Fall of Constantinople

**tibilicus** · 05-29-2005, 13:05

ohhhhhhhhh good story. Very interesting. I will await the next instalment.

**edyzmedieval** · 06-18-2005, 11:33

Here's chapter II. Sorry, I couldn't have posted it earlier because now I've finished school.

Enjoy the chapter!

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Chapter II – A bleak future

The balcony of the Blacharnae Palace was occupied as usual by a single man thinking about his future and the future of the state that he was leading. This time Basileos Manuel was writing poems and letters, the view provided offering him an endless source of inspiration. Manuel was an emperor, a commander, a affable administrator, but also a distinguished artist appreciated in the circles of the cultured men of Constantinople. Seemingly satisfied with what he wrote today, he laid the quill down on the wooden table and looked at the clear sky, the sun setting down at the horizon giving the city a somewhat orange glow. The wind was blowing gently, striking against Manuel's wrinkled forehead and his large, airy garments. He immediately summoned his parakoimomenos and ordered for Sphrantzes to come join him on the large balcony.

As he waited for his closest advisor to come, Manuel was wondering what would it take to rescue the Empire from the grave it was finding itself in. He knew it would take his entire skill to deflect the blows from an ever expanding enemy which viewed the Byzantines as a painful thorn in their ambitions to greatness and eternal glory. Analysing the painful history of the Empire, Manuel kept thinking why were the former emperors more interested in building villas after villas and indulging in opulent parties and erotic getaways, endlessly taking the money from the Empire's treasury, instead of expanding and consolidating the empire. Maybe that was his own vision, but he still couldn't find any explanation for the corrupt leaders of the Byzantine Empire. In the times of Nikephoros Phokas and Basil the Bulgar-Slayer, the coffers were bustling with gold and numerous riches which were feverishly displayed all around Constantinople for the mass to gasp and awe at the constant successes the Empire had. After the golden period, the point of maximum glory, came to decadence. Manzikert, Myriokephalon, Crusades... The thought of the Crusades sent a chill down Manuel's spine which he tried to ignore but found impossible. He was wondering if the diplomatic missions sent by him to the royal houses in the west would have any success at all. He was very aware of the fact that the Catholic Kingdoms of the West would not want a new crusade after the crushing defeat against the Ottomans at Nikopole in 1396, and even more, in these times of rebellions, heretic uprisings and war between nations, not much help could be gathered for the Empire's own battle against the Ottomans, which inside Manuel's thoughts, it already began. He didn't like it at all, just like his Senators, but the Crusades looked as if they were the only choice left for them.

Sphrantzes entered the Blacharne Palace balcony with a vellum document holder which he held in his hands like it was some sort of invaluable treasure. Indeed, the documents held inside were of extreme importance to the Byzantine state and he guarded them with his life, not willing to risk anything. Manuel motioned for Sphrantzes to sit down on one of the chairs next to the table where he was writing.

“Beautiful day, isn't it?” started off Manuel.

“Agreed, but I have received reports which surely are of more importance and will make the day more relaxing than it was before.”

Manuel came closer towards his advisor, visibly interested, as Sphrantzes laid out the reports on the table.

“The ambassadors have both sent messages informing us that they have arrived at the western courts and they will be given soon meetings with both the Pope and Emperor Sigfried.”

“Excellent.”

“Until now, everything is going well for us.”

“For the moment...” trailed off Manuel, exhaling audibly.

Manuel changed his position on the chair, now resting his elbows directly on the table looking at the prepared reports.

“Sphrantzes, what is the current state of our coffers? We all know they are in a very bad state, but how bad is it? Do not omit any details, I need to know everything. And as we both agreed upon, everything we discuss here shall not go past this balcony. Not a single word.”

Upon hearing the words, Sphrantzes started to fiddle around in his chair nervously, avoiding Manuel's stare. He took out another set of parchments from the vellum holder and laid them out neatly on the table.

“These parchments have been compiled by myself a couple of weeks ago, and indicate our posessions, number of troops and the detailed state of our treasury, including the rate of taxes that we have imposed and the revenue we get each year.”

Manuel sifted quickly between the papers, stopping for a couple of moments on the heavily worded papers.

“Sum it up for me please, I don't have the necessary patience to read everything.”

"As you wish, Imperator. In those reports you shall find the sad truth about the remaining Imperial assets, information which was passed on to me from the old keeper of the treasury, who died a few years ago. At that time, you can imagine the surprise on my face when I was informed about the real status of the treasury.”

After a brief pause whilst taking out one particular parchment, Sphrantzes continued.

“After I took over, one day, he came to me and told me he had something important to tell me which had the utmost urgency. Naturally, I followed him without asking what was going on, so he lead me into the basement of the Blacharnae palace, just beneath our feet, opening a massive wooden door locked with chains which resemble somewhat the Golden Horn boom. He slowly opened it and we both creeped inside into a dark and humid room where the dampness made it impossible to breath, but it preserved what was inside, or what I thought was inside. Entering, I could see a large square shaped room with dozens of coffers and carpets on the floor where the jewels and riches were kept.”

Manuel's eyes in the meantime kept growing bigger and bigger, visibly interested in Sphrantzes' story.

