EMPIRE REWRITTEN

Chapter 46: The Wall of Last Resolve

After several days of marching, the combined forces of Constantine and Sforza finally arrived in Corinth. From there, they pressed straight onto the Hexamilion Wall without delay, their ranks carrying the residue of fatigue and fresh resolve in equal measure.

Constantine inhaled the morning air, tasting salt and damp earth as he led his horse toward the looming Hexamilion Wall. The structure spanned the Isthmus of Corinth with a grim permanence, its stones ancient yet charged with fresh urgency. Below its dark ramparts, workers scurried like ants, the clash of hammers and scrape of chisels blending with curt orders that reverberated off the walls.

At his side rode Sforza, silent but observant, his war-honed eyes measuring every gap and tower as they drew near the southern gate. His rough voice, when it finally came, carried that mixture of cynicism and hard-won respect Constantine had learned to value.

"It's a rare sight, seeing a fortress bustling like this," Sforza said. His words rolled out slowly, sanded as though he weighed each one before letting it go. "You've done well, Constantine."

Constantine gave a slight nod, maintaining an air of composure. Pride, in his view, was a luxury best spent elsewhere. He spurred his horse on, turning his attention to the gate. Thomas Palaiologos stood there with a crisp retinue, his youthful eagerness plain as day.

"Brother," Thomas called, stepping forward to clasp Constantine's arm warmly. "Your arrival couldn't be better timed. The men will be heartened to see you."

"And I them," replied Constantine, glancing toward the row of workers. "I hear the fortifications are all but complete."

Thomas's face lit with a flush of pride. "New trenches are dug, earthworks rebuilt—the whole wall is stronger than in decades. We've done everything short of begging the stones to hold forever."

"And the cannons?" Constantine asked, his tone sharpening as though seeking a weak seam in the mortar of Thomas's confidence.

Thomas gestured to a bastion farther along the rampart. "Niketas will explain. He's been testing them day in and day out. Claims they'll reach farther than anything the Ottomans can bring—if they even try to bring cannons this far south."

Constantine cast a considering look toward Sforza, whose expression betrayed neither agreement nor doubt. "We'll see," he said quietly, urging them onward. "Let's have a look."

The wall stretched before them as a monolith, its weathered stone reinforced with fresh mortar and braced by thick earthworks. The trench that ran parallel to its base gleamed in the sunlight, freshly dug and deepened to trap any advancing cavalry. The group moved briskly, their boots crunching over the packed dirt as they ascended a set of stairs to the first bastion.

Niketas awaited them at the top, his face smudged with soot and sweat but his bearing composed. He bowed briefly. "Despot," he greeted. "Your arrival is timely."

"I hear you've been busy," Constantine replied, his gaze flicking to the array of cannon placements nearby. The Drakos cannons gleamed menacingly, their barrels angled outward as if already hunting an unseen enemy.

"We have," Niketas confirmed. "These beauties here"—he gestured toward the cannons, his voice gaining a tinge of pride—"can outshoot anything the Ottomans bring. We've tested their range, and I assure you, they'll hit their mark before the enemy even knows what's happening."

Constantine stepped forward, resting a hand on one gleaming barrel. "You're certain, Niketas?" His tone was measured, carrying the weight of battles past. "We both know what depends on this."

Niketas met his eyes. "I've served the Ottomans, Despot. I know what they can muster. These"—he rapped a knuckle sharply on the metal—"will surpass their reach."