Author: Renegade

Serbia and the Ottoman Empire.

Is there anyone in the Balkans unaware of the inevitable clash between these two powers? It transcends a mere conflict between nations; it’s a fierce battle between Christianity and Islam. In this tense atmosphere, some claim it’s the right time, while others deem it reckless. Is it an opportunity, or a crisis?

Upon hearing the report from her subordinate, Sophia unconsciously bit her lower lip.

I overlooked this. Was I too focused on the alliance?

Sophia’s father, Stefan, was an immense doting father who usually acted on her advice. This trait could be dangerous depending on the monarch and the advisor, but fortunately, Sophia’s instincts were sharp. Thanks to her, Stefan had managed the state without major missteps. However, her recent marriage and consequent distance from the court had become a disadvantage.

No matter how weak Mehmed’s disposition, he won’t forgive anyone who challenges his authority. If this goes wrong, our homeland will be in danger.

Whatever Stefan was thinking when he made his gamble, the Ottoman Empire was no easy opponent. The odds weren’t in their favor. Should Serbia lose, the country they had painstakingly held together would falter. But for Sophia, there was a more personal concern.

Serbia’s loss of power would jeopardize her union with Prince Constantine. Given his disposition, he would immediately declare a divorce. As a princess from a defeated nation once again subjugated by the Ottomans, she wouldn’t be able to secure any alliances.

I must stop this. At all costs.

Given the current situation, supporting her father’s decision seemed the best course of action. Even if Serbia were to fall despite Morea’s joint participation, the alliance’s cohesion would only strengthen as they shared the loss. With this in mind, Sophia rose from her seat and walked confidently to the prince’s office.

She passed by murmuring servants and the increasingly watchful soldiers with a resolute gaze several times.

After taking a deep breath, Sophia threw open the door to the office with determination.

“Are you there, Your Highness?”

“What is it?”

Without even turning his gaze, the prince immediately asked. Still as unapproachable as ever. How could someone so unsociable be a prince of the Empire? If anything, it was natural for the scheming Sophia and the warrior-like prince to dislike each other. However, the prince’s manners were irrelevant at this moment.

Sophia reminded herself of her purpose for coming.

The only thing a noble can truly possess—power. She had to manipulate the man before her to safeguard her position. With her usual sly smile, Sophia approached the prince.

“Surely, you’ve heard the latest news, Your Highness.”

“You mean about Bayezid’s youngest son.”

The prince responded calmly, continuing to move his pen. To Sophia, his reaction was difficult to understand. Why is he so composed? Doesn’t he realize the gravity of the Ottoman’s movements? Of all people, he should view the Ottoman threat most seriously.

…No, the questions can wait.

“As the Princess of Serbia and your wife, I advise you: we must stake everything on this battle. Now is the time for the decisive conflict.”

Only then did the prince show a more animated reaction. He raised his head, met Sophia’s gaze, and lifted one eyebrow slightly, a mocking expression crossing his face as if he already knew what she was about to say.

“All of a sudden?”

“…You haven’t forgotten the alliance with my father, have you? According to the marriage alliance, Morea is obligated to mobilize troops. Furthermore, isn’t the current Sultan’s military prowess in doubt? If we combine Serbia’s forces with Morea’s…”

“You’re excluding the most important part.”

The prince interrupted her, his gaze filled with doubt and disapproval.

“Serbia and Morea are divided. At best, 8,000 and 4,000 soldiers. Besides, the Serbian army has never achieved a significant victory against the Ottomans, has it? You should know that better than anyone. Can you truly say that the Serbian army is that elite? Do you sincerely believe they can win against the Janissaries?”

After thoroughly mocking her, the prince sighed deeply. Sophia, her intentions exposed, could only blush in response, unable to retort.

The prince, having shifted his attention to the documents on his desk, spoke in a cold voice.

“You don’t believe it yourself, do you?”

“…Why do you think that?”

“Don’t make me reconsider the alliance.”

The prince had a grasp of Sophia’s nature. He suspected her visit was driven by her power-hungry and greedy tendencies. From his perspective, her behavior was quite unlike her usual self; even her typically commanding tone had softened into one of persuasion.

