EMPIRE REWRITTEN
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Book II/Chapter 9: Crossroads in Dobruja
🕑 Added 2025-05-19 22:12:36 +0000 UTCDawn’s first light found the village hushed under a blanket of mist. In the pale glow, a lone ancient oak towered at the edge of the hamlet, its gnarled roots breaking the earth like silent monuments. Beneath its broad canopy, a small circle of figures gathered close. Iskandar stood at the oak’s trunk, a rolled parchment in his hands. His breath clouded in the chill autumn air as he looked around at the expectant faces. They had come in secret before sunrise, farmers, herders, and wanderers, each drawn by a whisper that something important would take root this morning.
Iskandar’s fingers trembled slightly as he unrolled the parchment, revealing dense lines of script. Months of sleepless nights were etched in the shadows under his eyes, but a steady calm settled over him now. “This,” he said quietly, voice carrying just above a whisper, “is the manifesto we spoke of.” The small crowd pressed nearer. A few lanterns, shielded by hands and cloaks, cast a flickering gold light on the parchment. In that fragile glow, Sheikh Dawud stepped to Iskandar’s side, his aged face creased with both fatigue and devotion.
For a moment, Iskandar allowed himself to listen: to the rustle of oak leaves overhead, to a distant rooster’s call from the village, and to the collective inhale of his followers as they waited. These were the faithful few, gathered from the Dobruja plains and the forests of Deliorman. Some had risked everything to be here, slipping past Ottoman patrols in the dead of night. Iskandar met each pair of eyes in turn, Farid’s fierce dark gaze, brimming with eagerness; Selim’s guarded stare, cautious even now; Dawud’s gentle, unwavering regard and nodded.
He began to read, voice low but clear in the hush. “All are born of the same dust, and to dust shall all return. Let none claim sovereignty who serve not the people…” The words drifted out like a prayer. Farid closed his eyes as if savouring each phrase. A Greek villager at the back murmured an assent, recognizing in his own tongue a line of scripture Iskandar had woven in. The manifesto’s language flowed between Turkish and Greek seamlessly, echoing Bedreddin’s dream that Muslim, Christian, and Jew might heed a common call. Iskandar read on, steady and resolute: “The fields we till and the bread we break know no master but God. Justice is the right of every creed and every tongue…”
When he finished, silence hung as dawn broke fully over the plain. A lone sparrow flitted from the oak’s branches, and in its fluttering wake Iskandar slowly rolled the parchment closed. His heart thudded at what he had done. This manifesto was a seed of dangerous promise, one that could either quietly grow or be snatched up and destroyed. Dawud stepped forward, raising his hands over the scroll. His voice, raspy with age yet imbued with solemnity, offered a blessing in Arabic. Those gathered bowed their heads. “Bismillah... May these words be as rain on parched soil,” the old sheikh intoned. “May they nourish the righteous and confound the tyrants.”
A chorus of soft “Amîn” passed through the circle. In the delicate light, some faces shone with quiet tears. Farid’s chin was lifted proudly; hope and defiance warred openly in his expression. Selim stood with arms crossed tight against his chest, his face harder to read. As Dawud finished his prayer, an autumn breeze whispered through the tall grass, carrying the blessing beyond the oak’s shelter.
Selim cleared his throat softly. “It is a great vision, Iskandar,” he said in measured tones. He was a wiry man in his middle years, a scar cutting through one eyebrow, a mark from some old campaign in the Sultan’s service. Though born to a Greek mother and a Turkish father, Selim had worn the Sultan’s uniform once, before conscience drove him to defect. His voice bore the weight of experience. “But we must be careful. Even words can draw blood if they reach the wrong ears.” He glanced around at the ring of listeners, his meaning clear. A distant shape moved along the foggy road, a farmer leading an ox, and at once the circle tensed. Habits of caution ran deep. Two lookouts Iskandar had posted by the road watched a moment, then waved a subtle all-clear. The farmer passed, oblivious, into the waking village.
