After the battle ended, Murad’s expression remained grim as he assessed the casualties caused by the ambush.
And the more unsettled Murad became, the more anxious his retainers grew. The success of the ambush was, after all, proof of their failure to maintain vigilance. Though the Sultan’s elite troops had managed to rally and repel the enemy despite being caught off guard, Murad found no comfort in that fact. The only reason the Morean army’s ambush had failed was a lack of soldiers. And yet, look at the losses they had suffered.
Unable to contain himself any longer, Murad slammed his fist against the table and rose from his seat.
“No less than three thousand have died.”
His retainers bowed their heads, as if afraid to meet his gaze. Even though they had successfully repelled the ambush, three thousand casualties had been sustained. If not for his leadership, the chaos might have been even greater. That thought made it impossible for Murad to suppress his anger. No—he should not suppress it, even if the target of his fury was himself.
“This was my failure. I entered the battlefield without properly assessing the situation, and in doing so, I made the grave mistake of dividing my forces. Worse still, I failed to realize where the enemy’s true main force was during the ambush.”
And the prince had masterfully led him to that conclusion, even going so far as to feign his own death. Only now, after time had passed, did Murad truly understand the prince’s resolve and how meticulously he had prepared.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Murad retraced the battle from the prince’s perspective.
Even the defectors they had encountered earlier had been a deliberate ploy to deceive him. The first ambush had been deliberately sloppy, soothing them into a false sense of security, while the delayed encirclement of the flanks had been designed to prevent movement from the Sipahi. And finally, pretending to encircle the enemy while secretly holding back the right wing as a reserve force to check the newly arriving Christian reinforcements—
The prince had surely been lurking nearby, waiting for the moment Murad divided his forces to hunt down the scattered remnants.
Enduring humiliation and disgrace without hesitation, solely driven by his unwavering desire to save his homeland.
“But now, the Morean army will unite once again.”
Murad opened his eyes with certainty. Dragases scattered forces would regroup somewhere and resume their resistance. And he had a strong suspicion where that would be.
It was Paliotes, the leader of the Christian forces who had arrived late but earned recognition for helping drive back the Morean army, who finally put Murad’s thoughts into words.
“You believe they will head to Athens?”
Just as Paliotes suspected, Murad had identified Athens as the Morean army’s likely destination. It was a city where the prince still held strong influence in central Greece. Thebes had been another possibility, but remembering that the city harboured little goodwill toward the prince, Murad ruled it out.
Athens. A city of long-standing prosperity, with a significant port and infrastructure. The prince would use it to buy time.
However, before addressing these matters, Murad first needed to rebuke his vassal’s arrogance.
“I do not recall giving you permission to speak.”
“…My apologies…”
“Do my words as Sultan amuse you?”
“….”
Murad had acknowledged Paliotes contributions only to prevent lingering resentment over their setback. But with his sharp gaze, he had closely observed the man’s every action. Anyone harbouring ulterior motives would eventually face punishment—but for now, he delayed his judgment. The losses from the ambush were too severe.
Sensing the Sultan’s displeasure, Paliotes wisely held his tongue, barely managing to avoid overstepping his bounds.
But Murad’s decision remained unchanged.
“Wicked Christians, you will surely pay for the lives of those three thousand.”
Murad clenched his right fist tightly, hidden from the eyes of others. However, a more pressing matter had just presented itself, demanding his attention. Constantine Dragases.
Through this ambush, Murad had come to a bitter realization—only Dragases could truly oppose the might of the Ottomans. He wondered if it was mere coincidence that he recalled the words spoken about Dragases by the soldier he’d encountered in Nemeapatre.
This too may be a trial from God; we will prove to the heavens that we are worthy of His choice through our own efforts.
“A trial bestowed by God…”
Under normal circumstances, he would have laughed at the absurdity. How ridiculous, for one who rejects the will of God to speak of divine trials. But Murad could no longer dismiss it so easily. Those who fail to overcome their trials are unworthy of fulfilling prophecy’s promise. As the heat of his anger slowly began to cool, a cold and ruthless instinct whispered within him.
Dragases, are you the trial that God has sent me?
He had vowed long ago to crush Dragases, to topple the final hope of the millennium-old empire. And the more he pursued that goal, the more he understood why Dragases was called the last hope. A knight and a king, a figure who could unite people on the battlefield and in spirit. A miraculous last hope for those resigned to ruin.
Thus, he would let him go.
He would allow the prince to lead his followers into Athens.
“We will advance slowly, mending the losses from the ambush at our own pace—slow enough to give the prince ample time to enter Athens.”
Everyone present signaled their agreement, except for Paliotes, who looked bewildered, unable to comprehend the Sultan’s reasoning. Was he planning a siege? Paliotes confusion was justified—this was different from the usual course of action. Yet Murad showed no sign of hesitation.
With a devout silence, his eyes alight with a cold, burning flame, Murad calmly took his seat.
Go on, retreat into your fortress.
No matter how high your walls may be, they cannot protect you from the Sultan’s wrath.
Leave a Reply