Has she become anxious? Understandable. Regardless of Stefan’s intentions, Sophia would undoubtedly have sought to deeply involve herself in state affairs. Knowing Serbia’s situation would not be surprising. She likely saw the odds as slim and feared for her position, prompting her to seek him out.

Not that he ever intended to stand idly by and watch Serbia, a useful ally, fall.

“Sophia, war preparations are already underway, as you desire. However, the target is not the Ottomans.”

“If not the Ottomans, who else could Morea be preparing to attack?”

The prince responded to Sophia’s probing with silence. There was no benefit to her knowing the details; it might even be harmful. For the sake of Serbia, the foundation of her power, Sophia would likely try to maneuver the situation to her advantage.

On the other hand, Sophia interpreted his silence as a form of pressure.

Everyone in Mistra knew that the relationship between Sophia and the prince was strained. While her status as a princess in Serbia gave her influence, in Morea, it was her role as a wife that granted her power. If the marital bond was weak, she would have to rely on her family’s influence to maintain her standing.

Especially since only one person held the power to decide Serbia’s fate.

“Very well, I will leave the decision to you. As they say, the Empire’s last beacon of hope. I can only hope you are as wise and brave as they claim.”

With these words, mixed with youthful defiance, Sophia turned and left, leaving the prince alone once more.

There was no need for concern; preventing Serbia’s downfall was an obligation of the alliance. Weary, the prince stood slowly. War. Had he drawn his sword since the campaigns in Achaea and Corinth?

It was time to draw it again.

//

December 9, 1420.

As news reached the Empire that the Ottoman army was nearly ready to march, Morea was also preparing its troops. Over the course of a month, 2,000 soldiers had been gathered in Corinth, led by none other than Prince Constantine.

Many believed that he was finally about to commence the struggle against the Ottomans, but before the campaign, the prince made an unexpected declaration: he would participate not as Serbia’s ally, but as an ally of the Ottomans. Everyone was taken aback by this unforeseen announcement.

“What are you thinking?! This was the perfect chance to drive out the Ottomans!”

(Former) Tax Collector Adrianos and several other officers naturally voiced their objections. In response to their outcry, the prince revealed his plan.

“As allies of the Ottomans, we will subjugate the remaining Christian states in the Balkans.”

Backed by a secret agreement with Venice, it was time to demonstrate the results of their previous endeavors.

TL ; Nah, the plot twist.

Do you know the feeling of trying your best, yet circumstances refuse to align?

The frustration of grinding your teeth to achieve one goal, only to be swiftly burdened with another task. The reality is that no matter how hard you work, without the help of others, your efforts often come to nothing. I wish I didn’t know this so well. My head throbs with a burning sensation, a reflection of the string of bad news that keeps coming.

Completely oblivious to my feelings, Adrianos began speaking in an excited voice.

“Now is the time, Your Highness! We must raise our troops and join Serbia without delay!”

Join? Join what exactly?

Does he really believe Serbia has a chance of victory against the Ottomans? Not even a smirk escapes me. How can they all view the situation so optimistically? Adrianos isn’t alone in this. Many outside the court of Mistra also demand we raise the army immediately.

No, this will only lead to ruin. I turn my head, and Adrianos’ voice grows louder.

“Your Highness! It’s time to make a decision!”

How ridiculous. Time to make a decision? My fists clench involuntarily. The frenzy for war, which began in the capital, now threatens to drag Morea into ruin. The only consolation is that Morea remains an autocracy.

“Drawing our swords would mean breaking our alliance with the Ottomans. We must proceed with caution.”

“Why…! Your Highness!”

His tone conveys disbelief. I had no desire to become a dictator. Yet, leading a suicidal charge against the Ottomans is a far worse decision. At the same time, I can’t help but curse the circumstances. Since the emergence of Mustafa, Bayezid’s last son, Mistra’s court has been steeped in this atmosphere.

The clamor for war grows louder from all quarters. People, driven by anger, are pushing an unprepared empire toward conflict.

Even Serbia’s ruler, Stefan, has misread the situation. How can he see this as an opportunity when Mehmed I’s regime has already stabilized? Yet, if we stand by and let Serbia embark on its reckless challenge, we risk losing the alliance we’ve just secured. Our strategic goal now boils down to a simple choice.

To either lead the war to victory or preserve Serbia’s strength.

