Dawn broke clear and pale gold over the battlements of Thebes. In the cool hush of early morning, Constantine raised himself in his stirrups and surveyed the long column of his army assembling beyond the city gate. Two days of precious rest and resupply in Thebes had refreshed his men's bodies and spirits; now their armor caught the new sun in glints of steel and bronze, and the imperial standards unfurled gently in the breeze.
At first light, farmers from the Boeotian countryside had arrived on foot or with mules, bearing what little they could spare, sacks of grain slung over shoulders, bundles of dried figs wrapped in linen, amphorae of oil cradled in calloused arms. Constantine watched two village youths hoist a sack of flour toward the quartermasters, their faces flushed with exertion and pride. This, he thought, was the quiet reward of victory: not the spoils of conquest, but the trust of a people who believed in him enough to give from their own meager stores.
He allowed himself a brief moment to inhale the scent of baking bread from Thebes' ovens and the dew on the fields beyond. Then he nodded to the trumpeter. A clarion call rang out. Behind him, horses snorted and stamped; ranks of spearmen adjusted shields and tightened grips on their pikes. With a creak of timber and iron, the north gate groaned fully open. The Crusade host, Constantine's host, began to move.
They marched north out of Thebes as the sun climbed, winding along the ancient road toward Thermopylae. Constantine rode near the vanguard on his war horse, the royal banner of crimson and gold just ahead. At his side rode General Andreas, quiet and vigilant, eyes scanning the distant hills.
The road narrowed through foothills cloaked in scrub oak and pine. After several days of steady marching, their boots caked with dust and their mounts leaner from the long haul, they finally reached the entrance to the Thermopylae pass. Steep mountains, foothills of mighty Mount Kallidromo, reared up on their left, while to their right the land fell away into salt marsh and the glinting waters of the Malian Gulf. Warm sulfurous steam drifted from hidden hot springs in the cliffs, giving the air a tang of brimstone.
For Constantine's men, most of them veterans who had passed this way the previous year, the landscape was familiar, its solemn weight already etched into their memory. But among the Burgundian knights and Western lords riding near the vanguard, a hush took hold. They gazed at the place with reverence, some crossing themselves, others whispering to one another in French or Latin. Here, at this narrow throat of land, Leonidas had made his final stand. The legends they'd read of in youth now rose before them in rock and mist, made real in the scent of sulfur and the silent mountains pressing close.
Thermopylae still demanded respect. Though the path was wide enough for the army to move steadily, the terrain remained treacherous, uneven, strewn with loose stone, flanked by sheer rock and marshes. Constantine's forces entered the pass in disciplined silence, their footsteps muffled by silt and gravel, the distant hiss of hot springs rising like breath from the earth.
When a stretch of crumbling ledge threatened the safe passage of the Drakos cannons, General Andreas barked orders, and the engineers moved with practiced speed, hauling timbers, stacking sandbags, guiding the wheels with ropes and shouted warnings. The cannons creaked through the narrow bend, steel and sweat inching forward together.
Morale held firm. The place was legend, and every obstacle they cleared beneath these cliffs felt like a test they were passing. Jokes rippled down the line, rough, irreverent, full of the bravado only tired men could manage. "The Ottomans must be pissing themselves already," someone muttered, and laughter followed like the clink of harness rings in the morning fog.
By midday, the army emerged from the northern end of the pass onto broader ground. The defile opened out into rolling terrain and the head of a fertile plain. Constantine paused at a rocky outcrop to let the columns re-form after the long bottleneck. As his men filed out of the mountain shadows behind him, he removed his helmet and ran a sleeve over his brow. The air beyond Thermopylae felt different, expansive, carrying the subtle sweetness of distant flowering groves and a salt tang from the gulf. From here, the road would lead into the plains of Phthiotis and Thessaly beyond.
