EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 47: The Siege Begins

By dusk, the camp was ablaze with the fever of rumor and arrogance. Soldiers spat venom at the Christian defenders, their voices echoing along the rows of tents. They cursed, mocked, and hurled obscene threats toward the Hexamilion wall, daring God Himself to intervene. The promised hour was coming, or so the Şeyhülislam declared. For men at war, hope and hatred often share the same flame.

From the battlements, the Byzantines could see the swelling of Ottoman fervor—banners raised high, the rhythmic pound of drums designed to stoke courage in their men and erode it in others. Constantine, observing, reportedly told his officers that "noise doesn't breach walls—cannonballs do." Sforza, standing near, offered a nod of agreement, muttering a faint curse for such impiety.

Night fell, covering the encampment like a conspirator's cloak. Soft lamplight glimmered on the edges of siege engines. Turahan Bey led a band of aḳıncı across the darkened plain—a probing attack, designed to peel back the layers of the Byzantines' defenses. Constant skirmishes teased out the weak points of the Hexamilion wall, and every musket flash illuminated fractions of the Byzantine fortifications.

In the quiet that followed, Murad waited, trusting that the Şeyhülislam's chosen moment would come. For every glance cast toward the northern stars, a plan was refined, a tactic sharpened. And beneath the black canopy of night, amid the ragged breath of war-weary men, the Ottoman host drew breath like a single living creature—coiled and ready to strike at the day of the Şeyhülislam's choosing.

They came at first light—not a scattered rabble of mercenaries but a disciplined host assembled under the color of prophecy. Days had passed since that eerie sermon of the Şeyhülislam, and now the watchers on the Hexamilion's battlements witnessed its ominous fruition. From Constantine's vantage point, the Ottoman camp looked like a restless sea, its occupants a swirling mass of harness and steel waiting for a single word to unleash them. That word now seemed imminent.

Below, on the charred and trampled plain, Murad's banners stirred. In their midst rode Şeyhülislam, mounted on a tall horse as promised, a drawn sword held aloft in his right hand—glinting in the pale dawn. His voice, carried by some unearthly resonance, tore through the hush of the moment. Not once, not twice, but three times, he roared commands to the faithful, each echo a hammer blow on the defenders' nerves.

"Now," Constantine muttered under his breath, leaning over the parapet to address his gunners. "Let them feel what prophecy cannot shield." He offered a curt nod, and within a heartbeat, the first of the Drakos cannons spat fire.

From the walls, the Byzantines watched in grim fascination as the Ottoman hordes advanced. It was a spectacle of choreographed menace. Men in heavy armor bearing shields, others laden with ladders, still more brandishing torches and iron hooks. Their footfalls converged into a thunderous cadence, accompanied by the hiss of thousands of arrows launched skyward—a deadly hail that arced with the precision of well-drilled archers. Beneath the steady drumming of war, standard-bearers shouted encouragements, brandishing the Ottoman banners.

Amid this swirling storm, Constantine's cannons let loose. Their roar shook the ramparts, sent plumes of stone dust drifting into the air, and opened ragged gaps in the surging Ottoman lines. Men screamed, forms thrown into brutal disarray, but the mass hardly paused. Turahan Bey—spearheading the irregulars—drove them forward, bridging the new craters with shattered timbers and the bodies of their own fallen.

Upon Constantine's signal, Pyrvelos marksmen took up position. Together with the crossbowmen, they picked off Ottoman warriors with unnerving precision. One instant, a tall commander in richly embroidered armor raised a sword; the next, he crumpled into the mud. The effect on the enemy formations was palpable: columns stumbled, and orders were lost. Yet Murad's presence loomed from the rear, stony-faced and unflinching, dispatching new troops to refill the ranks.

Smoke mingled with dawn mist, obscuring the defenders' vision. Ragged shouts cut through the gloom; you could almost taste the tension on the wind. From his vantage point, Captain Andreas relayed fresh instructions to the artillery crews, ensuring no man wasted a single shot. Down below, Sforza's Italians braced for the possibility of a direct assault on the walls, muttering curses at every fresh volley that rattled the stonework.

All the while, the Şeyhülislam hovered like some arcane overseer, presumably reading his stars and seizing the faithful's devotion. He pointed with his sword, and men swarmed forward with ladders and grappling hooks, eager to close the distance. The clang of steel meeting stone rang out as the first wave pressed against the moat and trenches. For a brief instant, everything seemed balanced on a razor's edge—whether the Ottoman fervor would overwhelm the Byzantine defenses or break against them like waves on a rocky shore.

"Fire!" Constantine's order was calm, but it sliced through the cacophony. A volley of canister shots tore through the front ranks of the attackers. Ladders snapped like kindling; men tumbled to the ground in tangled heaps. The defenders on the walls exhaled a collective breath—a momentary surge of confidence. But the next wave came on, unheeding. There were simply too many.