Leaving behind the ruins of the villages, the soldiers departed, while the ones stationed atop the fortress walls merely watched. This had already happened several times, so neither side seemed overly tense. They merely glared at one another, their brows furrowed.
The soldiers stationed atop the supposedly impregnable walls often clicked their tongues as they watched the Ottoman forces march away with their swords unsheathed. Even so, there was no way they could storm out through the gates—they could only sneer.
“Which village is it this time?”
“Hmph, it seems they’re resorting to provocations, knowing they stand no real chance.”
On the 54th day of the siege, the Ottomans, who had stormed in with overwhelming momentum, were unexpectedly refraining from direct engagement. Instead, they pillaged the surrounding areas while avoiding casualties.
As a result, Constantinople found itself in an endless standoff. After a few siege attempts during the initial stages, the Ottomans had shown little movement, and the eerie silence had persisted ever since.
Despite the Ottomans’ passive stance, no one in the capital dared to suggest launching an attack. The catastrophic failure of Theodoros’ overconfident campaign had served as a harsh reminder that Constantinople could not stand against Murad. As a result, while the 8,000-strong forces worried over potential conflict, the situation became deadlocked, concluding in an unpleasant standoff.
Thus, the ongoing standoff, aside from the diminished influence of the war advocates and the fact that troops had been mobilized, was eerily quiet, to the point it could almost be called peace. Naturally, this uneasy peace was thanks to the imposing triple-layered walls. But more fundamentally, it was because Murad’s focus wasn’t on this ancient city. His eyes were set elsewhere, and during the prolonged siege, he endured, patiently working to achieve his true aim.
Patience always bears its reward.
Within his tent, Murad let out a cheer and laughed as the news he had long awaited finally arrived.
“Indeed, it was inevitable! The moment they realized they couldn’t fight where they had intended, they moved swiftly!”
Prince Dragaš of Morea had finally taken action. Though it wasn’t clear when the preparations had begun, the sight of soldiers gathering in Athens suggested they had been readying themselves even before receiving urgent news of Constantinople’s danger.
Had Murad’s focus on Venice’s maneuvers and Mustafa’s activities allowed this opportunity? In this window, Morea had likely completed significant preparations for war.
Once they realized the Ottoman forces were targeting the Empire, they had likely abandoned their cautious stance and begun advancing north. Overcome with anticipation, Murad continued reading the letter sent by his spy. The estimated size of Dragaš’s forces was 5,000 to 6,000. Though numerically insufficient, the spy reported that the equipment of Morea’s troops was astonishingly advanced.
Sending someone familiar with military organization had been a wise decision. The soldiers’ armament provided clear distinctions: those with chainmail and long spears, others with light armor, short swords, and shields, and even a few wielding massive scythes. This information was invaluable for Murad, though it was likely a nightmare for Dragaš.
However, the information on the officer corps was underwhelming. They were mostly unknown figures, aside from one former bureaucrat elevated to vice-commander by Dragaš’s trust, and a mercenary captain who stood out somewhat. Even this seemed to have been learned only because of their rank; none of them appeared to be proven leaders.
The spy, as if emphasizing this point, declared that there was only one truly threatening figure in Morea.
“My Sultan, despite the dire circumstances, the city remains calm, and its people go about their daily lives.
Though none can stand against the Janissaries, the soldiers led by Dragaš are brimming with morale. They may not match the Janissaries in strength, but they are prepared to die fighting them. This is all due to one reason—Dragašes himself. If he is captured, Morea will surely crumble in an instant.”
Murad smiled at the acknowledgment of his rival. What a monarch worthy of respect! The rivalry between the Emperor and the Prince was infamous even within the Ottoman Empire. Many factions had even sought to place the Prince on the imperial throne. However, Dragaš had refused the title of Emperor for one reason alone: his unyielding resolve not to plunge the nation into the chaos of civil war.
As for his personal life, no rumours of indulgence in luxury, lewdness or corruption had ever emerged about Dragaš. Not a single scandalous story that often accompanies men of power, nor whispers of unconventional preferences in the absence of such rumors. What could this mean? In recent memory, how many rulers had inspired such unwavering trust among their people?
One could not help but admire the sheer determination that had brought him this far, driven solely by the desire to save his nation teetering on the brink of destruction. And perhaps the truest form of respect was to sever the lingering attachments and delusions that such a noble figure could not yet let go. There was no longer any reason to remain here. After calming his laboured breaths, Murad spoke to his soldiers.
“Lift the siege. We will strike Dragaš, who has begun marching north from Morea.”
“As you command.”
Soon, cries relaying the order to withdraw echoed in all directions. Murad’s focus had long since shifted elsewhere.
Though he had drawn Dragaš out, it was certain that the prince would never advance as far as Edirne’s vicinity. Had the siege persisted, Dragaš would likely have chosen guerrilla tactics, balancing his political standing with minimizing losses among his troops.
But since Constantinople was not Murad’s true goal, such efforts would have been meaningless. Dragaš, too, must have realized this and would undoubtedly halt his advance at a certain point.
It was no longer possible to lure him further. Once Dragaš deemed the situation hopeless, he might even retreat to preserve his forces for the restoration of the Empire. Murad held a subtle certainty about this possibility.
Of course, the solution was simple.
To those who long for hope, one need to only present the illusion of hope.
“Dragaš, I will move as you wish. A moving bait is far more tempting, after all.”
No matter how much he tried to avoid battle, if Murad personally descended upon the battlefield, Dragaš would be unable to retreat so easily. War was not merely a contest of brute force between soldiers. Conflicts between nations involved countless factors beyond physical strength. And so, Dragaš inevitably faced limitations he could not overcome.
“Truly unfortunate.”
From Dragaš’s actions and words, it was evident that he had confidence in his abilities. Indeed, his capabilities were indispensable to the Empire. However, overthrowing the firmly established succession would have required plunging the nation into civil war.
Thus, Dragaš remained a prince—for the sake of preventing the Empire’s division and preserving its strength. Murad would not say that choice was wrong. But he would ensure that Dragaš learned the two sides in every decision.
Resolving himself, Murad stepped out of his tent. For over a month, he had gazed at the triple-layered walls. Their crumbling state, as if symbolizing the decay of the Empire, drew a smirk to his lips.
“Foolish ones, bolt your gates shut and never open them. You are the rulers within these walls, and I shall rule all that lies beyond them.”
And the moment I have control over everything beyond your gates, you will open them yourselves.
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