Free Web NovelChapter 747: The Sultan’s Surrender
The Janissary commander could almost taste safety: a nearby fortress, once a supply hub for the local beys, rose three meters high and should hold any pursuing Rumelian cavalry for a while. He pictured riding through its gate, announcing their rank, swapping mounts, and pressing on with his small handful and his sovereign tucked safely inside.
They had already removed the gag and untied the Sultan’s hands. The ruler had said nothing since they fled—he walked beside his men like a shadow, hollow-eyed, trusting them with his life.
Then the commander noticed something wrong: no banners flew above the citadel. No standard. Protocol demanded the Sultan’s insignia hang from every loyal hold, yet the walls were bare.
Before he could reason further, the great gate swung open and a line of cavalry rolled out, followed by infantry. They bore the double-headed eagle and the white-horse banner. The sight struck the commander like a blow; his head swam. For a moment he felt the ground tilt beneath him. He had led his Sultan straight into a trap.
He barked for a retreat, but another squadron thundered up behind them, sealing their only route. In the front rode the very Rumelian leader who had taunted them at the village gates not an hour before.
The circle closed fast. The Rumelians fanned out, tightening the ring. The Janissary commander’s jaw clenched; his hands trembled as he drew his blade. Here, there would be no hiding.
His men were stunned—some slow to draw steel, others frozen in shock. He took a long breath, tried to steady the shaking in his limbs, then moved to untie his sovereign. He peeled the cloth from the Sultan’s mouth and murmured without meeting his eyes, dread in his voice: "Forgive me, my Sultan. I will try to cut a path to safety—now run. Save yourself. I cannot promise I’ll return."
The Sultan’s hand found the commander’s shoulder and pressed there, gentle and surprisingly steady. "I am grateful for what you have done," he said. "But leave me. Too many have died these past days. Let the rest of you live and go home."
The commander’s throat thickened. For the first time since dawn, he answered his lord, voice rough with something like reproach: "Your Majesty... have you forgotten your purpose? Your ambitions?"
The Sultan closed his eyes and, for a long moment, only sighed. The silence stretched like a held breath.
"Maybe," he admitted at last.
Then, summoning the last of his voice, he strode forward—weak, but with a spark still there—and called out toward Husrev and the surrounding Rumelians: "I am Mehmed Zaganos, rightful Sultan of the Turks, leader of the Zaganos clan. You have captured me—well done. I will go with you... but on one condition: my men must leave unharmed. They must be allowed to go."
The Rumelian cavalrymen looked at one another—stunned. They had expected to catch a big fish, but none had imagined it would be this big. Too big, perhaps, for any of them to swallow. Husrev’s face flickered through a storm of emotions. He realised now what he had stumbled into—what kind of history he had just stepped inside, and what kind of political fire this moment would ignite. He had come for loot, for glory, for a chance to restore his family’s lost prestige—but now, this was something far beyond him, far beyond any junior officer’s grasp.
His eyes drifted toward the fortress. He could see movement atop the walls—shadows pacing, heads gathered, the officials clearly in debate about what to do next.
Moments later, a small party rode down from the gate. They saluted the Sultan with the courtesy due to a monarch and spoke with forced calm.
"Please, honorable Sultan, come inside our fortress for a seat. We will coordinate with our superiors. We thank you for your patience..."
A Janissary at the rear could not contain himself. "Your fortress? It is our fortress!"
The fortress commander’s reply came sharp and cold. "There are carvings on these very bricks that say otherwise! They were laid under Emperor Isaac I Komnenos!"
Ignoring the Janissary’s fury, the commander turned back to the Sultan. He bowed low from his saddle and gestured toward the gate. The Sultan gave a faint nod and nudged his weary horse forward.
At that, the faithful Janissary broke down. Tears spilled freely as he cried out, voice trembling, "Your Majesty! Do not leave us! Where will the country go without you? Where shall we go without you?"
