A hush had settled over the citadel of Thebes as night enveloped the city. In a vaulted hall repurposed as a war room, a dozen candles guttered against stone walls, their flames casting long, restless shadows across maps spread over a rough-hewn table. Constantinestood at the head of the table, his palms flat on either side of a map of the Balkans. In the dim golden light, the Emperor's face appeared carved from marble, solemn, determined, yet touched by the strain of leadership. Around him gathered his most trusted commanders and advisors: GeneralAndreas at his right hand, broad-shouldered and battle-scarred; Prince Thomas Palaiologos, leaning forward with barely restrained energy; George Sphrantzes, quill in hand and eyes alert behind fatigue; and across from them, the steel-grey gaze of Jean de Croÿ, the Burgundian who commanded the Western crusaders. Along the walls hovered a handful of captains and two scribes, silent unless called upon.
Despite the late hour, no one showed any sign of weariness. A taut expectancy filled the hall, a tension made almost palpable by the low hiss of candle flames. Outside, the summer night was quiet, as if Thebes itself held its breath. Constantine let his gaze travel over the faces assembled. In the flicker of lantern-light he saw what he needed to see: resolve in these men, and yes, a glint of anxiety too. They all understood the stakes.
Clearing his throat softly, Constantine began, his voice low and calm but carrying in the silence. "Gentlemen, friends, thank you for gathering at this late hour. Thus far, all goes as planned, our preparations are set, and the pieces are moving into place. But the enemy will not grant us the luxury of complacency." His dark eyes swept the room. "Speed and coordination are now our greatest allies. We must move quickly, and we must move wisely. For that, we need every scrap of intelligence and every ounce of unity."
He paused, glancing briefly toward Andreas, who had already drawn nearer to the map, ready to speak. "General," Constantine prompted gently, inviting Andreas into the discussion with quiet respect, "Where exactly do we stand?"
Andreas stepped forward, clearing his throat. His gravelly voice cut through the hush: "By God's grace and our hard efforts, our combined forces number roughly fifteen thousand men." He let that figure hang for a moment, pride and caution in his tone. "That count includes the reinforcements from Burgundy and the other crusaders who've joined us," he added, tipping his head respectfully toward Jean de Croÿ.
"Morale," he allowed himself a tight smile, "is high. The men are heartened by the cause, by the sense that this crusade is truly beginning. They see our banners gathering, allies arriving, and believe that this time, we may strike the final blow."
A murmur of affirmation rippled around the table, brief smiles, a few fists thumping breastplates in quiet agreement. Recent triumphs and the promise of a crusade had kindled a flame of hope. Constantine felt it, warm against the cold dread of what still lay ahead.
Andreas's smile faded as he moved to grimmer details. "High spirits alone won't carry us, however. We must mind our limits. Our gunpowder stores remain low." He tapped a parchment inventory spread among the maps. "Enough powder for two, maybe three serious confrontations. After that, we're spent. Every volley must count."
He paused to let that sink in. Thomas's jaw tightened, the young Prince fingers drummed once on the hilt of his sheathed sword. One of the scribes glanced nervously at the ceiling, as if imagining Ottoman cannon fire that their own guns couldn't answer. Limited gunpowder meant they would have to choose their battles very carefully.
Andreas went on, his tone measured. "Our current provisions remain stable for now, thanks to the preparations we've carefully made ahead of the crusade, we have enough food, fodder, and essential supplies to sustain the army comfortably for a few weeks." He paused, considering his words carefully. "But once we move beyond our own territory into Thessaly and further north, we'll have to rely heavily on requisitioning from the land. Our stores alone won't sustain fifteen thousand mouths indefinitely."
George Sphrantzes spoke from Constantine's left, his pen poised above a ledger detailing supplies meticulously planned weeks earlier. "Indeed, we've ensured supply convoys from the Morea and other regions under our control are already organized and prepared to follow closely behind the army. Grain, salted meat, and other essentials are en route as we speak." He glanced briefly at Andreas, acknowledging his concern. "Yet as we progress deeper into enemy-held territory, our lines of resupply will inevitably stretch thin. Coordination with the fleet will become absolutely critical to maintain steady replenishment, especially when our own resources begin to run low."
He tapped meaningfully on the port of Demetrias, clearly marked on the map near Thessaly's coast. "Securing a reliable link to the sea may be the difference between victory and disaster."
Constantine inclined his head. "Quite so. Tell us of the fleet, George."
Sphrantzes ran a finger along the outline of Greece's eastern shore. "According to our latest reports, the Crusader fleet is ready to sail from Negroponte, carrying additional supplies and arms." He looked up. "If all proceeds as planned, we'll rendezvous with them at the port of Demetrias."
