Free Web NovelChapter 745: Aftermath Of The Battle
The doom of the Turkish host was certain.
General Helios knew it the moment he saw the inferno rising on the horizon—his instincts, honed by decades of war, told him at once. Yet, being ever cautious, he waited until dawn, when the scouts returned with confirmation: Giovanni Junior had struck like a thunderbolt, setting all three Turkish camps ablaze. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓
The fate of the Sultan’s army was sealed in the flames.
Without delay, Helios moved every man under his command. Only eight hundred were left to guard the city; the rest he dispatched to throw up barricades and garrisons, one after another, stretching for miles across every road and junction. Two hundred cavalry roamed in packs, hunting fugitives, cutting down stragglers, and—most importantly—searching for the Sultan and his nobles.
By midday the news had spread far beyond the battlefield. Villagers in nearby towns rose in revolt, seizing the Turkish governors placed over them. Bloodied knives and farming tools replaced swords, Roman banners and hidden scraps of imperial purple reappeared from cellars and walls. Bands of peasants took to the roads, blocking crossings and ambushing Turks on the run. Normally, such folk would never have stood a chance against battle-hardened warriors—but the Turks were broken. Armor, shields, even blades lay discarded along the roadsides. The defeated fled half-naked, too stripped of courage to ever face combat again.
The Sultan himself was no different.
Twice, his nobles and Janissaries had to wrestle a dagger from his hands to stop him from slitting his own throat. Now he lay hidden in a village, waiting for the storm to pass. In a single day, he had become unrecognisable: his hair streaked with grey, deep wrinkles carved into his face, his proud robes replaced by a filthy peasant’s gown. Burnt eyebrows, mud-caked skin, and the foul odor of sweat and smoke clung to him. No longer the master of armies—he looked like a broken vagabond.
For two days, neither he nor his men had eaten. At last, his guards laid their monarch upon a woolen mat while others dragged a goat by its horns and slit its throat. Three villagers were seized at knifepoint.
"Cook for us!" the Turks barked. "And if a single word leaves this village—your lives will be forfeit!"
Every family was herded into the church, guarded by a dozen Janissaries with naked blades. The Sultan’s plan was plain enough: rest briefly, restore his strength with food, then vanish again before the Rumelians arrived. Scouts had assured him this place—west of Nikomedia, east of Artanes, close to the Black Sea—was far too remote to attract enemy search parties. No sane fugitive would have fled this way, for it was a trap between coast and encircling Roman lines.
Meanwhile, other soldiers scoured the riverbanks, seizing every boat they could find for escape.
Smoke soon curled above the village. A great pot was set over the fire, the largest the peasants possessed, filled with water, barley, scraps of vegetable, and the slaughtered goat. A thin pottage began to boil.
At the scent, the Sultan’s dead eyes flickered. For the first time in days, color returned faintly to his pupils. His head lifted weakly, his gaze fixed upon the steaming pot, as though in that humble broth lay not only food, but the last fragile thread of life that still bound him to this earth.
The Janissaries felt it first.
A faint tremor beneath the soil, the rhythm of hooves carrying speed and weight. Their battle-honed instincts told them what it meant: cavalry—coming fast—and in these times, there could be only one reason. They were being hunted.
Alarmed, the Janissaries scrambled to readiness. Blades hissed from their sheaths, bows were snatched as men climbed to rooftops and upper rooms, ready to rain arrows on whoever approached. One soldier moved to kick the steaming pot of pottage aside, to smother the betraying smoke, but the Sultan’s hoarse voice cut through the panic:
"Leave it. Take no haste."
The Janissaries obeyed, but uneasily.
And indeed—they were right.
On a ridge beyond the village, a troop of riders halted. At their head, a young commander swung down from his horse. Kneeling, he pressed his fingers into a fresh pile of dung.
"Still warm," he muttered, a grin flashing across his face. "They have not gone far."
He mounted again, eyes narrowing on the smoke curling above the rooftops. He pointed sharply.
