Under the Lion of Saint Mark, a Venetian merchantman slid into Glarentza's harbor. The docks rang with Greek and Italian, cranes creaked under spice and timber, and chimney smoke marked a town whose new kilns and forges hinted at growing power. Yet this ship carried a different cargo: news of an empire's ruin.
A cloaked figure disembarked with the press of travelers, marked only by his haste and the plain monk's robe beneath his cloak. Under his hood, Prince Orhan Çelebi's gaze swept the harbor: workshops rang with hammers, stalls spilled grain and printed books, and the city thrived. The liveliness mocked the suffocated silence he had fled. For the exiled Ottoman prince, this Moreot haven was less a port than a last refuge, and perhaps a final hope.
By late evening, Orhan was hurried through a side gate of the citadel and into a shaded hall off the main audience chamber, a modest library that smelled of parchment and olive oil. There, Constantine waited with Theophilus and Gemistos Plethon. The Emperor stood by an open window, jaw clenched as he stared toward the harbor without seeing it. He turned as they entered, the high light cutting lines of tension into his face.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Orhan said in Greek, bowing deeper than one might expect of an Ottoman-born prince. His robe was that of a monk, sweat-stained from hard travel, but his bearing remained straight, controlled. Constantine stepped forward and extended a hand.
"Prince Orhan Çelebi," he said, giving him his title. "You are safe in Glarentza. Be at ease; you have friends here." His tone was calm, but his eyes were intent, weighing the man beneath the disguise.
A servant stepped forward to lift the heavy cloak from Orhan's shoulders. In the lamplight he showed lean to the point of gaunt, beard neatly trimmed around an angular face, eyes bruised with exhaustion. His hair was shaved at the front in the Orthodox style, a wooden cross at his throat completing the ruse that had carried him out of Ottoman hands. But neither the tonsure nor the cross could hide the nobility in his stance, or the desperation behind his courtesies.
"Thank you, Basileus," Orhan replied, the title sitting awkwardly on his tongue. He took in Constantine's companions: Plethon, silver-bearded and sharp-eyed; Theophilus, tall and watchful. Both regarded him with measured caution.
Constantine did not sit, so neither did the others. He stepped closer, studying Orhan's robe.
"A prince in a monk's habit at my gate, asking for me by name," he said. "You claim to bear urgent news of Constantinople?"
Orhan's composure wavered. "Your Majesty, I come as both fugitive and witness," he said. "What I bear is grim. Constantinople has fallen under Ottoman control. Fallen without a siege, without a single cannon fired."
Plethon drew a sharp breath. Theophilus's brow knotted. Constantine went very still, as if carved from his lost city's marble. Only the caw of distant gulls broke the silence.
"Explain," Constantine said. One soft word, heavy with dread.
Orhan inclined his head. "Three months ago, Emperor Demetrios, fearing the rising unrest, invited a small Ottoman garrison into Constantinople, ostensibly to help keep order. At first it was a token force, a hundred men quartered by the Gate of Charisius. Their presence emboldened him to squeeze the city harder. The people whispered that an Emperor guarded by infidel blades was no Emperor at all. Whispers became open dissent. And Demetrios… panicked."
Constantine's hands tightened into fists behind his back. He could see it clearly: Demetrios, overeager to secure his stolen throne, losing his nerve as resentment swelled. A brother who had sold his soul to the Sultan to murder John and seize the crown, now selling the Empire's heart to keep it.
"The initial hundred swelled by quiet increments," Orhan went on. "Another company 'invited' a week later, then another. Within two months, Ottoman soldiers and their Tartar and Anatolian hirelings numbered over seven hundred inside the walls."
Plethon closed his eyes in a brief murmur of prayer. Theophilus cursed under his breath. Constantine said nothing, his face ashen.
"Twelve days ago, a few of the braver souls tried to resist," Orhan continued, voice steady, eyes hot. "Protests against food levies and the foreign troops. Demetrios ordered restraint." His mouth twisted. "Halil Pasha's commander ignored him. A dozen of them were hanged at the Gate of the Drungaries as an example."