Far ahead, across a patchwork of fields and olive groves, Constantine could discern low walls and a scattering of towers: Zetouni, their next stop. This town and its fortress guarded the approach to Thessaly. Constantine's gaze swept from the town to the silver ribbon of the Spercheios River glimmering to its west, and further beyond to the blue expanse of the gulf. How many armies had come this way before? The narrow gateway of Thermopylae had once been a graveyard of heroes; today it had delivered his army, once again, into the heart of central Greece.
Constantine breathed deeply, savoring the moment. Then he called out, "Form up! On to Zetouni!" His voice carried down the line. With renewed vigor, the army pressed forward.
Their approach to Zetouni that afternoon was swift and confident. Riders dispatched ahead returned swiftly, confirming the road clear and secure; Ottoman threats had long been driven from this area, and General Andreas had spent months meticulously fortifying the town after its liberation the previous year. Zetouni now stood proudly as the empire's northernmost bastion, guarding the threshold to Ottoman-held Thessaly.
As Constantine's forces neared, they saw familiar Byzantine banners fluttering atop sturdy walls repaired and reinforced by Andreas and his engineers. A disciplined detachment of local Byzantine troops lined the ramparts, spears raised in salute. The gates swung open smoothly, and the soldiers within cheered their returning comrades with robust shouts of greeting.
Inside the gates, the town was alive with preparations. Townsfolk, accustomed now to their role as the empire's frontline citizens, crowded the streets in joyful anticipation, holding banners emblazoned skillfully with crosses and imperial eagles. The rich tolling of church bells filled the evening air, mingling with cries of welcome.
Constantine felt warmth in his chest as he guided his mount through the streets, nodding in recognition to faces he remembered from his previous visit. A local officer, Lieutenant Anastasios, came forward briskly, his expression earnest and proud.
"Your Majesty," Anastasios greeted him warmly, thumping his chest in salute. "Zetouni stands ready. General Andreas's work here has endured, our defenses remain strong, provisions are ample, and morale-" he smiled broadly "-well, Your Majesty may judge for yourself."
Constantine returned the smile. "General Andreas spoke highly of your vigilance, Lieutenant. Zetouni truly reflects your steadfastness and dedication."
The lieutenant straightened, clearly pleased. "Very kind of you, Your Majesty. I've just done my part, kept the watch tight, made sure everyone pulled their weight. The townsfolk were willing, but they needed someone to keep 'em steady. I reckon they've come to see order as a kind of safety."
In the central square, Constantine dismounted onto familiar ground. He stepped onto a small, neatly constructed platform. Raising his hand for silence, Constantine's voice carried confidently.
"People of Zetouni," he began, eyes sweeping the gathered faces warmly. "Your fortitude and labor have turned this place into a bastion of hope. From here, we will launch the next phase of our campaign. Tomorrow, we advance into Thessaly, not just to reclaim land, but to free our brothers and sisters still living under Ottoman oppression."
The crowd responded with enthusiasm, cries of loyalty and determination echoing off the sturdy walls. Constantine's voice took on solemn resolve. "Many challenges lie ahead, but Zetouni stands firm behind us. Together, with your courage and prayers, we will succeed."
He stepped down into a welcoming crowd, friends, soldiers, and citizens alike, all united in purpose. Lieutenant Anastasios stood nearby, quietly proud. As darkness settled and torches flared to life, the familiar scents and sounds of Zetouni filled Constantine with renewed determination. This was their fortress, their secure home base for the trials ahead.
Later that evening, Constantine inspected the garrison, reassured by the professionalism and readiness of the soldiers stationed there. Lieutenant Anastasios, diligent and trustworthy, would remain behind to command the stronghold and ensure the empire's northern gate remained secure. Settling in for the night, Constantine felt the weight of command tempered by confidence.