Ah… I don’t want to do this. The urge to throw everything away is understandable. Perhaps the only solace is that the war faction hasn’t fully seized control. But that’s just a matter of time. The day John, the head of the war faction, runs the government alone, the Ottomans will turn their blades toward us without hesitation.

My aging father, Manuel II, will soon yield to the youthful fervor of Emperor John VIII. When that day comes, the empire will face the formidable Ottomans unprepared. The outcome is obvious to anyone. The capital’s diplomatic stance is the first step toward ruin. If that happens, the Ottomans won’t leave the hard-fought Morea in peace.

Of course, even if the situation worsens, my vow to protect the despairing remains.

Yet, whether we follow or defy the central government, either path will waste the hard-won time we’ve bought. The more this dilemma drags on, the more I lean toward conflict.

From my perspective, my brother and current co-emperor, John VIII, seems intoxicated by his own ambition. Johannes, obsessed with the idea of becoming a great emperor, has devised a grand and complex plans beyond the empire’s capacity. Plans that hinge on a critical and precarious necessities.

Inciting internal strife to gain advantage isn’t a bad idea in itself. The opposition arises from the fact that it’s being pushed through amidst numerous unresolved issues. For instance, Morea and the empire as a whole have devoted almost all their intelligence resources to monitoring the Ottomans, leaving them vulnerable to Western affairs.

We have no idea how many Western crusaders can be assembled for this grand ‘plan.’ I have some understanding of Western affairs due to my contacts with Venice… which only deepens my despair about the situation.

Moreover, they won’t just march out for nothing. The Pope will certainly demand something from the empire, likely the unification of the church under Catholic dominance.

How can we, without a single reliable ally, hope to achieve victory against the Ottomans?

I bowed my head, sensing the weight of destiny. Reckless resistance will crumble before slim chances, and the last reserves we’ve built for a final opportunity will be utterly destroyed. On that day, the fate of the empire will be sealed.

Our struggle to survive will be cruelly trampled, recorded as a futile twitch in the face of inevitability, and the empire’s name will gradually fade into obscurity over time. The somber end promised to all great civilizations, all great nations. No one doubts that one day a new era will rise over the ruins of a thousand years of history.

Yet, even if fate is set, one must fight to the end.

A devout believer clings to the hope of divine salvation, an honorable warrior believes their death will shine with pride and dignity, a father believes he can pass his life on to his children.

I, too, will throw myself into the finite flow of time with this belief. I trust that this ugly struggle will be remembered by someone as the fight of the empire’s people who, in the face of overwhelming odds, strove to protect their sovereignty to the end.

Thus, it must be avoided.

These years of effort were not spent to meet such an end.

To prevent it, Morea must secure the alliances the empire, as it was, failed to achieve. The pride and dignity that cling tighter in the face of impending doom. As a nascent force in southern Greece, less burdened by such constraints. It was a thought I had always held, but recent events in the capital solidified my resolve for Morea’s course.

“Could it be a mistake?”

Aside from a few crude pieces of furniture, the office was devoid of any items or people. Naturally, the murmured words echoed off the ceiling and walls, returning to the solitary speaker. Years spent pursuing a single objective. Reflecting on how the original goal was a carefree life with beautiful maidens made the change in oneself apparent. Beautiful maidens… there had been encounters with several.

…I hope they found good companions.

After a brief reverie, he picked up the pen without hesitation. The recipient was the elders of Venice. Though their relationship with the Empire had been stormy, they shared a common enemy. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Just as the Ottomans’ rapidly growing naval power threatened control of the Aegean, Venice was likely wary of them too.

He had to ensure that they could convince the Imperial court. Furthermore, he outlined a plan he hadn’t disclosed to anyone before. He was well aware that many would oppose it, and in extreme cases, it could even lead to civil war. Nevertheless, he pursued it because it was the only way for the fallen Empire to survive.

And so, with a much more serious demeanor than usual, he spent hours moving the pen.

“Your Highness.”

A low voice accompanied by a knock broke the silence. It was Demicleos, the Empire’s magistrate. He only visited when there was significant news to report. However, there were no prior indications. The issues brought forth by the Assembly were typically routine tax discussions, and judicial matters were handled by the magistrate, ensuring a clear separation of powers.