“To my surprise, the old and highly valuable jewels of the Crown, the splendid jewels our imperial ancestors wore at spectaculous and fastuous ceremonies, are long gone. They have been sold a long time ago to Jewish merchants in exchange for immediate money. If you may recall, the Angheloi, to raise money to pay the Crusaders in 1204, sold some Imperial assets. Well, they didn't sell some of them, they sold almost all of them. One of those was a highly valuable jewel coming from the East, from Persia, which now is on your crown. But what actually is on your crown are fake jewels made out of rubies, the exact copy of that precious diamond made more than 200 years ago by one of the court artisans. The artisans' manufacture is impeccable and only a very experienced eye will detect that it is a fake jewel. The only thing that is truly authentic on the crown is the gold. It's pure gold mined long ago in the period of our glorious emperor Justinian. We can try selling them, both the crown and the jewels, but if somebody notices our credibility will be lost forever."

The last words came as the final blow for Manuel, who let his head drop slowly on the table, cupping his hands over his aged face. He quickly recovered and looked Sphrantzes directly in the eye, who was shocked to see the desperation in his emperor's eyes.

"What you have reported to me right now is beyond what I have expected and what I have prepared for.”

He stood up shaking from all his joints, heading for the edge of the palace balcony.

“What if we raise the taxes? The revenue seems to bring in a fair amount of nomisma to our coffers.”
“I'm not sure if the population will react too well upon hearing this measure. Although vital supplies are in plentiful quantity, the usual trade has been dwindling heavily. Another tax will cause serious unrest.”
“What is the situation of the army?”
“Acceptable, I must say. Enough to defend our possessions, but a major assault which has been well prepared will easily tear our defences apart, especially in Moreea.”

“Another error from my part. I shouldn't have refused Murad's proposal.” said Manuel.

Seconds passed on, no man daring to speak a word.

“We prepare for war then. Murad won't take the refusal kindly.” ended Manuel in a ghastly tone.

Sphrantzes remained silent and motionless on his chair, opting to look at the parchments once more instead of replying to his leader.

“Very well. Send a messenger to the dockyards to inform the naval engineers to prepare my Imperial trirema and 5 other ships for sail. I am leaving next year to seek foreign aid, hopefully the leaders will be more receptive once they see me in person. I know the first expeditions in the West were only moderately successful, but once they realize the actual implications and the situation we are facing, I hope they will intervene. You may leave now, and please keep me informed regarding our ambassadors.”

After a quick bow which wasn't acknowledged by Manuel, Sphrantzes left the balcony and headed directly for his home, leaving the reports on the table for Manuel to read. Clutching his fists tighter around the edge of the balcony, the emperor started singing quietly an old cradle song which was always recited by his mother before he went to bed. Somewhat more relaxed after this melody, Manuel entered the porphyry dormitories, still thinking about the state affairs. He blindly hoped that the diplomatic missions would have some success, as it was all they had at the moment if Murad attacked.

Arriving in Rome was no easy task for a foreigner, and especially when using a merchant trireme. The city itself was impressive, the imposing outlines of St. Peter's cathedral easily visible from the seaside dockyard, even if the structure wasn't complete. Along with the gracious statures of the massive Roman constructions, the dilapidation of the city's buildings was striking. The advanced state of decay of the homes and the neglect from the Roman citizens was so obvious that the Byzantine diplomats thought they were in the suburban slums of Constantinople. Shocked by this appearance but eager to leave the unsafe boat, the ambassadors stepped nervously on the creaking wooden quay, immediately meeting a team of cardinals waiting at a nearby wharf to guide them to the fortress of the Vatican. After exchanging quick pleasantries and gifts from both sides, the Pope's men took the diplomats with a double-horsed cart towards the acropolis of the city where the Pope's quarters were located. Arriving shortly after a detailed tour of Rome given by the priests, the ambassadors were quickly rushed in the waiting room outside Pope Innocentios personal study, sitting along with other emissaries and political figures waiting to be greeted by the Catholic leader. Within the Byzantine group, the leading ambassador was one of Sphrantzes' most trusted friends, Alyates Cerularius, a nobleman with illustrious ancestry. Intelligent but also imposing, he was an able diplomat who proved his worth in dealing with the formerly independent Ottoman states, rousing them to war against Bayezid the Thunderbolt during the siege of 1396. Along with him were two other diplomats, both young men who were picked by Alyates to join him in the delicate mission. They were here to learn from the master himself.

The ambassadors did not have to wait for long to be invited inside, even if they were the last ones in the queue. Coming out of a room covered by a large oak door, a medium-sized stocky man with a few locks of white hair at the temples, dressed in a full white outfit with a small golden cross hanging from his neck smiled briefly to the ambassadors, courteously inviting them inside his personal study. Once inside, Alyates and his aids were most surprised by the austerity displayed by the leader of the Catholic Church. Apart from a few personal items which were scattered along the oak table which was inadvertently matching the door and an extensive library built inside the walls containing a wealth of perfectly arranged vellum-bound parchment manuscripts, nothing else of value could be seen in the Pope's personal quarters. A bamboo cross, most likely received as a gift from the Far East, was the only religious item on his table, sitting beside his tall, greasy candle which was light up during the night.