The Sultan halted for a heartbeat. His shoulders trembled—but then he pressed on. His back bent slightly forward, the reins loose in his hand. He said nothing. His eyes burned, and though he blinked hard, the tears refused to stay hidden. He could only pray his men did not see them fall.
When the heavy gates shut behind him with a hollow thud, it was as if the world itself exhaled. Inside, the Sultan swayed in his saddle, strength draining from him. The fortress commander hurried forward and caught him before he slipped. The old Sultan grasped the man’s arm with surprising force, locking eyes with him.
"Remember," he rasped, breath trembling, "keep my men outside safe. Let them go. Keep your word." frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓
The commander, shaken by the weight of those words, could only bow his head and nod quickly, unable to meet the Sultan’s gaze.
...
It took only five days before a lavishly decorated carriage—its origin unknown—rolled up to the castle, escorted by a squadron of Varangian cavalry. The emperor’s orders had come with them.
The command was plain: escort the Sultan to Nicomedia to meet the emperor in person. Let the Janissaries go; send them back to spread the news of the Turks’ defeat, the Sultan’s surrender, and the fear of Rome into those borderlands the Roman blade had not yet reached.
Like a statue, the Sultan was lifted into the carriage and borne toward the army camp outside Nicomedia.
The city itself was a ruin after the long siege. Soldiers and returning townsfolk moved among blackened beams and toppled walls, trying to patch homes and salvage life. Near the sea, the emperor sat where he could watch the ships come in—boats full of refugees, reinforcements, and supplies unloading one after another.
When the carriage arrived, the emperor did not rise. Around him, a ring of Rumelian generals watched the captive with barely suppressed hatred. Had the emperor not been present, some would surely have ripped the man apart with their bare hands.
The young emperor—only half the Sultan’s age—showed none of the fear one might expect. He stood straight, hands at his waist, and regarded the humbled figure with steady eyes. The Sultan, head bowed long before the procession, did not look up. No one could read his thoughts.
The emperor motioned for him to sit, then seated himself opposite, with only Cerberus at his side on guard.
"It’s all right, Cerberus—no need to stand watch," the emperor said, as if speaking to himself. "Unchain the Sultan. There is no need to chain a monarch of a respected counterpart."
Cerberus hesitated. "But, Your Majesty, for your safety—"
"It is all right," the emperor cut in gently. "The Sultan has surrendered. I am not in danger."
"As you wish, Your Majesty." Cerberus stepped down the stairs.
The Sultan’s chains were removed. He glanced up briefly and saw a handful of Turks in the courtyard—ambassadors and envoys come to plead, their faces a mix of hate and worry. He took the small ceramic cup offered, drew a sip of mead, and kept his gaze low.
The emperor opened first. "Do not worry, Your Majesty. You speak Greek?"
"...Yes."
"This war should never have happened." The emperor’s voice was even, almost weary. "You know, Sultan—I, autocrat and Basileus of the Romans, can be merciful. Though you have wrought havoc on my people and my lands, I am willing to pardon you. I remain committed to my forefathers’ dream: a realm where peoples may live side by side in peace. What say you, Sultan?"
Silence answered him. The Sultan sipped his mead.
"What I ask is simple," the emperor went on. "Your ambassadors are here. Your troops still cause trouble. Tell them to stop the resistance. End the bloodletting. End the hatred between our peoples."
The Sultan peeked slightly at Cerberus, who has went to a distance away, but is still vigilantly on guard,
His fingers trembling slightly. For a long while, only the whisper of the sea and the clinking of distant armor filled the air between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, weary, and heavy with years of command and failure.
"I am... not here to beg for my life," he said slowly, in deliberate Greek. "Nor am I here to deny my defeat. I led my people into this war, believing that the will of Heaven favored my banner. But Heaven has turned away. I accept this truth."
"Great!" The emperor clapped. "Now, let us draft the terms for your surrender!"