Constantine nodded thoughtfully. "This campaign will be won on sea as much as on land. Let's hope they're ready to support the army at every turn."
General Andreas exhaled, his tone dry. "They may get the chance to prove that soon enough. If Sultan Murad's navy slips into these waters ahead of our allies…" He didn't finish the thought, but everyone present understood the risk. If the Ottoman fleet intercepted their supply ships or seized control of the sea lanes, Constantine's army could find itself isolated deep in enemy territory.
Constantine's mouth set in a firm line. "All the more reason to move swiftly," he said. "Speed is our safety."
George Sphrantzes took that moment to shuffle through the letters and dispatches at his elbow. "Majesty, if I may share the latest intelligence from the north," Sphrantzes said. Constantine gestured for him to proceed. Sphrantzes held up a small parchment. "Word has arrived from our envoys and friends in the Balkans. King Sigismund and the Serbian Despot are indeed assembling their armies in Serbia. By all accounts, they will be ready to march south soon, within a fortnight, perhaps sooner. The Holy Roman Emperor has sworn to push through Ottoman territory come what may."
He scanned the lines of the report, the candlelight reflecting off the gentle furrows of concern in his brow. "Reports indicate Sigismund's host could number thirty thousand or more. They'll advance down through Serbia toward Macedonia, possibly aiming for Skopje and Thessaloniki eventually." Sphrantzes allowed himself a small smile. "So, in effect, the Sultan will soon have to contend with a second army pressing from the north."
Thomas Palaiologos had been shifting impatiently at the edge of the council, but now he stepped forward into the circle of light, unable to contain himself. "If Murad turns his full might on us here in Thessaly," Thomas said, his youthful voice ringing against the stone vaults, "then he leaves the road open for Sigismund to descend from the north. It could be the Sultan's undoing!" He planted both hands on the table, leaning over the map as if to physically bridge the distance between the two allied armies. A lock of his dark hair fell over his forehead, and in the candlelight his eyes shone with bold excitement. "Imagine it," he went on, glancing around at the others. "Should Murad march south to meet us, that gives Sigismund free reign to sweep down behind him. The Sultan caught between hammer and anvil, between our army and Sigismund's, could be crushed." Thomas smacked a fist into his palm for emphasis, armor glinting. Clearly the prospect of trapping their formidable enemy between two Christian forces thrilled him. A few officers nodded at the idea, sharing in that hopeful vision.
"And conversely," Thomas continued, straightening up and gesturing northward, "if Murad instead races to fight Sigismund first, seeking to destroy the larger crusade, then we here have a near-open path. Thessaly, even Macedonia, might be reclaimed with only token resistance while the Sultan's back is turned." He allowed himself a grin, imagining victory in either scenario. "Either course he takes, one of our armies gains the advantage."
At that, Sphrantzes cleared his throat softly. "Perhaps, my prince," he offered gently, with a faint arch of an eyebrow that carried the weight of prior discussions, "though as we considered at Glarentza, the Sultan is unlikely to grant us such an advantage willingly. He will seek to defeat us in detail, one at a time." Thomas acknowledged the point with a half-shrug; his enthusiasm was barely dented. Yet Sphrantzes's interjection had brought a dose of sobriety back to the discussion.
As the buzz of low conversation settled, George Sphrantzes gently cleared his throat. He held up a dispatch, his expression carefully neutral, though tension gathered at the corners of his eyes.
"There is another matter, rather troubling news," he began cautiously. "Rumors suggest that not all of our fellow Christians stand as steadfast as the Serbs. Word has come that Alexandru of Wallachia has pledged his support to Murad."
A ripple of disbelief and anger moved through the assembled officers. Thomas's face darkened immediately, his jaw tightening as Sphrantzes continued, calmly but gravely. "If Alexandru I Aldea indeed sides openly with the Turk, we must expect riders or even larger contingents sent to harass Sigismund's flank or reinforce Murad's ranks. Alexandru owes his throne to the Sultan's backing; he will answer Murad's call without hesitation."
Thomas shook his head fiercely, unable to contain his indignation. "A Christian prince, bowing before the infidel, ready to spill Christian blood? It's beyond disgrace, it's betrayal," he spat.
Sphrantzes pressed his lips together, nodding solemnly. "Indeed. Sigismund will be forced to watch his eastern flank carefully. At the very least, Wallachian interference could complicate his advance, costing valuable time and resources."
