EMPIRE REWRITTEN

Chapter 31: The Reckoning Approaches

Dawn breaks over the rugged hills of the Morea, casting a light shade over the marching troops. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and the steady tramp of boots echo along the dusty road. Wildflowers dot the landscape, a stark contrast to the grim determination etched on the soldiers' faces

Constantine rides at the head of the column, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the distant silhouette of the Hexamilion Wall awaits. His dark hair catches the morning breeze. Behind him, Thomas urges his horse forward, pulling alongside his brother. Younger by a few years, Thomas possesses a youthful vigor and keen and observant eyes. "The men seem weary," he notes, glancing back at the column of troops, some of whom are clearly fresh conscripts.

Constantine nods slowly. "They've marched long and fought hard. Many are new to this life—farmers, artisans, boys who should be at home. But they have spirit."

Thomas's brow furrows. "Spirit is good, but training is better. The Ottomans won't be merciful because our soldiers are inexperienced."

A small smile tugs at Constantine's lips. "True. But remember, it was the spirit that held Constantinople during the last siege, and it's the spirit that keeps the empire alive, however fragile."

Thomas falls silent for a moment, absorbing his brother's words. "And what of the Hexamilion? Do you think it can hold if Turahan Bey returns?"

Constantine's expression darkens. "We'll see soon enough."

They ride on in contemplative silence, the weight of unspoken concerns hanging heavily between them.

As the army crests a final hill, the Hexamilion Wall comes into full view. Once a formidable barrier stretching across the Isthmus of Corinth, it now stands in disrepair. Gaping breaches mar its length, and weeds sprout between the crumbling stones. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and decay.

The soldiers mutter among themselves, their morale visibly shaken by the sight. Constantine dismounts, his boots crunching on loose gravel as he approaches a fallen section of the wall. He runs a gauntleted hand over the weathered stones, his jaw set in a grim line.

Thomas joins him, his eyes scanning the dilapidated fortifications. "It's worse than I imagined," he says softly. "This wall couldn't stop a determined band of thieves, let alone an Ottoman army."

From behind them, Captain Andreas approaches. Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commands respect. The scar across his left cheek, a souvenir from past battles, adds to his rugged visage. "Despots," he greets them with a respectful nod. "The men are unsettled. Seeing the wall like this..."

Constantine turns to his trusted captain. "I know. We need to restore their confidence, as well as the wall.

Thomas squares his shoulders. "We should begin repairs immediately. We'll need masons, laborers, anyone who can lift a stone. And we should mount cannons at key points. It's our first line of defense."

Captain Andreas nods in agreement. "I can send riders to the nearby villages and call for workers and supplies. But it will take time."

Constantine and Thomas step away from the gathered soldiers near the Hexamilion Wall, into a secluded area by a stand of trees. They're close enough to hear the distant clanking of armor and murmur of the troops, but here in the shade, the quiet presses down on them like a tangible weight. Thomas's expression is expectant, though his eyes hold a flicker of unease.

Constantine shifts, crossing his arms, gathering his thoughts. "Do you remember the day we set out from Kalavryta?" he begins carefully

Thomas nods, his brow furrowing. "The morning after my wedding. Spirits were high—why?"