EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 47: The Siege Begins

Behind them, a horse's whinny sounded faintly from within the fortress courtyard. The resonant clank of harnesses drifted up: supplies being shuffled about under George's orders, or perhaps Sforza's men taking inventory yet again. Somewhere in the Hexamilion shadows, priests and monks intoned their prayers—low, steady murmurs threading through the gloom, binding soldiers and defenders alike in a wary hope that faith might yet conquer fear.

Constantine leaned over the wall, gazing into the swirling dawn. "So, Andreas," he said at last, lowering his voice to an intimate hush, "we wait."

And in the stillness, the Ottoman host seemed to shift like a restless beast—an invisible hand marshalling thousands of hearts and minds. From Constantine's vantage, it felt as though each breath he took was a small defiance. Because once the Ottoman tide broke upon the Hexamilion, there would be no turning back. Their lines would clash, walls would shudder, and the question lingering in every soldier's mind was whether those walls—and the souls that defended them—would endure.

They called it an encampment, yet to the observant, it stood as a meticulously disguised launching point for the storm quietly gathering within. Murad II paced a length of canvas corridor between rows of Ottoman officers, a man inclined to keep his own counsel even as he orchestrated a meticulous plan of siege. The air within the tents smelled of wet wool, scorched timber, and that faint tang of gunpowder that signaled both promise and peril. Murad's lieutenants—austere men with hawk-like glares—stood by, waiting for their Sultan's next command.

News of Constantine's early cannon barrage had arrived on the breath of a trembling messenger, his words stumbling in a mixture of fear and regret. Ottoman guns had been sighted too far forward; the Byzantine range proved better, their aim sharper. Several of Murad's own precious cannons lay crippled in the mud, wreathed in acrid smoke. Murad listened without apparent emotion, though his gaze flickered like a blade catching light. He offered no reproach, only a curt nod. The men understood that mistakes would not be forgiven a second time.

"Pull the cannons back," Murad said softly, crossing to a makeshift table where a map lay pinned by knives. "Far enough that Constantine's cannons must strain at their limit. We'll hide ours behind timber works—shields if need be." He tapped the parchment. "In any war, position is everything. Get it right."

His voice, though low, carried over the quiet murmurs of the assembled officers. One by one, they leaned in, absorbing every nuance of instruction. They knew that behind the veneer of calm, Murad's mind was a nest of calculations, endless permutations of assault and counterassault. His men did not simply obey him out of fear or respect—they obeyed because he rarely failed, and failure here meant more than lost cannons; it threatened the dream of empire.

Outside, the camp bustled with the disquiet of soldiers preparing siege towers, lashing timbers into place, and fashioning crude barricades. Occasionally, a stray cheer from the distant Byzantine walls drifted through the gloom, faint but cutting, like a distant mocking refrain. The Ottomans responded with hammers and saws, a symphony of readiness that was at once methodical and menacing.

Then came the arrival of the Şeyhülislam. He rode into the camp atop a tired-looking mule, surrounded by five hundred devout monks who formed a somber escort. The moment he appeared, word rippled across the ranks like electricity. Men who had stood unyielding in the face of cannon fire now craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the holy man. Even Sultan Murad, that hardened chess master of battles, stepped forward in an uncharacteristic display of deference.

The Şeyhülislam's sermon was delivered in measured, resonant tones, promising divine favor at precisely the appointed day—a day he alone would discern by charting the stars and the movements of the heavens. Watching Murad bow his head before this austere figure, the Ottoman ranks grew emboldened. Faith, after all, can be a more potent weapon than steel.