A heavy silence settled as each man reckoned the implications of that betrayal. Thomas muttered a curse under his breath, something about false princes selling their souls, but Constantine raised a hand, tempering the moment. "We will pray that King Sigismund and the Hungarians can handle that complication," the Emperor said quietly. "And perhaps God will turn Alexandru's heart, or at least keep him timid. Regardless, it does not change our course. We must do our part here in the south." He straightened, the lamplight catching the proud profile of his face. It was time to articulate their plan of action.
Constantine reached out and slowly drew one map closer, a detailed chart of central Greece and Thessaly. "Here is what we shall do," he said, scanning the ring of faces to ensure all were intent. He placed a finger on the symbol marking Thebes, then traced it northward. "We have given the men two days to rest and resupply here in Thebes. Tomorrow we march for Zetouni," His finger resting on the narrow pass that led north, toward the fortified town that guarded the gateway into Thessaly. "We'll make for it with all haste. The road from here is decent, and we can be there in a few days."
He slid his finger further up the map, through the pass, and into the plains beyond. "From Zetouni, we push straight into Thessaly. Domokos will be our first stopping point in the open plain, then on to Velestino." Constantine tapped the map at each point, mapping the route. "Velestino controls the approaches to the Gulf of Pagasae. Just beyond it, on the coast, lies the port of Demetrias." He circled that name emphatically. "Securing Demetrias is crucial. Once Demetrias is ours, our fleet can anchor there and supply us directly. It will be our forward base and refuge if needed."
Jean de Croÿ leaned in, eyes on the gulf. "Demetrias," he repeated quietly, as the translator whispered the Emperor's words to him. The Burgundian understood the significance well; he nodded firmly. Constantine continued, voice steady and authoritative: "After Demetrias, we shall advance to Larissa, the main Ottoman stronghold in Thessaly. The city and its fortress control the surrounding plains. Taking Larissa would sever the Sultan's hold on all of Thessaly." He looked up, gauging reactions. Andreas's face was impassive, Sphrantzes attentive. Thomas was practically quivering with anticipation. "If we can seize Larissa quickly," Constantine said, "so much the better. Its fall would be a powerful blow to Ottoman prestige and a boon to our cause. We would liberate the people of Thessaly and secure another base, perhaps even winter quarters if needed."
He paused, and a shadow from the candle flame seemed to cross his face. "However, we must be realistic. Larissa is a large city with strong walls, and the Turks will defend it fiercely. If capturing it proves too costly or too slow, if it threatens to stall our momentum, then we will adapt." The Emperor's finger moved around Larissa on the map, tracing alternate paths. "We can bypass it, leaving a blocking force to contain the garrison while the main army presses north. Our goal is Thessaloniki, to rendezvous with King Sigismund's army, if fate is kind.
The Emperor let that settle. He straightened to his full height, dust motes dancing in the candle glow between him and the others. "All this, of course, hinges on one assumption: that we have the initiative. The moment we lose it, the moment Sultan Murad arrives in force to oppose us, everything changes." Constantine's tone grew hard. "If Murad's army appears early, before we reach our objectives, we must be prepared to adjust or even withdraw. I will not fling this army against the Sultan's main host in unfavorable conditions." He swept a stern gaze around the table to underscore the point. "No glory in reckless martyrdom. We fight to win, not simply to clash swords."
Thomas's face fell slightly at the talk of withdrawal, but he held his tongue. Andreas was already nodding in agreement, the practical soldier in him approving the caution. Constantine went on, "That is why I insist again on vigilant reconnaissance. We must have eyes out far ahead of our vanguard. If Murad approaches with overwhelming force, I want days, not hours, of warning, so we can choose a battlefield or decide to pull back to safer ground." The Emperor's voice lowered, almost to himself, "Better to yield a field today and fight again tomorrow, than to stand stubbornly and lose everything in one misstep."
When Constantine fell silent, the hall was quiet enough to hear the faint hiss of an oil lamp and the shuffle of a secretary's boot. The plan was ambitious, but grounded in clear contingencies. The faces around the table were sober, contemplating the miles of hostile ground between Thebes and Thessaloniki, and the multitude of things that could go wrong along that path. Yet there was also a current of excitement: this was a plan of action, a bold thrust to liberate Greek lands and carry the war to the enemy.