By first light, Constantine and the main army took their leave of Zetouni. The townsfolk lined the streets once more despite the early hour, showering the departing soldiers with blessings and bread for the journey. Anastasios stood at the gate with his garrison detachment, already looking every bit the proud garrison. He and Constantine clasped forearms. No words were needed beyond mutual grips of trust. Constantine left him a final instruction to send regular riders north with any news, and then it was time. With a last wave to the cheering citizens of Zetouni, the Emperor spurred his horse and led his host northward again.
On the second day out from Zetouni, the column came upon the low hill where they had clashed with the Ottomans nearly a year before. Rough-hewn crosses still marked the slope, scattered among cairns half-sunken in the grass. Wildflowers had begun to reclaim the ground, but the memory of bloodshed lingered like a shadow.
Now, passing again with banners high and hearts resolved, Constantine felt his chest tighten. The graves had been left undisturbed, perhaps out of indifference, or fear. Either way, the hill stood quiet, solemn, and unchanged.
He raised his right arm, signaling a halt. The order rippled down the ranks, and the entire army came to a standstill along the dusty road. Without a word, Constantine dismounted and handed his reins to a squire. He walked alone up the slope toward the cluster of modest crosses. The grass was dry, whispering against his boots. A few of the wooden grave markers had names scrawled, now faded by sun and rain. A soft breeze blew, carrying the faint scent of thyme from the wild herbs that sprouted around the tombs.
Constantine removed one leather glove and touched a weathered cross, tracing the crude letters of a name with his fingertips. He recognized it dimly, a young officer from the Morea who had fallen in a valiant charge buying time for the rest to regroup. How many friends, how many loyal soldiers, lay here? He bowed his head. Behind him, the army watched in reverent silence, helmets in hand and standards lowered. Father Manuel stepped forward and quietly intoned a memorial prayer, the same he had offered on that grievous day nearly a year ago. Constantine closed his eyes, the priest's words washing over him: "Give rest, O Lord, to the souls of thy servants who have fallen in battle, in a place of light, a place of green pasture, from whence pain and sorrow are fled away…."
When the prayer ended, Constantine knelt and pressed his palm flat against the earth of one grave, as if to physically convey his respect and gratitude. If our cause succeeds, he vowed silently, these men will not be forgotten. He pictured a proper memorial here one day, or perhaps a small chapel erected in their honor, something permanent so that future generations would know of their sacrifice. It was an unusual thought for a medieval warlord, perhaps... but Michael, Constantine, carried a very modern sense of duty to those who fell under his command. They deserved to be remembered beyond just a list in a chronicle.
At length he rose, composed himself, and addressed his officers and men gathered at the base of the hill. "These here were the bravest of the brave," he said, voice clear but thick with feeling. "They gave their lives so that we could fight on another day. Now this day, we fight in their memory. We carry them with us, in our hearts, into every battle yet to come." He drew his sword and held it aloft, the sun catching its keen edge. "Never forget them. Never dishonor their sacrifice."
A low rumble of assent came from the soldiers, some pounded spear hafts against shields in solemn salute. Constantine nodded once, sheathing his sword. "Honor them with victory," he finished quietly. With that, he remounted his horse. The army moved out again, marching past the silent graves with renewed determination. Constantine cast one last look over his shoulder until the hillside with its lonely crosses receded from view.
By the second evening after leaving Zetouni, Constantine's forces approached Domokos. The town had fallen to Constantines's army the previous year, but after the campaign withdrew south, it had slipped back into Ottoman hands. Now, as they drew near under a darkening sky, what they found was a near-ruin.
Domokos was eerily quiet. The fields surrounding it were empty and scorched; a few thin columns of smoke still rose from burned farmhouses. Charred wooden beams stuck out from blackened shells of homes like broken ribs. Along the outer walls and gatehouse, the impact of last year's siege was still evident, stone blasted away, parapets collapsed where Byzantine cannons had pounded the defenses. The scars had not been mended. The Ottomans, after retaking the town, had done little more than garrison it, leaving it a hollow shell of a settlement. Down the main approach, the small marketplace was deserted save for stray dogs skittering away at the sight of soldiers. It appeared the Turks had made no effort to fortify or defend Domokos, choosing instead to put it to the torch as they withdrew.
