By noon, the banner of the Palaiologos dynasty flew atop Angelokastron's keep, replacing Tocco's colors. The takeover had been utterly peaceful; not a drop of blood was spilled that day. Constantine strode through the small fortress courtyard as his officers set about organizing the new possession. Under Andreas's direction, a unit was already cataloguing the armory and stores, meager as they were, while another detail posted guards at key points. A handful of mercenaries who had agreed to enlist in the imperial army were given water and folded into Kallistos's company for the moment, their faces still showing surprise at this sudden turn of fortune. Those who chose not to join had been disarmed and were to be escorted out of the region by boat within a day or two, sent off likely to seek employment elsewhere. The townsfolk, for their part, looked on with a mix of astonishment and growing relief. Some ventured from their doorways to witness the imperial banners fluttering over the walls, a sight most had never hoped to see again in their lifetimes.
Constantine ordered his chancery clerks to post a proclamation in the town square. It declared that by the Emperor's will, Angelokastron and its surrounding villages were now under the protection of the restored Roman Empire. All unjust taxes and requisitions imposed by the former regime were suspended. Lawlessness and brigandage would be punished severely, and the Emperor's officers would purchase supplies at fair prices. Reading the proclamation aloud to a small gathering of villagers, one of Constantine's aides had to pause as a few listeners wiped tears or clasped their hands in prayerful thanks. Constantine himself stood a little to the side, allowing his men to give the news. He watched the faces of the people as they absorbed the reality that the marauders were gone and a more orderly rule had arrived. There was satisfaction in his chest, but also a solemn understanding: light administration had begun, and with it came the real work of integrating and healing this long-neglected region.
After ensuring the military matters were squared away, Constantine made his way toward the little Orthodox church dedicated to St. George at the edge of the town. It was a modest stone chapel with a single weathered bell tower, perched under the shade of a large plane tree. Despite years under Catholic lordship, the Greeks here had kept their church alive, though Constantine noted the plaster was peeling and an icon above the door was so faded as to be barely recognizable. As he approached, an elderly priest in a threadbare cassock emerged from the courtyard, as if he had been waiting. The priest's eyes widened, and he bowed deeply, making the sign of the cross.
"Your Majesty..." he began, his voice trembling slightly. "Welcome. This is a blessed day for us."
Constantine stepped forward and gently took the man's outstretched hands in his own for a moment. The priest's skin was papery thin, and he gripped the Emperor's hand with surprising strength, his eyes shining with gratitude.
"Father, what is your name?" Constantine asked kindly.
"I am Father Anastasios, humble servant of God in this village these forty years," the old man replied. His gaze lingered on Constantine's face, as if memorizing the moment. "We have prayed for deliverance, and God has sent us our Basileus." He gestured toward the bell tower. "I rang the bells the moment I saw your banner on the hill, did Your Majesty hear? Such as they are… the smaller bell cracked last winter and we could only afford to mend it with iron." He chuckled self-effacingly, then lowered his voice. "And there is something else. We have kept an old banner, hidden away in the church for generations, waiting for the day when this city would be free again. It is said to have belonged to Nikephoros*, who once reclaimed these lands for the Empire. Our fathers swore never to bring it out until the Romans returned."
Constantine smiled. In truth, amidst the march and surrender he had not heard the bell, but he nodded in appreciation. "Your flock is free now, Father. The troubles here will be put right." He glanced around at the simple courtyard, packed earth, a stone well, and a few chickens scratching for seed. "Tell me, how have you all fared under the Latin lordship?" he asked gently.
Father Anastasios sighed, a great weight in that breath. "The Latins? At first, years ago, it was tolerable. Under Carlo Tocco, the elder, there was at least some order. His men kept a kind of peace, and we tended to our own. But in these later years, when his son Carlo Tocco the younger inherited, matters grew worse. He quarreled with his own kin, his half-brother, who challenged him for Epirus, and the land suffered for it. The nobles cared little for this poor town, distracted as they were with their family feuds. The last Latin castellan here abandoned us years ago to follow those quarrels, leaving only hired swords behind, and they answered to no one but their purses."
The priest's face darkened with remembered indignities. "Our people were often treated as less than human by the mercenaries. They mocked our faith. The church you see," he pointed at the chapel's door, where an icon of the Theotokos was peeling, "received no funds and no protection. The Latins taxed us heavily, yet their lords in Arta never set foot here, nor did those taxes return in any form of aid."
Constantine listened intently, his jaw tightening at some of these details. He had known in an abstract way that Greek populations under the Tocco lords suffered a kind of benign neglect at best, outright oppression at worst. Hearing it from the priest directly made it concrete.