He spread his hands slightly. "Since then, it is the Turks who set the watch and give the orders. Their men hold the gates, the barracks, the harbor. By night the streets belong to Ottoman patrols. Demetrios signs what they put before him. Any who speak your name, or Ieros Skopos, vanish by morning."
At that, Constantine's eyes flashed and Plethon's head snapped up. The philosopher met his Emperor's gaze. Demetrios had been frightened enough to invite the Turk rather than risk an uprising in Constantine's name, and now the Turks commanded the City he claimed to rule.
"And my mother?" Constantine asked quietly. "Was she harmed?"
Orhan's expression softened. "The Dowager Empress lives. She has been confined to the monastery of Kyra Martha for over a year, under guard. She sees no one but a few attendants."
Constantine shut his eyes. Relief that his mother still lived mingled with sorrow. Helena Dragas, proud daughter of Serbia and mother of emperors, reduced to a guarded recluse beyond walls no longer their own.
Silence fell in the library. Outside, cicadas buzzed in the gardens as evening crept on, oblivious to the blow that had just struck.
"So the Queen of Cities is taken without a fight," Theophilus said at last, his voice rough with barely checked outrage. "Demetrios the fool calls himself Emperor, and the Turk rules his city."
"Our imperial heart has fallen in silence," Plethon said, his aged voice laden with grief. "An Emperor in name, a governor in chains. Like a candle extinguished at midnight."
The words hung in the air, summing the tragedy in a single breath. Constantine felt the darkness closing in, not only the loss of a city, but of a cornerstone of their world. It was one thing to suffer Demetrios playing at Emperor in Constantinople; it was another to know the City itself now lay under Ottoman boots. And bitterest of all was the thought that, for all his efforts to wrench the world onto a new course, he had not saved the City at all. A darker thought whispered that he might only have hastened its fall.
Orhan stepped closer, pulling Constantine's gaze back to him. "Your Majesty, I did not flee only to bring ill news," he said, urgency sharpening his tone. "I come with a proposal."
Constantine studied him for a long heartbeat, forcing grief back behind the habits of command. "You choose a hard hour to speak of proposals, Prince," he said quietly. "But the hour is hard for us all. Speak."
"You know my blood, Majesty," Orhan said. "I am the last son of Süleyman Çelebi, nephew to the late Sultan Murad. For years I've lived in the palace as a hostage—Demetrios' bargaining chip, never quite sold or spent." A thin, bitter smile touched his lips. "I have no love for Demetrios or for Halil Pasha, and they have none for me. With Murad dead, Halil would have me killed the moment I fell into his hands."
He began to pace slowly, gathering momentum. "But that weakness is our chance. Murad's son Ali is a boy. Regents rule, factions quarrel. The Anatolian beys chafe under Ottoman rule and an uncertain succession. If I stake a claim to the sultanate, I can rally them."
He lifted his chin. "With your support, Basileus, I could unseat the child and his puppeteers. I become Sultan in Brousa; in return, every Ottoman holding in the Balkans passes to you. I keep Anatolia—east to me, west to you."
Theophilus's jaw clenched. "Bold words," he said flatly. "We have just lost the City, and you ask us to help you win an empire."
Plethon's brows rose, then drew together in a look that measured not the grandeur of the offer, but the emptiness of the purse behind it.
Constantine felt the tug of the dream—Constantinople restored, the Balkans freed—but beneath it he saw Orhan as he was: a gaunt exile with no army, no treasury, no standard raised anywhere but in his own mind.
"Prince Orhan," Constantine said at last, his tone grave but unreadable, "your proposal is… imaginative. And it touches matters of the greatest weight."
Orhan stepped forward again, one hand over his heart. "Many in Anatolia would join at the mere whisper of an Osman prince unfurling a banner against the usurpers in Edirne," he pressed. "There are commanders who loathe Halil's regency, ghazi warriors who resent the boy-sultan and yearn for a seasoned leader."
Plethon raised a calming hand. "Forgive us. These are weighty matters and must be considered from all angles." The old philosopher's voice was polite, but noncommittal. "Your proposal is heard. Perhaps we should adjourn for tonight and allow His Majesty to consult with his council in private? You yourself must be exhausted from your journey and all you have endured."
