For a while, the emperor’s office had seemed quiet—but once again, it was filled with the presence of others.
That was because all the key figures, save for those dispatched to distant provinces or resting like Ivania, had gathered in one place.
Among them were Francisco, who commanded the cavalry, the Latin troops’ overseer; Halid, who led the Murtati; Bishop Nikephoros, who had been preparing to depart from Morea; and finally, Gemistos Plethon, who had come after tending to his students. As soon as they assembled, the emperor looked around at each of them.
Not a single face showed any trace of composure—they were all stiff and serious.
It was to be expected, considering the seriousness of the situation. The news had arrived only five days after the secret agreement with Venice was signed. In other words, the incident had occurred well before then. Had it reached the Pope in Italy by now? The emperor tried to dispel some of his shock by indulging in such idle thoughts.
Even so, the reason he couldn’t bring himself to speak right away was simply because he didn’t want to believe it.
But turning away wouldn’t change anything—it would only make matters worse. Resolving himself, the emperor finally opened his mouth and addressed the assembled ministers.
“…Wallachia has launched an invasion into Hungary’s Transylvanian region. It’s not exactly good news.”
“That’s… extremely bad news.”
Francisco, sweating profusely, made a sarcastic remark. Under normal circumstances, Plethon would have rebuked him for his lack of decorum, and Halid would’ve found something to mock—but this time, both held their tongues.
Only Bishop Nikephoros crossed himself repeatedly. Though no one said a word, the silence conveyed that they all felt the same. The emperor was no different. The mood in the office sank rapidly.
It was inevitable.
From the perspective of Morea, they had always assumed that any trouble would come from Albania. No one had expected this. The miscalculation left everyone at a loss for words. Even those who wanted to speak found no voice. The first to break free from the suffocating silence was Halid.
“Wallachia would not have planned an invasion of Hungary on its own. Surely, someone is pulling the strings.”
Sometimes, stating the obvious helps people grasp reality. His words brought focus back to their eyes. Francisco was the first to regain his composure, followed much later by Plethon and Bishop Nikephoros. The emperor, whose thoughts had gone blank, also recovered his clarity.
“You’re right, you’re absolutely right. You’re actually making sense for once.”
“Shut up, you idiot.”
“I even complimented you, and still—!”
Francisco lashed out with insults, trying to cover his embarrassment, while Halid snarled back fiercely. Watching the two squabble, the emperor quietly sank into thought. Just as Halid had reminded them, Wallachia, which had long stood in opposition to the Ottomans, wouldn’t suddenly change its stance without outside influence.
And it wasn’t hard to guess who might benefit from such a maneuver.
There was only one party who stood to gain from Wallachia’s sudden offensive.
“…Murad.”
Crack.
The emperor clenched his teeth tightly, unable to suppress his curiosity. How had Murad managed to move Wallachia? No, did Wallachia still have the forces to launch such an invasion?
Unfortunately, the Danube region was one where the empire, and even Venice, held little influence. Their focus had been entirely on the main Ottoman force near the capital, leaving Wallachia outside their field of interest.
Yet one thing was certain—this Wallachian invasion was highly threatening.
Sure enough, Plethon spoke up to highlight the danger.
“Your Majesty, Hungary has been drained by years of fighting heretics. From what little I know, they haven’t even finished subjugating the remnants of those sects. I doubt they have the strength left to defend Transylvania against Wallachia.”
“If only the Western Church recognizes the severity of this situation…”
“….”
Nikephoros murmured with regret, and even Halid and Francisco stopped their arguing. They, too, likely shared the bishop’s concerns. But the emperor, taking a more clear-eyed view of reality, slowly shook his head.
Even Morea had only just learned of the event. It was unlikely the Pope’s awareness would lead to swift action—nor was the situation in the West favourable.
It was that unexpected.
The greater the shock, the longer the ensuing chaos would last. And this chaos—that, surely, was what the Ottomans and their sultan truly desired. But what purpose did this chaos serve? As he turned that question over in his mind, the emperor finally began to realize what the previous signs had meant.
The obsession with the capital, Skanderbeg’s sudden halt in his conquests, the relaxed siege, the treaty that pulled Venice back from the front lines, and now, Wallachia’s surprise invasion of Hungary—
—All these signs pointed to one thing.
“…The Ottomans are going to move.”
Francisco swallowed hard at the emperor’s conclusion. Everyone had expected that the Ottomans would make a major move someday. But no one had imagined they would prepare this thoroughly.
“…As you all know, expecting aid from the West is now a hopeless dream. With Hungary shaken from a surprise invasion, they’ll be tied down until a truce with the Hussites is secured. This leaves us defenseless. Not just us—Serbia as well.”
Hungary, which had been in the best position to respond quickly to the Ottomans, was now paralyzed. The path was wide open for the Ottomans. Thus, the earlier prediction that Albania would be the target had been mistaken. If they had aimed for Albania, there would’ve been no need to hinder Hungary.
The real targets were either Morea or Serbia.
Of the two, Morea—an enduring thorn in the Ottomans’ side—was the likelier target.
