The sun was already high when the first cannon was rolled into place.
Early June heat shimmered across the blackened earth outside Larissa's western gate. Flies swarmed over charred wheat stalks and the broken beams of ruined farmhouses. A dry wind blew from the east, sharp with the scent of dust and old ash. Constantine stood beneath a faded command awning at the edge of the forward camp, watching as soldiers maneuvered the wheeled Drakos cannon into position atop the sloped earthen berm, its iron-rimmed wheels crunching over packed dirt.
Ropes creaked. Sweat-soaked soldiers grunted as they moved the gun into alignment. Behind them, mixed teams of Burgundian, Italian, and Greek sappers, began preparations for the long trenchwork, pick and shovel striking earth as they marked the first lines of the outer cordon. Farther back, officers barked orders as a second cannon came forward, its wheels rattling over uneven stone.
Constantine said nothing. He merely watched, one gloved hand resting on his belt. He wore no cloak despite the hour; the sun pressed down like a held breath, slow and punishing. Sweat gathered beneath his collar, traced the line of his spine with the deliberation of a blade. For a fleeting moment, the towers of Larissa stirred an image from a film he'd once seen, dark stone rising behind drifting smoke, a city defiant and doomed. It was one of the few memories from the 21st century that still surfaced unbidden, more rare now, and fading more each year. The details blurred even as they came. He let it pass. Beside him, General Andreas shaded his eyes beneath the brim of his helmet, jaw set like carved granite.
A few paces behind, George Sphrantzes moved briskly between command tents, a leather folio clutched under one arm. He had spent the morning in quiet consultation with Jean de Croÿ, aligning the needs and obligations of the Burgundian contingent with the broader logistics of the camp. Food, forage, water discipline, the machinery of an army too large to improvise. Even now, aides moved to his direction, distributing new orders with practiced speed. There was no shouting, only urgency honed by habit.
By midday, the battery was ready. A silence spread across the forward lines as the gunners made final adjustments, ramming powder, shot, and wadding. In the distance, Larissa's citadel loomed behind its scorched outer neighborhoods, stone walls glinting faintly under the sun, towers watching, waiting.
Constantine gave the signal with a slow downward motion of his hand.
The first shot cracked across the plain like a thunderclap. Smoke billowed. The cannon recoiled with a screech and groan. A heartbeat later, the cannonball struck, stone cracked from the outer wall of the west gate tower, sending a burst of dust into the air like powdered ash.
A second shot followed. Another cloud of powder smoke. Another distant impact, higher this time, the outer parapet of the same tower lost a jagged tooth of stone.
Then came the response. A ragged volley of arrows loosed from behind the town walls, high, poorly aimed, falling well short of the Byzantine lines. A moment later, a deeper, cruder blast rolled out from within Larissa. A bombard fired once, short-barreled and clumsy, the shot tumbling uselessly into an open field a hundred yards wide of anything that mattered. Smoke curled over the rooftops, thin and unimpressive.
Andreas snorted. "They know we outrange them."
"Let them bark, we brought teeth." Constantine murmured.
After the two warning shots rang out and the smoke drifted toward the city, a truce flag was raised. A Byzantine herald rode out under guard, bearing a scroll. The parchment was stiff with wax seals, the script crisp and unyielding: a demand for the immediate surrender of Larissa, issued in the name of Emperor Constantine XI Palaiologos and Champion of Christendom.
The envoy rode out under the white flag of truce, a scroll case tucked beneath his arm. He stopped at the midpoint between camp and city, his horse stamping nervously on the heat-shimmered road. For a while, nothing moved atop the walls.
Then, slowly, defenders appeared at the main gate. A half-dozen figures emerged, their forms indistinct behind the haze, but clearly armed. One stepped forward to take the scroll, no ceremony, no word. The gates closed again behind them with a heavy boom.
The envoy remained there in the sun for nearly an hour, mounted and motionless, the flag of truce fluttering idly beside him. Once, a shape moved along the wall walk, observing him. A second time, someone shouted something in Turkish he couldn't quite make out. He didn't flinch.
Finally, a figure emerged from the gate again, a younger officer this time, helmet under one arm, a sealed scroll in hand. He did not dismount. He handed over the reply, said something curt, and turned back.
When the envoy returned to camp, his cloak was streaked with dust and sweat. He dismounted before the command tent and handed the scroll to Constantine with a short bow.
The Emperor took it, broke the seal, and read in silence.
Then he passed it to Andreas.
The general's brow darkened as he read. "He calls us pamphleteers," he muttered. "'Pamphleteers and play-actors. The city has stood for centuries and will not fall to men of paper and press.'"
Constantine's mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
George Sphrantzes, standing just behind them, let out a quiet chuckle. "Well, at least they're reading," he said dryly. "Though I'm not sure which frightens them more, our sermons or our siegeworks." He thumbed the edge of his folio and added, "They may mock the press, but I'd remind them we're quite famous for our cannons too."
Nearby, someone asked the envoy quietly, "Did you notice anything worth remarking?"
The man shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not much," he said. "But the ones I saw looked… alert. Rested. Determined enough. They didn't laugh." He paused. "That's something."
News of the refusal spread through the camp before the dust had settled. By nightfall, Constantine had called for a fresh council. The Ottomans had answered, unfortunately with defiance. Now the question was whether to answer back with steel.
