EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 49: The aftermath

Constantine fixed him with a steady gaze. "If the scouts confirm Murad's retreat, we'll consider it. But only with caution and preparation. We fight battles we can win, Captain—not wars of looting."

Sforza shrugged, the grin returning. "As you say, Despot."

The meeting dissolved shortly after, the officers departing with the kind of quiet tension that lingered after difficult choices. As George lingered behind, Constantine turned to him.

"You don't approve of Sforza," Constantine said, more a statement than a question.

George hesitated, then nodded. "He's a man of ambition, Despot. Useful in battle, but dangerous in council."

Constantine's lips curved into something resembling a smile. "Ambition can be managed. But loyalty?" He glanced at George. "That's something I trust in you."

George bowed his head. "Always, Despot."

The camp stirred with the muted rhythms of the morning. Smoke curled lazily from small fires where camp followers boiled water and stirred thin soups. The groans of the wounded blended with the muffled commands of officers directing repairs to the defensive works. The air was sharp, carrying the metallic tang of blood and the faint bitterness of burnt wood.

Constantine moved through the makeshift hospital with deliberate steps. The tent flaps barely muffled the chaos within: the rasp of saws cutting splints, the hiss of boiling water, and the low murmur of priests reciting prayers for the dying.

"Despot," Captain Andreas called softly from behind. He fell into step beside Constantine, his dark eyes scanning the surroundings like a predator wary of ambush. "The men are still somewhat shaken, but the victory has provided a significant morale boost."

"And the wounded?" Constantine asked, his voice low, more to himself than to Andreas.

"The surgeons do what they can, but..." He hesitated, then added, "But many will not see another sunrise."

Constantine paused at the entrance of the largest tent. He could see the activity inside—the hurried movements of attendants, the stained aprons of surgeons, the pale faces of the injured. His lips tightened. "Let's see."

Inside, the air was oppressive, filled with the mingling scents of sweat, blood, and boiled herbs. Constantine's gaze swept the room. A surgeon, sleeves rolled up, carefully rinsed a scalpel in steaming water—an innovation Constantine had insisted upon. At another table, a young attendant ground herbs into a poultice, his hands trembling as he worked.

"Good," Constantine murmured as he passed, his tone low enough to seem casual but sharp enough to be heard. "Clean tools save lives. Do not forget that."

The surgeon looked up, startled but not displeased. He nodded quickly and resumed his work.

Constantine stopped by a cot where a young soldier lay, his chest wrapped in bandages already beginning to stain through. The boy—he couldn't have been more than eighteen—blinked up at him, his eyes wide and glassy.

"Despot," the soldier croaked, trying to sit up.

"Stay," Constantine said gently, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "What's your name?"

"Nikos," the boy whispered. His voice cracked, whether from pain or emotion, Constantine couldn't tell. "Did... did we win?"

Constantine crouched beside him, meeting his gaze directly. "We held the wall," he said evenly. "Because of men like you, Nikos."

The boy blinked rapidly, tears pooling in his eyes. "I thought... I thought I'd never see home again."

"You will," Constantine said, his voice firm but not harsh. "You've earned that and more."

Nikos swallowed hard. "The men... they talk about the Ieros Skopos, Despot. They say... they say we fight for something holy."

Constantine's jaw tightened slightly, the words striking a chord. "We do," he said after a moment. "And it's men like you who remind us why."

He rose, patting Nikos on the arm, and moved to the edge of the tent where Andreas waited. "The talk of the Ieros Skopos—how far has it spread in the army?"

Andreas shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Far enough, my Despot. The men cling to it. Faith... purpose... it keeps them steady."

Rolling Plains near Thebes, Dusk

The sun hung low, its light stretched thin over the plains as shadows crept across the terrain. Captain Giovanni crouched in the long grass atop a windswept hill, the edges of his cloak catching the faint breeze. Below, in the distance, the Ottoman army slithered northward, an endless column of wagons, cavalry, and foot soldiers moving with grim precision.

"Discipline," Giovanni murmured, mostly to himself. His voice, roughened by years of barking orders and inhaling battlefield dust, carried the weight of experience. "They're weary but not broken. Look at the rear guard."

The men around him—five scouts, hardened but quiet—followed his gaze. Below, the Ottoman Sipahi cavalry rode in tight formation, their armor catching the dying light, their spears upright like a forest of steel. They were positioned deliberately, their movements methodical, guarding the retreat as if daring anyone to strike.

One of the scouts, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a perpetual smirk, shifted uneasily. "They're crawling north, Captain. Not running. If Murad's really retreating, why bring his best to the rear?"

"Because he doesn't trust us. And he's right not to," Giovanni replied.

The men chuckled low, their camaraderie a brittle thing in the face of the vast army below.

"Let them tire," Giovanni continued, his voice dropping to a near growl. "We'll see what we can find out. For now, we wait for the light to fade."

They were halfway back to their horses when they heard it—the unmistakable clatter of hooves, too many and too close.

"Move!" Giovanni barked, his voice low but urgent.

The scouts scattered, each taking a different route through the underbrush. Giovanni led a pair of them down a narrow ravine, the moonlight barely piercing the thick canopy above. Behind them, the sound of pursuit grew louder—Ottoman cavalry, their movements precise, relentless.

Giovanni forced his horse onward, navigating the treacherous terrain with an instinct born of survival. He signaled his men to split further, each taking a path that would confuse the pursuers.

"Keep going," he hissed to the scout beside him, a younger man who looked more boy than soldier. "You'll be fine."

They doubled back twice, the sounds of hooves fading, then returning—the Ottomans relentless in their hunt. But Giovanni led his horse through a narrow pass, the walls of the ravine pressing close, before finally breaking into open ground.