Mustafa, who had called himself the son of Bayezid and demanded the throne, was dead.
The Bulgarian uprising, which had erupted in response to his call, was thoroughly crushed as well. With this, Murad’s abilities, which had been put to the test, were fully proven. Leading an army of 8,000, he had utterly annihilated a combined enemy force of 20,000. What followed was the victor’s decree.
“I will ensure they never rise in rebellion again.”
All aspect of leniency previously offered under the guise of mercy was withdrawn. Under Murad’s orders, the devshirme system was implemented on a large scale, forcing the Bulgarians to either give up their children to the Sultan or pay even harsher taxes.
Numerous Orthodox churches were forcibly converted into mosques, and instead of the religious freedom they had longed for, the people faced forced conversions.
But Murad had no intention of withdrawing his army.
The reason for this rebellion was evident—no further deliberation was needed. The empire. The so-called “Thousand-Year Empire,” now little more than an empty shell clinging to the illusion of past glory, had orchestrated this. And how much blood had been spilled because of it? How many had been driven to their deaths by futile hopes?
The empire deserved punishment.
At the same time, Murad thought of the man he had come to regard as his rival.
“Dragases… Surely, this was not your doing.”
It was unthinkable that Prince Constantine Dragases, who had only recently succeeded in reclaiming central Greece, would have instigated such reckless actions. Just as Constantine Dragases held Murad in high regard, Murad respected Dragases in return.
If it were Dragases, he would have waited for a more decisive moment. Knowing that the empire alone could not oppose him, Dragases would have patiently laid his traps.
For a fleeting moment, regret brushed through Murad’s heart. If Dragases had gained enough strength, he would undoubtedly have waged a glorious fight against Murad. The thought of having to confront the honorable rival he had so long desired right now troubled Murad deeply. But Murad had a higher duty to fulfill.
As Sultan, he bore the sacred responsibility of bringing the Prophet’s prophecy to reality—a duty befitting the most devout Muslim.
“What a pity,” he murmured. “That this will be both our first and last encounter.”
The narrow width of the Isthmus, where a wall could easily block thousands of troops, was not where Dragases placed his focus. Instead, the fortresses spread across the entirety of the Peloponnese made it clear what he had in mind. The young lord of Morea must have determined that the 6-kilometer-long Hexamilion Wall alone could not hold back the Ottoman forces. He likely envisioned a war of attrition drawn into his own territory.
If his plan succeeded, Murad would undoubtedly be forced to endure considerable losses. It was a defensive measure designed to make attacking Morea, with its naturally rugged terrain, even more undesirable.
However, there was no need for Murad to fight on the battlefield that Dragases desired. Drawing the enemy into favourable terrain was a fundamental strategy, and Murad had both the resources and the capability to make that happen. Quietly smiling, Murad pictured Dragases simmering in frustration.
How does it feel to know everything, yet still be unable to avoid the trap?
Constantinople—the city of cities, the throne of the Thousand-Year Empire. By attacking it, Dragases, as the ruler of Morea, would be compelled to lead his army northward. As part of the empire, it was an unavoidable obligation. Should he refuse, the situation would become even simpler. The pretext of being “an ally of the Ottomans” would vanish, allowing Murad to launch an unrestrained offensive.
Though the alliance was already effectively broken, the difference between a nation protected by Constantinople’s grand triple walls and one centered on a mere provincial city like Mistra was vast. At least for now, Morea could rest easy knowing its capital wouldn’t be overrun. Moreover, given Dragases’s nature—keenly aware of his own nation’s political situation—he would never retreat solely to protect Morea.
To do so would undermine his lifelong efforts dedicated to rebuilding the empire. Thus, he would be dragged to a battlefield chosen not by him but by his enemy. From the outset, Murad had no reason to concern himself with lesser figures like Mustafa or the emperor of the empire, John.
Everything was orchestrated to draw out Dragases, who remained deeply entrenched in Morea.
Without Dragases, Morea was nothing more than an empty husk. Murad knew this because Dragases was the sole reason the empire had held out this long. That was why Murad considered him his true rival.
Standing before the distant, towering triple walls, Murad could feel it in his gut: defeating Dragases now would herald the empire’s collapse. Slowly but surely, his men marched toward the great walls, their advance carrying the weight of this inevitable outcome.
“Come forth before it’s too late, Dragases. I will put an end to the Thousand-Year Empire you have fought so desperately to protect.”
And then, tell me—
Tell me of the bitterness of knowing everything yet being powerless to prevent it.
Suppressing a satisfied smile, Murad spurred his horse forward. His goal was not the declining city shielded by the triple walls. His true target was Dragases. Would the man Murad had deemed a worthy rival crumble helplessly?
A faint sense of anticipation, coupled with the certainty of victory, coursed through Murad as he pressed on.
Leave a Reply