Side story: The Price of Conviction

Askra, Northwest of Thebes.

On the outskirts of the recently liberated Duchy of Athens, the village of Akra lay tucked into the foothills. A pale sun cast a burnished glow across the land, yet the evidence of conflict lingered everywhere—abandoned fields, half-ruined fences, and the subdued worry in the eyes of those who gathered in the village square.

A few men stood by a dry fountain, speaking in hushed tones. Their glances darted toward the horizon as if expecting to see enemy riders at any moment.

“Did you hear?” one man asked quietly, his voice rough with anxiety. “They say the Ottomans have truly withdrawn.”

The older man beside him shook his head. “Don’t fool yourself. They’ll be back. They always come back.”

Nearby, an older woman clutched a wooden cross and offered silent prayers, her lips moving without sound. A young boy darted across the square, brandishing a stick as though it were a sword, making breathy noises he must have imagined to be the clash of steel.

It was then that a long, brassy horn-note echoed across the valley. Every conversation died at once. The child froze, his stick-sword falling slack at his side. Even the sheep in a distant pasture seemed to pause in their grazing.

All eyes turned to the dusty road on the village’s edge. There, a plume of yellow-brown earth rose behind a troop of mounted men. Their polished armor caught the sun, reflecting bright flashes of light. At their head rode a monk-like figure, slender beneath flowing robes, face etched with fervor.

Brother Anastasios reined in his horse at the threshold of the square. His escort of Byzantine guards fanned out behind him, each bearing the colors of Despot Constantine. A ripple of relief coursed through the villagers—these men were no enemies, yet they were not entirely familiar, either.

Anastasios slid from his saddle with surprising grace. The swirl of his robes stirred the dust at his feet. “People of this village,” he called in a clear, resonant voice, “I bring you the greetings of Despot Constantine, your liberator!”

A low murmur followed. Some villagers stepped forward, curiosity in their eyes. Others hung back, guarded.

“He has freed you from the Latin Duke’s yoke,” Anastasios went on, “and driven out the Turk who stood behind him. Now, he calls on you to rebuild what was lost, to reclaim what is rightfully yours!”

At his nod, the guards began nailing wooden boards to the timbers of a nearby building. Each board bore a trio of symbols: the double-headed eagle of the Palaiologos dynasty, the cross of Christ, and a bold image of a soldier raising his sword. Underneath, Greek inscriptions declared the promise and purpose of the Ieros Skopos, the holy cause.

The villagers pressed in to study the designs, some tracing the carved lines with trembling fingers. A farmer crossed himself at the sight of the Cross. Anastasios waited for their interest to grow before he continued:

“This is not merely a banner—it is a call,” he said, his gaze sweeping over every face. “A call for all true Rhomaioi to rise from despair. We will not wait in fear of the Turk’s return—we will meet him with faith and courage!”

There were a few nods, but also the uneasy shuffling of feet. The promise of hope was tempting, yet the memory of betrayals past burned fresh in everyone’s mind.

Later that same afternoon, in the village church, the air smelled of old wood and incense. Soft light from oil lamps glinted off the gold halos in the icons of Christ and the Theotokos. Father Damianos stood by the modest altar, his long gray beard flowing over the front of his robes. He regarded Anastasios with a mix of politeness and caution.

“Father,” Anastasios began, bowing his head respectfully. “I bring word from Despot Constantine.”

Father Damianos gestured to a simple bench near the altar. “You are welcome here, Brother Anastasios. What news do you bring from beyond our valley?”

Anastasios sat, folding his hands in his lap. “The Despot extends his prayers, along with an invitation to join him in rebuilding the land. You have been under foreign rule for too long. The time has come to restore our ancient inheritance.”

The priest took a seat as well, letting out a contemplative sigh. “Our people are weary, Brother. The Latin lords ruled us cruelly for generations. Their memory is not so easily banished.”

Anastasios inclined his head in sympathy. “Despot Constantine knows your hardships. But he believes we must look forward, not back. He also asks for those who would fight in his ranks, to safeguard the land against any who would seek to reclaim it.”

Father Damianos rubbed a hand over his prayer rope, the wooden beads making a soft clicking sound. “What of our faith? And the question of union with Rome?”

A note of hesitation flickered in Anastasios’s eyes. “The Despot is a pragmatist. He will seek alliances where they are needed to strengthen our cause. But the matter of union—indeed, any change to our Church—must be decided in council. It is not a step he takes lightly.”