It was a gracious dismissal. Orhan's shoulders slumped slightly, but he masked it with a respectful nod. "Of course. I have said my piece. I place my fate in your hands, Emperor Constantine." He bowed again, deeply. "Whatever you decide, know that I am grateful for your hospitality and protection. I am at your service."
Constantine managed a faint, courtly smile. "You will have safe lodging and anything you require, Prince Orhan. We will speak again on this matter soon. In the meantime, rest and recover your strength."
At a gesture from Theophilus, a servant appeared at the door to lead Orhan to prepared chambers. As the prince withdrew, his form seemed smaller than when he'd arrived, diminished by fatigue and the uncertain reception of his daring plan. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Constantine, Plethon, and Theophilus alone in the hush of the library.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. Constantine realized he was still standing rigidly, hands locked behind his back. He exhaled and moved to one of the carved chairs, sinking into it heavily. Plethon and Theophilus exchanged looks and took their seats as well.
"Well," Constantine said at last, rubbing a hand over his face. "The City has fallen."
He had known, in truth, that Demetrios had long since turned Constantinople into a half-prison under Ottoman shadow. But saying the words now, admitting that his brother had finally traded the last shreds of authority inside its walls for the comfort of Ottoman steel, tasted like ash.
"There was little you could have done, my Emperor," Plethon said softly. "Demetrios chose this path the day he called Ottoman steel into his own streets. He is Emperor now only on parchment; the City no longer answers to him."
"The coward would rather clutch an empty title in a city patrolled by Turks than stand poor but faithful among his own," Theophilus said, his voice tight but steady. "He delivered the Queen of Cities into infidel hands. What even the great conquerors could not do from without, he has done from within." His fingers tightened on the table's edge, as if to keep from making the sign of the cross.
Constantine let the anger pass unrebuked, his own fury knotted with a colder fear. "How will our people take this?" he asked quietly. "Constantinople is more than a possession. It is our faith, our name, our claim."
"They will stagger," Plethon replied. "Some to despair, some to rage. But all will turn to you, Basileus, as the one Emperor who has not bartered Rome away. Your legend will swell, the exiled true ruler who must reclaim Constantinople. The Ieros Skopos is no mere slogan; to them it will sound like prophecy."
"A heavy legend for one man," Constantine said with a hollow breath. He looked toward the darkening sky beyond the high window. "Three years ago, when I learned my brother had murdered and usurped his way to the crown, I swore to right that wrong. Now he has contrived to lose the City itself."
His jaw tightened. "The wrong has only deepened."
Author's Note:
Historically, Orhan Çelebi was an Ottoman prince held as a paid hostage in Constantinople, funded by Sultan Murad II. In 1453 he fought for the city, then tried to escape the fall disguised as a monk, and was caught and killed.
In Empire Rewritten, the disguise happens again, but this time it works. This time, Constantine won't be defending Constantinople from the Ottomans, he'll have to lay siege to it to take it back from them!
Author's note 2:
In OTL early 1451, Constantine tried to use Orhan as a political tool, imprudently hinting that he might release him if the new Sultan(Mehmed) did not double the annuity for his upkeep. The message was received at Brusa by Mehmed's vizir Halil Pasha. He was appalled by Constantine's ineptitude and lost his temper with the messengers. 'You stupid Greeks', he shouted, I have had enough of your devious ways. The late Sultan was a lenient and conscientious friend to you. The present Sultan is not of the same mind. If Constantine eludes his bold and impetuous grasp, it will be only because God continues to overlook your cunning and wicked schemes. You are fools to think that you can frighten us with your fantasies, and that when the ink on our recent treaty is barely dry. We are not children without strength or reason. If you think you can start something, do so. If you want to proclaim Orhan as Sultan in Thrace, go ahead. If you want to bring the Hungarians across the Danube, let them come. If you want to recover the places which you lost long since, try it. But know this: you will make no headway in any of these things. All that you will achieve is to lose what little you still have