General Andreas leaned forward, planting a large, scarred hand on the table near the map. "Your Majesty," he said, "the plan is well drawn. Allow me to address the matter of contingencies further." Constantine gestured for him to speak freely. Andreas's dark eyes glinted as they roamed over the map's terrain lines. "Sultan Murad is as cunning as they come. We must assume he will not sit idle awaiting our convenience." The general's voice, level and calm, nonetheless carried an undercurrent of tension. He had fought the Turks before and knew their guile. "Even if his main army is elsewhere, he could order his lieutenants in Thessaly to delay us, to stall our march with skirmishes, false retreats, the burning of crops and stores before us. We might face an emptied land, with villages torched to deny us forage. Murad will not hesitate to use scorched earth tactics if it gains him time or starves us." Andreas's jaw set in grim memory; such had been the fate of other crusaders in the past. "We must be ready for that. Discipline will be crucial. Our troops must not scatter or lose heart if the enemy avoids giving battle at first. Nor should we be lured too far, too fast, beyond our support."
He tapped the map softly, finger landing near Thermopylae. "We should identify defensive positions at every stage, fallback points and supply points. If the Sultan tries to draw us deep and cut us off, we'll turn the tables." Andreas lifted his gaze to meet Constantine's. "For example, as Your Majesty mentioned, Thermopylae behind us is a choke-point we can hold against numbers far superior. The terrain can be our ally as much as any army. And Murad," he added, voice steady, "will think twice before attacking us in ground reminiscent of the battle of Domokos."
Jean de Croÿ listened intently as the translator murmured Andreas's warnings. For a moment, his eyelids drooped in what might have been fatigue or restraint, he had heard many such councils in his years. Then he raised a hand, voice firm, the war-worn diplomat in him surfacing like armor over bone. "The General speaks wisely," Jean said, inclining his head toward Andreas. "We must never outrun our supply line." His translator conveyed the message: "My lord de Croÿ stresses again the importance of holding Demetrias or another port. That port will be not only our supply conduit but also our refuge. Should fate turn and we find ourselves pressed, holding a secure harbor means we have the sea at our backs, not the enemy." Jean stepped closer, resting a finger on the map at the drawn coastline. "If we have to retreat, falling back toward a friendly port is far better than being forced into the mountains with no escape. And if" He hesitated, then continued with a firm voice, "if worst came to worst, the fleet could even evacuate our forces by sea, rather than letting us be surrounded and destroyed inland."
His candor sent a chill through some listening, talk of evacuation was talk of defeat. But the experienced men in the room knew Jean was right to mention it. Constantine gave a solemn nod. "A fair point, Lord de Croÿ. Let us pray it does not come to that, but yes, an admiral's ship is a better tomb for our cause than an Ottoman prison." The Emperor managed a wry half-smile as he said this, easing the sting of the dark prospect. A couple of the captains exhaled, tension defused. They could plan for victory, but a prudent commander planned for disaster as well.
Throughout this exchange, Prince Thomas had been shifting on his feet, clearly brimming with something unsaid. At last, during a lull, he stepped forward again. "Brother," Thomas addressed Constantine directly, informal in his eagerness. "Entrust me with the vanguard." His voice echoed slightly in the vaulted chamber. A few eyebrows rose at the sudden request. Thomas pressed on, eyes shining. "Let me lead our forward scouts and cavalry. My men and I can ride ahead of the main army by a day or two, find the best paths, flush out any Ottoman scouts or ambushes, and secure the villages on route." He glanced at Andreas and then back to Constantine. "If there's resistance massing in our way, we'll spot it early. The main host will move faster and safer with my cavalry clearing the way."
A silence followed the Prince's appeal. Thomas's cheeks were faintly flushed with passion, a stark contrast to the cool candlelit stone behind him. He was clearly hungry to prove himself. Constantine regarded his younger brother steadily. In the quiet, the Emperor's gaze softened for a heartbeat, seeing not just a fellow commander, but a man, pleading for responsibility. Constantine knew Thomas's weaknesses: impetuosity, thirst for glory. Those very traits made him both useful and risky as a vanguard leader. Andreas's lips were pursed; Sphrantzes had fixed his eyes on Constantine, concerned but silent.
At length, Constantine gave a single nod. "Very well, Thomas," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "I will grant you the vanguard." Thomas broke into a grin, but Constantine raised a hand before his brother could speak further. "Listen well." The Emperor's tone left no room for misinterpretation. "You will have under your command a detachment of our best cavalry scouts, both your own riders from Athens and a company of my Tagmata horsemen." Constantine's eyes bore into Thomas's ones, brotherly affection now tempered by sovereign authority. "But mark me: you are not to seek battle on your own. If you encounter an enemy force of any strength, you will not charge off in heroics. You will observe, you will probe if prudent, and you will send word back. Do you understand?"
