The revenge from the Ottomans—long foreseen ever since Emperor Dragases was enthroned as co-emperor—was carried out with an unparalleled thoroughness.
The sword that was originally meant for the Turkic principalities like Karaman was now pointed at the ancient capital. Before long, a force of no less than eight thousand soldiers swept through the Thracian region.
If not for the triple walls, the city might have already fallen.
The other areas without those walls stood no chance of holding.
The lands that had been barely secured through Manuel’s cleverness were thus returned to Ottoman hands.
The speed of it shocked everyone. Those who had doubted Ottoman supremacy abandoned their hostility when, within a month, much of Thrace—including Selymbria—fell. But the Ottomans vengeance didn’t end there.
“This is not enough. I have yet to hold to account those who broke their oath.”
The Sultan no longer cared for the Thracian region that had accepted Ottoman rule. Instead, his gaze turned toward the ancient capital itself—Constantinople. With no power left to resist the Ottomans, Murad’s decision quickly turned into action. Thus began a suffocating siege.
The surviving Ottoman fleet from the previous war assembled near the Golden Horn, and an army of eight thousand blocked every land route to Constantinople. The ancient city was isolated again, just like years before.
Only one thing was different this time:
—There was no one left to call for help.
All the capital could do in response was muster its meager forces. The soldiers were deployed to the walls by the other emperor, John, and as they prepared for a siege, the people gathered in churches to pray. A long trial of patience had begun for the city.
It was during these siege preparations that the Ottoman envoys arrived.
Among the envoy’s was a boy who looked far too young, accompanied by a man who guarded him confidently, shoulders straight. Yet it was the Janissaries escorting them that drew the most attention. The personal guard of the Sultan, loyal only to his command.
Seeing the Janissaries, the Imperial Guard remained on edge. Dozens of them entered the palace.
If they harbored any hidden motives, who could stop them? And if they couldn’t be stopped, how were they to interpret their presence in a diplomatic envoy?
Everyone who witnessed the procession had the same question. Even the emperor of a thousand-year-old empire was no exception.
The audience chamber of the Blachernae Palace.
As they entered, the Janissaries formed a tight formation reminiscent of a square phalanx. Only the front was left open, revealing just two figures at the center—a young boy and an Ottoman officer standing proudly at his side. It was the officer who first raised his head towards John.
“This is the son of your lord, the Sultan. Show your respect.”
“Your lord, is it…”
The very first words were already infuriating. John murmured bitterly to himself, but couldn’t fully suppress the rage boiling inside him.
Thanks to the dedication and cunning of Emperor Manuel, the Empire had freed itself from Ottoman vassalage decades ago.
And yet they still claimed them as vassals—how shameless. John clenched his fist tightly to restrain the urge to scream at them to leave.
Just as his lips began to tremble with fury, someone behind the throne made their presence known. The emperor turned instinctively, but even before looking, he knew who it was by the voice.
“Have patience, Your Majesty.”
It was Georgios Sphrantzes, the secretary who had followed the former emperor. A loyal and silent servant of the throne.
With dozens of Janissaries in the palace, any outburst would only give the enemy the advantage. Perhaps this was even meant as provocation. Just as Sphrantzes had said—now was the time to endure.
So, instead of unleashing his anger, the young emperor chose to challenge the envoy with a voice that trembled ever so slightly.
“Do not spout nonsense. The Empire may have once allied with the Ottomans, but we were never your vassals.”
No one believed that the alliance still held any weight now. But it was essential to assert that they had never been vassals—to remind them that they had once stood as equals.
Whether or not that meant anything to the Ottoman envoy—Ishak Pasha—was unclear. Ishak briefly curled the corner of his lips, then approached with deliberate confidence and laid a letter on the ground.
“Take it and read. The merciful Sultan offers forgiveness for all betrayals up to now. The conditions for his mercy are written within.”
“…Bring it here, Sphrantzes.”
“As you command.”
As Sphrantzes stepped forward and bent down to retrieve the letter, Ishak Pasha’s voice echoed softly through the chamber.
“Cowardly emperor.”
An insult so casually thrown in the heart of the court. The one most startled by it was the young boy in the envoy. But Ishak Pasha merely shrugged in the face of the glares turned on him.
Coward, he said. John ground his teeth quietly at the insult, emotions roiling beneath his calm. That was all he could do.
As Sphrantzes returned with the letter, he murmured a quiet consolation:
“You endured well, Your Majesty.”
The gentle, reassuring tone of the small voice calmed John. Only then did he regain his composure and close his eyes for a moment.
“Is this what it means to endure?”
He hadn’t realized how painful it would be to suffer in silence for the sake of a vague and distant future. And in this audience hall, filled with Janissaries, there was no one he could share that burden with.
As emperor, he could show no weakness before the Ottoman envoys. The pressure to remain composed demanded even greater endurance.
So John reaffirmed his vow:
“I will not let Constantine—that child—suffer all this in my stead. As I swore before the Lord in my father’s name, I will be his scabbard until the end.”
Now that he had earned his father’s trust, he would repay it—no matter the cost. Motivating himself forward with that conviction, John found clarity. He was now ready to face the letter’s contents. In a calm voice, he urged Sphrantzes:
“Sphrantzes, read it aloud.”
“…From the Sultan of the Ottomans, Murad, to the Emperor of Constantinople.”
As John braced himself and the Ottoman envoys remained silent, Sphrantzes began to speak. And thus, through his voice, Murad’s roar echoed in the hall.