Selim went on, lowering his voice. “How widely have these pages traveled?” His eyes flickered to the scroll in Iskandar’s hand. “If copies find their way into impatient hands… or an informant’s hands… the Sultan’s men will come. We’d be dangling from gibbets before the harvest ends.” He spoke plainly, without malice, yet Farid bristled.
“Brother, we know the risks,” Farid interjected, stepping forward. Younger and bolder, Farid barely saw twenty-five summers. A shepherd by trade, he had fought in skirmishes against Ottoman tax collectors, and a faded burn scar along his forearm spoke of punishment survived. “We cannot let fear muzzle us. Bedreddin’s words have been whispered in secret for years, and nothing changed. This—” he pointed to the manifesto, “this shouts for change. The people hunger for it.” His breath hung in the cold air as he spoke, passion burning through the whisper. “If we do nothing, we waste this dawn.”
Dawud placed a gentle hand on Farid’s shoulder. “Easy, son.” The old man’s eyes were kind but firm beneath his white brows. “A seed grows quietly before it breaks the ground. We have planted one this morning. Let it take root unseen for a while yet.”
Farid ducked his head, chastened but still smoldering with zeal. Iskandar nodded in agreement with Dawud. “We will share it, Farid,” he said, “but carefully. Hand to hand, only to those we trust.” He managed a small smile to take the sting from his caution. “Our goal is to light a fire, yes, but a controlled fire, one that won’t burn us all to ash if the wind shifts.”
Selim’s posture eased at Iskandar’s words. He had been fearing that youthful fervor might carry the day. Now he inclined his head. “Spoken like one who remembers Karaburun,” Selim murmured, referencing the doomed uprising years ago under Sheikh Bedreddin’s banner. Iskandar did remember, too well. The mention of that coastal slaughter sent a shadow across his face, and an understanding passed silently between the two men who had survived the fall of that dream.
Dawud broke the somber pause by lifting the manifesto from Iskandar’s hands. “I shall hold on to this for now,” he offered gently. “Under my safekeeping at the tekke.” The tekke, the dervish lodge hidden in a nearby hollow, had a secret compartment under the floorboards where precious writings were kept from prying eyes.
At last Iskandar breathed out, releasing tension with the mist of dawn. The assembled followers began to disperse as the sun inched over the horizon. Cloaks were drawn tight, and hushed farewells passed from lip to lip. A few clapped Farid on the back in solidarity; others nodded respectfully to Selim and Dawud. They slipped away in ones and twos along footpaths between fields and vineyards, melting into the ordinary bustle of village life beginning anew. Soon only the core circle remained, Iskandar, Dawud, Selim, and Farid.
Iskandar placed a hand on the rough bark of the oak, feeling its solidity. In that moment he thought of the manifesto now safely tucked in Dawud’s robes, a volatile seed indeed, but one he prayed would grow into something as enduring as this ancient tree. “Thank you, my friends,” he said softly. His eyes met each of theirs in turn. “This was the first step.”
Farid managed a grin, still riding the high of inspiration. “The first of many,” he vowed quietly. Selim gave a thin smile in response, conceding a hint of optimism. Dawud simply bowed his head, a silent benediction.
As they parted ways to avoid drawing notice, a pair heading toward the bakery, another two taking the creekside path, Iskandar stayed a moment longer under the oak. The sun’s rays were stronger now, beginning to burn away the mist. He closed his eyes and murmured a few words of his own, a personal prayer that the day would come when these cautious meetings in dawn’s half-light could blossom into open, honest gatherings beneath the full sun. For now, though, secrecy was their mantle. Iskandar pulled his cloak tighter and stepped away from the tree, vanishing into the waking village like a grey ghost at morning.
