EMPIRE REWRITTEN

Chapter 38: Whispers of Influence

The harbor of Glarentza bustled with energy as Constantine stood at the prow of his flagship, surveying the small fleet preparing to depart. The salty tang of the sea filled the air, mingling with the scents of oiled ropes and tarred wood. Sailors moved with purpose, their voices blending into a chorus of shouts and commands. Behind him, Captain Andreas, his ever-loyal commander, tightened the straps of his weathered armor.

"Are you ready, my Despot?" Andreas asked, his steely gaze meeting Constantine's. "Zakynthos awaits."

Constantine nodded. His heart thrummed with a mixture of anticipation and unease. "Ready as I'll ever be, Andreas. Let's show them the Palaiologos name still carries weight."

As the sails unfurled and the fleet slipped out of the port, the cheers of the gathered townsfolk echoed across the waters. Hundreds had come to the harbor, their voices a mixture of hope and loyalty, calling blessings and prayers for victory. Men and women waved the Byzantine banners, the twin-headed eagle emblazoned in gold catching the morning light. Children ran alongside the shoreline, shouting with excitement as the ships glided into the open sea.

Constantine turned briefly to look back at the scene. For all the challenges ahead, the sight stirred something deep within him—pride and a sense of duty to these people who believed in him. "Look at the people, Andreas; they expect us to bring them hope," he murmured.

"And we will, my Despot," Andreas replied firmly, his tone carrying the conviction of a seasoned soldier.

As the fleet slipped out of the port, Constantine turned his thoughts to the mission ahead. Stylianos, the Orthodox priest who had beckoned them to Zakynthos, had promised a warm reception and an opportunity to strengthen his foothold in the region. With the forces of Carlo II Tocco stretched thin, this island was ripe for liberation.

The journey to Zakynthos was swift. After a few hours, the island emerged on the horizon, its hills dotted with olive groves and white-walled houses. The small fort at Bochali stood sentinel over the main town, a modest bastion manned by Tocco's remnants. It was here that the fleet anchored, their arrival greeted by Stylianos and a crowd of Orthodox faithful waving Byzantine banners.

"Your Imperial Highness," Stylianos called, bowing low as Constantine stepped onto the docks. "Zakynthos welcomes its true ruler."

The words filled Constantine with a sense of pride, though he masked it with a gracious nod. "Father Stylianos, your hospitality honors us. Let us make this a day of renewal for Zakynthos."

The townsfolk cheered as the small garrison, faced with overwhelming odds, surrendered without a fight. The defenders, numbering fewer than two dozen, filed out of the small fort at Bochali under the watchful eyes of Constantine's troops. Their captain, a grizzled Italian mercenary with a hardened expression, laid his sword at Constantine's feet.

"You have my sword, Despot," he said, his voice measured, betraying no fear. "I fought for coin, not for loyalty. If you'll have me, I'll fight for you now."

Constantine studied the man, noting the scars that marked his face and hands. This was not someone who sought allegiance lightly. "Serve faithfully," he said, returning the man's blade, "and you'll find yourself well rewarded under the Palaiologos standard."

Among the other soldiers, the story was different. The majority were local Orthodox Greeks who showed little hesitation in abandoning their service to Tocco. Many knelt before Constantine, pledging their loyalty with tears in their eyes.

"We have waited for this day, Despot," one young soldier said fervently. "To serve a ruler of our own faith and blood is a blessing. Tocco's time here was an occupation, not governance."