The fighting raged from midnight until dawn.
The remaining Ottoman soldiers in the siege camp knelt in dejection, awaiting their fate. Below the walls, the Janissaries, sensing the tide turning, began to withdraw—abandoning their comrades who had already climbed the battlements to fend for themselves.
Even so, their desperate resistance inflicted heavy casualties on Constantine's forces.
Reinforcements finally arrived as Ibrahim's infantry units reached the battlefield. The tide of war began shifting in Byzantium's favor.
Despair crept into the remaining Janissaries. One after another, they dropped their weapons and surrendered to Constantine.
In truth, this battle's main achievement was breaking the siege of the eastern wall. The casualties weren't enormous.
Isaac had no strength left to pursue the fleeing Ottoman center or Janissary troops.
When the last Janissary squad surrendered, Isaac's cavalry collapsed to the ground, utterly exhausted. They had been riding since noon and charged into battle twice.
Even the horses were near collapse.
Isaac instructed Conti to look after the troops, then climbed the city wall to find Constantine, bloodied but still standing, sword in hand.
"Father, are you alright?" Isaac asked with concern.
"I'm fine. You arrived just in time," Constantine replied with a faint smile.
"You truly are my son—bold enough to charge directly into the Ottoman camp."
"If not for you holding their main force in place, we never could've succeeded," Isaac said.
"Enough. Go rest. The Ottomans might attack again."
"They won't," Isaac said firmly.
"Oh? Why so sure?"
Had this been 1451, after Mehmed's second ascension, Isaac would've been certain they'd return.
But if the Ottomans attacked with full force, there was no way he could hold them off.
The Ottomans had suffered tactical defeats before—by Tamerlane, Skanderbeg, Hunyadi, even Constantine himself—but their strategic advantage let them absorb such losses and come back stronger.
Thankfully, the current decision-makers in the Ottoman Empire were the apathetic Murad II and his peace-favoring vizier, Halil Pasha.
An odd phenomenon existed in the Ottoman court: the pure-blooded Turkish aristocrats feared long wars with Western Europe, preferring peace to protect their interests. Ironically, it was Christian converts like Zagan Pasha who aggressively pushed for expansion.
Murad II favored Halil and had made him grand vizier.
In actual history, after breaching the Corinth Isthmus, Murad only pillaged the region and returned it to Constantine instead of occupying it.
Given their current losses, lack of supplies, and this stinging defeat, Murad was likely to sue for peace.
After all, the Ottomans had more than just one disobedient vassal. If this dragged on, the Balkan states might rebel.
Sure enough, the next day, an envoy from Murad arrived with terms.
The conditions were relatively simple:
Return all lands taken from the Duke of Athens.
Release all Ottoman prisoners.
The Byzantine Empire remains an Ottoman vassal and continues paying tribute.
Pay 50,000 ducats in reparations.
"The first three are acceptable, but we can't afford 50,000 ducats," Constantine said grimly.
"Who wants to negotiate with the Ottomans?"
He glanced at his generals—and finally at Isaac.
Why look at me? Not a chance.
The Ottomans loved taking heirs as hostages to control their vassals.
Several famous Eastern European leaders—Skanderbeg, Stephen the Great, Vlad the Impaler—all spent their youth held in Ottoman palaces.
Isaac lowered his head, refusing to meet Constantine's gaze.
"In that case, we can agree to a ceasefire. The final treaty can be negotiated in Constantinople."
Constantine passed the responsibility to his brother.
Over the next few days, Isaac maintained strict vigilance in case the Ottomans reneged.
On April 30, 1446, word arrived from Constantinople: a peace treaty had been signed.
The emperor accepted the first two Ottoman demands and agreed to an annual tribute of 10,000 ducats.
Additionally, 20,000 ducats in reparations had to be paid immediately.
No doubt the emperor was borrowing again from Latin merchants.
On May 10, 1446, the Ottomans received payment and withdrew northwest toward Albania.
They looted Athens ruthlessly, nearly reducing the historic city to rubble.
Fortunately, Isaac had foreseen this and evacuated most of the population and wealth south of the Long Wall.
Upon hearing of the Ottoman retreat, Isaac finally breathed a sigh of relief.
This was the first time he had truly altered the course of history.
The printing press and West African expeditions had already been planned historically—he had simply acted faster.
But the Battle of the Long Wall had no guarantees, no foreseen outcome.
Through sheer determination, he had won a favorable result.
The Ottomans lost 8,000 men and an entire fleet detachment.
The Byzantines lost 5,000, mostly peasants and local militia.
Emperor John VIII and Constantine both issued formal commendations, granting Isaac permission to form his own royal guard.
But there was little else they could offer.
The emperor was drowning in debt. Constantine had emptied his treasury to fund the war.
Isaac knew the Empire was in no state to support him materially.
Now came the burdens of paying wounded soldiers, rewarding valor, replenishing ranks, and restructuring command.