"Look there, brothers! One fire, one plume of smoke. And yet, do you see? Not a bird perches on the thatch. No sparrow dares roost. Why? Because the village is crawling with men. Turks. Hiding."
The riders murmured approval at his sharpness.
But an older companion spat back, fury in his voice. "Husrev! You’re not here to play at Julian reborn. You came to cleanse your father’s shame—and bring spoils home to our village!"
The young commander laughed, a touch embarrassed, then steeled his face and spoke louder for all to hear.
"Smoke at noon means a meal for a small company. But empty rooftops mean the whole village is occupied, its every corner guarded. And who else would huddle in silence, with horses hidden, banners lowered? It can only be Turks."
The riders gasped in admiration, their whispers swelling. "Even Julian would not have seen such signs..."
Husrev wiped his hand on his cloak, laughed again, and raised his arm.
"Then let us see what fish our net has caught! Perhaps a bey... perhaps something greater! Ride, brothers—carefully!"
The horsemen thundered down the slope, spreading like a tide. They encircled the village, hemming it in. Husrev himself reined up before the gate, scanning every shadow.
In clear Turkish, his herald roared: "Turks inside! Come out and surrender! You are surrounded. Our host waits just beyond!"
Silence.
"Do not feign ignorance!" the voice thundered. "It makes you seem only more foolish!"
Inside, the Janissaries’ chests heaved with ragged breaths. Their knuckles whitened on sword-hilts, arms trembling from hunger and fatigue. Their lips were cracked, their bodies stank of smoke and sweat. Still, they waited, straining against despair, praying the enemy would blunder into their hidden blades.
But Husrev and his men did not move. They lingered outside, calm, like guests awaiting the host’s courtesy.
Seeing no answer, Husrev spurred forward himself. He motioned for his comrade to translate his words, then cried out with theatrical force:
"Turks! We know you are here. We respect your courage. And hear this—Rome has no wish to butcher men who have fought bravely and now lay down their arms! We will respect all sorts of brave warriors, who bravely fought through the process, and have to surrender at the end!"
He gestured wide, voice ringing across the village.
"Your plight is not your fault! No, it is your Sultan’s! He who could have given his realm another century of peace chose instead to gorge on pride and greed. He threw away your lives for his vanity! He has wealth enough for ten kingdoms, yet demanded more—and you pay the price! For nothing but his greed, his foolishness, his ignorance! With the price of your heads!"
The Sultan inside did not flinch. His face was stone, eyes staring ahead, unreadable.
Husrev pressed on.
"Think! Do you not have families? Wives, children, fathers, brothers? Will you leave them for nothing—just for your Sultan’s arrogance? He has led you to ruin, and yet you sit ready to die for him? In the end, even if you have used your life to pave his road of victory, he would not even take a look at you! Instead he would just proudly march over you, as if he do not know you! Yes, that is the Sultan! You still have a few decades more to live! And a family of mouths to feed! Are you still a man! Do you still have the right mind, if you are still here resisting, even when all have been lost?"
At that moment, a Turkish soldier slipped on a roof tile above. The clatter fell like a hammer—right above the Sultan’s head.
Husrev seized it, his voice rising.
"Is it worth it? To perish for such a degenerate coward? I would not! Where I come from, we say—’Ko drugome jamu kopa, sam u nju pada.’ ’He who digs a pit for others, falls into it himself.’ Your Sultan dug your graves, not I. He is the one who betrayed you! You have already done the best to him, and since he has already ran away, there is no point for you to continue holding here as well! Just listen to me, fellow brothers, surrender!" freewebnøvel.com
The commander’s voice hardened, iron in its edge.
"I know there is an ambush inside. I will not enter. Nor do I care for your hostages, I am not from these places... If you resist, I will do what I must—bring fire and siege upon this place until nothing remains but ashes."
The air thickened, the silence unbearable. Inside, Janissaries glanced at one another, sweat dripping from their brows, torn between fear and duty. The Sultan sat unmoving.
The village itself seemed to hold its breath.
