EMPIRE REWRITTEN

Chapter 23: Shaping an Army

The morning sun climbed higher, casting a golden hue over the training grounds. New recruits jogged around the perimeter, their breaths coming in steady rhythms as they pushed through their laps. Among them was Marcus, his youthful energy propelling him ahead of the others. The air was thick with the scent of earth and sweat, the sounds of boots pounding against the dirt blending with the distant clamor of construction.

As they rounded the eastern side of the field, a sharp crack echoed across the camp. Marcus slowed his pace, his eyes darting toward the source of the sound. In the distance, wisps of smoke curled upward from the firearms testing range.

"Did you hear that?" panted a fellow recruit beside him, a young man named Alexios with wide, curious eyes.

"Hard to miss," Marcus replied between breaths. "What do you suppose it is?"

Before Alexios could answer, another crack split the air, followed by a billow of smoke. The recruits gradually came to a halt, their attention drawn irresistibly toward the spectacle unfolding beyond the training grounds.

"Back to your laps!" barked Captain Andreas, striding toward them with a stern expression. "You've not yet earned the right to stand idle."

"But Captain," Marcus ventured cautiously, "what is that noise?"

Andreas followed their gazes, his features softening ever so slightly. "That," he said, "is the sound of change. Now move!"

Reluctantly, the recruits resumed their pace, though their heads frequently turned toward the firing range. Whispers spread among them.

"I've heard tales of weapons that spit fire and lead," one murmured.

"Do you think we'll get to use them?" another asked, excitement and apprehension mingling in his voice.

Marcus felt a thrill course through him. The idea of wielding such a weapon was both terrifying and exhilarating. "If the Despot wills it, perhaps we will," he said, a note of hopefulness in his tone.

The clamor of construction filled the air as Constantine stepped through the half-finished gates of the new barracks—a sprawling complex rising between Castle Clermont and Glarentza, built to house the growing force of recruits. Around him, laborers toiled tirelessly, hammering beams into place for the dormitories and the barracks kitchen, their sweat glistening under the morning sun. The rhythmic pounding was punctuated by the bark of officers drilling fresh recruits. The barracks, though incomplete, already buzzed with the energy of transformation—a military force unlike any the empire had seen in ages.

Constantine smiled, despite the weight on his shoulders. The men who stood before him weren't ordinary conscripts, pressed into service for a season of war and then discarded. These were the seeds of his vision: a professional, permanent fighting force—soldiers who could stand against the might of the Ottomans, the Venetians, or any other enemy that threatened the last remnants of the empire.

"Despot," a voice called from behind him. George Sphrantzes approached, his sharp eyes scanning the busy yard. "The officers are gathered as you requested."

Constantine nodded, following George toward a group of seasoned men, each bearing the scars of battle and the weary expressions of soldiers who had seen too much. But there was something else in their eyes now—curiosity. The yard echoed with the sounds of heavy breaths and thudding feet as soldiers engaged in something new—a morning fitness drill, unlike anything they had done before. Rows of men performed push-ups, their arms trembling with effort, while others ran laps around the training field, sweat pouring down their faces.

Constantine watched with satisfaction as the officers led the men through the exercises. This was part of his vision—building not just warriors, but disciplined, fit soldiers who could endure the grueling physical demands of battle. Morning gymnastics had become a daily routine, a new kind of drill designed to build strength, endurance, and camaraderie.