Dawn lay over Edirne. Smoke still hung in the streets and drifted through the doorways, carrying the smell of burnt grain and tallow. In the southern quarter, houses stood gutted where the fire had burned through them. Heat still rose from the wreckage in places.
Constantine rode at a walk through a lane that had once been lined with stalls. Now it was mud and broken stone, splintered shutters, and a child's shoe half-buried at the base of a wall. His men had already put up posters bearing IEROS SKOPOS over the scraped plaster. This was the Orthodox quarter, where Greek was the street language.A crowd stood beneath the nearest notice, reading in silence. Their faces were grey with soot and their clothes were damp and poor. When they heard the hoofbeats, they turned.
Several crossed themselves at the sight of purple. A boy lifted a hand in a half-wave.
"Ieros Skopos," an old man called.
His voice was thin, but it carried. Hollow-cheeked, his beard grey with ash, he stepped out from a doorway and reached toward Constantine's stirrup.
Two mounted guards moved in at once. One thrust a forearm into the old man's chest and drove him back against the wall. He staggered, hands still raised, his mouth opening and closing without sound.
Constantine felt irritation first, at the delay more than the man. Then he looked at the faces in the street and checked it.
These people had kept themselves Roman in whispers, kitchens, and churches under the Sultan's rule. Now they were looking at him for protection.
He raised a hand.
"Let him stand."
The guards pulled up at once.
The old man steadied himself against the wall and kept his eyes on Constantine's face with the caution of a man who had seen rulers come and go.
Constantine drew a handful of coins from his pouch and dropped them into the nearest officer's hand.
"Distribute them here," he said.
"Yes, Majesty."
The officer closed his fist over the silver.
The old man looked at that closed hand, then back at Constantine. He did not smile, as if trying to read what kind of rule this would be.
Constantine touched heel to horse and rode on, the file closing behind him. As he passed, he heard the old man speak again, more softly this time, too low to tell whether it was a prayer or a plea.
At the main road, wagons had been set crosswise to block the side lanes. Men with staves and shields kept people moving past the worst of the rubble and the bodies not yet carried off.
Beyond the main gate, the Saray stood in blackened sections. One wing had half collapsed. The stone was scorched pale where the heat had stripped it, and broken timbers still jutted out. In the courtyard, a fountain basin sat cracked and dry, filmed with rainwater and soot. A charred door had been dragged into the middle of the paving and left there.
Constantine rode past without slowing. He had seen enough burned places to know that a city did not die in the fire itself, but in what failed to return afterward: the markets, the prayers, the daily habits that made people trust in tomorrow.
Beyond the palace buildings lay an open yard, trampled flat, where an archery ground had once been. Targets still stood at one end, some upright and some split, while broken arrows lay in the mud, their feathers plastered down by rain.
The big stone mosques had taken the wounded, the stores, and the clerks. The palace was good now only for guarded rooms and quiet talk. A low hall stood beyond the yard, close enough to the palace to fall under its shadow. Men's voices drifted through the doorway.
Constantine dismounted and handed the reins to a guard. When his boots hit the ground, the jolt ran up through his legs and settled into his hips. The siege was still in his body: the recoil of guns, too little sleep, lime and smoke on his tongue.
George Sphrantzes stood by a table with maps spread across it. His eyes were red with fatigue. Andreas was beside him, one hand on the map. Fruzhin stood near the brazier with two of his men, speaking a little louder than he needed to. Grgur Branković stood apart in partial armor.
Aristos sat on a bench along the wall. Other officers filled the room: captains of the tagmata, engineers, messengers with dried mud on their hems. They looked tired and flushed with victory.
The conversation died as Constantine entered.
Men straightened. Heads bowed.
"Majesty," they said.
Constantine raised a hand and moved to the center of the room.
Grgur stepped forward first, unable to hold it back. His voice had a raw brightness to it that did not match the soot on his sleeves, the brightness of a man tasting his first major victory.
"Edirne is ours," he said. "Let the world hear it. Long live Constantine."
The room answered at once. A cheer rose, too loud for the low hall. Men struck the table with open hands.
Constantine smiled, then lifted a hand. The gesture was enough. The noise fell away.
As the room quieted, he noticed something near the wall, half hidden beneath a fallen cloth.