Pope Innocentios invited the Byzantines to take a seat, collapsing into his own chair at the same time.

“This most surprises you, I see. You are not accustomed to see such an important figure have such a austere personal chamber. Do not worry, you are not the first person to be amazed by this.”

“Your Holiness, I cannot hide my surprise regarding your decorations. However, I am sure the manuscripts are valuable more than any material object that can be placed inside this splendid chamber.” replied Alyates.

“Indeed they are. Along those shelves are simple Bibles translated into different languages, treatises of rhetoric and philosophy, but also histories of the glorious Roman Empire.”

“Impressive...” trailed Alyates.

The Pope stood up and headed for the nearest shelf on his left, extracting a large leather-bound book from the pile and gave it to Alyates. The ambassador noticed immediately the smooth texture of the leather cover and the painstaking detail the inscriptions were made, noting the Latin text – Istoriae Regnum Romanum. Alyates opened his eyes wide with shock, realising this was the original copy of the Roman history compiled in the time of Emperor Heraklios, stolen from the Imperial library during the 1204 siege.

“Yes, taken during 1204.” confirmed the Pope.

Shaking off his shock, Alyates didn't wish to waste any more time and dived straight in.

“Your Holiness, I shall make things short and to the point, I do not wish to take your time longer that it is necessary, preventing other important ambassadors to take forward their message towards you. We have come here with a request of aid from our emperor, Basileos Manuel, who seeks help from your Highness to defend the last bastion of Eastern Christianity against the infidel represented by the Ottoman Turks. As you might know already, the status of our glorious Empire is as bad as it can possibly get, and any helping action towards us must not be delayed in any way. Our coffers are completely empty and we are confined only to a handful of territories around our capital Constantinople, Thessaloniki and Mistra. Relying on our army to defend our posessions isn't enough, we will not be able to withstand a full scale organised assault against our territories. Our leader, God bless him, is seeking help from your Holy Fist to take action and defend the Word of God in Eastern Europe. Only you can bring the armies of God together, to protect His word in the area where Islam has perpetrated beyond any imagination.“

The Pope listened carefully to every word Alyates said, even if the sleepless nights were finally getting to him, slowing down his thinking and his movement. He weighed every possibility and every solution in his mind that might help the Byzantines, even if he didn't have them to his heart for their disrespect and hatred towards the Catholic Church. He kept his thoughts to himself however, not wanting to ruin the relationship between the two forces. He made up his mind quickly about his response, and it wasn't because he hated them, it was because he had absolutely no means of helping them. He continued however the dialogue, out of diplomacy but also willing to find out more about the problems of the eastern empire.

“But I have heard you are at peace and friendship with the Ottomans...”

“The new Sultan, Murad, is not friendly towards our cause and our spies indicate that they are preparing for an upcoming attack on our lands.” lied Alyates. He personally wasn't too sure either if this was now a lie.

“Have you tried contacting him directly, asking for more information?”

“He refused the audience for our ambassadors and warned that the next request will be met with total retaliation from his part.”

Upon hearing the words, the Pope stared with horror at Alyates' face, who kept his cool and prevented any emotion from displaying on his face. He struck where it counted, and Alyates hoped that in the end it would have an effect on the Pope. The former cardinal quickly rebounded from his shock and readjusted his position on the chair, giving him the opportunity to look all diplomats right in the eye.

“My friends, your presence here gladdens my soul and I am sure God himself is happy that you have chosen to help yourself with his followers. Your empire, and your capital especially, have maintained the spiritual and cultural greatness of Europe during those Dark Ages which hovered in this western part of Europe after the fall of the Roman Empire. We are deeply in debt to the Byzantine Empire and its people for keeping the flame of learning and Christianity alive, protected at all costs and ready to be passed on to the next generations, which your ancestors have done with grace and willingness. Regarding your current problems, I am fully aware of your current status, and I fully agree help is needed for you to continue the fight against your sworn enemies.“

He paused briefly, clearing his throat in the meantime, so the words would have maximum effect.

“Unfortunately, I cannot award you any help whatsoever at this very moment. Immediately after I took over the reigns constant rebellions erupted, mainly from the Ghibellin parties in Rome, and the subsequent return from Avignon of the Papal cortège, have drained all the money from the Papal coffers. If I impose new taxes and levies, it will give even more reasons for those bastards to revolt and lead the whole city to revolt against the Papal rule. But fear not, not everything is lost. Some of my trusted cardinals will be sent to every kingdom friendly to the Papal Throne to support your cause, using our entire skill to persuade them to join the fight against the Ottomans. And when money will become available, I shall send it to you so you can keep resisting, if God allows it. We shall triumph over the infidel in the end, do not worry my friends.”

Dissapointed, Alyates could only bow to the Pope's words without any reply.

“We thank you your Highness for your actions. We can only hope that our pleas won't fall on deaf ears, or else we are destined to disappear.” said Alyates

The Pope slightly bowed his head and said nothing.

“Your Holiness, we shall not retain your time any longer. We thank your for your patience and may God bless you.” continued Alyates, inviting his companions to the door.

“Wait one moment.” said the Pope, taking the manuscript from the table and heading towards the group.

“It rightfully belongs to you. The men who wrestled it from your grasp don't deserve to even be called men.”

