Clermont, Mid-July 1436
Dawn had barely cleared the battlements, but the garden was already close with heat. Vines tangled overhead, their leaves casting restless shadows across the stone bench where Constantine and Katarina sat. Before them, breakfast sat neglected: coarse bread, a wedge of white cheese softening in the warmth, two cups of watered wine dulled by the sun. A bee hovered over a half-sliced fig. In the distance beyond the garden arch, faint clatter and voices drifted from the mustering camp. Here inside the ivy-covered walls, there was only the soft stir of leaves and the slow, tight breaths they shared.
Constantine held his sleeping daughter in the crook of one arm. Zoe, newly fed and lightly swaddled, lay slack against his chest, lashes still against flushed cheeks. Across from him, Katarina sat wordless, turning a mint sprig between her fingers. Its sharp scent cut through the sweetness of jasmine, carried thick on the garden air.
They said nothing. The hush felt too delicate to break, as if speech might splinter it. Constantine watched Zoe's face, still and faintly flushed. Her breath rose and fell in slow rhythm, and he found himself matching it. But each small sigh tightened something in him. How many such breaths would pass before he saw her again?
Katarina shifted on the bench and reached to brush a curl of dark hair off Zoe's forehead. Her hand lingered, then moved to touch Constantine's forearm lightly. "She has your eyes," she said, barely above a whisper. Her whisper hung in the still air.
Constantine allowed himself a faint smile. Zoe's eyes were shut, but when they opened, they held Katarina's deep, unblinking brown. "And your brow," he murmured. "She'll be stubborn." He meant it lightly, but the words landed too quiet.
Katarina's mouth twitched at the edge. "Good," she said. "She'll need to be." Her fingers curled against the bench, joints whitening. "Especially if she grows up in an empire at war." The words barely rose above the rustle of leaves.
He shifted Zoe in his arm and covered Katarina's hand with his own. Her skin felt cool, or perhaps his was feverish with tension. "She will grow up safe," Constantine said softly but firmly. "I promise."
Katarina looked up at him, fully, directly. A sheen of tears trembled in her eyes, though she refused to let them fall. "You cannot promise that," she whispered. "Not truly."
Constantine's throat tightened. He longed to offer easy reassurance—that he would return victorious long before Zoe could even say "Father"—but he knew she was right. Katarina deserved honesty, not empty comfort. "I will do everything I can," he murmured instead, gently stroking the back of her hand. "For you. For her."
Silence settled again, thick with what neither of them dared give voice to. Beyond the garden walls, the day stirred: the first rasp of cicadas in the trees, a thrush calling from the roof tiles. Beneath that light music came the harder sounds of the yard, hooves striking stone, a groom's sharp curse, the muted clang of men fastening iron. Yet inside this patch of green, the moment held fast. Constantine fixed the image in his mind: morning gold filtering through leaves, his wife and child safe beside him. It would be a memory to carry into battle, something to steady him when the shouting and steel closed in.
Zoe stirred with a faint whine, as if sensing the tension. Both parents leaned in. Katarina slid her hands beneath the baby, and Constantine let her go with reluctance. Zoe wriggled and gave one soft cry before settling against her mother's shoulder. Katarina hushed her with a few murmured Serbian endearments, swaying ever so slightly. The baby smacked her lips and drifted back to sleep.
Constantine realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out slowly. Zoe's brief cry had cut through the hush, and in the stillness after it, the noise beyond the wall came into sharper shape, short, clipped voices giving orders, the creak of leather and wood as wagons took on their loads, iron knocking against iron. They were no longer merely preparing; they were nearly ready to march.
He bent and touched his lips to Zoe's warm brow, breathing in the faint sour-sweet scent of milk. Then he straightened, the motion tightening something in his chest. Katarina rose with him, the child held close. The hem of her gown whispered over the flagstones as she turned to face him. For a moment, neither reached for the other.
Constantine bent to pick up the leather satchel Katarina had packed for him. As he lifted it, a green, clean fragrance wafted out. He opened the flap and found a small bundle of dried mint nestled atop his folded tunic—a piece of home she had tucked among his things. His eyes stung at the simple discovery. He closed the satchel and drew a slow, steady breath, the mint's soothing scent filling his lungs.
Katarina stepped closer. With her free hand she straightened the small silver cross pendant on Constantine's chest, a familiar, wifely gesture. "Remember," she whispered, "you are not alone out there. God is with you... and so is my love."
Her words were steady, but a tear slipped down her cheek. Constantine cupped her face and brushed it away with his thumb. He pressed his brow to hers, eyes shut. "And mine stays with you," he whispered, the words catching slightly. "Both of you."
Katarina drew back and lifted her right hand to his forehead. Her fingers trembled as she traced the sign of the cross—brow, chest, shoulders. In a hushed voice, she spoke the blessing in Serbian and then in Greek: "May God keep you safe."
The dual benediction, first in her tongue and then in his, sent a wave of warmth and sorrow through Constantine. He squeezed the hand she had laid on his shoulder and then slowly let go.
