The weather is exceptionally clear.
Manuel, gazing down at the calm sea with not a cloud in sight nor a strong wave to be seen, murmured absentmindedly to himself. The Golden Horn, bustling with trading ships, still brimmed with life, a stark contrast to the declining empire.
The aging emperor, observing these lively scenes, sank into reflection. Yet that vigor, too, was nothing more than a hollow illusion.
They were mere worker ants, moving not for the empire’s wealth but for foreign riches.
They were scavengers, feasting on the fallen body of the empire.
“…I feel dizzy. My body is too old to ponder the future.”
Manuel had once knelt before the sacred icon in Hagia Sophia, fervently praying that the empire would endure through his reign. Perhaps his pleas had been heard, for the empire miraculously survived, gathering its last strength through the Ottoman’s disunity.
Nevertheless, the goddess of fate remained indifferent.
Oh, my God, why do you treat this poor old man so harshly?
It wasn’t only foreign affairs that troubled Manuel. The ominous atmosphere within the empire weighed heavily on him. Had the title of emperor of a thousand-year empire been so coveted?
The fierce conflicts among the princes over the throne threatened even the empire’s fragile remnants. How could Manuel, for whom all the princes were his sons, bear such a burden? The thought of them drawing swords against each other tormented him daily.
It was simply agonizing.
Knowing that his sons hated each other.
The realization that the civil war he had tried so hard to prevent might break out because of his sons.
If, heaven forbid, that dreadful scenario came to pass, it would be Manuel’s decision in this despairing moment that would shine. He had already designated his successor and co-emperor, John, but Theodore, always waiting for an opportunity, and Constantine, the de facto ruler of Morea, were also contenders. The choice among the three would determine the empire’s fate.
Knowing how much a ruler’s authority could be damaged by reversing a decision, Manuel had no intention of doing so. Yet, understanding what mattered more than authority, Manuel was prepared to decide who was most suited for the throne.
Excluding Theodore, who, aside from his ambition, showed no exceptional traits, the empire needed a proven and capable leader. The timing for Theodore’s bid for the throne was too unfortunate. Regrettably, his abilities lagged far behind the other two candidates.
John, with his innate diplomatic skills, might have been suitable. He knew well how to garner the support of the people. However, his passionate temperament posed a problem. What might have been seen as bravery during the empire’s stronger days was now sheer recklessness.
In the end, Manuel let out a sigh filled with lament.
The answer was clear.
“…Constantine.”
If only he hadn’t been so young then.
Now Constantine, demonstrating his capabilities, was steadily advancing toward the throne. Naturally, for the current co-emperor, John, Constantine’s actions would be irritating. How could he merely watch? Manuel’s heart ached. The power to control the situation had long slipped from the old emperor’s grasp.
All that remained was to support the son who had gained the upper hand, to end the civil war as quickly as possible. This way, the situation wouldn’t deteriorate further. A faint hope lingered in Manuel’s suffering heart.
But trials did not spare him.
On November 17, 1420.
Mustafa, the last son of Bayezid, believed to have died long ago in battle against Timur, appeared in the Balkans. He challenged Mehmed I for his right and soon gained Venice’s support. Feeling threatened by the newly established Ottoman fleet, Venice allied with Mustafa, who aspired to become sultan.
The alliance was formed.
Facilitated by Venice, Mustafa made contact with Serbia. King Stefan Lazarević of Serbia saw this as an opportunity. He was determined to avenge the two recent defeats. Supporting Mustafa, Stefan resolved to crush the Ottomans before they could rise further.
Serbia soon mobilized an army of 7,000.
Ultimately, these changes in circumstances manifested in the very form Manuel had feared most.
Calls grew louder for the empire to seize this opportunity and launch a counterattack against the Ottomans. The delicate balance between the war faction and the moderate faction finally crumbled. The war faction’s confidence wasn’t entirely baseless.
The centuries-long efforts to reclaim and prosper in the Peloponnesian Peninsula.
Wasn’t there a competent administrator who had achieved both of these goals at once? Ironically, it was none other than Prince Constantine who supported the war faction’s arguments.
Though his ambiguous stance drew criticism from both sides, he leaned closer to the war faction. Constantine had long said that when the time was right, a counterattack must be launched.
The war faction was now convinced that the time Constantine referred to had arrived.
Young Emperor John further fueled the war faction’s fervor.
“The Ottomans have grown stronger over the past seven years.
Now, as a new internal conflict seems imminent, we face our last chance to rectify the mistake of letting the sultan escape in the past.
Those who face trials must always be vigilant, and one must not miss the opportunities that come their way.
We must use this counterattack to show the world that the empire is still alive and secure alliances!”
As the empire’s downfall became more apparent, the public, steeped in old traditions, clearly favoured one side. The war faction, backed by public support, denounced the moderates as collaborators with the heretics, intensifying the capital’s war fervor. Voices of the masses clamoring for a holy war against the Ottomans echoed throughout the city, their hatred burning bright.
The situation shook on the edge of a unstable, full-scale war with the Ottomans.
It was inevitable that Manuel, who could be considered the leader of the moderates, worried about the fervor consuming the capital.
“I have often feared whether the youthful fervor would open a path to save the empire or cause us to lose even what little we have left.”
Perhaps God would answer the prayers of the youth. Yet, his intuition as a seasoned politician sternly warned him otherwise. This path would only hasten their destruction. The Ottomans had overcome the chaos following Bayezid’s death and emerged as a unified dynasty. With Mustafa’s military capabilities still uncertain, this was too great a gamble.
Having reached this conclusion, Manuel looked down at the young secretary prostrated before him—Young Sphrantzes.
“However, the future of the empire is no longer decided by this hollow emperor ruling this city. The true determinant of the empire’s future is but one person. Sphrantzes, you know who that is.”
Sphrantzes’ round eyes turned to the old emperor. His youthful, endearing face, which evoked maternal instincts in many women, contrasted sharply with the cold reality of his words.
“It will depend on the decisions made by Prince Constantine.”
“…I have long hesitated, but now I can give a clear answer. Constantine, only that child can stand as a true adversary against the Ottomans.”
Sphrantzes’ eyes widened in surprise. His face turned pale at the emperor’s unexpected declaration, then flushed red with a mix of excitement and tension. Though he remained calm, his voice quivered faintly.
“Do you mean to say…”
“Just deliver the message. Tell him the aged emperor has said so. Constantine, that brilliant child, will quickly grasp my intentions.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Sphrantzes bowed his head. Yet, his mind was consumed with thoughts about this decision. Hadn’t the succession already been established? For the emperor himself to revoke it would be equal to igniting a succession dispute.
Your Majesty.
How will you discern whether this painful decision was right or wrong?
Sphrantzes, silently mulling over the words that nearly escaped his lips, quietly withdrew.
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