On the western section of the Corinth Wall, Ottoman soldiers roared as they raised their shields and rushed forward with siege ladders.
Behind them, Ottoman cannons had just ceased fire, and the musket squads were launching volleys for cover.
The defending troops from the Black Legion and the Occitan Legion crouched behind the battlements, waiting out the Ottomans' first volley.
After the gunfire ended and the Ottoman musketeers began reloading, the defenders popped up—some raised their muskets, some pulled their bowstrings, and others simply hurled stones down with brute strength.
On the watchtowers, the cannons were being reloaded, ready for the next exchange. Smaller catapults and ballistae kept firing, aiming at the enemy's siege engines.
Isaac had also transported supplies of Greek fire, lime, and rusty iron shards from the rear. When the Ottomans approached, strong soldiers dumped it all down in one go.
In warfare, defenders had a significant advantage—unless the attackers had overwhelming superiority, breaching walls was extremely difficult. In medieval siege warfare, the usual tactic was to wait for the defenders to run out of supplies and surrender.
The enemy had roughly 5,000 troops of average quality. They launched wave after wave of small group assaults, with firearms offering cover from the rear.
Isaac deployed his four corps in rotation to ensure they were always in top condition.
The day passed quickly. When the Ottomans realized they couldn't breach the walls, they sounded the retreat.
Both sides sent laborers to the field to clear bodies and damaged equipment.
The Ottomans suffered an estimated 500 casualties, while Isaac's forces lost 109 men.
For a defending force, this casualty ratio was somewhat disappointing.
"Your Highness, it's clear the Ottomans weren't attacking with full strength. They probably haven't realized we've reinforced yet—this may have just been a feint to pin us down," said Knight Conti in his post-battle assessment.
Isaac nodded. From recent engagements, there was no sign of elite Janissaries—clearly, the enemy's main force wasn't here.
"Order the troops to rest. Tell the local monasteries to send over any monks with medical training."
"Record the names of the wounded and dead. Log acts of bravery for future honors and compensation."
"Send a letter to Commander Fidel at Patras Port, urging him to ship the next batch of military supplies."
Isaac issued several orders in succession.
"Yes, Your Highness!" the officers replied before taking their leave.
As night fell, the Corinth Wall stretched like a massive beast across the darkness, writhing restlessly in the glow of torchlight.
Soldiers huddled in squads around campfires, devouring their rations.
Thanks to the recent looting of Nafpaktos Port and Ottoman transport ships, Isaac's army had no shortage of food.
But the mood was somber—today's fighting had taken the lives of their comrades, and tomorrow it could be theirs.
In any army, morale is paramount. Once it breaks, numbers mean nothing.
This is why veteran soldiers are so treasured. They're desensitized to the brutality of war, accustomed to death and separation. They begin to adapt—even enjoy—warfare.
A squad with one or two veterans becomes a unit with a backbone.
They could sit on fresh corpses and roast food over open flames. They could sleep soundly in pools of blood.
New recruits would glance at these veterans and feel inexplicably comforted.
Of the four corps that fought today, the Purple Guard adjusted the quickest. The others lagged behind.
Isaac walked among the troops with his senior officers. Occasionally, he sat down with a unit and jokingly asked for a taste of their rations.
"Hakan! You! Bring me that bowl of soup!" he shouted.
"Your Highness, you remember me?" said Hakan, surprised, handing over the bowl.
"Of course… our Purple Guard's marksman," Isaac chuckled, swallowing the overly salted soup, then flung the bowl aside.
"Eat up! You'll need strength!"
He clapped Hakan on the shoulder and spotted the shortbow on his back.
"Someone! Bring me my warbow! A reward for this brave soldier!"
A squire stepped forward and handed over a fine bow.
Hakan didn't decline. He tested the pull—his arm muscles bulging with strain. A good bow indeed.
Isaac offered a few more words of encouragement, then moved on with the officers, leaving the nearby troops staring enviously at the bow with the Palaiologos crest.
Isaac and Commander Maruna strolled along, chatting loudly, deliberately drawing attention. Even Commander Mikhail frowned at the performance.
Every so often, Isaac would call out names of soldiers who had distinguished themselves in battle, rewarding them with swords or armor.
"You must be Aeolus! I saw you cut off an Ottoman squad leader's head today. This greatsword is yours!"
"Leon! Look here! You took the most hits today. Squire! Bring my armor!"
Gradually, the camp atmosphere warmed, and soldiers began actively engaging with their prince.
In each corps, Isaac used different tactics:
With the Royal Guard, he stressed patriotism—defending the homeland.
With the Purple Guard, he highlighted personal charisma, subtly treating them like his personal troops and showing favoritism.
For the French-speaking Occitan Legion, he joked in French to build rapport.
The Black Legion was on duty elsewhere.
After a full round of morale-boosting visits, Isaac was exhausted.
But seeing the energy return to the camp, he felt it was worth it.
To any observer, this was clearly a political performance. The soldiers likely knew that too.
But they loved it.
Because it meant the commander cared.
With imperial authority in decline, this was how Isaac ensured loyalty.
Returning to his tent, Isaac fell into a deep sleep.
The next day, the Ottomans repeated the same tactics—fighting until noon, then retreating.
Just as Isaac and his officers were scratching their heads, a messenger from the central wall arrived.
"Your Highness! Duke Thomas requests reinforcements! The Ottomans are massing for a full assault with heavy siege equipment!"
Isaac exchanged glances with Conti and the others.
"Go rest. We'll send help," he told the messenger.
"Please hurry, Your Highness! Duke Thomas barely has enough men to hold the line!"
