "There will be a workable pier to offload the cannons and horses, which should greatly speed our landing.

Constantine felt warmth in his chest at that. The idea that their people, those scattered under foreign masters, were waiting, ready to help reclaim their freedom. This is what we fight for, he thought. Dukas finished with a brisk closing of the ledger. "In short, Majesty, the army is provisioned, armed, and our forward infrastructure set. By God's grace and your leadership, we are ready to begin the campaign."

A satisfied murmur swept the council. Constantine let silence settle for a moment. Through the window slit, he could hear the faint cries of workers loading the last of the barrels onto wagons outside. All preparations pointed to one truth: they were as ready as they could be. Over-ready, even – not a man in this room doubted success. Confidence crackled in the air like static before a storm.

Constantine straightened to his full height, letting his gaze travel over each man in turn, Andreas, Laskaris, Kallistos, Aristos, Dukas, and the handful of other aides and captains standing by. These were good men, he knew, blooded in battle and steadfast in purpose. Perhaps a bit headstrong now, but better that than fear.

He finally spoke, voice measured and calm but carrying to every corner of the barracks hall. "You have all done excellent work. My thanks. The plan is sound and our cause just." He allowed a small breath. "Now, a few final directives."

All eyes fixed on him. Constantine set one hand on the table, unconsciously near the miniature banner that marked their destination on the map. "First: discipline. We go as liberators, not pillagers. There will be no sack of captured towns. Any man caught looting or harming the innocent will wish he'd fallen in battle instead." His tone was iron. Memories of past campaigns flickered, how easily an undisciplined army could squander goodwill. He would not allow it. "We protect churches, we guard marketplaces, we treat the local Greeks as brothers and sisters being freed from long fear. They should welcome our banners, not flee from them." He made eye contact with Andreas in particular, and the general thumped a fist to his chest in solemn agreement.

"Second," Constantine continued, "Venice. The Republic will be watching closely. They will not be pleased, perhaps, at our expansion." A few dry chuckles, Venice was never pleased to see Byzantium rising. Constantine allowed himself a tight smile. "However, we have no quarrel with them unless they move to interfere. Our fight is not with Saint Mark's Lion this day."

"Third: Albanian factions, as Captain Aristos addressed. Should any Albanian warlord or band cross into our path, we proceed with caution. Extend a hand in parley if they'll take it, remind them of our past cooperation against the Turk. But make it clear," and here Constantine's voice hardened, "that we will tolerate no interference or lawlessness. If they come as friends, they will find friends. If they come as foes, they will be sent running back to their mountains."

Aristos bowed his head. "They will hear it plain, Majesty."

Constantine nodded once. The council had heard all the pieces now. Every man in the room seemed taller than when they'd entered, buoyed by the clarity of purpose.

"Finally," he said quietly, "remember why we do this." Constantine lifted the small double-eagle banner from the map, holding it between thumb and forefinger for all to see. "For seven years we have rebuilt our strength. We have dared and bled and prevailed, at Hexamilion, at Domokos, at Edessa. We do not seek war for war's sake. We seek to secure our people's future." He surveyed them, and in his mind's eye he saw the wider picture: an empire, piece by piece, knitting itself back together from the tatters he had inherited. "Carlo Tocco's remaining lands are the last patch of central Greece not yet under us. If we falter, others will snatch them, and with them, the fate of thousands of our countrymen. I will not permit that." His hand closed around the banner. "So we strike now, hard and true. A choke closed, and a door opened. The chokehold of a weak lord on our brethren, ended. And the door to a secure western frontier, opened for us."

General Andreas's face lit with fierce approval at those words, and a soft cheer of agreement went up from the captains: muted but heartfelt. Constantine placed the banner down gently. "Gentlemen, you have your orders. See that each company and crew understands their part. We march with the dawn."

The meeting concluded swiftly. Constantine moved to a side desk where parchments lay prepared with the campaign orders.

General Andreas lingered by the door, waiting until the others had gone. Constantine noted him and raised an eyebrow. Andreas stepped close, lowering his voice. Outside, the sounds of the camp life drifted in: a drill sergeant's shout, the creak of a cart. In here it was just the two of them now, Emperor and his old companion.

"Majesty," Andreas began softly, eyes down for a moment as if choosing words. "All is ready, as we've said. The men, the ships. We'll carry out your will." He hesitated, then looked up, meeting Constantine's gaze with a mixture of concern and devotion. " Constantine, do not sail. The wedding, the state, your life carries both."

Constantine's lips pressed thin. They had had this conversation before, or versions of it. He remained silent, inviting Andreas to finish his piece.

"You are our sovereign," Andreas went on, earnest and a little hoarse. "Your life is the life of this cause. Let the army secure the beachhead. Stay in Glarentza to coordinate. If a storm hits, if a single Venetian galley decides to play hero, if… if some damned luck of the sea should happen—" He stopped himself, jaw tight. "The Empire needs you alive."

Constantine shook his head. "We cannot let Tocco's lands slide into Venetian or Albanian jaws. It must be swift and clean, and I'll see it finished. I cant leave Thomas to carry it, for many reasons."

His gaze flicked toward the window. A brief sadness: Carlo, brother to Theodora, who died with their child. He had left the man undisturbed, but the time had come. "If Carlo bends, he keeps his name under ours," Constantine murmured. "With a garrison to steady him, before he hands himself to Venice."

Andreas nodded once. Together they stepped into the spring light

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