EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 49: The aftermath

"Gentlemen," Constantine began, his voice calm but deliberate, "you have earned this moment." He straightened, his gaze piercing. "Murad threw his strength at us, and we held. Not just held—we repelled. For that, every man who fought on the Hexamilion Wall deserves recognition. You have my gratitude and the gratitude of this empire."

The words were met with nods of approval, murmurs of agreement rippling around the table. Even Sforza inclined his head slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.

Andreas, always direct, spoke first. "We struck a blow they won't forget, Despot. But the question is—how do we ensure it's their last?"

Sforza chuckled softly, pushing himself upright and leaning into the conversation like a gambler smelling opportunity. "Exactly. We've bloodied their noses; now's the time to kick down the door. The Duchy of Athens is vulnerable. If we move fast, we can take it easily."

The room stirred with the weight of Sforza's words. A younger officer, clearly enthralled by the suggestion, nodded eagerly. "He's right, Despot. With Murad retreating, the momentum is ours."

George Sphrantzes cleared his throat, the sound deliberate and measured, cutting through the enthusiasm like a knife. "With respect, Captain Sforza, momentum is only useful if it doesn't run you off a cliff. We don't yet know the full state of Murad's forces. Reports suggest a retreat, but we lack confirmation. For all we know, this could be a feint."

Sforza snorted, leaning back with a grin. "Feint? We've scattered them. You'd have us sit on our hands and lose opportunities just so we can play it safe?"

George turned to Constantine, his tone calm but laced with urgency. "We must be cautious, Despot. An advance into the Duchy of Athens might gain us territory, but at what cost? Our supply lines are strained, and our men are exhausted. Overextending now risks everything we've built here."

Constantine let the silence stretch, observing the interplay with a detached intensity. He moved a marker on the map—Murad's reported retreat. The weight of leadership settled on his shoulders, a familiar burden but one that felt heavier in the presence of competing ambitions.

"And if Murad is truly retreating?" Constantine asked, his voice measured.

George met his gaze. "Then we prepare, Despot. Scouts can confirm his movements, and if Athens becomes a viable target, we can act decisively. But haste is the enemy of strategy."

Sforza muttered something in Italian under his breath but didn't press further.

Constantine folded his arms, his tone now colder, more authoritative. "We will send proper scout patrols. Until their reports return, we hold the Hexamilion. The Ottomans know we're capable of defending this land. Let them stew in their uncertainty."

George, emboldened by the pivot, seized the moment. "There is another matter, Despot. Mystras."

"Go on," Constantine said.

George rested his hand on the map, tracing the borders of the Morea with his fingertips. "Theodore has sailed for Selymbria, leaving Mystras officially under your rule, my Despot. However, you should formally assume the title of Despot of Mystras in person to strengthen your authority. They need to recognize you as their leader—claim the title in Mystras, my Despot."

Constantine considered this, his jaw tightening. "A garrison," he said finally, his voice low. "A hundred men. Loyal and disciplined. George, you will lead them. Secure the city and prepare it for my arrival."

George nodded solemnly. "It will be done, my Despot."

"And what of Athens?" Sforza pressed, unwilling to let the matter rest entirely.