Alyates was more than impressed at this galant gesture from the leader of the Catholics, gladly accepting the gift.

“My Emperor will surely cry of joy upon seeing this marvellous treasure.”

“I hope he will.” replied the Pope, smiling to the group as they left his chamber.

The emissaries left the Eternal City discouraged, albeit still impressed by the chivalrous gesture of their host. They expected his answer, but he managed to actually twist the knife in the wound by confirming their darkest of doubts. Surely at least one king or a prince would respond to their cries of help. They also hoped by that time the open confrontation would start, or their credibility would be forever destroyed by requesting help in times of peace.

Back on the merchant trireme, heading towards Constantinople, Alyates was gripping the edges of the unstable boat while looking at the horizon. The water splashed on his face as the boat went up and down on the strong waves that were forecasting a gloomy night for the boat and its passengers. The Genoese merchant ship was a sturdy boat, but Alyates wasn't too sure about the crew which seemed to be a bit phased out by the force of the nature unleashing upon them. Breaking his reverie, one of his diplomats crashed into his back slipping on the watery deck. Alyates was nearly thrown off board but managed to get back on his feet, baffled at what had just happened.

“I am sorry Kir Alyates. I slipped over the deck and crashed into you.”
“Do not worry, Demetrios. Come join me if you wish.” said Alyates, returning to his place.
“Thank you.”

Demetrios, the son of a Constantinople merchant, graduated from the famous university in the Byzantine capital and quickly joined the ranks of the Byzantine diplomats after pursuing law and rhetoric. He was spotted by Alyates who admired him for his wits and the naturalness he emanated when talking, a great aid when it comes to diplomatic discussions. He was young, no more than twenty years of age, but his mentor already took him in the important missions Manuel assigned him.

“Kir Alyates, what will happen to us? I am very worried about our future.” said Demetrios, looking towards the senior ambassador.
“There's only one thing that will happen my dear Demetrios.”

Alyates let himself breath deeply until continuing. He looked Demetrios straight in the eye and replied.

“War.”

He took over. He finally managed to do it. The sense of accomplishment overwhelmed Murad over any possible measure or restraint. He was barely 18 but he knew already how to defeat his enemies in diplomacy and fair battles. The turn of events in the recently ended civil war in the Ottoman Empire surprised everyone, as Murad's display of administration and military brilliance worthy of his glorious ancestors turned the tide in his favour over the pretender, Duzmece Mustafa. After a brief siege in Gallipoli against his enemy, he showed the entire world that he wasn't willing to talk it diplomatically with his foes, putting Mustafa immediately to death after his capture. Returning to the capital in Edirne, acclaimed by thousands of loyal troops, Murad became the sole contender to the Ottoman throne, receiving the blessings of the Imam and the entire population. He knew how to reward his friends and allies as well, offering valuable gifts to the Genoese general Adorno who greatly aided him in the storming of the Gallipoli palace. The recent civil war between the two contenders left the state in a complete mess which Murad sought to arrange and guide the empire back to its glory.

Murad was a warrior and a distinguished general, but he was a man who greatly enjoyed sumptuous parties and a lavish lifestyle. He was enjoying the company of two young Egyptian girls, with their skin as soft as the silk sheets they were enjoying themselves in, when his servant came in, disturbing the act but also causing him personal displeasure at this sudden interruption. He was beginning to get bored of them anyways, so he signalled to them accordingly, the girls leaving his private quarters for the large harem which he had. He dressed up quickly, wearing a large cotton turban on his head and an elaborate caftan which made him look all imposing in front of anyone who laid his eyes upon him. Murad's servant led him into a nearby room which was his personal study, filled with shelves encastrated in the walls on which leather-bound manuscripts from all corners of the world were resting on display for every guest to see. The young Sultan let himself fall on the divan in the room as the servant brought in dates and other fruits on a silver plate.

Murad was visibly enjoying his dates as a middle-aged person entered his study. Wearing a similar caftan but much larger and without any embroideries, with a larger turban and ceremonial sabre hanging by his decorated hilt, the man bowed slightly to Murad as the sultan invited the newcomer to take a seat beside him. Murad analysed his personal advisor and one of the most important statesmen of the Ottoman Empire, immediately promoted to such a position by Murad after he took over the power. His name was Candarli Khalil Pasha, the grandson of Hayreddin Khalil Pasha, the former Grand Vizier.

“Enjoying your dates as always I see, my Sultan.”
“Why shouldn't I? They're delicious.”
“May I?” said Khalil, pointing towards the silver plate.
“Help yourself.”

Khalil took a handful of dates and chewed them slowly, watching the Sultan finish his.

“I see that you have something important to tell me since you interrupted me from my pleasures.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“Speak then.”

Khalil cleared his throat and started to speak.

“I have received two days before, while you were in Gallipoli, an embassy from the Byzantine Empire. Unfortunately, they have refused the demand of help that you have sent towards them.”
“Not surprising. Their lack of response until now indicated so.”
“Even so, I did not expect something else. I have received a report from one of my men inside Mustafa's camp, and it seems that they have helped Mustafa whilst you were fighting him. Some of the men you have fought may have been Byzantine forces in a different uniform.”

Murad stared dangerously at Khalil, sending a shiver down the latter's spine, fiddling with a date in his hands in the meantime.

