Outskirts of Edirne, Late March
A thin light lay over the road, and the mud in the ruts shone where the land west of the Tunca had already been stripped ahead of the army, everything useful taken and the rest left behind.
Constantine rode at a walk past empty houses with their doors hanging open. A gate, loose on one hinge, tapped in the wind. In the road, a child's clay bowl lay broken in the muck, half sunk, with a bootprint across its rim. There were no dogs, no hens, and even the crows kept their distance.
Thomas rode beside him, steadier now, though the old wound still troubled his left shoulder. When his horse slipped in a rut and he had to pull it back, the muscle in his jaw tightened once and then eased.
Constantine watched him for a while before saying, as though commenting on the road, "You ride better now."
Thomas gave a short, unwilling smile. "Better," he said. "It still bites when I haul the reins too hard." He rolled his shoulder once, displeased with it. "I miss the vanguard. I miss being first."
For a few paces they rode in silence, with only the wet sound of hooves in the mud. Then Thomas spoke again, and there was more force in his voice.
"Our great-uncle Andronikos lost this city to them," he said. "We're taking it back, brother."
Constantine's expression softened for a moment. "Ieros Skopos."
"Ieros Skopos," Thomas said at once, but then he hesitated. "When I was wounded, with the fever on me, I dreamed of the Panagia again and again. Each time she told me the same thing: don't forget. Don't forget the Skopos." He kept his eyes on the empty lane ahead. "Maybe that is why I lived. We have to finish it."
Constantine let the horse take a few more steps before he answered. "God helps," he said, loud enough for the men around them to hear. "But God does not drag guns through the mud. That part is ours."
They crested a low rise and saw the Yildirim mosque ahead, its squat dome and minaret rising over a quarter that had been stripped bare. The hearths were cold, the shutters torn loose, and nothing moved.
As they approached, Andreas came out from the entrance with two officers behind him, mud caked on his boots. He bowed his head.
"Majesty. Everything west of the Tunca is empty. No people, no stores, no livestock. They moved what they could across the river. The stone bridge is damaged, one arch is cracked, and they've closed their side with wagons and earthworks. If we try to force it, they'll bleed us on the approach."
"And the city?" Constantine asked.
"Looks well garrisoned," Andreas said. "Watchfires even by day. Horsemen on the far bank."
"It will be costly from here," one of the officers said. "And slow."
Andreas nodded. "Yes. Bridge or ford, it makes no difference. We will have to force a crossing under their eyes."
Constantine stepped into the mosque. The rugs were gone. The air smelled of damp plaster and old smoke, with the stale trace of men who had used it for shelter. He touched a column and came away with grit and lime on his fingers.
"They won't meet us in the open," he said. "Not even for Edirne."
Andreas gave a soldier's grunt. "I would rather have a battle than a siege. A siege bleeds you by the hour."
"They're buying time," Thomas said.
Constantine kept his eyes on the column. "How many mouths are behind those walls?"
Then footsteps splashed outside. A scout officer entered in haste, bowed, and tried to catch his breath.
"Majesty. News from the north."
Two more men came in behind him, their cloaks muddy to the knee.
"The Tunca narrows upstream," the first said. "We can force a crossing there more easily. We'll need rafts for the Drakos, but the water is calmer there, and the banks are firm enough for works."
"The far bank?" Andreas asked.
"Light patrols," the scout said. "Ottoman horse. They watch and fall back."
The second man spoke more quietly. "Orthodox peasants are being driven out of the city to spare provisions." He swallowed. "They also say a large force marched out three days ago, to the south-east. They think it is headed for Constantinople."
Andreas cursed under his breath.
Thomas reacted before he could stop himself. His shoulders dropped a fraction, and the word slipped out.
"Mother."
At once several heads turned toward the emperor. No one said anything.
Constantine's mouth went dry. Constantinople came back to him at once, not as a prize or a banner, but as an old wound. With it came the thought of her, shut behind guarded doors and living only by other men's leave. He breathed out slowly and did not speak her name.
Halil was bold. Bolder than Constantine had expected—content to let Edirne hold and bleed while he reached for Constantinople.
He turned from the column. "Give the orders," he said to Andreas. "We cross farther north."
Andreas nodded. "Understood."
"And send light horse south-east," Constantine said. "No engagement. I want their pace, their baggage, and who rides with them."
Then he looked to the officer in the doorway. "Find Sphrantzes."