Rumors from the West
Night fell gently over the woodlands, bringing with it a biting chill. In a weathered farmhouse tucked among poplar trees, a single lamp burned. Its light leaked through the slats of closed shutters, a lone beacon in the dark for those who knew where to look. Inside, Iskandar and a handful of his closest companions gathered around a rough-hewn table. The air smelled of clay and stored grain. A cauldron still simmered on the hearth from supper, the scent of lentils and garlic lingering as the embers crackled softly.
Selim sat nearest the door, one hand resting on the pommel of a short dagger at his belt. Farid had been pacing in the shadows by the window, but now leaned against the wall, arms folded, foot tapping an anxious rhythm on the dirt floor. Across the table, Sheikh Dawud was thumbing through a strand of prayer beads, lips moving in silent zikr. Iskandar himself stood over the table where a map of the region lay open, weighed at the corners by stones. By the faint lamplight, the lines on his brow seemed carved deeper.
All evening they had spoken about the next steps, which villages might welcome a traveling preacher, how to ferry messages across the Danube without arousing suspicion. “We should move on Basarbova soon,” Farid had argued not an hour past, jabbing at a spot on the map, a river village where Ottoman rule barely reached. “They’re ready. The folk there still remember how Wallachia’s Voivode defied the Sultan. If we spread the word, they’ll join us.” Selim had countered that even if Basarbova’s people were sympathetic, a single spark in one village could draw soldiers from Rusçuk or Silistra to stamp them out. That debate had worn into an uneasy stalemate, and now a heavy quiet draped the farmhouse.
That silence broke with a soft triple rap at the door, an owl’s knock. In an instant, every man in the room was alert. Farid’s hand went to the axe propped near the hearth. Iskandar exchanged a quick glance with Selim, who nodded and pressed himself to the wall, hidden behind the door’s arc.
“Who goes?” Iskandar called quietly in Turkish, voice steady.
A muffled reply came: “A friend of truth.” The correct response to the countersign. Iskandar exhaled and lifted the wooden bar. In slipped a figure bundled in a travel-stained cloak, bringing a gust of cold air and dried leaves. It was Yusuf, one of their agents, cheeks flushed with exertion and relief at being safely inside.
Yusuf pushed back his hood, revealing a youthful face and eyes bright with urgency. Dawud had already moved to hang a thick quilt over the window, smothering the lamplight. Selim clapped the newcomer’s shoulder in greeting, then slid the bar back into place across the door.
“Speak. What news?” Iskandar asked, keeping his voice low. Yusuf’s chest heaved as he caught his breath. He had clearly ridden hard. Mud spattered his boots and the hem of his cloak; a broken twig clung to his hair. They gave him a moment to collect himself. Farid handed Yusuf a cup of water, which he gulped greedily.
“I bring word… from the port at Kavarna,” Yusuf managed at last between breaths. “A Venetian ship arrived five days past, bearing news out of Constantinople and further west.” He looked around at the expectant faces, eyes shining in the lamp’s glow. “They say a new crusade is to be called. The Christians gather against the Sultan.”
Dawud stopped fingering his beads. Farid straightened up from the wall, brows raised. In the close space of the farmhouse, Yusuf’s words seemed to hum in the air. Iskandar felt his pulse quicken, though he remained outwardly still. “Who says this, and what exactly did you hear?” he asked calmly. Information was a double-edged blade, and rumor its often blunt edge.
Yusuf wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “At the tavern, I heard it from a Venetian merchant bragging over wine. The Pope himself is urging all Christian lords to join forces. Emperor Constantine’s victory at Domokos has stirred them up. They talk of King Sigismund of Hungary raising an army. The merchant said the words ‘holy crusade’ more than once.” Yusuf’s voice trembled slightly with excitement on that phrase.
A cold draft snaked under the door as if the night itself shivered at the implications. For a moment, no one spoke. Iskandar closed his eyes, weighing the news. It had an air of truth, the kind of grand alliance Constantine had hinted at when they last spoke face-to-face. He could almost hear Constantine’s voice again in memory: “You will not stand alone, Iskandar. I will give you what you need.” Was this the fruition of that promise?
