At early dawn, Constantine stood atop a small stony hill, surveying the western Macedonian plain unfurled below him like a broad mosaic fading into distant haze; The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and wild thyme. Below him stretched a dark expanse of fields and fallow farmlands, still draped in thin mist. In the east, a band of pale gold light was beginning to uncoil above the horizon. He pulled his cloak tighter and drew a slow breath, watching it plume before him. In the fragile silence before battle, every detail impressed itself on his mind: the dew beading on his boots, the distant cry of a lone hawk, the weight of the sword at his side. His heart thudded a little too fast. By noon, this quiet will be gone.
He tried to project calm, even here with no one to witness. But in truth, an anxious knot had formed in his gut. Today would decide everything: his army, his allies, his empire's very survival. He closed his eyes and for a moment the stillness carried him to another dawn, another field. Gettysburg, 2013: a memory from another life. He saw himself younger, in Union blue wool, standing among laughing reenactors on dewy Pennsylvania grass. The pop of distant mock muskets and the theatrical cries of men "dying" had felt exhilarating then, a game with friends under a bright July sun. How orderly and safe it had been. When the sham battle ended, everyone shook hands and went home. Now, he opened his eyes to the present, this raw slope in Macedonia, the sky turning gold behind the mountains, and he felt a tremor in his hands. This was no game. The men sleeping in the hollow behind him would not rise again if struck down. The blood that would spill today would not be corn syrup and food coloring, but hot and real. He flexed his fingers and steadied his breathing.
Blinking away the memory, Constantine focused on the far plain where the enemy would appear. Somewhere out there beyond the haze, Murad's Ottoman host was on the march.
Tens of thousands, perhaps as many as forty thousand, if the scouts' most dire estimates proved true, were marching toward them: cavalry, janissaries, cannons, a juggernaut that had shattered kingdoms. And here he stood in their path with a smaller but determined army of his own making. He ran a gloved hand over the cold stone at his side, grounding himself, and began to marshal his thoughts for the battle plan. How to break an army that size, especially on open plains, where the enemy's vastly superior cavalry would have every advantage?
His mind, sharpened on two lifetimes of history, scrolled through analogies. He imagined the Roman manipular legions, marching in checkerboard formation to outmaneuver lumbering phalanxes. He recalled the Spanish tercios, those bristling squares of pikes and muskets that dominated battlefields. He thought of King Gustavus Adolphus's well-drilled musketeers delivering coordinated volleys, the thunder of their guns rolling over the plains of Germany. He even pictured Napoleon's whirlwind campaigns, the speed and relentless tempo with which he overwhelmed his foes. A faint, wry smile touched Constantine's lips.
This army is none of those. But it is something. It must be enough.
Far behind him, a bugle sounded two short notes, the camp's wake-up call. Lights were kindling in the Crusaders' encampment as cooks and aides stirred. Dawn was here, and with it, the day of battle. Constantine drew one more breath of the cool morning air, tasting its clarity, and whispered into the solitude: "The tagmata will prevail." He said it again, softly, as if reassuring not only himself but the land and sky. Then he turned and made his way down the slope toward the tents below, the first rays of sun at his back.
By early morning, a brief war council gathered in the Emperor's tent pitched just East of Edessa. The canvas walls rippled in the breeze, and spears of sunlight slipped through a long rent in the fabric, illuminating motes of dust above a broad wooden table. Upon the table lay a large map, creased and stained from months of campaigning. Smooth stones and daggers pinned its corners against errant gusts. Around this map stood Constantine and his commanders, their faces drawn in concentration.
George Sphrantzes hovered at the Emperor's right, next to him, General Andreas kept his arms folded over his breastplate, lips pressed thin in concern. Across the table, Jean de Croÿ, tall, blond, leaned with both palms flat on the wood, a Burgundian cross emblazoned on his surcoat. Despot Stefan Branković shifted on his feet, fingers worrying the hilt of his dagger as he peered at the map with haunted, anxious eyes. To his left stood a broad-shouldered man in battered plate armor: János Hunyadi, the rising warlord of Hungary. And at Constantine's left, nearly vibrating with pent-up energy, was his brother Thomas Palaiologos, one hand on the pommel of his sword as if already spurring into a charge.