“I have long promised freedom of faith to the Christians and faithfully upheld it. I honored the alliance made in my father’s time and preserved peace with you.
But from the moment I inherited the title of Sultan, you cast aside both the alliance and the oath made before God.
I punished Thrace because they broke their vow to God. And now, I come to exact the price of your betrayal—not only from your city, but from you, Emperor.”
“……….”
“Though there may be no trust left, the alliance between us was forged in our fathers’ time.
In honour of my father’s legacy and the alliance he established, I shall grant you generous and merciful terms of peace.”
“And what are those terms, Sphrantzes?”
“…First. Emperor John of Constantinople shall come to the court at Edirne and kiss the foot of the Sultan to swear his fealty as a vassal.”
At that moment—
Ishak, who had been silently listening to Murad’s letter, stepped forward once more.
The imperial guards attempted to draw their swords, but were quickly restrained by the dozens of Janissaries already occupying the center of the court.
Ishak Pasha glanced around at the scene and then burst into a mocking laugh as he turned his gaze to the Emperor of the capital.
“Do you now understand what I meant by calling you ‘our lord,’ Emperor of Constantinople?”
This harsh insult once again shook John’s composure.
His face flushed red with fury and agitation—undeniable proof of his anger.
However, he soon calmed himself by drawing long, slow breaths.
If they were provoking him this deliberately, it was surely because they had something planned.
That thought was the only thing keeping John steady.
“…You said ‘first,’ so I assume there’s more. Go on, Sphrantzes.”
“…Second.”
Even Sphrantzes, who always seemed so blunt, faltered at the next condition—it was not something easy to speak of.
But continuing to stand silently would benefit no one.
With the Sultan’s envoys provoking them this persistently, there was no telling when John might snap.
At last, Sphrantzes gave a short, strained sigh and pressed on.
“…The repaired triple walls shall be torn down by the Emperor’s own subjects.”
“……”
Surprisingly, John did not visibly react to this statement.
He merely blinked a few times, brought his right hand to his lips, and began stroking his chin repeatedly.
But he couldn’t completely hide the trembling of his fingers.
A long silence followed, broken only by the Emperor himself.
“…How bitter this is.”
Was this the fate of a fallen nation?
A wretched reality, one that might seem obvious enough to warrant surrender.
Indeed, countless others had already turned their backs on the crumbling empire.
John had never completely abandoned it, but he had once accepted it himself.
But he would not accept it any longer.
If this was a time for endurance, then he would endure—and prevail.
John silently recalled, over and over again, the lands lost in helplessness, the deaths he could only watch in powerlessness, and the vow he once made: to become a scabbard.
Now, that vow moved him.
“Leave.”
The Janissaries immediately grew tense, their presence sharpening like blades.
Ishak narrowed his eyes into a piercing glare.
The imperial guards placed their hands on their hilts, ready for what might come next.
It was a standoff so taut that blood could spill at the slightest command.
And at that edge of catastrophe, it was a boy—one who had been silently watching the exchange—who finally spoke.
“I cannot understand you, Emperor of Constantinople. Why do you reject peace?”
“Peace, you say?”
“You were the ones who broke the alliance first. It was your side that brought war upon us. And yet we’ve demanded no brutal tribute in return. All we ask is a vow of vassalage and for the walls to be torn down. Why must you respond with such outrage?”
“If the Sultan demands I lick his foot, I could do it. If he wants me to bow my head, I could kneel. But I will never concede the triple walls.”
“And what could possibly make those walls so sacred—?!”
The Emperor of the capital hesitated.
Not because he lacked an answer, but because too many came to mind.
What could the triple walls mean?
The final legacy of a thousand-year-old empire in decline?
The last bastion holding the empire together?
Or simply crumbling stones that once symbolized a lost glory?
To all these questions he threw at himself, John shook his head.
“The restoration of the triple walls is proof—of the trust this city’s people have placed in my brother. It is a pledge to wait, no matter how long it takes. That is why I cannot yield them. Son of the Sultan, leave my sight and tell your Sultan this, word for word: I will hold to my trust in my brother to the end. This city shall not surrender.”
“Are you going to drag everyone in this city to their deaths?!”
“That’s enough, Prince Ahmed.”
A harshly growling Ahmed was stopped by Ishak stepping in front of him.
With a gentle gaze, he looked back at the prince, then turned once more to John.
But unlike the warmth he showed Ahmed, the eyes he now cast at the Emperor were cold as a hunting hound’s—bared fangs behind a predator’s roar.
“Then seal your gates tight and never open them, fool. Remain the emperor of your city, if you must. The Ottomans shall rule all beyond those gates. That is the Sultan’s final message to you.”
With those words, Ishak turned and began to lead Ahmed out of the audience chamber.
The Janissaries who had occupied the court slowly withdrew, casting fierce glances around as they retreated.
Only after they were gone did the imperial guards finally let out sighs of relief.
But John had no time to share in that relief—he was already deep in thought.
The Ottomans had already surrounded the entire capital.
The siege would likely continue for a long time.
Perhaps even years.
In the face of such a prolonged ordeal, what must he do?
After some deliberation, John called out.
“Sphrantzes, are you still nearby?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“…Summon Kantakouzenos.”
“Which Kantakouzenos do you mean, sire?”
“You know perfectly well what I call her. Don’t play your little games. I mean Kantakouzenos, the one charged with the defense of the capital.”
“…As you command, Your Majesty.”
With a quiet bow, Sphrantzes withdrew.
Through the less footsteps and fading presence, John confirmed the young secretary had left properly.
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