His military structure was solid—but in terms of finance, diplomacy, administration, and logistics, it was a mess.
Change was needed.
On May 11, 1446, escorted by the Duke of Morea's flagship, Isaac departed for Constantinople.
He left his army behind to rest and refit, giving soldiers leave and beginning recruitment for the Second Royal Guard Corps, drawn from Morea and Corinth.
Returning to the capital after more than a year, Isaac was struck by how much worse the city felt.
Despite the heralded victory, the people were unenthusiastic.
All they knew was that the emperor had borrowed even more money from Latin merchants to pay the Ottomans.
Annual tribute had increased.
The emperor had no funds—so he raised taxes.
The Greek quarters grew poorer. Meanwhile, the Venetian and Genoese districts grew richer.
Latin merchants, like leeches, bled the Empire dry.
Isaac ignored the desolate markets and headed straight to the Grand Palace.
The statue of Justinian still loomed above, gazing down on the city.
Isaac entered his uncle John VIII's audience chamber.
He knelt and offered formal greetings.
"Your Majesty, I have returned."
"Welcome back."
When Isaac looked up, he barely recognized his uncle.
In just a year, John VIII had aged a decade.
His cheekbones jutted out. His eyes, once keen, now dull, strained to show joy.
Fatigue and despair had robbed him of even a simple smile.
His graying hair and beard had been hastily trimmed. Stubble poked through his dry, cracked skin.
Isaac felt a chill.
This diligent yet unsuccessful emperor was nearing his end.
The hall was empty—just the two of them.
"I've heard of your deeds in the west. Frankly, I could never have acted so boldly," the emperor said.
"Your Majesty—"
John waved him off.
"You did much for the Empire at Corinth. The Empire has little to reward you with…"
"Very well. All royal books—take what you need for your press."
"You may recruit as many guards as you wish—but the Empire cannot pay them."
"You need administrators. I will ask Sphrantzes to help recruit them."
"Lastly, I grant you the title of Despot, with authority over all lands you conquer."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Isaac bowed deeply.
Afterward, John took Isaac to meet the Empress Dowager, the Empress, and the senior members of the Palaiologos and allied families.
When that was done, Isaac went to see George Sphrantzes.
Sphrantzes was the Empire's last competent statesman—John VIII's right hand, and Constantine's trusted advisor.
He had managed to hold the capital together after the emperor fell ill.
In his modest study, Sphrantzes looked strong and well, dressed simply.
His warm smile was offset by sharp eyes—perfect for navigating between Latin merchants and Byzantine traditionalists.
"Isaac! You've grown!" he said cheerfully.
"We've all been through much this past year, George," Isaac replied.
"Thank you for supporting our merchants, clergy, and citizens."
He gestured. A servant brought in gifts—ivory carvings and pearl ornaments from West Africa.
George examined them appreciatively.
"The Empire belongs to all Romans. We each must protect her."
After a bit of conversation, Isaac got to the point.
"I need people, George. Trustworthy ones. Are there any among the younger generation?"
George chuckled.
"Plenty have approached me. Some are useless, but there are those willing to serve with loyalty. I've told them of your return—they'll visit you tonight."
Isaac thanked him and left.
There was still much to do.
He went to the blacksmith quarter and found the largest forge.
He handed the smith a blueprint.
The smith, a Genoese, didn't care about Isaac's status.
"Scimitars aren't hard to make, but you want fine materials and engraved lettering?"
Some nobles commissioned fancy ceremonial blades, but this design was clearly for battle.
"And just fifty of them?"
"Yes."
The smith shrugged, assuming Isaac was a foolish aristocrat.
"Come back in ten days. Bring plenty of coin."
Next, Isaac visited the Venetian magistrate Miloto to thank him and gifted West African goods.
Then he ordered part of the imperial library moved onto the Duke of Morea's flagship.
He worked until nightfall.
That evening, Isaac welcomed seventeen young applicants.
At their head was Isoult, cousin of George Sphrantzes.
Others included Isoult, a law student from Constantinople University; Riedel, a Florence-trained economist; Andronikos, a warrior from a Palaiologos branch line…
Also Lancelot, an engineer; Albert, a linguist fluent in eight languages.
They represented all social classes and filled every key role.
Sphrantzes had clearly vetted them.
Isaac was satisfied.
All were accepted.
Administrative personnel were too scarce. Until now, everything relied on Andrei and his few staff.
Anyone willing to leave the comforts of the capital for the harsh frontier must have some ideals.
And if they didn't work out—they could be replaced.
Isaac invited them to dinner.
There, he outlined his endeavors.
The group, previously nervous, became animated with excitement.
Soon, lively debate broke out.
Isaac simply sipped his wine, listening.
Once they joined his team, he could finally offload mundane tasks—and focus on greater goals.
The victory at the Long Wall marked the end of his initial phase.
In just eighteen months, he had carved out a growing power base from nothing.
Now, it was time for the next chapter.
Where would he go from here?
Joint Military-Administrative Conference