A chess pawn.
Bone or ivory, worn smooth by use, darkened at the base with soot and mud. Constantine bent and picked it up. It was light in the hand.
He held it up where the men could see it.
"We've done a great deal," he said. "Not by luck, but by keeping order. We counted bread, watched the powder, kept the roads open, and held to our orders."
He set the pawn on the road east.
"But we are not finished. Constantinople is still in their hands, and Halil is moving toward it, if he has not reached it already."
"Sit."
Chairs scraped as the men sat. Constantine took his seat at the head of the table. Andreas stepped forward and set a hand on the map.
"Edirne and the approaches are secured," he said. "The scouts have found no sign of the boats that got away, but the crossings are under control. We could move as early as tomorrow."
He kept his hand on the map.
"But we will not move whole. Many men are wounded, and some of the tagmata are thinner than they were a week ago. We can still march. We can still fight. But we should not speak as if this army is fresh."
He glanced at George.
George nodded once. "The wagons are mostly in order, the stores are counted, and the animals have had some rest. It's not ideal, but we should be ready."
Andreas continued, tracing east along the map toward the sea. "The road to Selymbria appears open. But there is also Didymoteicho to the south."
He tapped the map.
"It is a citadel on a steep hill. Strong stone. I was there many years ago. You do not take it by rushing. Climb those slopes and you pay for every step. Even with guns, it will not be easy."
Fruzhin shifted to speak, but Constantine raised a hand.
"Let him finish," he said.
Andreas nodded.
"I do not expect a large garrison there," he said. "Halil took his main force east. Didymoteicho may have only enough men left to hold the place. They may surrender when they see they are alone. Or they may hold out and force us into a siege we cannot afford."
He leaned over the table.
"We have two choices. We can march to Selymbria and leave Didymoteicho on our flank. Or we can take it first, secure the country behind us, and then move on."
"Laskaris will try to block the straits," he added. "Halil will try to bring men over from Anatolia and keep the City supplied by sea. If he can do that, time is on his side."
George shook his head.
"Try," he said. "Thomas rode with that order only a few days ago. For all we know, Laskaris is still at Ainos, or only now putting to sea. We have to treat the fleet as a possibility, not a certainty."
Constantine turned to Fruzhin.
"Now," he said, "what did you want to say?"
Fruzhin straightened.
"Majesty, we should move toward Constantinople as soon as we can. Didymoteicho is a nuisance. The City is what matters."
He pointed at the map.
"The garrison at Edirne can hold the crossings and the road behind us. That is enough. We go on to Selymbria. If the fleet can support us there, we stand before the walls, and the City will know we have come."
Several officers nodded at once, Grgur among them.
George inclined his head.
"Lord Fruzhin has a point. If the fleet closes the straits, we gain support by sea. We cannot rely on the Edirne–Philippopolis road alone."
He tapped the mark for Constantinople.
"But it is no guarantee. Reaching the walls does not finish the matter. It begins it. Drakos will not open the City the way Edirne was opened. A week sooner does not change the walls. What changes is what Halil does inside: the guards, the patrols, the food, the gates."
"If we mean to take the City, then we must be able to close it. We either starve it, or we have help from within. Otherwise we sit outside while Anatolia feeds it."
"Straight to the City," someone muttered.
Andreas shifted. Aristos looked up.
Constantine let the room settle, then turned the pawn once between his fingers.
"You have both said what needed saying."
The room grew quiet.
"We cannot afford to lose time. Every day Halil holds the City, he is harder to drive out."
He set the pawn on the road to the sea.
"But there is too much we do not know. The fleet. The straits. Anatolia. Demetrios. Galata. We do not move on rumor. We move on what we can see and hold."
He looked down at the map.
"We go to Selymbria. From there we see what the sea gives us."
He turned to Aristos.
"Take your tagma and extra cavalry," Constantine said. "Go south to Didymoteicho. Offer terms. Count their men, their stores, and their temper. If they refuse, contain them. Don't waste lives on that hill. You are not to storm it unless I order you."
Aristos bowed. "Yes, Majesty."
Constantine held his gaze a moment longer. There was no hesitation in Aristos; he had already begun measuring the road south.
He picked up the white pawn one last time and closed his fingers around it.
"Tomorrow we march for Selymbria."