The only additional possibility was the feared end of destiny.

“Has the Ottoman moved?”

He hoped not, but the silence beyond the door conveyed the answer. He was the first to sigh, the last to resign. It’s all over. My efforts have amounted to nothing. In that moment of despair, Demicleos spoke.

“It’s not just that. There’s also a message from His Majesty.”

“His Majesty… my father?”

A father who was a respected emperor and an understanding figure, having devoted his life to saving the Empire. What message would he send in such circumstances? Expectations weren’t high. However, his doubtdul heart shifted upon hearing Demicleos’s words.

“‘I’ve hesitated for a long time, but now I can say it with certainty. Constantine, he is the only one fit to stand against the Ottomans.’”

…Why would he say such a thing now? Why, at this moment? This was a decision—a conclusion reached after much deliberation on the succession issue. These words could overturn it, potentially inciting a civil war for the throne.

Your Majesty, my father.

Have you foreseen that my hands would be stained with the blood of kin? Are you entrusting me with the cross I feared to bear, a cross that, once drenched in the blood of many, will bring peace to the world—the [Red Cross]?

“Demicleos, summon the Venetian envoy staying here.”

“What shall I tell him?”

The initial contact between Mustafa and Serbia had been made through Venice. Originally, they would have preferred not to get involved and hoped for Mustafa’s victory. Unfortunately, Mustafa’s chances weren’t high. The military discipline was completely different.

Serbia’s defeat was almost a certainty.

Therefore, the balance must be adjusted to prevent it from tipping entirely to one side.

“Convey the matter of an alliance. Tell them we are willing to become the pieces on their chessboard.”

The weather is exceptionally clear.

Manuel, gazing down at the calm sea with not a cloud in sight nor a strong wave to be seen, murmured absentmindedly to himself. The Golden Horn, bustling with trading ships, still brimmed with life, a stark contrast to the declining empire.

The aging emperor, observing these lively scenes, sank into reflection. Yet that vigor, too, was nothing more than a hollow illusion.

They were mere worker ants, moving not for the empire’s wealth but for foreign riches.

They were scavengers, feasting on the fallen body of the empire.

“…I feel dizzy. My body is too old to ponder the future.”

Manuel had once knelt before the sacred icon in Hagia Sophia, fervently praying that the empire would endure through his reign. Perhaps his pleas had been heard, for the empire miraculously survived, gathering its last strength through the Ottoman’s disunity.

Nevertheless, the goddess of fate remained indifferent.

Oh, my God, why do you treat this poor old man so harshly?

It wasn’t only foreign affairs that troubled Manuel. The ominous atmosphere within the empire weighed heavily on him. Had the title of emperor of a thousand-year empire been so coveted?

The fierce conflicts among the princes over the throne threatened even the empire’s fragile remnants. How could Manuel, for whom all the princes were his sons, bear such a burden? The thought of them drawing swords against each other tormented him daily.

It was simply agonizing.

Knowing that his sons hated each other.

The realization that the civil war he had tried so hard to prevent might break out because of his sons.

If, heaven forbid, that dreadful scenario came to pass, it would be Manuel’s decision in this despairing moment that would shine. He had already designated his successor and co-emperor, John, but Theodore, always waiting for an opportunity, and Constantine, the de facto ruler of Morea, were also contenders. The choice among the three would determine the empire’s fate.

Knowing how much a ruler’s authority could be damaged by reversing a decision, Manuel had no intention of doing so. Yet, understanding what mattered more than authority, Manuel was prepared to decide who was most suited for the throne.

Excluding Theodore, who, aside from his ambition, showed no exceptional traits, the empire needed a proven and capable leader. The timing for Theodore’s bid for the throne was too unfortunate. Regrettably, his abilities lagged far behind the other two candidates.

John, with his innate diplomatic skills, might have been suitable. He knew well how to garner the support of the people. However, his passionate temperament posed a problem. What might have been seen as bravery during the empire’s stronger days was now sheer recklessness.

In the end, Manuel let out a sigh filled with lament.

The answer was clear.

“…Constantine.”

If only he hadn’t been so young then.

Now Constantine, demonstrating his capabilities, was steadily advancing toward the throne. Naturally, for the current co-emperor, John, Constantine’s actions would be irritating. How could he merely watch? Manuel’s heart ached. The power to control the situation had long slipped from the old emperor’s grasp.

