Free Web NovelChapter 737: The Battle of Nikomedia (5)
The words struck the Sultan like a whip.
His mind reeled with confusion. How could this be? He had never been taught the true burdens of ruling—not by his father, nor by any of the elder viziers. Governance had never been his calling. That duty had always been reserved for his younger brother, Ali Çelebi, the co-ruler with actual administrative experience.
To Sultan Mehmed, rule had always been simple. The coffers kept filling. The armies kept growing. The people praised him—calling him wise, noble, unmatched. He basked in it. Deep down, he knew he had done little to deserve the acclaim, but he believed it nonetheless.
He would tell his court with a proud laugh, "Had I lived a hundred years ago, Constantinople would already be mine!"
The court smiled, but never believed him. That didn’t stop him from believing it himself.
Until now.
Until reality struck like thunder.
"What do you mean this is a trap?" the Sultan asked, voice low, confused. He was trying to make sense of it all.
Ali raised his weary head and looked into his brother’s eyes—bloodshot and stinging from sleepless days.
"Do you know, brother," he said, voice hoarse, "that more than half our farmers stopped growing wheat over a decade ago? They switched to cash crops—grapes, olives, nuts, herbs—all for trade. None of it goes to feed our people."
He paused, then added, bitterly, "They sell it to the Romans."
The Sultan’s eyes narrowed.
Ali pressed on. "Do you know that vast stretches of farmland have been turned into pastures for livestock? That these animals are not feeding our army, but are traded away—again, to Rumelian merchants crossing in and out of our borders like they own the land?"
He stepped forward, his voice rising. "Tens of thousands of peasants have been driven off their lands—forced into coastal cities to work for the Rumelians just to earn a few coins from Constantinople! Entire families now rely on wages from the enemy! Don’t you see it? Our entire economy has already been handed over to them!"
The Sultan clenched his fists. "Then what about our barns?" he snapped. "What about our food? What about our grain?!"
Ali’s response came like a slap.
"Gone!" he shouted. "All gone!"
He stepped closer, anger flaring. "Haven’t you realised, brother? The grain we’ve eaten for years isn’t ours! Our Turkish farmers haven’t grown enough to feed us in years! The population has doubled—yet the crops have halved! Everything we eat is imported. From the Rumelians. Through their merchants. Through their ships. Through their prices."
The Sultan’s face turned pale.
Ali didn’t stop. "And those barns you think are full? They haven’t stored wheat in a decade! They’re packed with olives, nuts, flax, seed—cash crops. Our own laws permit these to be stored and counted as ’crops’—so the nobles and Rumelian traders used this loophole to trick the court."
Ali leaned in, voice grave and cold.
"They filled the barns with worthless trade goods while convincing us we had enough food for ten winters. But in truth, our stomachs have been in the hands of the Rumelians for years."
The Sultan’s expression shifted.
First, he trembled with rage—his neck flushing red as though blood were boiling beneath his skin. But the anger faded quickly, replaced by a blank stare, eyes unfocused and distant, like a man staring into the void. Then his body began to tremble slightly. Moisture welled at the corners of his eyelids. For the first time, the mighty Sultan looked... as if he were about to weep.
Ali Çelebi’s voice rang out, loud and desperate.
"Brother! What has happened to you? Wake up! You are our Sultan!"
He turned to the gathered nobles and generals, fury in his voice. "And you! What are you waiting for?!"
The nobles and generals fell to their knees, their voices rising as one.
"Please lead us to victory, Your Majesty!"
The Sultan’s breathing slowed. He blinked. He looked around the tent, then straightened his back, regaining his composure. Determination returned to his gaze. He stepped slowly back onto the throne, seated himself, then let out a strange, quiet laugh.
"Seems those Rumelian merchants are not as innocent as they pretended to be," he said, voice cold. "All the more reason to confiscate their wealth... and sever their heads."
The nobles remained kneeling, not daring to lift their heads. The Sultan’s temperament had shifted so many times within mere minutes, no one knew what might trigger the next outburst. They feared he might suddenly call for another execution.
Ali Çelebi stood firm, his eyes still fixed on his brother.
"Now, Honourable Sultan," he asked calmly. "What should we do?"
The Sultan’s demeanor shifted again—serious and thunderous now. He stood from the throne with sudden force, startling the entire room. Heads bowed even lower.