Father Damianos’s sigh deepened. “We heard similar reassurances from Emperor John, and still the West kept us in chains for centuries.”

Anastasios folded his arms. “True faith goes beyond dogma. The Ieros Skopos is about action—about defending our lands and our people. Despot Constantine has liberated you from the Latin Duke. You are free to practice your faith without fear of Ottoman raids.”

That evening, the village square was alive with voices, the setting sun bathing everything in a pinkish glow. A makeshift platform had been erected, and Anastasios stood atop it, addressing a large gathering of villagers. The wooden boards bearing the double-headed eagle and the Ieros Skopos emblems seemed to watch over the scene.

“Rhomaioi!” Anastasios proclaimed. “Faithful of the Church, heirs to the wisdom of the ages—do not lose heart! The light of the Basileia Rhomaion has not perished. It sleeps, awaiting those who have the courage to awaken it!”

Whispers moved through the crowd. Some, emboldened by the monk’s passion, edged closer. Others regarded him with narrowed eyes, as if searching for hidden traps in his words.

“You have endured much,” he continued, letting his gaze sweep over every tired face. “You survived the arrogance of Latin lords and the menace of the Ottomans. But I tell you: a new dawn is upon us! Despot Constantine offers you a chance to stand strong, to show the Turk we will not bow again.”

A sturdy man in a threadbare tunic stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest. “We’ve heard fine words before, Brother Anastasios. How do we know the Despot won’t betray us?”

Anastasios met the man’s stern gaze. “He has fought and driven back Murad himself, restoring a measure of honor to our people. He invests in the roads and fields of the Morea, and he offers the same to you. Furthermore, he declares you shall be spared any taxes for the coming year to help you rebuild what was lost.” Some in the crowd cheered at this welcome news. “Join his army, and you will have a salary, arms, food, and a place among those who defend our freedom.”

An older farmer called out from the side of the crowd, a quaver in his voice. “What of the Church? Are we to abandon Orthodoxy for Latin gold?”

A sudden hush rippled across the gathering.

Anastasios gave a measured nod. “No. The Despot will seek alliances, but not to the destruction of our faith. However, you all know we cannot stand alone against enemies on every side. We must be wise.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, a young man with hopeful eyes stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides as though he were steeling himself. “I’m tired of cowering whenever we hear rumors of raids. I’ll fight. I’ll join.”

A short murmur of approval passed through some bystanders. Anastasios smiled gently at the young man. “You fight not only for yourself, but for your family, your faith, and the Empire.”

Just then, a voice like a sudden thunderclap broke through the fledgling hope.

“Lies!”

The crowd parted to reveal Nikolas, an elderly villager, face drawn and hollow, yet alight with inner fire. He held a wooden cross clutched tight in one hand.

“Constantine is a heretic!” he cried, pointing at Anastasios. “He sells our sacred texts to the Latins, for the sake of power and gold! Will you all stand by and watch him corrupt our faith?”

A tense rustling spread through the people. Anastasios stiffened, but kept his tone calm. “Nikolas, your words are rash. You risk sowing discord.”

Nikolas turned his searing gaze on the men and women around him. “Is it discord to defend the truth? Stand strong in your faith, or you will see it sold for the Despot’s ambition!”

The moment hung like a thunderhead about to burst. Without another word, Anastasios signaled to his guards. They seized Nikolas by the arms, pulling him away from the crowd. He did not struggle, but his final words rang across the square:

“Stay true to the faith! Resist the heretic!”

Silence descended. Anastasios stared at the place where Nikolas had stood, then turned back to the villagers. Some looked conflicted, uncertain where to place their loyalty. Others bent their heads, too afraid to show what they felt.

At last, the same young man who had volunteered lifted his chin. “I said I would fight, and I will.”

One by one, a handful of others echoed his pledge. Yet just as many slipped away into the gathering dusk, unwilling or unable to choose a side.

And so the price of conviction hung in the air, unspoken yet heavy, as Brother Anastasios and his guards began the solemn process of organizing those who dared to stand beside Despot Constantine—and those who chose to remain silent.

Author's Note:
This is a little side story about Despot Constantine’s recruitment efforts in the newly freed lands of the Duchy of Athens. Set about a month after his forces captured Thebes, it gives you a glimpse into how locals are reacting. Some are buzzing with hope and ready to join the cause, while others are still skeptical mostly due religious reasons.