The following day, Constantine convened a war council in the gutted shell of Domokos's old courthouse. The roof had long since burned away, but the stone walls still stood waist-high, enclosing just enough space for a table and a few stools beneath the open sky. Present were General Andreas, grim-faced and thoughtful; George Sphrantzes; Jean de Croÿ; and a handful of other senior officers. Thomas had not yet returned, though Constantine hoped his brother would soon rejoin them with news from the northeast.
They began with reports. General Andreas cleared his throat and gestured to a rough map spread across the table, its corners pinned with daggers.
"The latest scouts confirm what we've seen with our own eyes, Majesty. The Turks have withdrawn further north, likely toward Larissa or Trikala. Every village, every field along the way has been put to the torch, same as Domokos. Not a single Turk has stood to fight. We'll need to wait for Thomas to give us a clearer picture of Velestino."
George drummed his fingers against the pommel of his sword. "They're trying to starve us. Slow us down. Force us to crawl through ashes." His voice was low and bitter. "Typical."
Constantine nodded, his eyes fixed on the map. "It's Murad's strategy, clear as day. Lure us deep, stretch our supply lines, deny us foraging. Make delay our enemy. He'll let the summer heat and hunger do his work for him."
He exhaled slowly. "Casualties?"
"Minimal," Andreas replied. "A few scouts slightly wounded in brief skirmishes with raiding bands. Nothing serious." He motioned to a junior officer, who stepped forward.
"We've run into scattered groups of mounted raiders, likely Turkoman cavalry, northeast of Domokos," the officer said. "They never hold ground. As soon as we give chase, they vanish into the hills. We did manage to capture two."
"Did they say anything useful?" Constantine asked.
The officer shook his head. "Nothing we hadn't already guessed. Whatever Ottoman force remains in the region is likely concentrated north of the Peneios River. These were just advance parties, watching us, burning behind them as they fell back."
"Then Murad truly intends to avoid battle," George muttered. "He wants us chasing shadows."
General Andreas's heavy brow furrowed. "The Sultan may be still concentrating his strength at Edirne."
The next day, Thomas Palaiologos and his scouting party rode into Domokos's central square. Constantine stepped forward to greet his younger brother. Thomas swung down from his saddle, a weary slump to his shoulders, yet grinning nonetheless. The brothers embraced tightly, heedless of the watching soldiers. It had been a few days since they'd parted ways, Thomas leading a sizable detachment of light cavalry on a broad reconnaissance sweep through southeastern Thessaly.
"You're a sight for sore eyes, Constantine," Thomas laughed, thumping his armored glove affectionately against Constantine's back. He was dusty, unshaven, and noticeably thinner, but his eyes sparkled with triumph. "We scouted as far as Velestino, no significant Ottoman presence anywhere in the southern or western plains. They've truly pulled back."
Constantine raised his eyebrows, impressed. "And what of Velestino itself? Any towns or garrisons along your route?"
"Empty or lightly defended," Thomas replied. "The Velestino garrison fled after torching the town, much like here. We didn't linger, but locals from the hills told us the Turks rushed north not long ago." He lowered his voice, stepping closer. "There was talk of a large gathering near Larissa, Turahan Bey is likely concentrating his forces there. But as for blocking our advance toward Velestino or further east, there's nothing substantial."
General Andreas and the others had approached to listen, and a palpable sense of relief rippled through them at this news. Constantine absorbed it thoughtfully. So the route to Velestino, and indeed, the eastern stretches of Thessaly, was clear of major resistance. Murad appeared to be gambling everything on a single defensive position further north. Perhaps he planned a later counterattack. Whatever the case, Constantine now saw an open path to secure much of Thessaly, at least for the moment.