Free Web NovelChapter 732: On The Other Side
Nikos frowned. "Wait a moment, Valentino. You argue for maintaining the local structure, yet also for withdrawing their autonomy. Does that not contradict itself?"
Valentino met his watch directly. "Yes, Lord Nikos, and no." He then turned to the emperor. "Your Majesty, if I recall correctly, the surviving members of the previous Serbian royal family remain in Constantinople?" freewebnøvel.coɱ
Leo nodded. "Đorđe Branković is a patriarch in Hagia Sophia, and Jovan Branković serves as a Stratopedarchēs."
"Then we should reinstate one of them as King of Serbia," Valentino proposed. "Divide the land between them to prevent any single ruler from consolidating power. At the same time, we must install a new government in Belgrade—one that holds authority over all military garrisons, appoints officials, and controls the market."
Several murmurs rose among the gathered men.
Valentino continued, unwavering. "All military commanders must swear loyalty to the empire and be stationed under Belgrade’s command. Officials must be educated in our schools. Currency must be minted in Constantinople. Serbia and Bosnia will have their king, their nobles, their identity—but the empire will dictate their future."
He took a deep breath before delivering the final part of his proposal. "And beyond that, we must learn from the Alemanni and the Franks. Over time, we will bring one city after another under direct imperial control. Starting with Belgrade, the empire will slowly absorb Serbia. We must also change how land is inherited—every noble’s child should have the right to own land. This will fragment their estates over generations, reducing the power of regional lords without outright force. In a few generations, these lands will be Roman in all but name—culturally, economically, and politically."
Leo sat in thoughtful silence, digesting the plan.
Finally, he spoke. "Send a messenger to Constantinople. Bring Đorđe and Jovan."
...
At the same time, elsewhere—
Helios stood outside the encampments. Behind him loomed the sturdy walls of Nikomedia; before him stretched another massive encampment, surrounded by tens of thousands of Turkish soldiers, laying siege to the city.
As generals have always known, a battle for a city does not begin with grand sieges and their elaborate engines of war. Instead, it starts with a series of skirmishes beyond the walls, escalating into larger clashes as the defenders dig trenches, raise barricades, and fortify positions — in Helios’s case, establishing defenses nearly two Roman miles away from the city itself. Only after such preparations does the war reach a state like this: the Turks, driven by grim determination, mustering every force they can summon to reclaim this citadel — a city they had lost over a decade ago.
The situation had not been favorable for General Helios. News from every front brought nothing but defeat and despair. The Roman fortifications he had hastily constructed were being torn down one after another. Towns the Romans had painstakingly rebuilt over generations were falling like dominos. Poorly-prepared stockpiles were pillaged — cart after cart of supplies hauled away — while thousands of men, women, and children, who once dreamed of resettling in the fertile coastal lands of Anatolia, were now shackled and dragged off into slavery.
Atrocities unfolded before the eyes of Helios and his soldiers. Children perished beneath the swords of the nomads. Women were violated before the eyes of their families. Men were forced into the brutal chains of hard labor.
Faced with the well-defended garrisons under Helios’s command, the Turks unleashed every cruel weapon in their arsenal. They brought prisoners to the very walls, cursing the general and the Romans with every insult they could muster. They paraded the captives — tormenting them before the garrisons and the city walls — a grotesque spectacle designed to sow fear among the citizens and Roman refugees watching helplessly from above.
Of course, the Turks did this with clear purpose. Their Sultan knew full well that he had but one chance — a single, decisive strike — after enduring over two decades of humiliation and hardship under Roman domination. In the Sultan’s mind, if he did not strike now, the Empire would soon recover its strength and potential, once the new Emperor stabilised the internal chaos and crushed the northern rebels.
The Sultan, though he had conquered vast stretches of land, was not enjoying his triumph as much as one might expect. In recent days, he felt — perhaps unknowingly — the presence of an unseen hand slowly tightening around his neck. In the past, he had cared for little beyond a few simple things: the amount of tax revenue he could collect, the number of soldiers he could recruit, and the quality of his army’s equipment — all in preparation for this war.