Constantine's eyes traveled over the faces of these men. These were the pillars upon whom today's outcome would depend: Greeks, Franks, Serbs, Hungarians, all brought together by necessity and a sliver of hope. He cleared his throat and moved a candle closer to the map, illuminating the terrain sketched in faded ink.
"Our scouts report the Ottoman vanguard will reach us soon," Constantine began, his voice calm and low. He pointed at a smudge on the map representing the approaching enemy. "They will come down the old Roman road here, from the east. We will meet them on open ground, just north of that dried riverbed." His fingertip traced a line in the map's surface. "This is where we make our stand."
Andreas frowned, exchanging a glance with Sphrantzes. Open ground, without the protection of hills or fortifications, bold, verging on reckless. The Emperor anticipated their concern and tapped a spot marked by a charcoal slash. "Here is our battle line. The Six tagmata, deployed from end to end. They will form a single front line across the field."
Hunyadi's eyebrows rose a fraction. He knew the numbers. Six regiments of five hundred men each, three thousand Byzantine infantry, a mix of musket-armed Pyrvelos musketeers and pikemen. It was a formidable core by the standards of this age, but against the tidal wave of Ottomans it was a lone thin strand. Constantine sensed the unspoken doubt and continued evenly, "Yes, it will look perilously thin. That is intentional."
At that, Stefan Branković made a low sound in his throat. Constantine went on. He picked up a wooden pointer and gestured along the charcoal line he'd drawn. "The enemy will see our center as weak, a tempting target. We want them to think that. We will anchor the line lightly and let them come straight at it with their full fury."
Thomas blinked, as if unsure he'd heard right. "We're inviting them to strike our center?"
"They will oblige," Constantine replied. "Their Sultan fancies himself a new Alexander. He believes a head-on charge will smash us. We will encourage that belief."
George Sphrantzes coughed into his fist. "Majesty, forgive me, but if we entice them to charge our center… what stops that charge from simply overrunning our line?"
A ghost of a smile touched Constantine's lips. "Fire," he answered. "Fire will stop them." He looked at Jean de Croÿ. "Overwhelming firepower."
Jean's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You place great faith in the strength of your tagmata's fire," the Burgundian said carefully, his voice tempered with cautious respect. "Yet on an open field, against horsemen so numerous and swift, can even this formidable hail of shot and iron truly suffice?"
"More than mere faith," said Constantine steadily. He set the pointer down, its tip landing upon the map with a resolute tap. "We shall unleash a tempest. Once the enemy crosses into range, our line will give them no pause, no reprieve, every musketeer, every cannon, firing without ceasing. No stingy rationing of powder. We will pour forth shot and iron relentlessly, a storm that shall batter them until their ranks falter and their courage breaks." He lifted his gaze deliberately, sweeping across the gathered faces. "Until one army or the other can bear no more."
For a moment, only the distant flap of the tent and the crackle of a brazier's coals broke the silence. The men assembled exchanged uneasy looks at the ferocity of the plan.
Softly, Constantine repeated the order, as if delivering the stroke of a blade: "Fire without count. No measured shots. No rationed discipline. Loose until your barrels melt."
Thomas exhaled, not quite a cheer but a kind of release. Hunyadi's teeth showed in a fierce grin. But others still looked unconvinced.
Andreas was first to voice the lingering doubts. He knew intimately how Constantine's newly reformed tagmata were designed to operate on open ground, their disciplined ranks of muskets and pikes honed through rigorous drill, but still, these formations had yet to be truly tested in battle. "Your Majesty," he ventured carefully, "a continuous barrage of fire like that—our men will quickly exhaust their shot. Muskets will foul, barrels will overheat. And with only the six tagmata, we cannot fully secure the breadth of the front. There will be gaps. If their sipahis should find even a single opening—"
"—cavalry could drive right in," Stefan finished, worry sharpening his voice. "Punch through and roll up the line. Once they're past our guns, it's over."
Jean de Croÿ nodded curtly. "Even the best arquebusiers cannot shoot without pause. After a few volleys they'll be feverishly reloading while the enemy charges full tilt. There'll be moments when our fire slackens. Those moments could be fatal."