Beyond the garden gate, a horn blew a low call—once, then twice. The army was assembled; it was time. Constantine straightened. Katarina adjusted Zoe against her shoulder. He hesitated, eyes tracing her face to etch it in memory one last time. She mustered a small, brave smile for him, even as her chin trembled.
"Go," she whispered. A single word, yet it carried all her faith and worry and love.
Constantine bowed his head, then turned and walked toward the archway. His boots sounded too loud on the stone path. At the gate he paused and glanced back. Katarina stood in a shaft of morning sun with Zoe in her arms, and she lifted her hand in a tiny wave. Constantine pressed his palm to the rough archway stone, as if leaving a piece of himself behind. Then he forced himself onward. As he walked down the slope to his men, the faint scent of mint lingered, a last trace of the garden following him toward war.
South of Thebes, Late July 1436
White noon glare burned off the chalky road and scrubby hills. For the past hour, Constantine had watched the dust plume on the horizon swell, scouts returning with the same report: Thomas's column, on time.
Now he waited under the scant shade of a parched oak at the crossroads South of Thebes, his vanguard arrayed behind him. The heat wavered as the leading riders of the other host took shape, armor and spearpoints resolving out of the shimmer.
At their head, the crimson-and-black standard lifted in the faint breeze: Thomas's banner, the double-headed eagle marked with Ieros Skopos cross. Constantine raised an arm in signal. His own retinue halted, thousands of men and horses clattering to a stop behind him. Out front, his younger brother Thomas spurred forward from his arriving ranks. They met at a rocky crossroads where cicadas droned invisibly in the distant olive groves.
The two brothers regarded one another in silence for a moment. Thomas's face was drawn and sweat‑streaked, his dark hair damp against his brow. Days of hard marching had etched deeper lines around his eyes. Constantine knew he must look much the same.
Thomas inclined his head a fraction. "Brother."
"Thomas," Constantine replied with a curt nod.
Their horses snorted and pawed at the dusty ground. Thomas let his gaze flick past Constantine to the long column waiting under the sun. "No turning back now," he said flatly.
Constantine exhaled once through his nose and gave a small nod. "No."
Thomas's mouth twisted. "So we had to watch Demetrios give the City to the Ottomans to convince you to campaign now," he said. "This year."
Constantine's fingers tightened on the reins. "You know why we waited," he answered, keeping his voice low. "But what's happened in the City has changed everything."
Thomas's jaw worked. "The Turk and Demetrios decided for us in the end," he muttered. "They tore up your truce for you."
"They did," Constantine said. He glanced down the long line of men and wagons behind him, then back to his brother. "And you were right about one thing, we couldn't sit forever. The truce is dead. The City is theirs for now." His voice hardened. "That will not stand."
Thomas drew a breath, shoulders squaring. Some of the raw anger in his face settled into a grim steadiness. "Good," he said. "Then let's fight it."
Constantine reached across and clasped his brother's forearm. Thomas gripped back hard, callus to callus, a brief, wordless pact.
"Together," Constantine said.
"Together," Thomas answered.
Nothing more needed saying. Thomas released his arm and turned his horse; Constantine followed. A single gesture sent his standard-bearer forward, and the imperial purple rose, gold double-eagle catching in the glare.
Down the line, orders carried. The two hosts shifted into motion together, wagon axles groaning, boots striking a steady rhythm. Constantine nudged his stallion into a measured pace beside Thomas at the head of the joined column.
Arrival in Thessaloniki (Early August 1436)
The late‑afternoon sun hammered the plain before Thessaloniki, and the bay beyond the walls shone white‑gold. Constantine squinted from the saddle as the city's silhouette rose ahead. Out in the harbor, masts pricked the glare: merchant cogs, a few squat local hulks, two Venetian traders riding light, and, a little apart with her higher sides, the Katarina. His flagship sat easy at anchor with the rest of their small squadron, imperial banner limp in the heat. The sight of that familiar hull under the city's walls steadied him. For the first time, land and sea had come together under his command, an army and a fleet meant to strike as one. He had wanted more time to shape a proper navy, but this would have to serve. It was what he had, and he would make it carry the weight of his designs.
The outer gates stood open. Banners stirred on the battlements. Constantine led his host through the archway without fanfare, the only salutation a distant church bell. The clatter of the column ricocheted off scarred ramparts.
Inside, citizens crowded the main thoroughfare in excitement. Cheers rose as the soldiers passed, swelling until the whole street seemed to ring with them. Children waved from doorways, men shouted greetings, and women crossed themselves while calling blessings toward the column. The noise rolled ahead of the procession, a full-throated welcome for the Emperor entering their city.
Thomas rode to Constantine's right, rigid-backed. To his left was General Andreas, whose contingent had joined the column when they passed through Thessaly, his armor and beard gray with dust.
Near the steps of the Heptapyrgion, officials waited with George Sphrantzes at their head. Constantine dismounted; his boots struck the stone with a heavy note. George stepped forward and bowed.
"Your Majesty," he said, loud enough to cut through the rumble of the arriving army. "Thessaloniki welcomes you. The men are assembled for the march."
Constantine clasped his forearm. "Thank you, George. You've kept the city well."
"We await your orders, Basileus," George replied. "All is prepared for the council."