The scent of smoke still clung to the canvas when Constantine entered the command tent. The lamps inside burned low, their light wavering over maps of Thessaly spread across the table like an accusation. The air held the sting of oil lamps and the quiet fatigue of men who'd spent the day preparing the siege.
Constantine stood at the head of the table. Around him, the council gathered, General Andreas, arms folded, brow furrowed; George Sphrantzes, seated and already fanning through his folio of supply figures; Jean de Croÿ, freshly washed but still wearing his hauberk; and Thomas, pacing.
No one spoke until Constantine placed both palms on the map and looked up.
"We've made our offer," he said. "They've answered. The crescent still flies. Now we must decide."
Thomas wasted no time. "They mock us, and we let them?" he snapped. "We should strike now. Take the city, break them open. The men are ready." He gestured toward the darkness beyond the tent walls, where the camp fires of nearly fifteen thousand soldiers flickered across the plain. "We take Larissa, we secure supplies, food, and even coin. You want the army fed, brother? It's all behind those walls."
His eyes met Constantine's. Not defiant, but blazing with the fervor of a younger man who had not yet learned to temper instinct with patience.
"It's there for the taking," Thomas said. "And if we don't take it, we're just warning them we're too afraid to try."
Before Constantine could speak, George stepped forward. "Supplies can be had elsewhere," he said calmly, voice even but firm. "We're not marching blind into a desert. If we reach the coast north, the crusader fleet can resupply us, everything we need."
Thomas turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "So we leave a fortress at our backs and bet everything on the sea gods?" There was real offense in his tone, not just strategy, but pride. "You want to walk past that city and hope it doesn't bite us as we pass?"
Before George could respond, Jean de Croÿ raised a hand. "Prince Thomas is right," he said, his French-accented Latin precise. "We should not leave Larissa behind. It is the keystone of Thessaly. Take the city, and the rest of the region follows. Leave it, and we move with wolves at our heels. A stronghold unbroken is a blade pressed to our spine." He looked directly at Constantine. "I know your eyes are set on Thessaloniki, it's our main goal, yes. But a house is not built by placing the roof before the foundation."
The tent was quiet a moment. The only sound was the wind shifting outside and the low rustle of paper as George laid down a folded inventory scroll on the table.
"Then consider this," George said, and now his tone was sharper. "We have enough gunpowder for two major engagements. Two, and no more. A full siege here, and another at Thessaloniki, and if Murad appears with his full strength, what then? We fight him with stones and good intentions?" He looked between Jean and Thomas. "We must choose our battles. Wisely. This is not cowardice. It is math."
General Andreas stirred. He'd been silent, arms crossed, eyes on the map. Now he leaned in, voice flat and unsparing. "Larissa would cost us. Time we don't have. Powder we can't spare. Men we might not replace. Sure, if we take it, we gain. But that's an if, not a promise." He jabbed a finger at the map, dragging it northeast along the Peneios River. "If we move now, follow the river east, we reach the coast. The fleet waits there. Our supplies follow. And our line remains unbroken. We can press toward Thessaloniki with momentum."
He paused, then looked to Constantine. "If we take Larissa, we bleed. If we bypass it, we gamble. I'd rather gamble than bleed dry this early. That said…" He tapped the city on the map once, quietly. "It's a risk either way. Leave a fortress like that behind, it could gut us if things go wrong and we're forced to retreat."
George nodded. "Which is why we do not retreat."
Thomas crossed his arms, biting back a reply. Jean de Croÿ's expression was unreadable, though the set of his jaw spoke volumes.
Constantine stood motionless, his gaze still fixed on the city sketched in faded ink.
In his mind, Larissa rose again, towers defiant, banners unbroken. He imagined the siege: the thunder of artillery, the breach, the charge, the flag lifted over the citadel. He imagined the roar of the army, the weight of victory in his veins.
And he wanted it. He wanted it more than he'd admit to any man in that room.
But beneath that glittering vision lay the slow bleed: crates of powder burned down to cinders, men lost in alleyways, weeks gone. Thessaloniki delayed. Sigismund left waiting. Murad not surprised, but ready.
That's not command, he told himself. That's hunger.
He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Long enough to let the heat in his blood settle. Then he opened them again and spoke, not as the man who wanted Larissa, but as the man who had to win a war.
All turned to him.
"We set up for this siege in the hope they would see reason," Constantine said. "That they would surrender, spare their people, open the way. They didn't."
He paused, eyes steady on the map, then lifted his gaze to the council.
"I've no doubt we can take Larissa. But it will cost us, in blood, in powder, in time. And I want us fresh, whole, and moving at full strength when we reach Thessaloniki."
He touched the map lightly, tracing the road eastward. "Our purpose lies ahead. We must reach Thessaloniki. Join with Sigismund. Strike when the Sultan is unready. This is not the time to fight for every stone."
He stepped to the map and pointed to the curve of the river, the coastal towns beyond.
"We move northeast, along the Peneios. We reach the sea. The fleet meets us there. And then, together, we take what matters."
He looked around the tent. " At first light, we march."
No one spoke for a long moment. Then Andreas gave a single, respectful nod. "At dawn, then."
George bowed slightly. "At dawn."
Thomas hesitated, frustration clear in his face, but he held it, breathed deep, and nodded.
Jean de Croÿ met Constantine's gaze with something more cautious. Then he, too, inclined his head.
The council was over.
The siege was lifted.