George Sphrantzes wiped a palm across his brow. "It is a great gamble, my lord. If the center fails…" He did not complete the thought, but all could hear its echo: If the center fails, the battle is lost.
Constantine pressed his hands onto the table, leaning toward his commanders. "I have considered all of this," he said quietly. "Now mark what I say."
They fell silent again. Some straightened unconsciously, bracing for his reasoning.
"To the matter of gaps," Constantine said. He touched two fingers to the map at intervals along the line. "Yes, there will be large intervals between our tagmata. And that is exactly where their horse will try to thrust. But those gaps are our bait and our trap." He glanced up, meeting Andreas's eyes. "Any cavalry that pushes into a gap will be caught in a crossfire from the two tagmata on either side. Each tagma's flanking companies will angle inward. The moment enemy riders pour into an interval, they'll ride into a cauldron of lead from left and right. No wall of pikes or moat could do more damage than that."
Andreas slowly nodded, the mental picture forming clearly now. He thought back to the long, late-night conversations he'd shared with Constantine, those earnest discussions beside campfires and over worn maps. Constantine had always been charismatic when outlining strategy, bold, innovative, persuasive in every detail. Yet even now, as Andreas recalled the intricate reasoning behind these new formations, some corner of his mind whispered stubbornly that this plan bordered on the suicidal. The tactics might be sound in theory, their lethal potential undeniable, but today they faced reality, and reality was far less forgiving.
"As for reloading," Constantine continued, turning to Jean, "we have drilled the Pyrvelos in four lines precisely for this purpose. As soon as the front rank fires, they will step back to reload, replaced immediately by the second line, then the third, then the fourth, cycling forward in ceaseless rotation. It shall not be the neat, orderly volleys of the parade ground, but a relentless, unbroken storm of shot. The Turks, expecting our fire to slacken, will find instead an endless barrage, without pause or mercy." He permitted himself the faintest edge of a smile. "There will be no respite for them, only fire and ruin."He paused for a second and continued, "Remember, we have double the troops we had at Domokos, nearly twice the firepower, and at last, our own heavy cavalry in formidable numbers. Even with Sigismund lost to us, the troops brought by Despot Stefan and Lord Hunyadi alone can decisively tip the balance."
Jean pursed his lips, considering. "With discipline, it could work," he murmured. "If our powder holds."
Constantine gave a single nod. "Powder we have, enough for a long day of battle, even if we must expend every last grain. And our Drakos field cannons will be loaded with grapeshot, ready to scourge the advancing masses at will. We will hold nothing back."
A gravelly chuckle came from Hunyadi. "Hah! Like the Hussites at Kutná Hora. I've seen wagon-forts vomit fire like that and send the finest knights tumbling." The Hungarian slapped a hand on the table in approval. "Devilish bold, Emperor. Hit them so hard they lose heart, then hit them again before they recover. I like it."
Stefan ran a hand over his face. "Bold indeed," he muttered. "And if they don't lose heart? Everything rests on those few thousand men in the center holding fast, doing more killing than they suffer. If even one tagma buckles…" He stared down at the eagle emblem inked in a corner of the map, the symbol of Constantine's army. That eagle looked so small next to the sprawling crescent drawn to represent the Ottoman host.
Suddenly Stefan squared his shoulders. His voice wavered, loud with emotion: "If, by the grace of God, this works, if our line holds and throws back the infidel…" He took a breath. "Then, Majesty, I swear to you, I will give my own daughter's hand in marriage to seal our victory. To you, if you will have her, or to whom you deem fit. My blood will join with yours in gratitude."
An awkward beat passed. Sphrantzes blinked. Thomas's eyes widened in surprise. Even Hunyadi raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the outpouring. Stefan's face burned with a mixture of fear and hope.
Constantine reached out and gently gripped Stefan's forearm. "We will hold, my friend," he said, softly so that only those closest heard. "Keep your daughter safe. If I am to be rewarded, let it be by seeing her live in a world free of the Ottomans." Stefan swallowed and nodded, stepping back, his cheeks flushed but resolve somewhat strengthened.