He believed himself to be a wise ruler. Under his governance, the vast lands of Asia Minor had swiftly recovered from their devastated state. New towns rose from the ruins, Roman merchants once again traversed the roads, bringing goods his people desperately needed — even fine equipment the Turks had long lacked the ability to craft themselves. In exchange, the Romans asked only for what humble Turkish farmers could offer: grains, livestock, and produce from the plains.
Bit by bit, the Turkish farmers became increasingly cooperative with the Roman merchants, shifting their agricultural lands to grow cash crops, trading them for Roman manufactured goods.
It was a prosperous outcome — one that pleased the new Sultan greatly. His treasury had nearly tripled in recent years. And to his credit, he was no tyrant of luxury — not a single coin was wasted on personal indulgence. Every piece of gold he could gather was poured directly into his army. That was why his forces had swelled to such immense numbers — an army he now turned against the very people who had brought him this wealth: the Romans.
While the Sultan’s mind wrestled with these thoughts, the first wave of the Turkish offensive had already begun under the command of his seasoned generals.
Thousands of horse archers surged forward in ten separate streams from three directions, coalescing into three powerful waves as they galloped toward the Roman fortifications. At a distance of one hundred meters, the first wave loosed their arrows — a deadly storm arcing beautifully through the sky before splitting left and right, withdrawing gracefully back into the main formation.
Within seconds, the second wave charged forward, releasing another merciless volley.
This tactic was not new — it was a battle doctrine long employed by the Mongols. The Sultan, with his highly trained cavalry, had mastered this method, using it to overwhelm many of his enemies in the past. In the open field, no infantry formation could withstand such relentless harassment — the constant rain of arrows would gradually break their morale, unsettle their formations, and when cracks began to form — that was when the true monsters would arrive.
Waiting within the central formation surrounding the Sultan himself were two thousand heavy cavalry — armoured giants of war — ready to crush whatever remained of the enemy lines.
Behind the Roman fortifications, lieutenants shouted in panic, dragging the old general Helios back behind the safety of the walls. Arrows began to rain down, stabbing into wooden barricades, splintering shields, and pinning down any soldier unfortunate enough to be caught in the open.
The Turks had swiftly turned the battlefield into a land of death — cries of agony echoed through the streets as bodies fell lifelessly in the broad daylight, staining every corner with blood and horror.
"Retreat, General!" the guards cried out. "Please!"
"Wait!" Helios, his bloodshot eyes glaring fiercely ahead, roared in rage. "This wall isn’t going down anytime soon!"
The guards were almost out of their minds with fear — for they knew well that this fortification was built in haste, a desperate measure by the general to delay the advancing Turks, layer by layer, while waiting for supplies, ammunition, and reinforcements from Constantinople to arrive.
The walls were barely thick enough to withstand any serious bombardment — though fortune favored them for now, as the enemy possessed none. The height of the walls stood just over three meters, and in some places, they were reinforced with nothing more than thick wooden beams.
These guards — they were not mercenaries. Their homes were in Nikomedia. Their families waited there — wives, children, aging parents. And they knew — if the general fell here, even if they themselves escaped the Emperor’s wrath, their families would be doomed alongside the city. The Sultan was known for his habit of sacking conquered cities, plundering them to pay his soldiers.
With that grim thought in mind, the guards slipped down behind the walls and approached the commander of the fortress — a young man in his early thirties.
If not for this cursed war... if not for this enemy... this young commander might have grown to become another pillar of the Roman army — leading victories of his own, carving his name into the annals of history.
But not this time. ƒrēewebnovel.com
The guards whispered something to him. The man nodded grimly — and the guards returned to General Helios.
With iron will and silent determination, the young commander leapt down from the walls with his men, forming ranks beneath the gates at a short distance away. Then — with a sharp cut — he severed the rope that held the drawbridge over the moat, letting it fall.
He charged — leading his men beyond the walls, shields raised, forming a tight formation as they advanced towards the enemy cavalry.
