EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

CHAPTER 44: Murad's march

Yusuf, newly appointed to the council and head of advancements at the Enderun School, added,
"Time favors the defenders, my Sultan. Yet, the Morea remains a strategic target. We cannot let them become too strong."

All through the exchange, Sultan Murad II remained a studied listener. His fingers tapped a measured rhythm against the carved arm of his throne, though whether from tension or calculation, none could be certain. At last, he straightened, cutting short the low murmur of voices.

"There's little point in further delay," he said quietly, a hint of steel beneath the measured words. "We march at once. I've not forgotten Constantine's affront to Turahan Bey—and neither should you. This is our chance to set the record straight. Our artillery shall grind the Hexamilion to dust, and in doing so we shall remind the Morea—and the entire Christian world—that the Ottoman Empire is not to be trifled with."

The Departure from Edirne

They began moving at first light, slipping out through Edirne's great gates without flourish or fanfare. It was a practiced maneuver—thousands upon thousands of soldiers advancing in disciplined silence, each contingent slotting into place like a piece of clockwork. Six thousand Janissaries formed the spine of this living apparatus, their footfalls striking the cobblestones in eerie unison. No cheers accompanied them, just the hushed scrape of boots on stone and the chafe of leather harnesses.

Trailing close behind, the Sipahis rode with the controlled arrogance of men who'd known the art of war since birth. Their horses snorted in the cool morning air, hooves resounding like thunder against the paved road, each rider scanning the horizon as if already seeking his next target. Twenty-four thousand cavalrymen in total—a formidable tide of muscle and steel.

Farther back marched the Azabs, those lighter infantry who specialized in looser formations and swift, harassing tactics. Twenty two thousand men who could move with uncanny fluidity in the chaos of battle. Beneath the surface of each rank ran the current of grim readiness, for they knew the true tests lay ahead.

Guarding the rear, a creaking line of artillery wagons claimed the last of Edirne's dust. These lumbering behemoths carried the cannons and bombards, cherished instruments of the Sultan's might. Their iron snouts protruded like silent threats, promising to batter down the vaunted Hexamilion Wall. Drivers spoke little, focusing on the steady clip of mules and oxen straining under heavy loads.

For days, the vast convoy stretched across rolling countryside, winding roads, and the occasional hamlet. At each bend, officers consulted charts and took note of local terrain. No obstacles had yet presented themselves—no more than the punishing miles that had to be covered. Supply trains rolled diligently behind, stocked with sacks of grain, dried meats, and casks of water. In hushed exchanges over campfires, quartermasters compared lists of provisions, always alert to the risk of shortages in foreign lands.

Among the ranks, there was an undercurrent of shared anticipation. Soldiers murmured about past glories—battles fought, foes overcome. Over small cookfires at dusk, an unspoken camaraderie emerged, binding this mass of men from every reach of the empire. Yet officers, sharp-eyed and ever aware of their duty, had no intention of letting discipline falter. They knew, as if by instinct, that the real test would begin once they neared the Morea. The troops must remain focused, each cog meshing smoothly with the next in the great machinery of the Sultan's campaign.

Thus, under a sky that shaded from dawn to dusk and back again, the Ottoman host pressed onward, an implacable force inching closer to its distant objective. The roads behind them lay quiet once their tread had passed, but ahead—at the Hexamilion—the thunder had yet to begin.

The Stop in Thessaloniki

By the time the Ottoman columns snaked their way into Thessaloniki, the city bore its old wounds like a soldier too long on the front line. The walls, partially dismantled by the previous siege, now echoed with the ceaseless clang of mason's hammers. Rising columns of smoke from the foundries merged with the morning haze, as blacksmiths worked with grim efficiency to re-shoe horses and repair dented armor.