EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 51: On the Road to Athens

Sforza squinted, his practiced gaze sweeping over the defenses. "Banners of Acciaioli. A garrison, but not a large one. They're expecting a siege, but they're not ready for one."

Constantine nodded, his mind already calculating. "We make camp here. Blockade the city. No one in or out."

As the orders rippled through the ranks, the army stirred into motion. Tents sprang up across the plain like mushrooms after a rain, and the clamor of hammers and shouted commands filled the air. From his vantage point, Constantine watched the Acropolis, his thoughts turning to the Duke of Athens. Antonio I Acciaioli had chosen his side, and now he would pay the price.

The first week of the siege unfolded with grim efficiency. Byzantine cannons, positioned with painstaking care, opened fire on the ancient walls, their thunderous roars echoing across the plain. Each impact sent tremors through the Acropolis, shaking loose chunks of stone that tumbled to the ground in clouds of dust. The defenders responded with arrows, but their efforts were disorganized and desperate.

Constantine's camp hummed with activity, the rhythm of war pulsing through every corner. Engineers adjusted the angles of the cannons, soldiers rotated through shifts on the perimeter, and couriers darted between tents with orders and reports. The atmosphere was tense but disciplined, the men united by the shared purpose of breaking Athens.

On the sixth day, a messenger arrived under a white flag, escorted by a pair of nervous-looking guards. Constantine received him in the central pavilion, flanked by Andreas and Sforza. The man, a thin figure with a patchy beard, trembled as he spoke.

"His Grace, the Duke of Athens, offers terms," the messenger stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of the room's silence.

Sforza leaned against the edge of the table, a wolfish grin playing on his lips. "Terms? What could he possibly offer that we can't take ourselves?"

"Enough," Constantine said, his tone sharp. He turned to the messenger, his gaze unyielding. "Tell your duke that the time for terms is past. If he surrenders now, his men will be spared. If he resists, they will all pay the price of his arrogance."

The messenger bowed shakily and retreated, leaving a charged silence in his wake. Andreas spoke first, his voice heavy with foreboding. "They won't surrender willingly. The Greeks in his ranks may yet rebel, but not while he's still breathing."

"Then we give them reason to," Constantine replied.

By the fifteen day, cracks began to show in the defenders' resolve. Reports trickled in of whispered discontent among the Greek soldiers, and Constantine seized the opportunity. Messages promising amnesty were sent across the lines, carried by arrows that landed within the walls. The seeds of doubt, once planted, took root quickly.

On the seventeen night, the rebellion came. Shouts and the clash of steel echoed from the Acropolis as the Greek soldiers turned on their Latin overlord. By dawn, Antonio Acciaioli was dead, his blood staining the ancient stones. A white flag rose above the citadel, fluttering weakly in the morning breeze.

The Acropolis was eerily quiet as Constantine ascended its steps, his boots crunching on the shattered remains of the gates. His soldiers followed at a respectful distance, their armor clinking softly in the stillness. The stench of blood and smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of olive trees carried on the wind.

In the heart of the citadel, Constantine found a treasury. It was a modest room by the standards of emperors, but its contents spoke of wealth accumulated over decades. Chests of gold florins, silver ingots, and jeweled ornaments glittered in the dim light. Sforza let out a low whistle, his grin widening as he ran a gloved hand over the coins.

"Not bad for a coward," he said. "This will go a long way toward funding the campaign."

Constantine ignored him, his attention on the room's other occupants. A handful of Greek clerics and local officials stood nervously near the walls, their eyes darting between Constantine and the armed guards. One of them, an Orthodox bishop with a lined face and a heavy cross around his neck, stepped forward.

"Despot," the bishop began, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. "Athens stands ready to serve under your rule. We ask only for your protection."

Constantine regarded the man for a long moment before speaking. "Athens will have its protection," he said. "But loyalty must be earned, not begged. Your people will see that this empire does not forget those who stand with it."

The bishop bowed deeply, murmuring a prayer under his breath. Constantine turned to Andreas. "Secure the city. Leave a garrison here—three hundred men and cannons to defend the walls. I want the people to know they are safe."

Andreas nodded and left to carry out the orders. Sforza lingered, his grin fading as he studied Constantine. "You're trully building something here," he said, his tone more serious than usual. "But don't think for a moment that it'll stand on promises alone."

Constantine's gaze was steady, his voice calm. "It'll stand because it has to, my friend."

As he descended from the Acropolis later that day, the cheers of the city's people rose to greet him. The cries of "Ieros Skopos!" echoed through the streets, their fervor filling the air like a tide.