“This is most surprising. I thought Manuel was part of our camp.”

“This is what we all thought so. We were proved wrong however.”

“How trustworthy is your man?”
“He's been serving me for the past three years without a single hint that would make me doubt his loyalty.”

“So the reports are somewhat accurate in regards to their credibility.”

“Indeed.”

“I am dismayed by this duplicity, but I should have known better. The Romans were no better, turns out their descendants are the same. My warrior nature is telling me to attack but my other side is telling me to stay put. There are many tasks to do within the empire, we don't need any more expansions right now. We need stability.”

“Our armies and ready and willing to support you my Sultan, if you decide to attack in any case. The demilitarization hasn't been made so far and the border guards are supplemented by regular troops at this very moment. The Yeni Cerii and Sipahis are training every day, ready to engage and fight under their new leader. The stability you are wishing for is so far assured by your amazing popularity within the empire.”

After hearing Khalil's tirade, Murad smiled towards him.

“You know it's easy to convince me. And you're pressing on.”

“I'm just informing you of the state of your Empire, my Sultan. Doing my duty as a your loyal servant. It is your call.” came the diplomatic reply of Khalil.

“Will the state treasury provide the necessary money for a siege?”

“The treasury is of no problem.”

“Very well. One thing Khalil, how do you know all these things? You're not a high ranked statesman, at least so far.”

“Being your personal advisor has enabled me to have my own strong connections which can prove to be very useful.”

“Old wolf...” trailed Murad.

Khalil only smiled towards his leader. Bowing slightly after Murad's hand sign, his advisor left immediately leaving the Sultan all alone in his personal study. Walking towards the window which was offering a superb view of the entire city of Edirne, Murad chewed the last of his dates, spitting small bits outside.

“I swear that I will conquer Constantinople...” muttered Murad to himself.

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I hope you have enjoyed this chapter.

Scroll down to read more!

**scozzy99** · 06-21-2005, 12:08

i love it edyz. give me more. i want more dammit....

you give us this great story and i hang off your every word and then i get nothing for what seems like months. i think i might just be addicted. u might just have more of a life than me

**edyzmedieval** · 06-22-2005, 19:16

I'm glad that you like it...

It's gonna be a very long story and who knows, I might publish it after I compose all the chapters that will take the reader in the Siege of Constantinople....

**edyzmedieval** · 06-30-2005, 11:35

Chapter III. Hope you like it!!

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Chapter III – Wolves gather together

Summer of 1422

More than a year passed since Murad took over the leadership of the Ottoman Empire and he was ready to enter history. They say that what you're most afraid of, you will never escape it. The war that Manuel had been fearing for so long was on the verge of erupting, and what a show it would provide for the onlookers and for the participants as well. What the sun shines down upon doesn't necessarily mean the person is up to good deeds, or so a Roman would tell you upon seeing the large gathering outside the Turkish capital. Everything there was made for the people to look upon with pride, to be amazed at the display of power from their beloved leader. The full force of the army descending down the large boulevards in an organized march caused serious stir within the city, neither man or woman able to ignore the incredible spectacle provided by the young Sultan's armies.

Nobody minded the excess of detail, the waste of money, the opulence and exquisiteness of the entire show. It was a real display of power in its purest form and it was supposed to be like that. The show was destined to have a powerful impact upon the viewers, and Sultan Murad was cherishing every moment of it. He basked in the adulation of the commoners who were simply hysterical at this display, seeing how powerful the empire they are part of is. It wasn't hard to impress the masses, Murad thought, and with a simple military parade and the announcement of the assault upon the Byzantine capital, his popularity was at unimaginable levels. The show provided a double strike, raising the morale of his troops in the meantime who clearly enjoyed seeing hordes of young women simply coming to them without even making an effort. The demonstration was subdued by the Sultan's personal interest, but he wasn't too concerned about it. Grinning proudly to the sun after he exited his lavish tent placed in the plaza of the Ottoman capital Edirne, Murad set on to examine his elite troops, the Yeni Cerii and the Sipahis, along with his own personal bodyguards, which would accompany his suite. He always stressed the important of hand picked and vastly experienced bodyguards as they could be the different between life or death, win or defeat, in a crucial battle. Shortly after his prolonged inspection which took him to the barracks behind the royal palace, satisfied with his bodyguards and his auxiliary retinue, Murad returned to his tent only to find a bleak figured Khalil standing with a small roll of parchment in his hands. He took the roll without saying anything, read it fast and then collapsed on his divan, ordering his servant to bring him dates. He struggled to keep his joy away but was unpleasantly surprised upon meeting the gaze of Khalil, who stood petrified in the same position where he was when he handed over the telegram.

“What's wrong Khalil?”

“I do not like this my Sultan. Everyone seems to be enjoying the display but I am far from impressed. Am I the only one realising the full implication of this assault?”

“Khalil, your attitude in the past months has been concerning me deeply. You initially supported my attack, and now you don't even want to hear about it. What's going on?”

“Subterfuge reports. It seems our Byzantine friends have reported to the Pope after you were enthroned, requesting for help, and also to the German Emperor. Not only this, but they have caused serious internal problems by stirring up the minorities and they have encouraged the independent principalities of Teke, Menteshe and Germiyan to revolt. So far nothing has happened, but troublesome reports have come from those areas.”