By afternoon, the army had shifted north to where the Tunca narrowed, and the work of crossing was already underway. Men hauled ropes hand over hand, drove stakes into the bank, and lashed rafts together in the mud, packing their seams with pitch and greasing the rollers with tallow. Lines were stretched and pulled taut. On the far bank, small Ottoman patrols moved among the willows, and a few Pyrvelos shots sent them back whenever they came too near.
Inside the war tent, the space felt close, and every shout from outside broke into the work. George Sphrantzes stood over a rough table with stylus in hand. A map of Edirne lay spread before him, its corners pinned with stones.
"How certain?" George asked.
"Certain enough," Constantine said. "Enough to act."
George nodded and lowered the stylus.
Constantine dictated two letters.
To Admiral Laskaris at Ainos: Halil Pasha is moving toward Constantinople with force. The moment you confirm transports under escort, deny them passage through the straits. Do not scatter your ships chasing rumors. Report everything. Preserve the fleet.
To the Genoese of Galata: there will be gold, confirmed privileges, and favorable customs terms for prudence shown at the proper hour. Keep your ships ready and your papers in order when the straits begin to crowd. We will remember who chose caution.
George paused. "That is blunt."
"It is meant to be."
"Gold, privileges, customs terms, and a promise to remember." George looked up. " I don't trust them. They are Genoese, Majesty. They will sell caution to whichever side seems likelier to endure."
Constantine watched the ink soak into the parchment. "The Gattilusio have already promised to speak in Galata. They can help remind them where profit is more likely to last."
George was silent for a moment. "So we make ourselves the safer bet."
"Yes."
"And if we are wrong?"
"Then we lose money we may wish we still had," Constantine said. "But if they delay Halil even for a little while, it is still cheap."
George let out a breath and said no more. He finished the letters, warmed the wax, and pressed the seal, eagle and cross. Constantine waited until the wax dulled, then stepped out into the cold.
Thomas came out after him, moving fast enough that his breath caught.
"Send me south," he said.
"No."
Thomas's jaw tightened. "You have not heard me out."
"I know what you are going to say."
"Then hear it anyway." Thomas stepped closer. "If Halil reaches the City, she disappears into his hands. After that, we may never get near her again. Let me go to Ainos, then to Galata. I know the harbor, the streets, the men who still wait for us there. If she can be moved, I can set it in motion. If she cannot, I can at least make sure they can't find her."
"You are needed here," Constantine said. "You are my brother, and the line behind me if I fall. And that shoulder is not ready for hard riding."
Thomas rolled it once, impatient. "It is ready enough."
"For one road, perhaps. Not for all of them."
Thomas held his gaze. "With your leave or without it, I am going."
Constantine felt the pressure under his armor where a different letter lay, mint pressed into paper, kept against his skin. He wanted to refuse because refusal kept men alive, and because keeping Thomas near him was the only protection he could offer. But Thomas knew Constantinople as more than walls and gates. And if he was kept here, the need to go would only grow until it broke loose on its own.
"All right," he said.
Thomas stopped, caught off guard by the answer.
"You do not enter the City," Constantine said. "You work through our people there, and you keep yourself out of sight. If the monastery closes its doors, if the guard shifts, if anything tightens, you turn back and report. No heroics. I want word from Ainos the moment you arrive."
Thomas nodded once and turned to make his preparations.
"Kallergis," Constantine called.
Lieutenant Nikolas Kallergis stepped forward with his helmet under his arm. He had carried messages under truce often enough to know how quickly a mission could be ruined by ambition.
"You ride with the prince," Constantine said. "Take twenty men and choose them yourself. No banners. No noise." He waited until Kallergis met his eyes. "If you must choose between glory and obedience, you choose obedience. Your task is to bring my brother back."
Kallergis bowed. "Yes, Majesty."
By dawn, mist lay low over the Tunca, and the men moved with the quiet efficiency that comes when fear has been turned into habit. The first rope team crossed on a raft, crouched behind pavises. On the far bank, Serbian horse scattered a small Ottoman probe and drove it back among the trees.
Then the heavier work began. Rafts were brought forward for the Drakos guns, their wheels lashed fast and their bronze barrels covered in oilcloth. Oxen strained into their harness, and the men pushed in silence once the first curses had spent themselves.
Constantine stood where he could see both banks and listened to his own breathing inside the helmet. Beyond the trees, the towers of Edirne rose over the water, guarded now by river and distance as much as by walls.
The first tagma formed on the far shore with pikes outward and muskets set behind mantlets. Then came the second, and the third, until the line began to hold.
Somewhere to the south, Thomas was already on the road to Ainos.