Capítulo 198: ER27
Chapter 27: March of Resolve
The morning air in Glarentza buzzed with tension and purpose. Six hundred seasoned pike infantry stood steady under the weight of their pikes; ninety Pyrvelos marksmen were resolute as they checked and prepared their firearms; fifty light cavalry sat on restless mounts; and ten fledgling cannons were arrayed near the rear—all stood in sharp ranks. Beside them, one hundred swordsmen awaited orders with hands resting on their hilts, while a larger, less experienced group of around nine hundred conscripted pike infantry shuffled anxiously, casting nervous glances at the seasoned soldiers around them. Constantine felt the eyes of every single one of them resting on him as their commander.
Nearby, a priest moved solemnly through the lines, clutching a small leather-bound Psalter book—the new Greek one, printed in a size small enough to carry onto the field. The priest read aloud blessings for the soldiers' protection, invoking the saints and martyrs. Many soldiers crossed themselves, nodding with the comfort that came with the familiar rites, while others listened with silent determination. The priest's words echoed softly over the rumbling voices of the crowd, growing fainter as he moved further down the lines.
Beyond the soldiers, a crowd of townspeople had gathered along the narrow cobbled streets, their cheers swelling with pride and anticipation. Families called out blessings, holding loved ones in long farewells. Mothers clutched their children close, and wives held their husbands' hands a moment longer before they let go, eyes glistening. Fathers placed hands on their sons' shoulders, saying last words of encouragement. Constantine caught the eye of an elderly woman who leaned on her walking stick, her gaze unwavering as she watched her grandson—a young, untested conscript—march into line.
Even in the excitement of the crowd, Constantine noticed the tense figures of Venetian traders standing apart from the bustle, their expressions uneasy as they watched the preparations with apprehension. Their wealth depended on the port of Glarentza and the steady flow of printed books. They understood well what the Ottoman threat could mean for their business, and, for once, the fate of Morea felt personal to them.
Constantine acknowledged the cheers with a nod, though his gaze lingered on the priest's blessing and the strained faces of the merchants. The crowd's hopes, the soldiers' determination, the merchants' livelihoods—all of it rested on his lead. As he straightened in the saddle, steeling himself, a fierce resolve took hold. Today, they would march to face Turahan Bey's forces. Today, he would test the strength of their unity, faith, and his own modern ideas against overwhelming odds.
Andreas broke the silence. "Turahan Bey isn't one for sieges. He'll pillage, as he did last time." His voice was firm, yet a glint of concern clouded his gaze.
Constantine nodded, recalling the Ottoman commander's reputation for swift, brutal raids that left villages smoldering in his wake. "Yes, we can't allow him time to move freely," he replied, masking his unease.
Sphrantzes spoke up, his usual confidence tempered. "With Turahan's reputation, he expects us to stay walled behind our castles. But meeting him on the field... that's a risk he wouldn't expect."
Constantine's resolve hardened. "Thats why we will offer him a battle on open ground. He may have numbers, but he's never faced this firepower—not from the field cannons, nor from the Pyrvelos firearms."
Arriving in the modest town of Chalandritsa, the small Byzantine army regrouped and absorbed fresh reports. Scouts reported that Thomas, fortified with several hundred soldiers at Kalavryta, remained isolated but in a defensible position. Far more troubling was the news of Turahan's forces, numbering around six thousand—a blend of Akıncı and Sipahi cavalry advancing towards them with grim precision.
Andreas turned to Constantine, his brow furrowed. "As we expected, Turahan isn't after our walls. He's come to force us into paying tribute through brute terror."
"Then we still have the advantage," Constantine replied, louder than he intended, but the conviction surprised even him. "The Bey doesn't know we're prepared for an open battle. His riders won't know how to face firearms and cannons—not in a direct confrontation."
Constantine's words seemed to kindle a spark among his commanders. The novelty of these weapons gave them the edge they desperately needed.
Nightfall settled over the camp, casting long shadows across the rows of tents and flickering torches. Constantine retreated to his quarters, his shoulders weighted with a burden he could scarcely describe. Alone inside the tent, he attempted to eat, but each bite felt dry, the food heavy and tasteless. His stomach churned with a fierce revolt, and he pushed the plate aside.
Moments later, a wave of nausea overtook him. He stumbled outside into the cool night air, barely making it a few paces before he doubled over, emptying his stomach into the grass. The bitter taste clung to his mouth as he straightened, his head throbbing, his nerves frayed.
He felt a presence beside him before he heard the familiar voice. George Sphrantzes stood a few steps away, his face lit by torchlight, a mixture of concern and quiet understanding in his gaze.