"What should we do? What should we do?!" he shouted. "Our people are suffering—starving!—while we, tens of thousands of useless mouths, sit here achieving nothing!"
His voice grew even louder.
"Are we not ashamed, eating up the grain stolen from the starving bellies of our own people?! Enough! I want this made absolutely clear: from this moment on, I will allow no one to back down from this fight!"
He turned sharply, shouting to his officers.
"It is either we return victorious—plundering the granaries of Nikomedia to feed our troops—and force that child-emperor in the West to restore trade and pay us tribute... or my Sultanate shall be wiped off the face of this earth!"
"Yes, Honourable Sultan!" the nobles roared in unison, striking their chests. "May the Almighty Allah, our ancestors, and every hero of our history bless us in this conquest!"
"Unleash the cavalry!" the Sultan bellowed. "Ready the army! We shall strike them down in a decisive battle within the week to come!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Two days later.
The Roman army was already halfway through constructing a massive encampment around the town of Libyssa. It was more than a temporary station—it was being turned into a permanent military foothold in the region, complete with garrisons and supply lines. Their goal: secure the town, and prepare the land for full Roman expansion once the threat was cleansed. freewebnovёl.ƈom
It was deep into the night. The soldiers of Rome carried out their nightly routines with methodical discipline. Four layers of defenses kept the enemy at bay:
The outermost ring: cavalry scouts patrolling a fixed route within a ten-Roman-mile radius—silent shadows in the dark.
The second ring: sentries stationed atop hills and high ground, observing every flicker and sound in the surrounding valleys.
The third: foot patrols with torches, moving through the outer perimeter of the camp.
The fourth: tower watchmen keeping their eyes fixed outward, assisted by numerous patrol ships gliding silently across the Marmara Sea.
Giovanni Junior was leaving nothing to chance.
This time, he was extraordinarily careful with this contested land.
Two soldiers—one young, one old—stood watch atop the walls, passing the long night with quiet conversation. The summer air was thick with warmth, but softened by the gentle sea breeze. They spoke not out of camaraderie, but as a way to stay awake, to keep from dozing off beneath the stars.
"What’s the point of all this..." the younger soldier muttered, leaning lazily against his spear. "I have two children back home. A farm to tend. And now I’m stuck here, in this gods-forsaken land, fighting people I’ve never met, who’ve never done me harm. I don’t even know why we’re here."
The older man—broad-shouldered, grizzled, and in his forties—turned to him with a look of disbelief.
"What are you saying?" he asked, almost aghast. "We’re being invaded. By the Turks. Have you forgotten the suffering our people endured? Have you forgotten that if Anatolia falls, they’ll come for the heartlands next?"
The young man shrugged. "That was ages ago. The last invasion into Europa happened before I was even born. And even if they came again by some miracle, they’d never make it to my hometown. Honestly, I wish the Emperor would spend more time dealing with the pirates plaguing the Adriatic ports. At least then we could go out fishing... or trade in peace."
The older soldier narrowed his eyes. "Where are you from?"
"Epirus."
"... I see."
The young man glanced back. "And you?"
"I’m from Adrianople. Or... Antonionople, as they call it now. But my family—my roots—they’re from Smyrna."
He paused.
"Smyrna was taken by the Turks. Just a month ago."
"I see..." the younger soldier said quietly, already sensing he had spoken too freely.
"My whole family," the man continued, voice lower now, steadier, "my wife, my father, my children... all killed in the fall. I survived only because I was already serving in the army."
"My condolences," the younger man said, genuinely regretful. "I didn’t mean—"
"I’m older than you," the soldier interrupted, gripping his spear so tightly that veins surfaced across his weathered hand. "I know what happens when invaders come to your doorstep. What you take for granted—peace, security—it’s a privilege bought with blood. Yours has been a normal life, because others have died to give you that normality."
He exhaled slowly.
"Your wish is that the Emperor cleans up the pirates so you can go fishing. My wish... is that I could go home. That I could get my revenge. That I could have my family back."
"...I’m sorry," the younger soldier whispered.
"...It’s okay," the older man replied after a moment, the words soft, almost hollow.
They both fell silent again, save for the occasional crackle of the fire beside them and the steady hum of insects in the summer night.
The darkness stretched on. freewebnøvel.com
The night was still long.