“Such as?” said Murad, Khalil noticing a trail of fear and precaution in his words.

“The population lately has been consistently demanding complete independence from the Ottoman Empire.”

“They can demand whatever they want, I won't give them even one dirrham. Your reports however are most interesting. Have you informed the Grand Vizier, Ibrahim-Pasha?”
“Indeed I have. He ignored my warnings.”

“We will give it a thought at the meeting we will have later on. For the moment, we won't take it into consideration. Go enjoy the parade, try to find some more women for your harem.” replied Murad grinning.

“As you wish, my Sultan.” said Khalil, leaving his tent.

Even with all of the elaborate arrangements, something was still bothering Murad, and it wasn't Khalil's warnings. He had every reason to be pleased with what he had achieved in his life so far at this very young age, but even so, he was in a constant fight with his neighbours, especially those at the eastern border of the empire. With this assault, any mistake in the organisation, planning and execution of the siege and everything could be completely compromised. Any attack, any intent of attack, any skirmish between his forces and his foes could call off the siege, giving even more time to the Romans to defend themselves. The risks were huge, but for him, it was now or never, and as he so often thought, any risk can be taken when it comes to Constantinople. The city evaded the grasp of so many of his predecessors, but he was determined not to let it go this time. Although time was not lost, Murad considered it was his sole chance to take it and he felt up for the task. He quickly wrote a telegram for Khalil, ordering him to summon the high ranked generals in the Edirne Palace, and left for the palace himself.

The lavishly decorated Ottoman palace could rival any Byzantine palace built in the 10th century, being a exact copy of the Roman governor's house of Ravenna, with obvious Turkish influences and other architectural additions which added to the beauty of the imposing structure. The Sultan galloped with a small force of bodyguards towards the palace, stopping to admire it at the entrance of the courtyard. Dismounting his horse, immediately followed by his retinue, Murad stepped inside the palace. He found himself inside a large hall adorned with splendid Persian carpets hanging from the ceiling on the sides, the floor covered with the finest oriental marble while golden excerpts from the Qu'ran were hanging from the walls.
Outside the ceremonial hall, all ministers were waiting for Murad to arrive, dressed up in their ceremonial outfits as the protocol duly imposed. The Sultan didn't even bother saluting his cabinet, immediately entering the room without saying a single word, instead ordering his servant to bring him refreshments. He walked confidently to this throne, hurriedly and with firm steps, not glancing a look behind towards his ministers. Many rumours about their loyalty came to his ears, mostly coming in from his palace eunuchs who knew everything that was happening at the high court. Most of the discontent came from the fact that he was excessively taxing the nobility and subsequently attacking their own private interests, and this made him a vigilant man, as he knew they could take his throne away or simply just assassinate him. Murad took into the account even the possibility of a simple coup d'etat which could exile him away from his throne. He even employed personal hand picked bodyguards to guard him during his sleep, literally having a small private army at his door every time. Ignoring his intrusive and paranoid thoughts, Murad approached the throne and took his seat, sitting on the opulent golden chair, covered in precious Indian diamonds. Murad immediately started ordering around, willing to finish with this unpleasant meeting which he had to forcefully attend.

"Map! And don't bother sitting down, this will be quick." said Murad, talking to his ministers, who were still outside the hall, waiting to be called inside.

A beautiful young Persian squire, Murad's own personal assistant, brought 5 large parchments and rolled them neatly on the wooden table, forming a detailed view of the surroundings of Edirne and Constantinople, a work of the Genoese sailors and mappers on his payroll. They were a valuable aid to him, as they were educated and knowledgeable men, helping him keep secret ties with the Genoese Principality in the meantime regarding military information and international trade. The Sultan looked closely at the map, analysing different possibilities of attack, until he was interrupted by Khalil who decided to interrupt the silence and speak first.

"My dear Sultan, if I am allowed to talk, I wish to remind you that the siege of this great city is very very dangerous and can pose useless peril for our empire. Whilst I understand the benefit we can gain from conquering the city, we cannot risk to expose ourselves so much in these times, so much so that it could lead to a complete loss of stability in case of a new attack.”

Murad looked up from his maps, surprised to hear his advisor's words. Khalil then turned towards his fellow ministers and read out from a parchment he wrote on his notes.

“I have received reports from our spies which are actively providing us with valuable information behind the enemy lines in the Byzantine Empire and also in the beyliks situated at our eastern border. It seems that the Byzantines have been actively seeking aid from the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor and in turn they have been instigating the population of the beyliks to revolt against out rule and attack the pacifying troops settled in their area. With this assault, we practically leave our borders unguarded, and even a sudden, organised attack would break our thin defence lines, destroying the painstaking organisation which our ancestors have struggled so much to build unless we take action immediately. On top of this, Constantinople is very well defended and I am under no illusions that they will fight until the last man and until the last stone of those walls has been destroyed. The siege will not finish fast, and it will be a very big drain on the empire's resources."

Murad just grinned to Khalil and clapped his hands after his advisor stopped his speech. Ibrahim-Pasha, the Grand Vizier, replied.