"Command weighs heavy on every man," George said gently. "No one escapes the shadows it casts."
Constantine wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, struggling to regain his composure. "But leaders can't afford to show weakness. If they see me like this..." He let the words trail off, the thought unfinished.
George took a step closer, his tone steady. "Strength, my friend, is not the absence of fear. It's the willingness to move forward despite it. The men know you're human—they don't expect you to be unbreakable. They expect you to be unwavering."
Constantine let the words sink in, staring out over the camp where his soldiers slept, their faith unknowingly bound to his. He nodded slowly, the knot in his chest easing just enough for him to draw a steady breath.
"I'll carry it," he said quietly, more to himself than to George. "For all of us, I'll carry it."
George's hand clasped his shoulder, a small gesture that held all the reassurance Constantine needed.
At dawn, as Constantine's forces prepared on the eastern plains, word arrived of Akıncı scouts spotted in the distance. The Byzantines held their lines—the regular pike infantry bracing in the center, the cannons strategically positioned behind them in the center, with the Pyrvelos marksmen poised to support where needed. The light cavalry and the swordsmen waited on standby for rapid maneuvers.
Across the plains, Turahan Bey rode with a calm confidence, the dusty road ahead marked only by the faint haze of his Akıncı cavalry already scouring the hills and villages. The morning air carried the scent of smoldering fires from their raids, a reminder of the fear he had instilled in Morea's heartland in the past. Yet his thoughts were on this campaign—a simple task, he believed, to press these desperate Byzantines back to their crumbling fortresses.
A scout rode in from the distance, his horse lathered and breathing hard. The scout halted, quickly dismounted, and bowed deeply.
"Bey, we've sighted enemies," he reported, still catching his breath. "A Byzantine force, fewer than two thousand strong, is approaching us in the open plains."
Turahan's brow creased, intrigued. "And these are their only forces? Are we certain this is no decoy for a larger army hidden in the hills?"
The scout shook his head. "My lord, we've combed the region. There are no other forces nearby. If any were coming, they could not arrive in time for this battle."
Turahan nodded thoughtfully, casting a sharp look at his commanders. "Less than two thousand, yet they march openly to meet us. These Byzantines must be desperate." He paused, then added with a hint of disdain, "Or perhaps they are foolhardy enough to believe they can match us in the field."
One of his seasoned lieutenants spoke up, eyes narrowing. "They may believe defending their lands calls for a bold stand, my lord, but they will only hasten their own defeat."
Turahan allowed himself a smile, his confidence bolstered. "Then they've handed us an easy victory. Send the Akıncı cavalry forward," he commanded, "and have them probe the Byzantine lines. Let us test their resolve. If they break, we will press through and drive them into the ground before they know what hit them."
With a swift gesture, he dispatched the scout to relay his orders. The Akıncı split from the main force, galloping forward in scattered formations, each group a harbinger of the storm that Turahan would soon unleash.
The Akıncı cavalry advanced swiftly, arrows arcing through the air as their horses darted and weaved in a chaotic dance. Captain Andreas, positioned beside Constantine, barked orders to hold the line, his voice steady and authoritative. The disciplined pike infantry, clad in helmets and armor, angled their long pikes defensively, creating a bristling wall that absorbed the majority of the incoming arrows. Their training showed as they held formation, each man seamlessly coordinating with the others to present an impenetrable front.
In contrast, the conscripted pike infantry, especially on the right flank, wavered. Dressed mostly in plain clothes, they lacked the armor that protected their professional counterparts. Struggling to angle their pikes with the same precision, some hesitated, their grip unsteady as the arrows struck around them. Under the mounting pressure, a few of the conscripts faltered, fear clouding their resolve. Sensing the growing weakness, Andreas called out urgently, rallying the conscripts to steady themselves.
Constantine cursed under his breath. He needed to stabilize the right flank before the weakness turned into a fatal gap. He called for the light cavalry and a unit of swordsmen to bolster the flank, urging the Pyrvelos marksmen to move closer to the right and be ready to counter the Akıncı harassment with a volley of musket fire. The Akıncı, skilled at sensing vulnerability, began pressing the right flank, their arrows finding unsteady targets among the irregulars.
Back at Turahan's command, a scout relayed the Byzantine disarray, reporting the gap on the right. Sensing an opportunity, Turahan ordered two thousand of his elite Sipahi cavalry to charge between the Byzantine center and right flank, intending to break through with a single overwhelming assault.
On the battlefield, the earth shuddered under the oncoming thunder of heavy hooves. Constantine felt the instinctive urge to flee surge within him, a primal call for self-preservation. But he forced it down, clenching his jaw and keeping his voice steady, calm, as he called out his orders.