Farid’s chair scraped as he abruptly sat down, unable to contain a broad grin. “A crusade,” he whispered, marvel and ferocity mingling in his tone. “By God, if the Franks come from the west and we rise from within…” He didn’t finish the thought, but he didn’t need to. His knee bounced under the table, the pent-up energy of long frustration suddenly finding an outlet. “This is the moment we’ve prayed for.”
Across from him, Selim’s expression remained guarded despite a spark in his eyes. He had been in the Sultan’s army long enough to understand what such rumors meant: war on multiple fronts, pressure building like water behind a dam. “Easy, Farid,” he said quietly. “We have confirmation of nothing yet, only tavern talk.”
Farid shot back, “And what if it’s more than talk? The Venetians have sources. If Emperor Constantine is truly bringing the Hungarians and others into this, do we sit on our hands?” He leaned forward, knuckles on the table. “We can’t be the last to move. If armies come, we must be ready to strike, to cut the Sultan’s grip from these lands in one sweep.”
An unsettled murmur came from two elders who sat by the hearth, men who had seen previous uprisings fail. One, old Georgios, shook his head and spoke in halting Turkish for all to understand. “Bold action is needed, yes,” Georgios conceded, “but if this crusade falters, the retribution…” He trailed off, eyes distant with memory. The other elder, Hasan, finished the thought: “We remember the aftermath of Bedreddin’s revolt. Villages burned, bodies on display. We’re only just rebuilding our lives. If we rise too soon, before the foreigners even arrive…” He didn’t need to paint the rest of that picture. Everyone had heard the stories, some had lost family to Ottoman hangmen’s ropes not that long ago.
Farid’s jaw tightened. “Must you always speak of defeat?” he said, though not without respect, these men were like uncles to him. “This time is different. We are not leaderless peasants scrabbling alone. We have a plan. And God willing, we will have allies striking from the west.”
Dawud set his beads down. The lamp’s flame reflected in his thoughtful eyes as he regarded the young firebrand. “The elders speak of caution for good reason, Farid,” he said gently. “Patience is not the same as inaction. We must be sure. If this talk of a crusade holds true, then yes, our time may come at last. But rumors can be as plentiful as autumn leaves and just as quick to scatter on the wind.”
All eyes turned to Iskandar, who had remained silent through the exchanges, absorbing each perspective. He stood with hands braced on the table, the map of the Balkans spread out beneath them all, marked with tiny script and symbols in his own hand. How many nights had he spent poring over this map by lamplight, tracing the fault lines of the Empire, imagining where he might coax those fractures wider when the moment came? Now perhaps that moment loomed on the horizon.
“We will verify,” Iskandar said at length, his voice measured. The authority in his tone quieted the room. Farid stopped bouncing his knee. Dawud inclined his head, waiting. “Yusuf,” Iskandar continued, turning to the courier, “you’ve done well. You must be exhausted. Rest here tonight. At first light, I’ll ask you to ride out again.” Yusuf nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Iskandar straightened and looked around at them all, the hopeful, the fearful, the cautious and the zealous. “We won’t leap blind into an abyss. If a great crusade truly gathers, there will be clearer signs soon enough. We have our own watchers in the port towns and along the roads. We’ll send riders to confirm these tidings from multiple sources.” He managed a faint smile. “If the Pope is truly mustering armies, even the birds in the fields will be singing of it soon.”
A low chuckle broke the tension, Dawud’s warm amusement, echoed by a few others. The image of gossiping birds drew a grin from Farid despite himself.
“Until we know more,” Iskandar went on, “we continue as planned. Quietly. We strengthen our roots. We expand our circle of believers village by village.” He rested a hand on Farid’s shoulder, tempering the younger man’s impatience with a firm squeeze. “When the time is right, when the wind blows in our favor, we’ll be ready to set the fire. Not before.”
Farid took a breath and then nodded, the fight in him gentled by Iskandar’s steady conviction. Selim’s face softened in approval, and the elders traded looks of relief.