“Are you sure of this Khalil? Even if it is true, I wouldn't stop the attack. Those bastards need to be punished once and for all. And their city taken already!” replied Ibrahim-Pasha, the Grand Vizier.

“With all due respect Ibrahim-Pasha, the risks that we are taking are immense.”

"My Sultan, with all due respect to your close advisor, Khalil does not know what he is saying. This is our golden chance! If we conquer Constantinople, nothing will stand in front of our powerful armies that Allah gave us. As Khalil said, before we conquer it, we are at peril, but with the grace of God and with his will, we can triumph on every front, we can triumph against everything that is hurled towards us. If our enemies do not decisively attack us during these times, we cannot be stopped any more. Constantinople is the jewel of Europe, and it must be conquered as soon as possible!" said Zaganos Pasha, the newly appointed Minister of War, half the age of Khalil.

“The risk of a decisive attack is very high, and if it does happen, by the time we mobilise our armies to counter the threat, the enemy can take most of Anatolia, as surely the beyliks will group together in an alliance and take our territories on four different fronts. Not a beautiful picture, and I am sure Zaganos you do not want to see it, especially when you are the minister of war.” spit Khalil towards his court foe.

“Gamble and win. Either way we cannot be defeated completely. We just lose territory we can easily regain. We win, we keep our territories, we get the best city in the world. We lose, we lose our territories, we rebound, we try again to conquer it.” said Zaganos dismissively.

“The siege will have considerable impact on the state's finances, my Sultan.” Alyadin-Pasha, the First Defterdar.

“Efendi, the risks are negligible. The amount of money we gain after conquering the city is far beyond our wildest dreams, I assure you.” replied Zaganos.

“And if we fail?” came the reply of Ibrahim-Pasha

“Well, we have to support the huge gap in the finances.” said Khalil.

“It won't be of a problem afterwards. We can manage it.” said Murad

The displeasure of the ministers became obvious as they were increasingly annoyed by the fact that the conversation was going on and they were standing up. Murad decided to intervene and finish off the discussions so he can concentrate on more pressing matters instead of conversing with his ministers.

"I deeply appreciate all of your contributions to today's meeting, and of course, your presence. I am sorry Khalil, but Zaganos and Ibrahim-Pasha are right. You can condemn my belligerent attitude as much as you want afterwards, but the risk must be taken in order for us to progress. Inform the generals to prepare for the march, were are ready to go forward and attack.”

Nobody from that moment dared to reply to the Sultan, who was already busy examining the maps with the top generals of the Ottoman army. He motioned to the ministers with his outstretched hand, not even bothering to lay his eyes off the maps laid out on his table. From his part, the meeting came to a swift and decisive conclusion in his favour, imposing his will once again without much problem. The ministers left leaving Murad all alone in the hall, some of them visibly moaning and unhappy with the result of the meeting.

Not before long Murad left the palace once again and after a brief meeting in the spectacular bright green courtyard, filled with all kinds flowers, with his generals, he mounted his horse and headed towards the walls of Edirne. Murad arrived shortly, saluting everyone around him as he climbed the stairs to the top of the main gate which was also the crucial entrance to the city. Climbing up the tower offered a spectacular view of the entire military parade, Murad laying his eyes upon the perfect formations of the elite troops . The walls of the city were formed in a U shape, enabling the young Sultan to see the entire bulk of his troops stationed inside this U, all eyes on him, every soldier attentive to every detail and every word Murad would speak. Beside him were his ministers with parchments in hand offering different speeches, but Murad resorted to one single word which had power over everything else.

"Constantinople!!!"
Resembling something of a volcano, from each and every soldier's chest army shouts and war cries could be heard, quickly changing to a single word rhythm which filled the air surrounding the city. "Sultan! Sultan! Sultan!". Grinning, he turned to his ministers who couldn't help but smile and applaud the impressive show, even Khalil setting aside his differences, participating along with the others. Murad winked to both Khalil and Zaganos as he left the tower, returning swiftly to his palace to prepare the final details for the assault on the Byzantine capital.

Over a hill near Edirne, three man sat motionless, stunned by celebration of the Ottomans that was happening right in front of their eyes. The Byzantine spies sent by Manuel could not hide their amazement and disbelief, not moving a single finger even when the Ottoman armies started marching towards Constantinople. One of them suddenly woke up from his reverie and shook his companions, urging them to leave the place and return to Constantinople to escape and report their findings to the Emperor anxious for information.

It was well past midnight but the two men in the private chamber of the Sultan inside the Edirne Palace weren't sound asleep as someone might expect, instead engaging in a heated conversation about the assault that was about to be unleashed over Constantinople. The two were seated on a low divan, Murad eating his dates as usual with Khalil joining in. Murad's advisor was looking through different military treatises, trying to study the Byzantine warfare in as much detail as possible, at the same time responding to his Sultan's questions.

“Since we are going to siege Constantinople, I want you to double the border guards in the eastern side of the empire, and supplement them with regular troops which will not be assigned to the siege. Those beyliks need to know that they should think twice before attempting an attack.”

“What about the cities? They need sufficient garrisons.”

“Forget it, they won't revolt. There's enough stability in the Empire. Any news regarding foreign intervention?”

“None so far, it seems.”