"Cannons, load canister shot," he commanded, his tone sharp and unwavering. "Aim for the center of their charge. Hold until I give the signal."
The disciplined pikemen in the center shifted, opening lanes between their ranks to give the cannons a clear line of fire. The Sipahi cavalry bore down—a roiling wave of armored riders, lances glinting like shards of glass beneath the afternoon sun, banners snapping violently in the wind.
"Steady... steady..." Constantine murmured, watching the distance close with an unblinking gaze. The cannons were primed, the tension stretching tight over the field.
One hundred meters. Eighty meters. The Sipahi were so close he could see the fury in their eyes, the gleam of their polished armor.
Sixty meters.
Constantine dropped his arm with a fierce sweep. "Fire!"
The cannons roared, belching smoke and deadly canister shot. The front ranks of the Sipahi crumpled, horses and riders tumbling into a chaotic, bloody tangle as the iron shots tore through armor, flesh, and bone with merciless efficiency. The once-unbreakable charge shattered, the thunder of hooves replaced by shrieks of wounded men and the panicked whinnying of fallen horses.
Among the Byzantine troops, the sight of the carnage had a visceral effect. Some of the younger conscripts turned away, bile rising in their throats as they vomited, the horror of war sinking into them in full. Others, hardened by training or swept up in the adrenaline, cheered loudly, fists raised in triumph as they witnessed the devastating impact of their new weaponry.
"Reload! Fire at will!" Constantine yelled.
A second volley tore through the Sipahi ranks. Next to them on the right flank, the Akıncı hesitated, their momentum faltering as the Pyrvelos marksmen unleashed a hail of bullets. The disciplined musket fire picked off riders with unnerving accuracy. The Akıncı, unprepared for such resistance and unnerved by the unfamiliar firearms, began to fall back.
"Hold the lines!" Captain Andreas shouted, rallying the men.
Turahan Bey watched in disbelief as his elite Sipahi reeled under the devastating artillery fire. Smoke obscured the battlefield, but the cries of wounded men and horses pierced the haze. His officers looked to him, their faces pale.
"They have... cannons?" one stammered.
"Impossible," Turahan muttered, though the evidence was before him. His forces were unprepared for this kind of warfare.
"Order a retreat," he commanded reluctantly. "We cannot win this battle today."
As the Ottoman forces began to pull back, a wave of triumphant cheers surged from Constantine's men, their voices raw and hoarse yet filled with victory. Some soldiers raised their weapons, others clapped comrades on the back, and soon a chant began to rise above the noise, building in strength and unity: "Constantine! Constantine!"
Constantine's shoulders sagged as the tension of the battle released its iron grip, a rare, genuine smile breaking through the stoic mask he had held all day. Relief, sweet and overwhelming, washed over him like a warm tide. For a moment, he simply stood among his cheering soldiers, absorbing the weight of their trust and gratitude—a victory not just for them, but for him as their leader.
George approached, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You did it."
"We did it, brother!" Constantine corrected. "All of us."
The battlefield lay strewn with the remnants of the clash—broken lances, abandoned banners, and the fallen from both sides. Medics moved among the wounded, offering what aid they could.
That evening, under a sky painted with the colors of sunset, the Byzantine commanders gathered. Andreas raised a cup. "To our victory, and to those who fought bravely."
"Hear, hear," the men echoed.
Constantine gazed into the flames of the campfire. The victory was significant, but he knew Turahan Bey would return. Next time, perhaps with even greater force or even Murad II himself.
"We must prepare for what's to come," he said quietly to George.
George nodded. "One battle at a time, my friend. Tonight, we celebrate."
Across the plains, Turahan's army limped away from the battlefield. Realizing that nearly a third of his forces lay wounded or fallen on the field, Turahan Bey clenched his fists. The cost was too great to press on. With a sharp command, he ordered a full retreat, signaling his banners to pull back beyond the Morea's borders.
As he watched the remnants of his army fall back, his mind remained fixed on what he had witnessed. The Byzantines had wielded their cannons with ruthless precision, and unlike any enemy before, they had integrated these weapons in new ways, breaking the momentum of his Sipahi charge in a matter of minutes. Worse still, many of the Byzantines wielded firearms—numerous handheld guns that had torn through his troops, creating chaos and confusion in his ranks.
This small force, though greatly outnumbered, had devastated his army with these new weapons, presenting a threat beyond what he had anticipated. This was no longer the old Byzantine force clinging to outdated methods; this was something far more dangerous. He knew that Sultan Murad II had to be informed immediately
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