EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 51: On the Road to Athens

Constantine's eyes flicked toward Sforza, studying him in silence. Finally, he nodded, his movements deliberate. "We move against Athens," he said, his voice cutting through the room like steel. "But this won't be a reckless march. Andreas, ready the troops. We'll need supplies, siege equipment, and scouts along the way."

"And what of the men, Despot?" Andreas asked. "They'll follow, but you know as well as I do that morale is a fragile thing."

Constantine's gaze drifted to the edge of the map, where the words Ieros Skopos were faintly scrawled—a reminder of the holy cause he had carefully cultivated. "They'll follow," he said, his voice steady. "They've seen what unity can achieve. We'll remind them that this isn't just a campaign—it's a step toward something greater."

Sforza smirked, tipping an imaginary hat. "A speech like that, and they'll follow you into hell."

The camp stirred to life in the gray half-light of dawn, the heavy mist clinging to the valley like the ghosts of fallen soldiers. Fires smoldered low, their embers glowing faintly, as soldiers moved among the tents with the slow deliberation of men who had seen many battles and knew they would see more before long.

Constantine stood at the edge of the camp, his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the road to Megara disappeared into the rolling hills. His armor felt heavier this morning, though he wore only the breastplate. The weight wasn't metal—it was the knowledge of what lay ahead. Behind him, the muted clamor of preparations echoed through the still air: the groan of carts being loaded, the rhythmic clang of hammers as smiths made last-minute repairs to swords and buckles.

Captain Andreas approached, his boots crunching on the frost-hardened ground. He carried his helm under one arm, the scars on his face catching the pale light. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but Constantine could sense the tension radiating from him.

"They're nearly ready, Despot," Andreas said. His voice was steady, pragmatic, but there was a note of something else—hesitation, perhaps, or caution.

Constantine turned slightly, enough to meet Andreas's gaze. "And the mood?"

Andreas exhaled, his breath clouding in the cold air. "Tense. Some are eager to march—those who believe in the Ieros Skopos. Others... they wonder if this campaign is worth it. The veterans know what a siege means."

"It means victory," Constantine said, though his voice lacked the steel he might have intended. He turned fully now, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword. "This is necessary, Andreas. You know that as well as I do."

Andreas nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Necessary, yes. But that doesn't make it easy."

Before Constantine could reply, the sound of spurred boots announced Giovanni Sforza's arrival. The mercenary captain strode toward them, his cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a dark bird. He stopped just short of the two men, his ever-present smirk firmly in place.

"Your army's assembled, Despot," Sforza said, his tone dripping with sardonic cheer. "A bit ragged around the edges, perhaps, but they'll march."

Constantine arched a brow. "You sound unusually optimistic, Giovanni."

Sforza grinned. "Let's call it a professional assessment."

Constantine shot him a hard look but nodded. "Sound the call. We leave within the hour."

The road to Megara was hard-packed and rutted from years of trade and war, winding its way through hills and olive groves that seemed untouched by time. The army stretched in a long, uneven line, the creak of wagons mingling with the rhythmic tramp of boots. Constantine rode at the head of the column, his horse's breath steaming in the crisp air. Beside him, Andreas kept a watchful eye on the landscape, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword.