EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II / Chapter 32: The End of an Era
🕑 Added 2025-08-05 01:32:22 +0000 UTCSouth West of Edessa Late June, 1434
The morning sun hung high over the Macedonian plain, bleaching the sky to a hard white glare. Sultan Murad II sat astride his stallion on a low rise, sweat darkening the embroidered collar of his tunic beneath his mail. He squinted against the brightness, one hand raised to shade his eyes, and surveyed the enemy lines arrayed across the plain. In the distance, the Byzantine and Crusader host stood in unnerving silence beneath their many banners. The double-headed eagle of Constantine’s empire caught a breeze on a forward hillock. Six solid blocks of men formed a ragged line across the gently sloping field. Murad noted how thin the enemy center appeared: just a few ranks of men bristling at the front, with large gaps between their units and only a scattering of reserves visible behind. It was an odd, almost inviting deployment. Too inviting. Murad’s jaw tightened. He knew Constantine was no fool.
Grand Vizier Halil Pasha shifted in his saddle nearby, following his master’s gaze. Three horsetail standards, the tughs of a Sultan, stood planted in the earth behind them, marking where Murad and his guard gathered. Around the Sultan clustered his senior officers: Halil Pasha with worry etched on his brow, stocky Zaganos Pasha chewing his lip in impatience, and veteran general Turahan Bey stroking his beard. Beyond them stretched the mass of Murad’s own army: tens of thousands of Ottoman soldiers fanned out across the plain. The rhythmic thump of war drums echoed from the ranks, a steady heartbeat of impending battle, while now and again a shrill blast from a horn cut through the thick air. Despite their numerical strength, a current of unease rippled among the Ottoman troops. They had tasted defeat against these foes before. Domokos. The memory of that rout one year past lingered like a scar in the Sultan’s mind. Constantine’s new firearms and cannons had shattered Murad’s proud cavalry and shattered the illusion of Ottoman invincibility. Murad had barely managed to disengage then; he would not forget the sting of it.
Halil Pasha cleared his throat softly. “The Roman center is weak, Highness,” he murmured in Turkish, careful and low. “Too weak.” He pointed with the tip of his scimitar toward the distant Byzantine front. “See there,” He indicated the flanks. “Cavalry on the far right, behind that small hill. A large force of Infantry clustered on their left flank near the small rocky spur.” Murad grunted; he saw it too. Lances and pennons peeked above a hillock on the enemy’s north end, and dust hung over a copse shielding troops on the south end. Constantine had tried to conceal his wings, further back, but the Sultan’s scouts and his own eyes discerned the trap. “They want us to drive at the center,” Halil continued, voice tight. “Draw us in, then hit our flanks. Similar tricks to what they used at Domokos.” The name fell bitter on his tongue.
Murad said nothing at first. He watched the distant center where the Byzantine banner fluttered, a black double-headed eagle on crimson, and saw, or imagined, a deliberate slackness in the line there. They think to repeat Domokos, he thought darkly. Lure us onto their guns and break us. His pulse thudded dully in his ears. A bead of sweat slid down his temple and into his trimmed beard. He recalled the shame and fury of that day, his best sipahi cavalry slaughtered in swarms by musket fire, his army forced to retreat. It had been the first major defeat of his reign. Murad had sworn never to let the infidel emperor catch him so off-guard again. And yet here they stood, on another field, under the same blazing sun, facing the same damnable tactics.
Zaganos Pasha leaned forward in his stirrups, eager. “Give the word, Padishah,” he urged. “Let us crush their center before they can spring their trap. A fast strike, right through.” The younger general’s eyes flashed beneath his turban, one hand already gripping the hilt of his sabre. Ever aggressive, Zaganos was spoiling for the charge. Murad’s stallion stamped and tossed its head, sensing its rider’s tension. The Sultan inhaled slowly, filling his lungs with the dry, sun-baked air. His instincts screamed caution, yet also desperation. If he balked here, on open ground west of Edessa, he would forfeit the initiative entirely. And retreat now, with the enemy so close, would be a humiliation perhaps worse than defeat. Murad’s pride and fury burned at the thought. He had already dealt the infidels a heavy blow in the north. Sigismund of Hungary’s crusader column had been intercepted and shattered earlier this month, leaving their vaunted Emperor dead. Only Constantine’s southern host remained in force. Murad was determined to smash this last army and snuff out the Christian resurgence in one stroke. No more delays. Allah had delivered his foes to this plain; now their fate would be written in blood.
Murad turned toward his waiting officers. “We won’t dance to Constantine’s tune,” he said, voice low but firm. “We’ll set our own.” He began issuing orders curtly, slicing the air with a gauntleted hand as he pointed to each sector of the battlefield. “Zaganos, take four thousand horse and pin their cavalry on their far flank,” he commanded. “Shadow every move those knights make. If they advance, you harry them. If they hold, you feint and fix them in place. Keep them busy.” Zaganos bared his teeth in a fierce grin and bowed in the saddle. “At your will, my Sultan,” he said, wheeling his horse and galloping off, shouting for his subordinates to muster the left-wing cavalry. Murad watched a moment as that column of horsemen began to peel away toward the enemy’s northern flank in a cloud of dust. Then he jabbed a finger toward the enemy’s opposite flank, the rocky spur to the south where enemy infantry lurked. “Turahan Bey, take five thousand Azaps, three orta of Janissaries and three thousand Cavalry from the right wing,” Murad ordered. “Drive toward that small hill and overrun whatever the infidels have there. Storm it. Roll up their left flank.” Turahan, a seasoned commander, inclined his head. “By your command,” he replied. He barked orders to his aides, and a ripple of motion went through the Ottoman right wing as select companies of Janissaries, the Sultan’s elite infantry, formed into an assault column. Murad knew those men would follow their orders unto death. They would need to; the hillside probably bristled with cannons. The Sultan’s plan was taking shape: pressure the enemy flanks hard, distract Constantine’s forces.
Finally, Murad turned his steely gaze back to the enemy center. He could just make out rows of enemy men standing unnaturally still in the heat, awaiting his move. So disciplined… It irked him. “And the center, Highness?” Halil ventured, voice hushed. Murad’s nostrils flared. “We flush out their guns,” he declared. With a swift motion, Murad signaled to an officer of the Azaps, the Sultan’s irregular infantry. “Azaplar!” the Sultan barked. “Five thousand forward, into their center. Now.” The officer saluted and sprinted off, red scarf trailing. Moments later, war horns blared across the Ottoman lines, long, droning notes carrying the Sultan’s command.
Murad felt his pulse quicken as he watched the Azaps surge out from behind the cavalry line. They were the expendable ones, lightly armed frontiersmen and levies. Many carried simple weapons: spears, axes, short bows slung across their backs. Now they trotted forward in a loose, uneven swarm, five thousand men fanning out across the plain in front of the Sultan’s center. Murad’s plan was blunt but necessary: he would force Constantine to reveal his hidden firepower. The Azaps would soak up the first volley of the enemy’s accursed pyrvelos and the blast of any cannons behind. Better them than his precious cavalry. Better the blood of peasants than the lifeblood of the empire, Murad told himself, steeling his resolve. Still, he felt a familiar pang in his chest as he watched the Azaps jog onward under the sun, their officers shouting hoarse encouragement.
Halil Pasha edged closer to Murad, lowering his voice. “Sultan…if their center is indeed a trap, perhaps we should hold the men back entirely.” Murad’s eyes remained fixed on the Azaps advancing. “No,” he said after a moment, quiet but resolute. He knew Halil was urging caution as always. But Murad’s mind was set. “We do as planned. Let their guns fire until they choke on powder. We’ll draw their sting, then break them.” He cut a sideways glance at the Grand Vizier. “We end this today, Halil. Here.” Hearing the iron finality in the Sultan’s tone, Halil pressed his lips tight and fell silent.
Across the field, the Roman line remained eerily still as the wave of Azaps trotted closer. Murad felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. Why don’t they fire? he wondered. The distance closed, two hundred paces, then a hundred and fifty. The Azaps were jogging now, a ragged mass of turbans and flashing steel, raising their voices in cries that echoed faintly back to Murad’s ears. Somewhere in the enemy ranks, a trumpet finally blared, high and clear. In the next instant, a line of fire and smoke erupted from the Byzantine center.
A rolling thunderclap crashed over the plain. The front of the Roman line vanished behind a wall of gun-smoke as hundreds of muskets flared in unison. Murad reflexively gripped his reins. A heartbeat later the impact became visible: the Azap line faltered as men at its forefront were scythed down in swaths. Even at this distance Murad could see it, a stuttering ripple through the loose Ottoman ranks as bodies and body parts were hurled backward, torn by lead shot. The Azap advance dissolved into chaos. Some of the stricken fell without a sound; others screamed, clutching shredded arms or guts as they crumpled to the earth. Those unhit instinctively threw themselves flat. Within moments the eager charge had been reduced to confusion and terror, exactly what Murad had expected, and dreaded, to see.
A second volley of musket fire crackled out from the Roman lines, more ragged than the first but no less deadly. Murad saw Azaps dropping like wheat under a scythe. Horses on the Ottoman flanks reared and whinnied at the smell of the powder and blood. The Sultan ground his teeth. Constantine’s musketeers were unleashing a withering barrage, firing and reloading in a disciplined cycle without pause. Even from afar, the Sultan could glimpse the drilled precision in it: as soon as one rank fired, the men behind stepped forward to take their place while the front fell back to reload. It was a devilish tactic, keeping up a near-constant hail of shot. The smoke above the enemy center billowed into a hazy curtain, lit by red flashes again and again. The thunder of firearms rolled continuously now, punctuated by the crash of the enemy cannons.
The Azaps never stood a chance. Those not cut down in the first few moments broke and ran, veering away in panic from that cauldron of fire. Murad watched grimly as dozens of his light infantry sprinted back toward their own lines, some flinging away their weapons in abject terror. Others simply cowered on the field, hugging the ground amid their fallen comrades. Within minutes, it was over. The once-bold Azap vanguard had been reduced to piles of corpses and a scattering of terrified survivors crawling or stumbling back toward safety. The plain in front of the Byzantine center was littered with writhing bodies, like a field of broken dolls. A low groan of dismay went up from some of the watching Ottoman troops behind Murad, seeing their countrymen massacred so effortlessly. Murad’s stomach twisted, but he curled his hands into fists and forced down his anger and dismay. This was the price he’d anticipated. And the trap was sprung now, the enemy had bared their fangs. So that was the bulk of Constantine’s firepower: hidden in plain sight all along, waiting for him to charge headlong. Murad thought fleetingly of his father, Sultan Bayezid, who had galloped into a Mongol ambush at Ankara decades ago and paid with his freedom and life. Grandfather, I understand now, Murad thought, a grim chill settling in his chest. This is how you felt at Ankara, caught in the jaws of fate.
But Murad was not yet in those jaws. He still had a chance to win this. The Azaps had done their work: the infidel guns were hot and perhaps low on powder after that furious fusillade. And through the clearing smoke, Murad glimpsed a new development: the Byzantine forward line, three of the six tightly packed squares, was shifting. Not falling back, he realized, but wheeling sideways, moving not toward their own rear but toward his right, angling across the slope in a slow, deliberate arc. They weren’t recoiling, they were maneuvering, likely to support the enemy's left flank against Turahan Bey’s assault. But to Murad’s eyes, in the haze and heat, it also looked like disorder. A ripple of motion in a rigid line. A crack. He seized on it.
“Look!” he shouted, pointing with his scimitar. “They break formation! They shift, they falter!”
Indeed, the enemy center now seemed disjointed, three forward units sliding east across the hills, leaving a broad, tempting gap in the middle of the line. Whether it was an attempt to reinforce their flank or a symptom of disarray, Murad could not yet say. But the path was open.
Murad seized the moment. He wheeled his stallion around and raised his right arm high. The engraved gilt armor plates on his forearm caught the sunlight as he signaled to his reserve: the Kapıkulu cavalry, his household Sipahis who waited just behind him. “Forward!” Murad roared. “Into the gap, now!” A clarion call rang out, Ottoman war horns bleating urgently to carry the Sultan’s command. In a clatter of hooves and shimmer of steel, elite Sipahi cavalry surged around the Sultan and thundered toward the enemy’s center. Murad had held roughly five thousand of these heavy cavalry in reserve; now he committed over half of them to the charge. Murad’s blood stirred as he watched them go. Break them, my lions, he silently beseeched. Shatter the infidel line.
The ground shook under the fury of the Sipahis’ advance. Murad, still on the rise with his remaining guard, leaned forward in his saddle, heart pounding as he tracked the charge. The brilliant tableau of battle unfolded before him: his cavalry’s wedge gleaming as it entered the smoke-stained void where Constantine’s front ranks had stood. The Roman tagmata had indeed split apart to either side, seemingly unable to hold their ground after delivering their volleys. Murad’s riders shouted their battle cries, harsh Turkish oaths, as they closed the distance. He could hear the whoomp of their drums urging them on and the high ululating war-cries of the zîrâh trumpets. The gap yawned wider; the Roman center appeared truly open, like a door left ajar. Triumph tugged at Murad’s lips. This was his chance to drive a spear straight into the enemy’s belly and finish it.
But as the first ranks of Sipahis barreled into the gap, disaster struck.
The Roman tagmata had been shifting earlier, yes, three of them advancing laterally toward Turahan Bey’s assault, drawing Ottoman attention to the flank. It had looked like a response, even a weakening. But now, in the final moments before impact, they moved again, not outward, but inward.
With a precision that seemed to defy the chaos of the battlefield, the tagmata re-formed in an instant. Orders snapped down the line, inaudible to Murad, but their effect was unmistakable. Like steel jaws closing, the formations pivoted and folded in with terrifying speed, their interior ranks parting to allow musketeers to surge forward at the flanks.
What had looked like disarray was a rehearsal; what had looked like retreat, an invitation.
The pyrvelos gunners dropped to one knee, leveled their barrels. Pikes locked into place behind them. From above, the whole maneuver looked like a corridor snapping shut, tight, deliberate, and final.
The Sipahis never stood a chance.
A thundercrack of musket fire ripped across both flanks, and the charge shattered into ruin.
From his vantage, Murad stared in horror as the head of the charge seemed to disintegrate. He could not hear their screams over the crashing gunfire, but he saw horses tumbling, flipping end over end as they were cut down mid-gallop. Armored riders were punched from their saddles and hurled to the ground, riddled with bullets. The momentum of the charge shuddered, stalled, as the ranks behind piled into the carnage ahead. Then, to add to the nightmare, field cannons fired with grapeshot. Whole files of sipahis on the edges of the column were there one heartbeat, gone the next, blown apart or left convulsing in ruined heaps.
Murad felt as though a giant hand had reached into his chest and clenched his heart. His elite cavalry, the pride of his army, were being butchered in the crossfire. “No… No!” he snarled through his teeth. His horse pranced anxiously beneath him, sensing his anger and despair. All around, his officers and guards watched in mute shock. What had looked like victory an instant ago had flipped to disaster. Within the smoke-clogged gap, the once-impenetrable sipahi charge was collapsing into chaos, riders veering, trying to escape the kill zone as musket fire and grapeshot tore through them. Some tried to wheel about; others pressed forward blindly, only to be cut down. It was an ambush of terrible perfection.
“My Sultan… our center attack is broken,” one of his bodyguards said in a strangled voice, stating the obvious. Murad shot the man a withering glare that silenced him. The Sultan refused to give in to despair. He tore his eyes from the nightmare at the center and looked to his flanks, perhaps there lay salvation.
On the Ottoman right, Turahan’s storm column had opened with force, Azab cavalry loosing volleys of arrows as Azad irregulars and Janissaries advanced behind them. For a moment, it looked promising. The enemy line atop the low ridge seemed stretched thin.
But the defenders held, and they were far from thin. In truth, most of Constantine’s army was positioned there. A wall of braced pikes anchored the ridge, backed by massed Burgundian crossbowmen firing in deadly volleys. A cannon further back fired intermittently, raking the slope and staggering the advance.
What had begun as a push turned to a halt. The ridge was low, but it was packed with men. The Ottomans couldn’t force a breach.
It had become a stalemate.
Murad felt a hollowness in his gut. It was all unraveling.
He wheeled his horse in a tight circle, scanning every corner of the field as dread coiled tighter around his ribs. On the left wing, to the north, Zaganos Pasha’s cavalry had locked into a full engagement with the Crusaders. Dust and banners danced in the distance, St. George’s cross, Hunyadi’s black raven, and the Burgundian gold-on-blue intermingled with the horsetail standards of Zaganos’s timariot sipahis.
The melee was fierce. Heavy-plated knights drove in hard with couched lances and warhorses, smashing into the Ottoman line. The front-rank sipahis and Wallachians bore the brunt, many went down in the first clash, horses toppling, riders gutted on impact. For a moment, the Crusaders had the clear advantage.
But Zaganos had prepared for this. His front line had orders to yield, just enough to invite overextension. As the knights pressed deeper, the sipahis pulled back by fifty paces, disciplined and fast, opening a pocket meant to expose the Crusader flanks. The counterstrike was seconds away.
Then it broke.
From the rear of the Ottoman formation, one detachment abruptly peeled off. Murad narrowed his eyes. The banner, white cross atop red wings, marked them unmistakably. “The Wallachians,” Halil said grimly. Alexandru’s regiment, shaken by the collision and mistaking the fallback for collapse, had bolted. Several hundred riders galloped northward, abandoning the fight entirely.
Murad’s chest tightened. “Fools,” he muttered. “It wasn’t a rout… until now.”
The damage was done. The sudden flight cracked morale wide open. Without the Wallachians holding the flank, the Ottoman cavalry’s cohesion shattered. In minutes, the sipahis too were in retreat, some trying to wheel for a last strike, others simply fleeing. The counterstrike never came.
And now, with the Ottoman flank broken, the Crusader cavalry re-formed, disciplined even in the chaos. Murad could see them turning south, lances lowered again, beginning to sweep toward his center.
Worse still, four of that cursed Roman tagmata were now on the move, moving from their positions with steady, unhurried momentum, marching to meet the Crusader thrust and drive straight into Murad’s center. The other two tagmata, meanwhile, resumed their lateral advance toward the ridge, pivoting deliberately to strike Turahan Bey’s flank.
Murad’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. One by one, every element of his battle plan was collapsing. He tasted something bitter at the back of his throat, regret, fury, despair all mingled. Around him, a few of his personal guard exchanged worried glances. Some janissaries holding the ridge behind him shifted nervously, awaiting orders that did not come. The only sounds were the distant gunfire and the rising clamor of the victorious allies as they pressed in from all sides. Murad’s hands went slack on his reins for a moment, a terrible weight settling on his shoulders. Not like this, he thought.
“Sultan,” Halil Pasha said urgently, breaking into his thoughts. The Vizier’s face was ashen. In the span of minutes he seemed to have aged years. He reached out and gripped Murad’s stirrup, an uncharacteristically familiar gesture born of desperation. “It’s over,” Halil pleaded. “We must retreat while we still can. Save what men remain. Save yourself, Padishah.” Halil’s voice cracked. “Constantine’s troops are closing in. If we flee now, regroup at Thessaloniki or Adrianople. But if you stay—” He didn’t finish, but Murad knew well. If you stay, you die. Or worse. Murad looked down at Halil Pasha, this seasoned counselor who had been at his side through so many trials. The Vizier’s eyes glistened, perhaps with tears or sweat. Murad realized Halil was ready to physically drag him from the field if it meant preserving the Sultan’s life.
For a moment, Murad’s resolve wavered. An animal instinct screamed at him to survive, to live to fight another day. He imagined himself rallying an army in exile, his young son at his side, avenging this defeat in time. But that thought was swept aside by a wave of scorching shame. Retreat now would mean abandoning tens of thousands of his soldiers to slaughter or captivity. It would mean the absolute collapse of Ottoman power in these lands, the undoing of everything his forefathers had built. And it would mean his own name forever stained as Murad the Coward, who turned his back at the moment of truth. No. He could not. He would not run. Murad straightened in the saddle, squared his shoulders. A strange calm settled over him, born of fatal resolve. “No, Halil,” he said quietly. “The hour of flight has passed.” He managed a thin, sad smile for his old friend. “Go, if you wish. Take whoever will follow. Save my son.”
Halil’s eyes widened. “Sultan—” he began, voice breaking, but Murad had already turned away. The Sultan beckoned to two of his solak guard, the janissary officers who carried the royal standards. “Bring Prince Ali” Murad commanded. The guards hesitated, and Murad barked with sudden fire, “Now! Fetch my son!” They spurred off to the rear. Murad’s mind raced even as eerie composure settled over him. Prince Şehzade Alaeddin Ali had been kept back with the baggage and rear guard, safe from the fray; he would be brought shortly. Murad intended to send the boy away with a detachment of his most loyal men, perhaps to the fortress at Bursa, or over the straits to Anatolia. Anywhere but here. The dynasty must survive even if he did not.
Moments later, young Prince Ali came riding up behind the remaining janissaries, flanked by a handful of guards. At just nine years old, Ali was already tall for his age, with the fierce eyes of the Osmanlı line. He dismounted and stumbled toward his father. Murad swung down off his horse and for a breath every sound of battle seemed to fade. The boy’s dark eyes searched Murad’s face. He knew what this meant. “Father,” Ali choked, voice cracking. “Come with us. We can regroup—” Murad pulled his son into a tight embrace, armor pressing against the boy’s chest. It was the first time he had held Ali so since the boy was a toddler. He felt Ali’s racing heartbeat against his own and the tremor in the young prince’s frame. Murad held back the sting in his eyes. “My son,” he said huskily, “my Sultan.” He placed his hands on Ali’s shoulders and held him at arm’s length, memorizing his face smeared with sweat and dirt and tears. “You will live,” Murad said. “You will live, and you will fight another day. Inşallah, you will reclaim what is lost. But for me… for me, this is the end of the road.”
Ali shook his head frantically, tears spilling now. “No,” he whispered, “I won’t leave you.” The boy’s voice carried such anguish that Murad’s composure nearly broke. The Sultan pressed his forehead to his son’s. “You must,” he said, so softly only Ali heard. “Live, so that the Ottomans live. This is Allah’s will.” Murad kissed his son’s brow quickly, then steeled himself and turned to the guards. “Take the Prince,” he ordered briskly. “Ride hard and fast. Protect him with your lives. Go!”
Halil Pasha stepped forward, bowing deeply. His face was wet as well, though with sweat or sorrow one couldn’t tell. “I will see him safe, Highness,” Halil said, voice thick. He gently took Ali by the arm. The boy resisted for an instant, casting one last heartbroken look at his father. Murad forced himself to smile reassuringly and nod. “Go, Ali” he urged. “Be brave now. We will meet again… in this life or the next.” At that, Ali allowed Halil and the guards to lead him away, stumbling, mounted onto a fresh horse. With a shout, the Vizier marshaled a knot of cavalry around the prince and spurred eastward. A strange peace washed over the Sultan. The die was cast. His heir was on his way to safety, or at least to a fighting chance. Allah, protect them, Murad prayed silently. Protect my son.
Now Murad turned back to the field and surveyed what remained. The Ottomans were being pressed into an ever-smaller pocket. To his front, Roman tagmata were advancing cautiously over the corpse-littered center, muskets and pikes leveled as they closed in. To his right, enemy soldiers under Serbian and Italian banners were descending the low spur, fanning out to encircle the faltering Janissaries and spahis of the Ottoman right. To the left, a triumphant horn blast announced the charge of Hunyadi’s knights sweeping in from the north flank.
All across the plain, cohesion snapped. Units broke. Banners fell. What remained of Murad’s army began to rout, some in ones and twos, others in entire waves, abandoning the field in a tide of panic and despair.
Murad strode to his stallion and swung into the saddle once more. He drew his scimitar. The curved blade gleamed dully, its edge honed to a razor. Only a handful of loyal souls remained around him now: his solak Janissary bodyguards, perhaps fifty of them, stood determined; a few dozen sipahi cavalry of his personal guard still mounted; and scattered clumps of infantry rallying to the Sultan’s banner. Perhaps two thousand men in all. It was a pathetic remnant of an army. But Murad felt no shame. These were the truest of the true, and he would spend their lives and his own dearly. He raised his sword high overhead, the gesture both a salute and a final signal. “Oturan! Osmanlılar, benimle!” he bellowed. “Ottomans, with me!” His voice rang out clear over the din. A final fierce energy surged through him, a mingling of rage and exaltation. “For Allah and empire!” Murad roared. “Charge!”
A ragged cheer answered him, “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”, as the Sultan of the Ottomans spurred his horse and hurtled forward into battle one last time. Behind him, his remaining cavalry and janissaries rushed in a final, compact charge, straight toward the advancing Roman center. Murad lowered his scimitar like a lance, eyes fixed on the knot of enemy standard-bearers ahead. So be it. He felt oddly free in that knowledge. Fear had evaporated, burned away by purpose. In that moment, Murad was simply a warrior, like his father Bayezid, like all his ancestors, fighting with honor until the last.
Comments
Anonykor
That’s a really good point. I wonder if a future opponent will use that. Just delay the battle until it’s the right weather
Max Müller
An idea i just had: the battle would have been evry different if it was raining, gunpowder becomes useless
Eriach
Ah, so refreshing to see all of my fellow history buffs -le sigh-
Mineseikea
Well, Constantine now rules the balkans. The ottoman army has been shattered, a child on the throne and the core of veterans dead. The crusaders can fuck it up for Constantine but I doubt they will be a huge problem, sure they can lay claims but what can they really do? Constantine has superior weapons and propaganda spread of a resurgent Rome, I would not be surprised to see revolts against ottoman forces everywhere north of the strait in favor of joining Constantine. There is also the possibility that other regions like Serbia and Albania joining a fellow orthodox instead of a catholic Hungarian in vassalage.
Sif
In all seriousness, this victory will give him political capital that he's going to likely use to dissolve non-Byzantine states in Imperial lands. It will likely require the Pope's personal intervention with Sigismund dead.
pls don't ban me
ok. i did not expect that. i was honestly expecting a cannae battle like when you first mentioned a weak center. but the battle was still awesome. after this costantine will be regarded as a military genius and everyone will think thrice before going to war against him. so we have the bulgarian crown prince, the serbian ruler and the byzantine emperor in the same camp. and the ottmans have just been defeated. i can expect fruzhin to manage to stir up a revolt in bulgaria after this battle. and that will surely be useful.
RENAISSANSE SI
That’s true, and this time, it’s muskets and banners instead of sarissas and phalanxes!
RENAISSANSE SI
Good idea! We did see Constantine start awarding medals back in Book I as a way to recognize valor and discipline. Definitely worth expanding!
RENAISSANSE SI
Yep, next chapter dives into the aftermath and gives us Constantine’s POV of the battle. We’ll get a clearer picture of what just broke… and what’s about to unravel.
RENAISSANSE SI
Thanks a lot! Based on what we know so far, the Venetians were supposed to pull back to Negroponte. But hey, with Venice, you never really know until the ledgers are opened!
RENAISSANSE SI
Right? When it breaks, it breaks, but it was all that slow buildup that made the collapse hit harder. Glad you enjoyed the crash!
RENAISSANSE SI
It sure is the end of an era, and ahead lie Teutonic-scale changes. Can’t wait to dive into the scramble that follows!
RENAISSANSE SI
Ah, great catch, you’re absolutely right. Bayezid was Murad’s grandfather, not father. . Definitely flagging that for correction, appreciate the sharp eye!
RENAISSANSE SI
That’s exactly the heartbeat of it! ΙΕΡΟΣ ΣΚΟΠΟΣ!
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you!
RENAISSANSE SI
Exactly, a new era begins with thunder and smoke. The old world died on that field… and something sharper, louder, more disciplined rose in its place.
Kirra
It will be interesting to see the map of the Balkans once everything is done. What will the borders look like, what kind of allies and what kind of new enemies will be made? One thing I look forward to is the Bulgarian region. I am interested to see how that whole mess plays out. While it became another free country or will it become integrated as part of the Roman Empire?
Stapet
That was precisely what we were all anxiously waiting for. It was an amazing chapter and described the battle fabulously. My guess though is that right now the hard part is starting. Up untill now everyone was focused against the Ottomans, right now everyone will be scrambling to gain what they can and stepping over each other in this.
ioshf fikry
Not since Alexander has Macedonia seen such glory
de la Fouchardiere
He says he is 12
Ben Robbins
TFTC. Have you considered orders of chivalry a la the Order of the Garter, the Golden Spur, etc? It has the advantage of being an inexpensive way to honor his senior officers and allies. The investment ceremonies, ribbons, sashes, medals, etc would be a great way to satisfy noble pride and additionally be an interesting scene. Also, different medals for his soldiers, such as for those wounded or killed, for various degrees of bravery, etc.
PlumRaven
Great chapter, thanks for writing it. One little issue. Mehmed II was 21 when he took Constantinople (which was going to happen in like 10 years time) so surely Mehmed is child? Not to mention he had multiple brothers, some of whom were older and unlikely to follow a child. While also those who have witnessed Murad declare him sultan will likely not be believed since most of the witnesses will die, and the rest will look exactly like advisors/(Han style eunuchs) seizing the throne with a puppet ruler. As for reclaiming lands, it would be pretty shocking if he wasn’t able to get all the way to Constantinople, especially since most of the Ottoman garrisons in Greece were likely stripped of their men for the army (which was soundly defeated), not to mention the remaining garrisons are very likely to surrender since they are in a heavily hostile area with Constantine coming (who likely will have a mythic-level reputation for his military/administrative achievements). Keep up the good work, as for the Venetians taking Thessaloniki (if their fleet still lingers) it is unlikely that they have the ability to refuse Constantine (and his army) if he pushes it.
TyrantGod
Will you show Constantine POV of the battle? Will there be a Ottomon civil war? What are the Ottomon casualties?
Daniel Hodgson
Excellent chapter. Looking forward to the aftermath, maybe the Venetian fleet has been routed while Constantine was busy? We can hope :)
Max Müller
i think a considerable number survive. Although the butchers bill would be high here is why i believe they arent as bad off: 1) a lot of the casulties normally happens int he pursuit, the crusader cavalry is shot (exhausted), it is in no state to pursue and neither is the infantry. Honestly leeing men just run faster with their lives on the line. 2) this was not as funneled as Domokos. Yes the Ottomans suffered losses my guess is about 1500 cavalry against the knights, 3000 azabs in the center and 1500 sipahi against the center and maybe a third of the force send against the crusader infantry. So total losses about 12.000-14.000 is my best guess which is about a third of their army which admittingly is large but not crippling purely fromt eh nubmers perspective though morale is obviously shot
Max Müller
My guess is: take Thessaloniki, while the ottomans are reeling and morale is at rock bottom, maybe if he is lucky and plays it smart he can negotiate a surrender with the garrison
Aresswe
Damn that was great, im curious what Constantines next steps will be. Thanks for the chapter!
Hugo23
I actually don't think we are going to reach Constantinople, not because we are unable to but because of the exact reasons you listed on why he could. Constantine needs to consolidate, he burned through most if not all of the powder in this fight, he can't really afford to besiege anyone and all the aid from the west is pretty much gone/used. Venice and the Pope won't spring for more without him having to sell off parts of the conquered land and the other allies either have what they want or have their own problems to deal with now. With a surviving Grand Vizier, a prince acknowledged as heir and sultan by Murad publicly before his death the Ottomans can rally. They are a full fledged state with better systems in place than most of the west. What's more is the people in "charge" as much as anyone is know their situation, likely civil war and a number of powers now ready with knives. Personal prediction is that there will be a treaty. The Ottomans need time to reassert control and Constantine needs time to consolidate what he does have and can most certainly demand more. My main reasoning is that before Edessa it was said they have powder for 1-3 major engagements. Right before powder will be of no concern fire until we are out, They don't have the material to besiege and capture anywhere now. They don't have the backing, funding, manpower or supply lines to go on. Just for the initial plan of the crusade is now slogging march from the heights of central Macedonia, re-besiege Thessaloniki and take it, defeat any army that is coming and probably have to take Larrissa as well just so you can take Thessaloniki. That is phase one before Constantinople is a glitter in anyone's eye. The Ottomans don't currently know the Crusaders are essentially out of supplies but they will eventually. They need peace now and we have the advantage of setting those terms.
Hugo23
Murad probably made the only decision that will let the Ottoman Empire survive this defeat, a vengeful prince can be raised, but a broken sultan is left in the dust. He faced Constantine thrice and this was the final loss, morale can survive a couple blows, but these repeated ones finally broke him. Kind of funny to see that it all came down to the Wallachians breaking, goes to show why you communicate with allies rather than expecting them to follow your orders. Alexandru is tainted by both sides now, his banner was on the field against the Crusaders and fled the field before the Ottomans, no way he holds onto his throne. Neither side trust's him enough to be their chosen puppet. It really depends on how much of the Ottoman army remains and how well Halil manages it all but Thessaloniki at the very least is within our grasp. Bulgaria possibly with Iskander there, Albania and Serbia seem to be coming down on the Roman side. This really changes things but the Ottomans are a state, the biggest advantage of a state is that it can absorb losses. It might come down to how well they can hold onto power but I have a feeling they aren't out of it yet.
Kirra
His other son, Şehzade Alaeddin Ali, would be 9 or 10, so I am not sure why he picked Mehmed.
Wen L.
Murad still has Mehmed as his heir, historically Constantine had no offspring
Wen L.
So will Venice
Wen L.
With this final charge the balkans should be firmly free of Ottoman rule. As the strongest land force in the Balkans Constantine is the hegemon of these disparate lands; though, he is not their emperor or king, yet. Constantinople should be captured easily upon hearing of Murad's defeat and death, a lot of the Byzantine who sided with his brother wanted the benefits from Ottomans, but without Murad and a 12 year old on the throne with a much weakened army, it's unlikely they can get much on this sinking ship. I think there will be a murder/assassination plot from within (like most Byzantine coup in the late Empire). As for the rest of the Balkans outside Greece and Macedonia, there's rebel troops and nobles in various areas that have their own ideas and desires. Along with the Hungarian power vacuum, Constantine needs to consolidate his power and improve his holdings, while claiming the right to rule. Perhaps capturing Adrianople would be a good idea. As for Mehmed, like many estimated, he won't have as many troops as he did in our timeline and most of them will be in Anatolia trying to maintain a smaller empire, so the Black Sea will be wide open competition for various Muslim and Christian forces. If Constantine can maintain his momentum, the Ottomans will no longer be a direct threat, but could still cause indirect issues if they form alliance with Timurid remnants and other muslim states to launch a Jihad against the west for lost lands, if the Crusade pushes too far. But after stabilization, he does need to prepare naval development and extend sea trading for the future. I think the best way would be for Constantine to strike west at the weak Emirate of Granada in conjunction with Aragon/Castille forces, under the condition of occupying Gibralter for a naval base and future launching point to the rich sea lanes off Africa-India and the American Continent.
Anonykor
Wow, didn't expect the battle to end as quickly as it did. Great stuff!
Alexander the Smoker
Shouldn’t Mehmed be only 2 at this point in 1434? I understand the symbolism of the actual conqueror of Constantinople seeing the unraveling of Ottoman power, but he realistically is a toddler. Unless this is supposed to be a different son of Murad or Mehmed is aged up in this alternate universe, which would make sense, but events only start happening different after Michael is transported into Constantine’s body.
Kirra
End of an era and start of a new era. It will still be an uphill battle for Mehmed to regain legitimacy after his father's defeats at Domokos and Edessa. But if he can survive and legitimize his rule, he could become the next significant threat. The primary holdings in Europe are most likely also totally lost after this disaster, but it will be interesting to see who gets what.
Oliver Howard
The Pope is gonna be happy.
Gavriil Kourouklis
Actually you might want to change the fact Murad ll father was Mehmed l not Bayzeid at the start of the chapter and end and etc
christian carvacho
So Murad and Constantine swap fate with one standing triumphant while the other dies on a desperate rally with the last of his army truly a great way to end this chapter
russell marsh
As the Ottoman Calvary charge the nearly breaking the Burgundy knights a Roman officer sadly lost to time rally the nearly scattered crusaders by reportedly yelling and waving the twin bammers of the double eagle of the Emperor and the gold and radiant Blue of there distant Prince HOLD THE LINE STAY WITH ME STAY WITH ME ΒΟΉΘΕΙ Ο ΘΕΌΣ, ΝΙΚΆ Ο ΣΤΑΎΡΟΣ! Thanks to his effort and many others on the dust filled valley in the heart of Greece the Ottoman suffered a truly tremendous defeat and the begging of the true reconquest of the old Empire of Rome
Elaine
good chappie
Jan Mantsch
Discipline and Fire Triumphant! Victory delivered by fire and blood! Arise you majesty phoenix reborn from the ashes anew to bring forth glory and Destiny!
RENAISSANSE SI
Haha, good one!
Sif
Now, how will the Venetians fuck this up for everybody?
