EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 46: The Wall of Last Resolve

Constantine nodded, satisfied but not entirely convinced. "And the repairs? If one of these fails during the siege?"

Elias, standing nearby with arms folded, stepped forward at the question. The bell maker's rough hands bore the marks of a lifetime working with metal. "We've set up a workshop just behind the wall," he said, his tone brisk. "We can handle most repairs there. Nothing too fancy, but it'll keep us running in the long run."

The meeting chamber was cloaked in a dim and flickering glow, the wavering lamplight playing tricks across the strained faces of those gathered. A heavy wooden table stretched through the center of the room, its surface a battlefield of its own—maps strewn haphazardly, half-finished goblets of wine scattered among them, and wooden figurines marking troop positions and deployments. At the head sat Constantine, his expression etched with an intensity that silenced idle chatter. Around him—Sforza, George, Thomas, Andreas, and a few seasoned officers—waited, their expressions betraying a mix of apprehension and resolve.

Sforza leaned forward abruptly, breaking the heavy silence. His finger stabbed the map with a precision born of confidence. "Forget their cavalry," he growled. "Against fortifications like these, they're little more than show horses. No, Murad will send his infantry here"—his finger swept across the walls—"wave after wave. He'll try to drown us in sheer numbers."

George Sphrantzes steepled his fingers under his chin, his thoughtful demeanor at odds with the urgency in the room. "Then we must assume no fewer than thirty thousand men," he mused. "Likely more, if the whispers from Edirne hold any truth."

Thomas, shifting uneasily, spoke up, his voice tinged with youthful uncertainty. "Do we know for certain he's gathering there? Could this all be a feint?"

George's tone was dry, verging on sardonic. "As certain as one can be in matters of war. Merchants speak of movement—supply chains, caravans, the usual concentration of men for a major Ottoman campaign. Murad won't leave this to chance. He knows what the Hexamilion means to us. He'll come with everything he has."

"Then how long can we hold?" Thomas asked, his doubt cutting through the room like a blade. "If he brings his full strength?"

Sforza let out a derisive snort, leaning onto the table as though it were a bar counter. "Longer than he'd like, I'll wager. This wall isn't just stone; it's a fortress. Trenches dug deep, earthworks reinforced, cannons primed and ready. His first wave will bleed for every inch."

Captain Andreas, seated to Constantine's left, interjected with measured pragmatism. "And the second wave? And the third? We've seen this before. His numbers are a weapon in their own right. He can afford to lose men. We cannot."

"That's why we make every shot count," Sforza retorted. "Pyrvelos marksmen here, crossbows there, and cannons firing in coordinated volleys. We'll turn his advance into a slaughter."

Constantine raised a hand, his voice calm yet imbued with an authority that silenced the room. "Murad isn't a fool. He won't throw his men at the wall without a plan. Expect siege engines—ladders, towers, perhaps even trebuchets. He'll test our defenses with precision."

George's voice was quieter now, but no less insistent. "And his cannons. He'll bring them, as surely as he brings his men. They may not breach the wall outright, but enough sustained fire could weaken us in critical places."

Constantine's gaze sharpened. "Niketas assures me that our cannons have the advantage in range. If they deploy artillery, we'll counter it before they can find their mark."

A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the chamber, briefly lightening the oppressive mood.

Thomas, still restless, spoke again. "What about sappers? If they tunnel beneath us—"