Thomas slapped his palm on the table, unable to contain himself. "Brother, you know I've believed in the tagmata from the start," he said eagerly. "We all saw it at Domokos, how our new guns and pikes shattered the Sultan's cavalry. We'll see it again today. Let them come. Our fire will eat them alive."
Hunyadi gave a short, approving laugh. "Spoken with the optimism of youth! If the courage of your men matches your own, Despot Thomas, the Turks indeed will be in for a roasting."
George Sphrantzes smoothed his beard. In a measured tone, he asked, "Your Majesty, if all goes to plan with the center, what of our wings? Once the enemy is fully engaged on our gun line… is there a move to be made with the rest of our forces?"
Constantine nodded, thankful for the prompt. He directed their eyes back to the map, pointing to positions he had marked on either flank of the drawn-up tagmata. "Yes. Our flanks will be the hammer to the center's anvil. I'm placing all our heavy cavalry on the right, here behind these low hills south of us." His finger circled an area south of their line. "Lord de Croÿ's and Despots Stefan's knights and Hunyadi's riders. They'll try stay hidden at first. Once the Ottoman attack is fully committed to smashing into our center, that cavalry force will sweep out around the hills and crash into the enemy's exposed flank, or at the very least, aim to relieve pressure from the tagmata holding our center."
Hunyadi grunted in satisfaction. "A classic envelopment. Catch them while they're busy head-butting your musket wall."
"Exactly." Constantine moved his finger to the left of the main line. "On our left, we'll deploy the bulk of our allied infantry, Stefan's Serbian companies, the German and Italian volunteers, and the rest of our pike companies. They'll wait behind this copse and hill. When the moment is right, they will advance and threaten the enemy's other flank, but also stand ready to provide cover, should a retreat become necessary. And If the Ottomans hesitate or begin to buckle at the center, a push from our infantry on this side will help collapse them inward."
Jean de Croÿ rapped his knuckles once on the table, visualizing the maneuver. "So we let them drive into our center, then hammer their sides while they're stuck." He paused, eyes dark with quiet concern. "I dearly hope your tagmata truly hold their ground, this is a perilous gamble."
Constantine inclined his head. "Let them batter themselves against our fire, then hit them from both sides. We'll encircle as much of their forward troops as we can. If fortune is with us, we could rout them utterly."
Silence fell as each man imagined that hopeful outcome: the Sultan's proud army broken, banners tumbling, the once-invincible hosts of Islam fleeing a field of their own dead. It was a heady picture, almost unbelievable. But so was everything about this campaign, a Christian alliance with a reborn Rome at its head, meeting the Ottoman might on rather equal terms.
Constantine surveyed the circle one last time. He saw fear in their faces still, yes, but also determination, the flicker of belief that this audacious plan just might work. He drew himself up and spoke in a ringing voice: "Let them come. Let them strike. Let the world bear witness to the dawn of a new age in warfare. Let them behold fire and steel wielded as never before. Today, we do not merely fight; we redefine history itself. The tagmata will stand. The tagmata will triumph."
For a heartbeat, no one stirred. Then Thomas thumped a fist to his chest. "For the Empire!" he shouted. A chorus of voices answered with quiet conviction, some muttering prayers, others nodding grimly. Sphrantzes bowed his head. Jean de Croÿ raised a gloved hand in salute. Hunyadi unsheathed his broadsword a few inches so that it hissed, then slid it back, an oath in steel. Andreas stepped forward and clasped Constantine's forearm, eyes meeting the Emperor's. His nod spoke volumes: We will do our part.
Constantine allowed himself a tight breath. "To your posts, gentlemen. It's time."
The council dispersed at once, chairs scraping back, map edges curling as the stones were lifted. One by one the commanders ducked out into the glaring day to rally their troops. In moments, only Constantine and Sphrantzes remained in the tent's quiet. The Emperor glanced down at the scuffed map on the table, at the tiny line drawn for his army. He pressed a hand to it, as if laying a blessing upon his men. Then he exhaled and stepped out into the light.