“Did your spies make anything of the Byzantine diplomats who visited the Pope?”

“It seems that he has rejected their request of help, out of the severe lack of funds.”

“And the one who visited the Holy Roman Emperor?”

“The same result. No help, at least not for this very moment.”

“So any chance of foreign intervention is out of the question, I understand.”

“Exactly my Sultan. Everything goes as you masterfully planned.”

“Perfect. Everything is set then. Inform me tomorrow morning when we leave Edirne if you have anything to say to me. You may leave. I need to get some rest before.”

“Yes, my Sultan. Have a good night.”

The next morning, down the road leading to Constantinople from Edirne, merchants, peasants, noblemen and passers by alike were shocked by the grim spectacle offered freely for everyone to see. Hanging from a blossoming cherry tree right beside the road were three men, hanged from one of the branches. They were stabbed in the back by curved Ottoman swords, limbs cut completely and each had a piercing iron arrow shot in the neck, sent forth by the military groups organised and trained by Zaganos Pasha as counter-espionage...

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Galata quarters, Constantinople

The Galata Tower was the tallest building known to the easterners who never ventured out of the lands of their empire, each child and even adult awing at the sheer size of the fortification. It was imposing, but what caused the displeasure towards this structure was its ownership. The Genoese were one of the most hated people in Constantinople, along with the Venetians, who ironically, both of them, were close traders with the Empire and the imperial family. The two Italian Republics controlled the Galata commonly, but it was the Genoese who had more influence and much more territory within the quarter than their cohabitants.

At the top of the tower on the balcony, the Genoese podesta Paolo Bocanegra and his longtime friend and companion Nicolo Doria were sipping through a bottle of French wine, discussing the recent events and court rumours, not only Genoese, but also Byzantine and Venetian. Rumours spread around the Galata quarter faster than disease, and every ball or special occasion which dictated a party fuelled the river of chit chat even more. It provided endless laughs and discussions, perfect for the taverns but also talks between men and women alike, each giving more and more time to these talks. Friends as they were, the two Genoese were significantly different from one another.
The Genoese podesta, the administrator of the Galata quarter, Paolo, was born into a noble family which gave the first doge of Genoa, quickly becoming the podesta of Galata because of his connections. Tall and good looking, he used his position to impress the court women of Genoa, attracting even higher positions than he could have hoped for by using his family name. He distinguished himself early with his intelligence and ease when it came to diplomacy, and it soon became clear to the Genoese doge that even without his connections, Paolo was more than capable to become the administrator of one of the most important Genoese colonies, and surely the most delicately situated one. Paolo's friend, Nicolo, was the son of a Genoese merchant, joining the ranks of the army after he ran away from home to escape the constant beatings from his father. He initially wanted to become a merchant, but the thought of combining both warfare with trading appealed to him dearly, becoming a senior officer just after his twenty second birthday. A naturally gifted warrior, he served on the Genoese warships until he switched to the land armies, going wherever the Doge's armies went. Engaging in trading as well, it soon became so profitable that he quit the army and hired his own personal mercenary army which guarded him and protected his interests. Even with all the wealth he had accumulated, this didn't change his pleasant character at all. Paolo admired Nicolo for his loyalty and his firm beliefs, and from the moment Nicolo saved the life of his friend in a battle against the Algerian pirates, the two became best friends ever since. Paolo was the diplomat and the brilliant politician, while Nicolo was the general and the affluent merchant between them.

“What do you make of it? The Ottomans are marching forwards.” said Nicolo, motioning towards the walls of Constantinople.

“I think we're in for another spectacular Greek theatre from the balcony of the tower, that's what I make of it. Take another cup of wine when it happens and enjoy. The wine or the battle, you choose. The Ottomans won't break it, however.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Right now, the Byzantines are strong enough to hold their own with the army they have and think about it, they are protected by those massive walls. If we had those walls over here, nothing could break them and we would be living here forever.”

“Aren't you concerned about any possible attacks on our territory? The Ottomans won't have a good eye towards us when we are this close from the battlefield.”

“We have a neutral treaty with them. If we support the Byzantines, then it is a declaration of war between our states.”

“What if they ask for help?”

“Who's they?”

“The Byzantines”

“We won't give them any help whatsoever. We're neutral in this useless conflict. It's not within our interests to help whoever comes in our way.”

Nicolo took another sip of wine and switched his position on the balcony, now looking dreamily towards the horizon, easily spotting Chalcedon and the Prinkiponisia Islands covered in the glow of the sunset.

“If you would be a Byzantine, how would you react to seeing the Genoese on the walls with their troops while their city was falling?”

“I would probably be extremely angry and I would curse those bastards to hell.” laughed Paolo.

His laugh soon turned to terror as a messenger crashed through the door that lead from the balcony to the tower, sprawling on the floor and panting heavily after running up the narrow stairs inside the building. The messenger quickly rebounded from the crash and stood up, looking the podesta directly in the eye.

“My lord, Genoa has been conquered by the Republic of Milan! The doge has been deposed!”

The two friends looked at each other in horror, Paolo's glass slipping from his hand in shock crashing to the floor in a flurry of glass shards, injuring himself at the same time.

“What do we do now?”

“We help them.” replied the podesta in a solemn voice.

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