When it had been about two months since Murad II had raised his army, news of the catastrophic defeat of 8,000 Bulgarians against an equal number of enemies struck like a thunderbolt among those who had hoped for Mustafa’s success.
The revolt, which had rallied immediate support as soon as 12,000 troops marched southward, had been seen as a timely blessing from heaven. At least, that’s what the war hawks of the empire believed—until Murad II completely subdued the rebellion while sustaining barely a few hundred casualties.
Doubts began to arise: had their decision truly been the right one? But for now, the mood in the capital did not shift. Even if the rebellion had been crushed, the 12,000-strong army led by Great Mustafa still remained intact.
To prove whether this belief was indeed justified, Murad and Mustafa now stood on the same battlefield. The turning point came when Murad, who had been crushing the Bulgarians with overwhelming force in an initial forced march, suddenly halted his advance. Mustafa saw this as an opportunity and pushed further southward.
When the two forces finally confronted each other, Murad thought Mustafa’s army might signal an immediate attack. Yet, observing the unshaken formation of his opponent, he reconsidered. Unlike the previous day when Mustafa had boldly decided to march south, now he chose to cautiously maintain his stance.
With their forces facing off, the first thing Murad did was examine the enemy’s formation. Perhaps mindful of the devastating flank attacks carried out by the Sipahi cavalry in the previous battle, Mustafa positioned his left wing on a slight ridge, addressing his vulnerabilities. If Murad recklessly ordered an assault, it would result in significant casualties.
“Send the slaves forward to advance.”
Despite this, Murad gave the order to attack. As the signal for battle was raised and a heavy horn blared, the clash began. Mustafa’s troops, however, showed no movement, maintaining their ranks. Only when the opposing forces drew near did they pull back their infantry by a step. Replacing them were archers, arrows drawn to their bows. Not a single one loosed early.
The first arrows were loosed at the sound of a shrill whistle, piercing the air.
A volley of arrows filled the gap between Murad’s and Mustafa’s forces, their sharp tips slicing through the wind with the cry of tight bowstrings. The projectiles tore into unprotected flesh, and the agonized cries of the wounded were soon drowned out by the constant whistle of arrows cutting through the air.
Yet the slaves showed no signs of retreating. Eventually, realizing that allowing further approach would put their archers at risk, Mustafa’s infantry stepped forward once again to meet them.
“Waahhh!”
The clash was immediate. Each impact of blade against blade rang out, weighing life against death. Crude shields were raised to deflect the spears thrust by Mustafa’s soldiers, but a single shield was never enough to block all the spearheads. The tide of battle shifted quickly. Murad’s forces began to falter under the pressure of their reckless assault. When the slaves, realizing the fight was lost, abandoned the battle and fled, the collapse was irreversible.
Mustafa’s forces would not let them escape.
“The enemy is falling back! Pursue them!”
The soldiers eagerly chased after the retreating slaves, showing no mercy to those who had turned their backs. The pursuit went on for some time, with Mustafa’s forces mercilessly cutting down the fleeing slaves. Victory seemed all but certain. Such a belief wasn’t unfounded—until white-capped soldiers began to appear.
Shiiing—
A swift, sharp slash severed a neck in an instant. The curved blade, designed for efficient cutting, was now stained with blood. Bodies fell, their lives snuffed out effortlessly. Mustafa’s soldiers, drunk on the thrill of the chase, were caught completely off guard by the sudden reversal.
“What… what’s happening…?”
The ease with which their comrades were cut down left them questioning whether humans were truly so fragile. Had they not witnessed the fountains of blood erupting from cleanly sliced necks, they might have been lost in their thoughts for much longer. But reality had no patience for their hesitation.
When they turned their heads to see who their opponents were, they were met with calm, unyielding gazes brimming with determination and murderous intent. The disciplined movements, honed like steel, revealed their identity.
The distinctive white caps confirmed their worst fears, plunging them into terror.
How could they not recognize them?
How could anyone hope to stand against them?
“Janissaries!”
As the soldiers’ panicked cries echoed, Murad, now standing before them, drew his sword. He revealed the blade, steeped in the legacy of the early Ottoman conquests—a legendary weapon embodying their unwavering will.
“Strike the enemy, Janissaries!”
