Dawn came grey and cold. Constantine watched the burials. The ground was frozen; the graves were shallow, cut with picks and spades. A priest went from body to body, said the prayers, and the men covered them. When it was done, the camp broke. Tents came down, bundles were tied, and wagons creaked into line. Constantine walked the ranks as the units formed, giving nods as he passed.
He went to a covered wagon near the rear, guarded on all sides. A physician worked at the open tailgate. Inside, Prince Thomas lay on straw and cloaks. His face was pale, his beard untrimmed, and a bandage covered his left side. Yet his eyes blazed as Constantine approached.
Thomas braced an elbow under him and tried to sit, teeth bared. "Sit me up, brother," he rasped. "Draw back the cover. Let the men see my face. Let the Turks learn I'm not dead yet."
Before he could haul himself higher, Constantine stepped in and set a gloved hand on his shoulder and held it there. Thomas shuddered beneath it.
"Hold," Constantine said quietly. "You held the line last night. Now you will lie still."
Thomas's jaw tightened. "They caught us off guard," he spat. "They slipped past the scouts in the dark. I should have anticipated it." He stopped with a grimace.
The surgeon leaned closer and spoke carefully. "The bleeding is checked. The wound has not turned." He glanced at Constantine. "If he rests and God spares him the fever, he may mend."
Constantine gave a short nod at the surgeon's words. He squeezed Thomas's shoulder once.
"You heard him. Lie still. That is an order."
Thomas's glare held, but he did not rise again. "Curse them," he muttered, the fury turning outward. "Burning our supplies. Men cut down in the dark. By God's leave, they will answer for it."
"They will," Constantine said. "Rest now. I need you back in command when you can stand a saddle." He released Thomas and stepped back, casting a glance at the surgeon. "Keep him warm and still. We march soon."
Constantine left the wagon, hearing Thomas curse under his breath in frustration. His brother's bitterness was justified, but there was no time to indulge anger or grief. The column was nearly ready.
A horn sounded across the camp. Officers gave final orders. Constantine mounted his horse and rode toward the front. George Sphrantzes and General Andreas came to meet him among the moving ranks. Both looked worn from the night, but they held themselves steady as he approached.
They had barely met at the head of the moving ranks when riders came in from the south. The lead scout dismounted and approached at a quick walk, still catching his breath.
"Basileus," he panted. "Word from the forward party."
Constantine leaned toward him in the saddle. "Speak."
"Philippopolis is ahead—across the river. No fortifications, no banners." The scout wiped mud from his cheek, breath steaming. "The Turks have burned the bridge and wrecked every boat they could reach on this bank. The far shore is thick with their horsemen, scores of riders strung along the water and the low ground beyond, watching every step we take."
George let out a slow breath; Andreas muttered a curse. Constantine listened without comment. The Turks had pulled out of the town and taken the crossing with them. They were waiting on the far bank.
"Any casualties or resistance?" Constantine asked.
"None, Majesty. A few Bulgarian townsfolk who fled yesterday say the Turks left at dusk, once they heard we were coming, and fired the bridge behind them. We saw the glow from miles off." The scout hesitated, then added, "They also claim a large Ottoman force passed this way only days ago."
By midday, the army reached the Maritsa. The sun was weak and mist hung over the water. Bare willows lined the near bank. Beyond the river, Philippopolis was quiet, with low roofs and no visible banners or fortifications.
He called a halt on a broad meadow short of the riverbank. "This will do." The grassy flat would serve: close enough to stage a crossing, yet set back far enough that the river's width kept them beyond easy range from the opposite shore. "Begin making camp, perimeter facing the river."
At once, horns blew, and the army fanned out to encamp. Pikemen drove stakes for a barricade while canvas tents sprouted in neat rows, and cavalry led their horses to water.
Leaving the officers to settle the camp, Constantine rode out with George, Andreas, and two dozen cavalry to inspect the crossing.
The bridge was destroyed in the middle at a small midstream islet where the piers had stood. Only broken stone piers remained, and charred timbers drifted and snagged in the current. A faint thread of smoke still rose from the blackened wood.
On the near bank there was a cluster of huts at the bridgehead, burned and abandoned. Doors hung loose and roofs had collapsed to blackened rafters.
Constantine dismounted short of the water's edge. George and Andreas followed. Their escort held back, scanning the far shore. Constantine stepped to the brink. The Maritsa ran broad and quick here, swollen by rain, worrying at the bridge's debris as it tore past.
Across the river on the southern bank, Constantine saw Ottoman horsemen moving along a low ridge beyond the trees. They came in and out of view as they rode. One rider reined in and sat facing the river, still, making sure they were seen.
Andreas exhaled hard. "They're right there," he muttered, eyes fixed across the water, fists clenched. "They know we can't touch them until we get across."