All that remained was to support the son who had gained the upper hand, to end the civil war as quickly as possible. This way, the situation wouldn’t deteriorate further. A faint hope lingered in Manuel’s suffering heart.

But trials did not spare him.

On November 17, 1420.

Mustafa, the last son of Bayezid, believed to have died long ago in battle against Timur, appeared in the Balkans. He challenged Mehmed I for his right and soon gained Venice’s support. Feeling threatened by the newly established Ottoman fleet, Venice allied with Mustafa, who aspired to become sultan.

The alliance was formed.

Facilitated by Venice, Mustafa made contact with Serbia. King Stefan Lazarević of Serbia saw this as an opportunity. He was determined to avenge the two recent defeats. Supporting Mustafa, Stefan resolved to crush the Ottomans before they could rise further.

Serbia soon mobilized an army of 7,000.

Ultimately, these changes in circumstances manifested in the very form Manuel had feared most.

Calls grew louder for the empire to seize this opportunity and launch a counterattack against the Ottomans. The delicate balance between the war faction and the moderate faction finally crumbled. The war faction’s confidence wasn’t entirely baseless.

The centuries-long efforts to reclaim and prosper in the Peloponnesian Peninsula.

Wasn’t there a competent administrator who had achieved both of these goals at once? Ironically, it was none other than Prince Constantine who supported the war faction’s arguments.

Though his ambiguous stance drew criticism from both sides, he leaned closer to the war faction. Constantine had long said that when the time was right, a counterattack must be launched.

The war faction was now convinced that the time Constantine referred to had arrived.

Young Emperor John further fueled the war faction’s fervor.

“The Ottomans have grown stronger over the past seven years.

Now, as a new internal conflict seems imminent, we face our last chance to rectify the mistake of letting the sultan escape in the past.

Those who face trials must always be vigilant, and one must not miss the opportunities that come their way.

We must use this counterattack to show the world that the empire is still alive and secure alliances!”

As the empire’s downfall became more apparent, the public, steeped in old traditions, clearly favoured one side. The war faction, backed by public support, denounced the moderates as collaborators with the heretics, intensifying the capital’s war fervor. Voices of the masses clamoring for a holy war against the Ottomans echoed throughout the city, their hatred burning bright.

The situation shook on the edge of a unstable, full-scale war with the Ottomans.

It was inevitable that Manuel, who could be considered the leader of the moderates, worried about the fervor consuming the capital.

“I have often feared whether the youthful fervor would open a path to save the empire or cause us to lose even what little we have left.”

Perhaps God would answer the prayers of the youth. Yet, his intuition as a seasoned politician sternly warned him otherwise. This path would only hasten their destruction. The Ottomans had overcome the chaos following Bayezid’s death and emerged as a unified dynasty. With Mustafa’s military capabilities still uncertain, this was too great a gamble.

Having reached this conclusion, Manuel looked down at the young secretary prostrated before him—Young Sphrantzes.

“However, the future of the empire is no longer decided by this hollow emperor ruling this city. The true determinant of the empire’s future is but one person. Sphrantzes, you know who that is.”

Sphrantzes’ round eyes turned to the old emperor. His youthful, endearing face, which evoked maternal instincts in many women, contrasted sharply with the cold reality of his words.

“It will depend on the decisions made by Prince Constantine.”

“…I have long hesitated, but now I can give a clear answer. Constantine, only that child can stand as a true adversary against the Ottomans.”

Sphrantzes’ eyes widened in surprise. His face turned pale at the emperor’s unexpected declaration, then flushed red with a mix of excitement and tension. Though he remained calm, his voice quivered faintly.

“Do you mean to say…”

“Just deliver the message. Tell him the aged emperor has said so. Constantine, that brilliant child, will quickly grasp my intentions.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Sphrantzes bowed his head. Yet, his mind was consumed with thoughts about this decision. Hadn’t the succession already been established? For the emperor himself to revoke it would be equal to igniting a succession dispute.

Your Majesty.

How will you discern whether this painful decision was right or wrong?

Sphrantzes, silently mulling over the words that nearly escaped his lips, quietly withdrew.