Dawud raised a finger. “And if the rumors prove false? If no crusaders come?” It was a question that had to be spoken aloud, however unwelcome.
Iskandar’s jaw tensed, he had asked himself the same late on many sleepless nights. “Then we continue what we have begun,” he answered quietly. “Perhaps more slowly, more carefully. The manifesto, our message… it isn’t dependent on foreign saviors. It lives in the hearts of our people. Crusade or no crusade, that does not change.”
Author's Note: Our dear friend Iskandar makes his return! We'll hear more from him in future chapters. Dobruja, located in the northeast of modern-day Romania, was historically where many of the last followers of Bedreddin sought refuge. And now, it's campaign time in the next chapter!
Comments
RENAISSANSE SI
Absolutely, those are gonna be some really interesting times to explore. Constantine's definitely helping spark some rather modern ideas a bit earlier than in our timeline, and I’ve got a few funny twists planned for where that leads. As for the Ottomans, they’re not yet the powerhouse they become in the 16th century. No massive fleet, and they don’t control the Euphrates just yet, which changes the game quite a bit.
RENAISSANSE SI
Haha, you're not wrong, victory always brings its own kind of chaos. We’ll definitely be seeing lots of developments once the dust starts to settle!
RENAISSANSE SI
Bedreddin. Thank you! Ill edit it.
RENAISSANSE SI
Couldn’t have said it better myself, storm’s coming, and the game’s about to change!
RENAISSANSE SI
Thank you!
Wen L.
Interesting, it reminds me of the final fall of the Ottoman Empire in WWI, except you aren't relying on Arab rebels and T.E. Lawrence. Problem with just a balkan rebellion is that the wealth and breadbasket of the Ottoman Empire is still accessible in the Euphrates. The Ottoman may not have technological superiority in arms at this point, but logistically, they still can field much larger armies and have more manpower from those possessions. Greece gained its independence in our timeline in 1829 through the aid of Great Britain, France, and Russian Empire. Even with the aid of industrialized powers it took 8 years to win the revolution 1821-1829, due to the support of Egyptian vassals to Ottoman Empire. At this point in time, Europe isn't industrialized and Arab world is still under Ottoman control. The Ottoman's also possess a vast fleet in Eastern Mediterranean that remains unequal before the Bettle of Lepanto in 1571, when Spanish-led Holy League fleet of Europe defeated Ottoman Empire. They need to cut off Ottoman by land and sea beyond the Balkans to win a lasting victory. Luckily, Egypt is under Memluk Sultanate at this moment in history and are at odds with Ottoman Empire. The Egyptians will be conquered in our timeline in 1517, so you need to work on getting Memluk to join with Constantine and Iskander against Ottoman to break up Arab support and cut off rich grain supplies of the Euphrates region from Modern Iraq to Syria.
Max Müller
I wounder when the infighting between all the different powers will begin again. I bet as soon as the first major battle is won, they are going to be at each others throat who gets what
Kirra
People like Iskander will most likely try to unite them. Unfortunately, the outcome in many areas will be bloody. You have to keep in mind that to these people, the Turks are invaders.
Pearl of the Orient
Bedreddin’s Besreddin's You switch between a few times. Which spelling is correct?
Hugo23
A lovely chapter and very nice to see Iskander again! It will be interesting to see the interaction once they reach an area with an actual muslim population that wasn't so recently... inserted? It will also be very interesting to see how the Ieros Skopos interacts with them
Elaine
good chappie
russell marsh
Storm clouds gather over Europe and when they break nothing will ever be the same
RENAISSANSE SI
Yep, there’s a small time skip of a few months, we’ll pick up in early spring and catch the early phases of the campaign as it builds up from there. No battles just yet in the next chapters, but the tension’s coming!
de la Fouchardiere
ooh campaign time already ? Is there a couple of months time skip from the last chapter, to the next spring ?