"You have my word."
After the messenger left, Conti asked, "Your Highness, I've seen the terrain at the central section. It's rough and full of obstacles. The Ottomans would suffer heavy losses if they attacked head-on. Why would they take such a risk?"
Isaac was already preparing to mount up.
"No matter the reason, we must reinforce."
"Mikhail, Maruna—hold the western front."
"Conti, Ibrahim—ride with me."
"Messenger! Rally the troops!"
"Yes, Your Highness!"
…
It was noon, early spring, with bright sunshine.
On the training grounds of the Corinth Wall's western section, banners fluttered and platoons stood in formation, fully armed.
The soldiers waited silently.
Suddenly, a young man rode in on a tall steed.
The rider and his horse were draped in purple, with shining armor underneath.
His cloak billowed in the breeze.
He scanned his warriors—and they all stood taller under his gaze.
As he rode from west to east, the Royal Guard were first to strike their spear butts against the ground and shout:
"Victory!"
Then the Purple Guard, the Occitan Legion, and even the mercenaries of the Black Legion joined in:
"Victory!"
Isaac rode to the center, drew his sword, and raised it high.
"Victory!"
The soldiers shouted in unison.
Isaac nodded, his gaze sweeping the formations.
"We're going to aid our allies. Any who would follow—come with me!"
He roared.
On the battlefield, fancy speeches meant little.
"I'll follow!" shouted Ibrahim, riding out to join him.
"So will I!" yelled Mehmet.
"We'll follow our prince!" Conti and his knights rode forth.
One by one, soldiers stepped forward to join Isaac.
"That's enough! Three hundred cavalry will serve as vanguard with me. Eight hundred infantry will march under Ibrahim!"
"One week's rations is enough! Leave all heavy equipment behind!"
"Move out!"
The young prince led the charge eastward.
…
At the central section of the Corinth Wall, Duke Thomas's command post:
"Milord! The Ottomans' catapults and cannons are too fierce! Our men can't even raise their heads!"
Thomas stared at the distant wall, heart heavy with worry.
This part of the wall was the most fortified. Cannons and firearms had been installed, and following Isaac's advice, he had built anti-artillery defenses.
But he had too few troops—barely 1,200, and half were untrained farmers from his estate. At the first sound of cannon fire, they dropped their weapons and prayed.
"Have the messengers for help departed?"
"They've been gone for a while, milord. Reinforcements from both His Highness Constantine and Prince Isaac should be on the way. Just a little longer!"
Even so, the situation was deteriorating rapidly. Some peasant troops were already fleeing. Ottomans took the opportunity to raise ladders—some had breached the wall.
Thomas gritted his teeth.
"Arm me! I'll lead my guard to push them back!"
But it was too late. The Ottomans held the high ground. Thomas's guards tried to repel them but couldn't drive them off.
"A battering ram is here!" a soldier shouted.
An Ottoman ram had made it past cannon and Greek fire, slamming into the gates.
Thud—thud—thud—
The walls shuddered. Thomas turned pale.
He had no reserves.
If the gate broke, there'd be no plugging it again.
He tried to turn back but was locked in combat with the Ottoman squad.
He beheaded one, who died with a satisfied look, as if mocking Greek incompetence.
Crash!
The gates broke.
Ottomans cheered. The Byzantines despaired.
Peasant troops guarding the breach scattered in panic. More Ottomans surged in.
Then—the ground shook with the thunder of hooves.
"Make way! Make way!" came a young voice.
A prince in purple shouted as soldiers scrambled aside.
"Men! Now is your time to earn glory!"
"Charge!"
Isaac rode up to a hill and left the field to Conti.
He wasn't going to pull a Władysław III stunt.
Conti led the knights into the breach like a wedge, slicing through the hastily gathered Ottoman line.
Three hundred cavalry rampaged through the enemy ranks, cutting down unarmored Ottomans like grass.
"Seal the gate!" Isaac shouted to the retreating peasants.
Inspired, the farmers rallied, dragging stones and sandbags to the breach.
Thomas found fresh strength and finally cleared the wall of the enemy squad.
With the last stone in place, cheers erupted.
Isaac's infantry and Constantine's reinforcements arrived in waves.
The Ottomans, seeing reinforcements, knew the day was lost and retreated.
Thomas descended the wall and punched Isaac in the arm.
"Good lad! If you hadn't come in time, your succession would've jumped a rank, ha!"
General Jan Jaroslav, sent by Constantine, stepped forward.
He was a Rusyn chieftain-turned-mercenary commander.
"Jaroslav? Why are you here? There's no battle on Constantine's front?"
"Not for now, milord."
He analyzed calmly.
"Thanks to Prince Isaac destroying the Ottoman fleet, we believe the enemy lacks enough supplies for a multi-front assault."
Isaac's eyes narrowed.
The Ottomans weren't weak Italians. Even without supplies, they could wage suicidal assaults.
After all, their ancestors had marched from East Asia to Anatolia.
"If the Ottomans slaughter their horses for food, abandon their siege engines, and charge regardless… what then?"
"How can village militias stop that?"
Knight Conti had thought of this too.
No one answered.
They exchanged glances—all seeing the same dread.
That night, news came from the east: under cover of darkness, the Ottomans launched a full assault.
Three Janissary corps abandoned their muskets, gripping scimitars in their teeth, attacking in waves.
With firepower useless at night, the defenders faced brutal melee.
Constantine personally joined the fray to rally the troops.
A messenger arrived, requesting reinforcements.
Isaac looked at the shrouded night sky and sighed.
War raged on.