As that thought struck him, the emperor turned to Halid.
Of all those in Morea, there was only one man who truly understood the inner workings of the Ottomans. But even the trusted Halid shook his head this time.
“What I know dates back nearly a decade. I doubt it will be useful now.”
“Even speculation will do.”
“…Then I shall offer an example from the past, Your Majesty.”
At last, pressed by repeated urging, Halid opened his mouth to speak.
Of course, it was not a pleasant tale for anyone present. And because it came without metaphor or filter, it was not something they could easily ignore.
“Decades ago, the Ottoman Empire was split in two after Sultan Bayezid died at the hands of Timur. Even then, the warlord who took control of Rumelia mobilized an army of eight thousand, and Sultan Mehmed, who ruled Anatolia, raised an army of ten thousand twice in just a few years.”
“Hmm.”
“Wow.”
A low hum from Plethon, followed by Francisco’s awed exclamation. Bishop Nikephoros shut his eyes entirely. Yet no sign of disturbance appeared on the emperor’s face.
He had already once endured a siege by Warlord Osman long ago. Knowing full well what kind of adversary he faced, there was no reason for the emperor to waver now. That wasn’t to say he gleaned nothing from Halid’s words. The meaning was clear.
“At least twenty thousand, then.”
“One plus one doesn’t always make two, Your Majesty.”
“Francisco, how does Morea’s military stand?”
“Let’s see—six full Alagia, with two still being formed… That makes about eight thousand, being generous.”
They had rebuilt the army to this level from the brink of annihilation. It even exceeded the former six-thousand strong force. And it wasn’t just quantity—great effort had been made to improve quality as well. That was the reason behind the burdensome fifty percent tax rate: to raise a strong force that could stand against the Ottomans, and even reclaim lost territories.
Even so, the limits were clear.
“Damn it. I thought we had done well.”
Francisco clenched his fists in frustration. But there was nothing to be done. National power wasn’t something easily bridged. Strength accumulated over years didn’t topple easily. To overcome the vast gap in power, every possible option had to be pursued. The emperor turned his gaze toward Bishop Nikephoros.
“It seems the time I must ask this of you has come sooner than expected.”
“…Making contact with the Albanians. I doubt how much I can do, being a man of the cloth… but if it’s something only I can do, I will see it done.”
“We may not be able to help you properly, given the circumstances. I ask for your understanding.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
From here on, it would be a race against time.
Resolute, the emperor turned to Plethon.
“Plethon, I will need your gift of rhetoric. We may be forced to mobilize the army. The people will surely be shaken—help calm them.”
“…As you command, Your Majesty.”
“Halid, Francisco—you know what must be done. Prepare the troops, but do not gather them. Remember, we must not give them a pretext.”
Thankfully, both Halid and Francisco were seasoned veterans. Even in such a desperate situation, they remained composed. Despite their now-serious expressions, they still managed to wear confident smiles as they replied together:
“”At Your Majesty’s will.””
For an instant, their eyes flicked toward each other in a sharp glance, but only briefly. Then, they both stepped back with proper formality. Only then did the emperor let out a breath and fully comprehend the situation facing the Empire.
We must not give them an excuse. This is the most dangerous moment.
As long as Albania remained unconquered, all land routes to Morea were blocked. And now, with Venice having stepped back from the frontlines, Morea stood completely isolated. Between Serbia and Morea, the greater danger clearly lay with the latter. The emperor had considered Genoa as a replacement for Venice, but making contact would provoke an Ottoman reaction.
At this point, the only hope lay in gaining support from the Albanians.
But there’s no way the Ottomans are finished with just this.
Sadly, such hunches are never wrong.
Barely a week had passed since the shocking news of Wallachia’s invasion of Hungary, when Morea received an unwelcome guest. The visitor came alone, but even Emperor Dragases, hailed as the Empire’s last hope, found this guest a formidable opponent.
The guest was none other than an Ottoman envoy.
“I have come to deliver the Sultan’s message to the Emperor Dragases of Morea.”
Compared to when he was still a royal prince, the wording was far more polite. Yet the condescending attitude toward the emperor had not changed. All the ministers except Halid scowled, but the envoy remained unfazed. For the emperor, who had no real expectations to begin with, it was more respect than he had anticipated, so he did not bother to comment.
“I will hear it.”
“…‘Long ago, I forged a bond of suzerainty and vassalage with you, and as long as you honored that trust, I guaranteed peace and religious freedom. Yet now, the Emperor of Constantinople has broken the alliance made in my father’s time and rejected even my tolerance. I begin to wonder—might there be others who likewise harbour betrayal in their hearts?’”
Not exactly a positive start.
As expected, the next words were sharp enough to shake even Emperor Dragases composure.
“‘Therefore, I summon you to my court in Edirne to prove your loyalty and sincerity. Come. The reward for loyalty shall be prosperity and peace. The price of betrayal—shall be paid in steel.’”
—And with that, a blade of words, cold and formless, pressed against the emperor’s throat.
“‘All vassals of the Ottomans would do well to choose wisely.’”
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