At Murad’s command, the Ottoman blades began their massacre without hesitation or doubt. It was an overwhelming assault, brutal enough to be called a slaughter. Mustafa’s forces, drunk on their earlier success and pursuit, were nothing more than insects rushing toward a flame before the Janissaries. Their reckless bloodlust had broken their formation and stretched their lines too thin.
This, precisely, was Murad’s intention.
The sudden reversal of fortune, brought about by the arrival of the Janissaries, threw Mustafa’s soldiers into confusion. Their panic grew when the sound of horses reached their ears. They had positioned themselves on the hill earlier to guard against cavalry flank attacks. But now, as they chased the fleeing enemy, where were they?
The Sipahis answered the question.
Their arrival crushed what little hope Mustafa’s soldiers had left.
“Uwaaahhhh!”
Only Mustafa’s men screamed in terror. The Sipahis and Janissaries made no such sound. Even in the face of death, they did not cry out. They simply fulfilled their duty with silent precision, demonstrating their unshakable discipline. Without showing any emotion or hesitation, they spilled the blood of the Sultan’s enemies onto the cold, hard ground.
As the chaotic battle seemed destined to end in Murad’s victory, a dramatic change swept through Mustafa’s forces. Realizing the hopelessness of the situation, Mustafa decided to retreat, abandoning those who were being slaughtered behind him.
But could Mustafa know that even this retreat had been anticipated by Murad?
The hasty retreat was suddenly interrupted by the sound of shouts from behind Mustafa’s army. Along with the faint clanging of metal and desperate screams carried on the wind, the reality of what was happening dawned on them. Watching the obliteration of Mustafa’s forces unfold, Murad allowed a faint smile to play across his lips.
“It seems the Bey’s forces have arrived on time.” *Bey is a rank in the Ottoman Empire
Mustafa must have believed his troops had paused to regroup. That, too, was partially true. But it was said that leading an army should accomplish more than a single goal. Murad had halted his forces earlier, not just to consolidate his strength but to buy time for the Bey’s army—freed by the failed Bulgarian rebellion—to arrive.
Mustafa had failed to grasp this strategy, and the battlefield was the result of that oversight.
As Murad surveyed the field for a while, something seemed to come to mind. He spurred his horse forward, dashing across the battlefield. Even as the Sultan approached, Mustafa’s soldiers, having lost their will to fight, scattered in a desperate attempt to flee. Thanks to their panic, Murad reached his destination quickly: the frontlines of Mustafa’s crumbling forces.
There was no longer a proud army of 12,000 marching south with confidence. Only piles of corpses and a single man wailing in despair remained.
“Why? How could I have lost?! I am the son of the Conqueror, Bayezid! I cannot lose to the son of a feeble Mehmed!”
But there was no one left alive to sympathize with Mustafa’s anguish. Surrounded by enemy spears, he swung his blade wildly, like a wounded beast, but the encirclement held firm. After wasting his strength in vain, Mustafa eventually dropped his sword. Watching this pitiful scene, Murad bit his lower lip.
Was this truly the man who had dared challenge him for the Sultan’s throne?
Was this wretched figure truly of the same blood as him?
As an heir to the Ottoman line and a devout Muslim, this disgrace could not be forgiven. Murad, gripping the legendary sword passed down through the generations of Ottoman Sultans, directed its blade toward Mustafa.
“This is why,” Murad said.
“W-what did you say?”
“The reason you lost is because you are Bayezid’s son.”
With each step Murad took toward him, his resolve grew firmer. Mustafa’s trembling eyes only strengthened his determination.
“Are you saying I am weaker than feeble Mehmed?!”
“You stood on this battlefield as Bayezid’s son. I stood on this battlefield as the Sultan of the Ottomans.”
The blood of the Ottomans would be reclaimed by the Ottomans. Holding the sword, Murad rested its blade against Mustafa’s neck and looked down at him with icy disdain.
“A Sultan has no reason to lose to a mere son.”
TL : Don’t get confused, as mentioned in the earlier chapters, two heirs to the sultan’s title fled from the Ottoman Empire, both named Mustafa. The Mustafa in this chapter is Bayezid’s son, making him Mehmed’s brother.
Here’s the family tree :
Murad I (d. 1389)
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Bayezid I (1360–1403)
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Mehmed I – Mustafa Çelebi
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Murad II – Küçük Mustafa
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Mehmed II (1432–1481) (Mehmed the Conqueror)
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