The army arrayed itself for battle with grim, methodical efficiency. There was no stirring music, no blare of trumpets, only the steady thump of drums marking the march and the terse shouts of officers on horseback. By early noon, the six tagmata had formed up on the plain, each regiment a bristling rectangle of men and steel. Constantine rode at a walking pace along the front of the line, a handful of cavalry clattering in his wake as an honor guard. Standard-bearers carrying the imperial banners marched nearby; the double-headed eagle caught the wind and rippled sharply above the ranks.
The sight that greeted him was at once inspiring and somber. Files of musketeers in padded jacks and steel morion caps stood shoulder to shoulder, Pyrvelos held upright at the ready. Between every few files, long pikes jutted skyward like a leafless thicket, gripped by grim-faced pikemen murmuring final prayers.
A short distance behind each infantry regiment, the squat shapes of Drakos field cannons were being levered into place. Gunners shouted and swore, muscling their pieces into position between the gaps in the line. They spiked each cannon's wheels, checked the powder charges, and swabbed the muzzles one last time. Barrels of powder and stacks of shot waited open and within arm's reach, ready to feed the guns.
As the tagmata settled into formation, black-robed monks threaded through the ranks, murmuring blessings and granting absolution. Constantine paused to watch one young monk holding up a silver cross before a row of kneeling musketeers. "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon us sinners. Be our shield and refuge in this hour of battle, and deliver us from every evil..." the monk intoned, voice calm and clear. The soldiers crossed themselves and rose again, jaws set beneath their beards.
No battle cries rang out from these men. They had been trained to stand silent until the order to fire, and for now that discipline held firm.
Constantine turned his horse, moving further back toward a slight rise that offered him a more commanding view behind the center of the line. From this position, he could clearly survey both flanks and the breadth of the terrain below. The ground sloped gently downward, opening onto the wide expanse where the Ottomans would soon appear, a broad killing ground, baked hard and brown beneath the summer sun. Above, the sky stretched cloudless and unyielding, casting a harsh glare upon polished helmets and spearpoints below. Sweat trickled silently down necks beneath steel gorgets, yet the men stood unmoving as carved statues, their shadows etched sharply upon the parched earth.
Off to the right, the mass of cavalry assembled behind a low hill. Lance tips and pennons poked above the hillock as horsemen took their positions. Constantine could just make out the red-on-white cross of Burgundy flapping among them. Near the front of that host, a great crimson banner emblazoned with a black raven's head marked Hunyadi's contingent.
On the left flank, dust clouds drifted as the allied infantry columns, Serbs, Germans, Italians took up their designated posts behind a spur of rocky ground. Pikemen unfurled the blue flag of St. George beside Stefan's double-headed silver wolf banner. Despite the heat, these troops kept in formation, ready to march out on cue. Every piece of the battle array was sliding into place according to Constantine's odd design.
The Emperor lifted off his helmet for a moment and wiped his brow with a gloved hand. He found that his fingers had gone steady. Now that action had replaced waiting, his nerves were cool and controlled. Fear had transmuted into focus.
He cast his gaze along the length of his line one more time: The six proud tagmata stretching across the plain, banners fluttering, sunlight dancing on gun barrels and pike tips. He felt a tightness in his chest, a mingling of pride and the terrible weight of responsibility. Each one is a die cast. There's no recall. Once he committed these regiments to battle, there would be no pulling them back. Every unit and every man was now pledged to the fates.
He closed his eyes briefly. God, keep them strong. Then he replaced his helmet and settled in the saddle.
A horn blast echoed across the plain. One long note, then another. Ottoman war-horns, deep and brassy, sounded from beyond the far edge of the field. Constantine's eyes snapped open. Sure enough, along the eastern horizon, he saw dust boiling up in great billows. The ground beneath him trembled faintly, as though some slumbering giant were stirring beneath the earth. It was the vibration of tens of thousands of feet and hooves marching in unison.
Author note:
The horns have sounded, the battle is upon us! In the next chapter, steel will clash, fire will roar, and the fate of empires will hang in the balance. Will the newly forged tagmata stand firm and prove their deadly strength, or will Murad's mighty host sweep all before it? Courage, blood, and destiny await. The answer lies ahead, on the Field of Fire.