"You will not suffer such neglect under our administration," Constantine said, his voice quiet but firm. "The church will be respected and supported. We will see to repairing what has fallen into disrepair, starting with God's house." He nodded toward the chapel, noticing the gaps in the roof where several shingles had slipped or rotted away. "I will have some of my engineers send for tiles and see it fixed before the next rain."
The priest drew in a slow breath, steadying himself, gratitude softening the deep lines of his face.
He gathered his thoughts before continuing. "Your Majesty's victories these past years have reached even our isolated home. We heard whispers of what happened at Edessa, and before that at Domokos and the Hexamilion. Tales of the Emperor who fought with a sacred purpose." He said the last words with reverence. "Ieros Skopos."
At that phrase, a gentle smile touched Constantine's lips. Hearing it from a humble village priest, far from the grand battlefields, affirmed that the idea had spread.
"We lived on those tales as on crumbs of bread," Father Anastasios continued. "They gave us hope that someday the Romans would return, that Greek rule and our own faith would be fully ours again. And now… here you are." He patted Constantine's arm almost like a grandfather might. "You have done more in a few years than we dreamed possible in a lifetime, my son."
Constantine felt a warmth in his chest at the priest's paternal tone. He replied softly, "All that we achieved was by God's grace, Father. I was but His instrument, and the instrument of our people's will." He looked out beyond the churchyard, to where a few villagers and soldiers mingled as the new order took hold. "There is much work yet to do. These lands would not revive overnight. But with faith and effort, we would see them flourish."
The priest nodded vigorously. "Whatever we can do, we shall. I will tell my flock in tomorrow's liturgy of this new dawn. They will know to give thanks, and also to cooperate with your officers for the good of all."
Constantine inclined his head in approval. "I count on the clergy to help administer these lands, especially in the beginning. The people trust you; you will be my voice among them until order is firmly restored."
The priest bowed again, his expression grave but full of resolve. "It will be so, Your Majesty. The Church will stand beside you."
They talked a while longer, Constantine asked after any immediate needs the villagers had. Anastasios mentioned that the mercenaries had taken most of the stored grain; seed for the next planting was scarce. Constantine promptly ordered one of his aides to arrange a distribution from the army's supply, enough to tide the village over until more could be brought from the coast. "No one will go hungry on my watch," he promised. The priest murmured a prayer of thanks, the words for long life to the Emperor barely audible.
Through it all, the tone was calm and pragmatic. The Emperor focused on concrete steps as much as on the uplifting symbolism of liberation. These small choices — a promise of grain, a roof repaired before the rains — revealed a ruler's character far more than any battlefield triumph.
Their conversation was interrupted gently by the approach of Captain Kallistos. The young officer waited respectfully at the edge of the courtyard until Constantine caught his eye and nodded him over. Kallistos bowed to both the Emperor and the priest.
"Pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty," he said in a low voice, conscious of not wanting to seem over-eager. "I thought you should know, one of our patrols has made contact with Prince Thomas's vanguard."
Constantine's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Good news. Where are they?"
Kallistos smiled. "Not far, sire. Our scouts exchanged greetings not an hour ago on the old road by the river, northeast. Prince Thomas is marching this way with his full force. They should arrive by nightfall."
The Emperor closed his eyes for a brief moment in relief and appreciation. So, Thomas was close, just beyond the scouts' range until then. He likely pressed hard through the mountain paths to be timely. Constantine turned to Father Anastasios and gently squeezed the old man's shoulder.
"Good Father, if you'll excuse me, duty calls."
"Of course, Your Majesty," the priest said, bowing with a broad smile. "This is joyous news. By tonight, your brother will be here. God grant you both success."
As Kallistos and Constantine stepped away from the church, Constantine looked to the west where the sun was dipping toward the hills. The sky was mellowing to afternoon gold. By the time darkness fell, Thomas would be here, and their armies united. The first phase of the campaign was complete; the next could begin on an even stronger footing.
He clasped Captain Kallistos on the shoulder. "Well done," he said quietly, acknowledging the swift relay of news. General Andreas was already striding over from the fortress gate, alerted by the stir.
"Make ready to receive Prince Thomas's men," he instructed Kallistos and Andreas both. "Have the men keep the camp outside the town, plenty of space in the fields there. And ensure warm meals are prepared. They'll be hungry after the long march."
As his officers rushed off to see to the preparations, Constantine paused and took in the scene one more time. The banner on Angelokastron's tower fluttered lazily. Soldiers were lighting torches along the newly manned walls as evening approached. In the streets below, villagers moved with less fear and more purpose, already buoyed by the change in authority. With the Ottomans broken, at least for now, the hardest struggle was behind them. What lay ahead, campaigns against Latin lords and feuding magnates, would be easier work, striking at enemies divided and weakened.