Constantine crouched at the shattered bridgehead and lifted a sooty timber that crumbled in his glove. He let the fragments fall into the current and watched them spin away downstream.
George knelt and dipped his fingers into the river. "The current is strong," he said softly. His voice stayed even, but a muscle worked once in his jaw as he watched the far bank. "A crossing here will be… costly."
He rose and pointed downstream. Another, larger island lay midstream a few hundred paces away, broad where the burned bridge's little islet had been only a footing for stone piers. Around this one, the river split into two narrower channels, the flow broken and slowed, wide enough to hold men and serve as a large bridgehead.
"That," George said. "If we can seize it, it would be an easier crossing."
Constantine followed his gesture. The island was a long strip of land in the river's midst, its banks lined with naked poplars, its ground wide enough to site guns. From this distance it looked empty. A stepping stone, if they could reach it.
Constantine's gaze lingered on the island. "A river crossing…" he murmured. Despite the gravity of the moment, a wry half-smile tugged at his lips. "I'm reminded of Alexander and Porus, Alexander the Great, stuck before a great river in India." He glanced between George and Andreas. "The story goes Alexander surprised King Porus. Some trick with feints and a storm at night." He gave a quiet, ironic huff. "Of course, Alexander had a monsoon for cover and perhaps a few pagan gods on his side. We have nothing but cold and tired men."
Andreas snorted. "Unless you can conjure weather, we'll do it the hard way." He crossed himself once, sharply, and looked back to the river.
George managed a thin smile at the quip, but his brow remained furrowed. "Alexander also wasn't facing Ottoman cavalry on the far bank," he said.
Constantine's faint smile vanished. He looked across the river again. The enemy sat too calmly for men without a plan. They wanted him to commit to the crossing where they could bleed him for it.
A heavy silence followed, the river's low roar the only sound.
"Unless… we bypass Philippopolis, and the river, entirely." He looked southeast, toward Edirne. "It's no more than ten days. We march downstream on this bank and go straight for the city. Make them abandon this standoff and run to cover their capital."
George answered immediately. "Majesty, no. Their horse will ride our flank the whole way. We'll lose scouts, wagons, and we still have to cross somewhere."
Andreas shook his head vehemently. "Bold idea but George is right, leaving an enemy at our backs is madness," he growled. "They'll harass us every mile, cut down our scouts, burn our forage. We'd never make it to Edirne in one piece."
George drew a breath, forcing his urgency into control. "Even if we slip past them, we don't have the stores for a march like that, much less a long siege, with no secure road behind us. A starving army doesn't besiege; it scatters. Fruzhin's volunteers brought little, and last night we lost wagons in the fires. We can't feed an army on a gamble."
Constantine let them finish. He looked back at the river, then nodded.
"I hear you," he said at last. "No detour. We stay and we force the crossing."
Relief eased Andreas's face at once, but George's brow stayed furrowed and said carefully, "We could fall back to Sofia by Trajan's Gate. Winter there, rebuild our stores, then return when the roads harden."
Andreas shook his head, blunt as ever. "To turn back now makes us look beaten. It won't feed us, either, not in any way that matters. The land here isn't scorched. The animals can graze, we can forage, but we do need roofs. If we're to winter in strength, we take Philippopolis and put men and beasts under cover. Otherwise we bleed to cold and raids."
George's mouth tightened. "We are not talking of a week. We could be here for months. Foraging will thin out. Grain is already tight, and the wagons we lost last night—"
"Enough," Constantine cut in, the word quiet but final. "Going back to Sofia changes nothing. Winter will still close the roads, and the Turks will still be in our path when we return." He looked from one to the other. "We stay. We take the town. We pin them here and make this river their problem as well as ours."
Andreas's jaw set in approval. George did not argue, but his eyes stayed wary.
"Once Philippopolis is secured," Constantine went on, "we send a strong body of the Serbian horse back to Sofia for stores, fast men, light burden, guarded the whole way. And Fruzhin will move north: hold the road toward his lands, scrape up what he can, and send it back. Forage, buy, whatever is possible. We will thin our numbers for the winter, put outposts farther out, and take what the land will give without letting the army starve."
George hesitated. "Fruzhin may not return."
"He will," Constantine said, "If he intends to remain our ally."
He turned and beckoned to one of the horsemen from the escort, an engineer officer who had been waiting nearby. The man trotted over and dismounted, bowing his head.
Constantine pointed to the island and said. "We'll need bridges, one to the island, then another from the island to the far bank."
The engineer's eyes were already scanning the island and the river beyond. He nodded briskly. "Yes, Majesty. We can start cutting timber at once. I'll organize teams to build whatever we need, rafts, pontoons, whatever gets us across."