Thomas straightened, bristling only slightly at the admonition. "Of course, Your Majesty," he replied, catching himself and adding the honorific before all these witnesses. But as he stepped back into the ring of officers, a fleeting shadow crossed his face—was it embarrassment, or calculation?—before the eager grin returned. The younger man's excitement burned hot, but not without the faint crackle of nerves beneath.
"We shall be cautious. I give you my word: we'll not engage the enemy's main strength, only scouts or stragglers." He placed fist to breast in salute, then allowed himself a flash of a boyish smirk. "But rest assured, brother, if any small Ottoman band tries to bar our way, we'll make quick work of them."
A few of the officers chuckled quietly at Thomas's irrepressible confidence. Constantine simply sighed through his nose, a mix of fondness and exasperation in the sound. "Just remember: information is the goal, not glory. Get us the knowledge of what lies ahead, and you will have served this army more than if you won a skirmish but left us blind to greater dangers." Thomas nodded vigorously, accepting the caution with good grace. Sphrantzes had already scribbled a note about Thomas's assignment, likely to circulate orders to the cavalry commanders to be placed under Thomas's lead.
For a few moments, only the sounds of crackling wicks and the scratch of Sphrantzes's quill disturbed the stillness. Constantine rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiffness of long travel. The scented beeswax candles filled the room with a faint smell of honey and smoke. One flicker of the flame made the red provinces marked on the map dance like bloodstains. In that contemplative pause, the enormity of what they were undertaking loomed silently.
Constantine broke the silence softly. "Murad cannot be everywhere at once." He said it almost to himself at first, then louder. "The Sultan must choose where to make his stand." The Emperor lifted his gaze, and his eyes found Jean de Croÿ's across the table. "He knows we are coming from the south. He knows Sigismund comes from the north. He will try to avoid facing us both at the same time." Constantine's face was thoughtful, shadows accentuating the fine lines of care that had etched themselves there these past years. "It's likely he'll judge where the greater threat lies. If he thinks our army is the one more easily crushed, or if he burns for revenge, he may hurry into Thessaly to stop us. If instead he fears Sigismund's might, thirty thousand under the Holy Roman Emperor's banner marching toward his capital, he might rush north and leave only token forces for us."
"And therein lies our hope," murmured Sphrantzes, voicing what they were all thinking. "Whichever front he neglects reaps a reward."
General Andreas's voice came low and certain: "Murad will go after Sigismund first. I'd stake my life on it." All eyes shifted to Andreas. He stood with one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, his posture that of a man deep in calculation. "Think of it: if you were the Sultan, which would alarm you more, an army of fifteen thousand pushing into Thessaly, or a host of thirty thousand led by the Holy Roman Emperor threatening to drive straight into Edirne?" Andreas let the question hang a moment. "Murad is proud, and he knows the power of prestige. Crushing the Emperor Sigismund in open battle would send shockwaves through Christendom and likely break the crusading spirit. Whereas if he chased us around Thessaly… a victory over our smaller force would mean less in the grand scheme." He nodded to himself. "Yes. He'll move north. He'll try to smash Sigismund quickly, then wheel back to deal with us afterwards."
Jean de Croÿ pursed his lips at the translated words, then inclined his head. "It stands to reason," he said. "The larger prize first." Sphrantzes adjusted a candle, thinking aloud: "If that is the case, then we may face relatively light opposition in Thessaly, at least until Murad finishes with Sigismund or unless he dispatches a subordinate to slow us."
Constantine drummed his fingers lightly on the table, a habit when deep in thought. His eyes were on the map, but unfocused, as if seeing beyond it. "It would mean a race," he murmured. "A race between us and the Sultan. Can we liberate enough and strengthen our position before he can return south? Or will Sigismund's host perhaps defeat or delay him, giving us more time?" He did not voice the darker alternative: that Sigismund's crusade might be defeated, leaving Murad free to descend on them with all his fury. But he didn't need to; everyone around that table understood the stakes.
Sphrantzes gently rolled up one dispatch and picked up another. "Our latest reports support General Andreas's intuition," he said. "Spies and merchants' letters from the Ottoman capital at Edirne suggest that Sultan Murad is concentrating his main army there, in the Thracian plain." He scanned a line in the letter and continued, "They speak of tens of thousands of cavalry being summoned, Janissaries drilling daily, great convoys of horses and wagons assembling. All pointing toward a campaign northwestward, likely to counter the Hungarian advance." Sphrantzes set the paper down. "As for Thessaly, thus far we have heard only of local garrisons being on alert. No massive troop influx. The Ottoman governors in Larissa and Thessaloniki have of course heard of the crusade, but they've not been massively reinforced, as far as our scouts can tell."