Free Web NovelChapter 749: The Great Triumph
The Varangians worked feverishly, pressing the water from his lungs, shaking him gently. At last, the emperor coughed — a hoarse, desperate sound — and spat out the final mouthful of seawater. His eyelids fluttered open, vision still blurred. Through the haze, he saw Giovanni’s face.
"Ah... my brother," he murmured weakly, reaching out his trembling hand. "I saw Father... Mother... and Sister. I tried to reach them, but I failed. The only one I could touch... was you."
Giovanni’s tears fell freely as he clasped his brother’s hand.
The young emperor closed his eyes again, breathing deeply. Colour slowly returned to his cheeks, life seeping back into his body.
The emperor — Leo — had been brought back from the brink.
The emperor was reborn.
For the first time in the emperor’s life, he feels that he is just seconds away from death.
The following day, in an isolated tent within the Roman camp, the old Sultan lay in silence, his face half lit by a faint beam of sunlight that crept through the fabric walls.
The flap burst open. Several guards entered — led by Cerberus — carrying a scroll of silk. He spread it before the Sultan and spoke in a low, commanding tone.
"Sign it."
The Sultan’s eyes remained closed.
Cerberus let out a cold huff. "Do not worry. We have released the soldiers who did not witness yesterday’s... events. They’ve been told that you — the Sultan — have already signed the treaty of surrender. I believe, by now, this news will spread across all Anatolia."
The Sultan winced in pain but said nothing.
Cerberus threw the treaty onto the table, his voice rising with restrained fury. "Were it not for His Majesty’s mercy, I would have carved a few lessons into your flesh myself!"
With that, Cerberus turned and left the tent.
A single tear rolled down the Sultan’s cheek.
The treaty was eventually signed — after nearly a month of resistance. It was sent back to the Sultanate, bearing his official insignia.
By then, every corner of Anatolia knew of the catastrophic defeat. A wave of despair swept across the land. The old cursed the Sultan as a traitor and disgrace to their people. Those who survived the battle woke in the night soaked in cold sweat, haunted by visions of slaughter. Women and children wept for the dead — sons, brothers, husbands, fathers.
Within days, one in every three households in Anatolia was in mourning.
When Roman forces arrived to take over the garrisons and fortresses, not a single blade was raised in defiance. The soldiers surrendered their weapons and obeyed every order quietly — so meekly that, as Leo later wrote in a letter to Chancellor Abdullah,
"It is almost unbelievable. I cannot believe these are the same men who ravaged our lands just a month ago."
Abdullah’s reply was cold and piercing:
"The Sultan and his court have turned their nation into a gambling den. Every man was forced to wager his life and property on a promised victory — told that their rewards would double once the empire fell. When that illusion shattered, so too did their hope, their wealth, and their faith. Now, they crave only a ruler — any ruler — to give them order again." freeωebnovēl.c૦m
And indeed, just as Abdullah foresaw, the Sultanate splintered rapidly. Local lords, rebels, and even bandits rose from the mountains to claim their autonomy. Within two months, more than a dozen self-proclaimed Sultans emerged.
Anatolia descended into chaos — wars, famines, droughts, massacres. The once-mighty land was now a wasteland of despair.
Desperate, many Anatolian factions sent envoys to the Romans, pleading for help — for peace, trade, grain, and order to survive the winter. And so, without fighting another battle, Roman banners rolled deep into the heart of Anatolia, stretching from Sinope to Cilicia.
Meanwhile, Emperor Leo returned triumphantly to Constantinople.
He was accompanied by representatives of his armies, long columns of Turkish prisoners and convicts — and the Sultan himself. It was the first time in decades that the Sultan had set foot in the imperial capital. He remembered the last time he was here — standing proudly beside his father, young and ambitious, dreaming of conquest. Only now did he realize how blessed he had been under his father’s protection.
A grand triumph was held in Constantinople to celebrate the emperor’s glorious victory.
The morning sun broke through the mist over the Bosporus, casting a soft golden hue upon the sea of Constantinople. From the harbor of Neorion to the august Hippodrome, the city stirred with anticipation. The clang of bronze bells echoed through the domes of Hagia Sophia, while the scent of burning myrrh drifted through the streets.
From the towering Gate of Charisius, the procession began, in which as the young emperor proclaimed that, the Pompa Triumphalis is now reborn in the Byzantine heart.
At its head marched the Varangian Guard, their axes polished to a mirror’s gleam, shields emblazoned with the double-headed eagle. Behind them came the standard bearers, carrying the purple labarum — the imperial banner of Christ — flanked by crosses gilded in gold leaf, accompanying the icon of the Chi-Rho, and the war banner of the white horse. Choirs of monks chanted hymns in Greek and Latin alike, voices rising like incense toward heaven.
Next came the captives and spoils.
Sultan Mehmed went first in the line, being tied up on a white horse, with a fancy white tall hat on his head similar like what the King of Jerusalem have been through centuries ago. Once master of the East, now bound in imperial silk, his wrists wrapped not in iron but in purple cords — a mark of respect to fallen royalty. His head was unbowed, yet his eyes were hollow, reflecting the faint shimmer of the city he once dreamed to conquer. Around him were his surviving pashas, silent and grim, as the crowd whispered — some in awe, others in pity.
Golden wagons followed, laden with trophies from the campaign — standards of the defeated, blades and bows from Turkish arsenals, jewels from the Sultan’s nobles, and the relics of fallen churches rebuilt under Roman banners.
Then came General Giovanni Junior, the hero of the campaign, armored in gleaming silver, his face unshaven from months of war. He rode a white stallion, the crowd chanting his name — "Giovanni! Giovanni!" — showering olive branches and laurel leaves at his horse’s hooves. Yet his eyes remained fixed ahead, unsmiling, remembering the comrades who never saw this day, especially his teacher Khalid.
In which immediately, a gilded chariot came up along the mese, empty save for a folded cloak and a single sword — the symbols of General Khalid, who had fallen in the decisive assault at Nicomedia. The people bowed their heads as the herald announced his name and his stories of bravery, and the choir of Hagia Sophia sang the hymn of the departed warriors.
Then, to a great roar of the people, appeared Emperor Leo.
He stood tall in a chariot plated with silver and gold, drawn by four white horses whose bridles were embroidered with crimson silk. His crown glimmered beneath the sun, yet his face bore a calm gravity — the look of one who had seen the weight of victory and the price of peace. In his right hand, he held a cross; in his left, the sceptre of Constantine.
The people cried, freēwebnovel.com
"Long live Leo! Long Live the empire! Long live the Basileus!"
At the end of the procession waited the Augustus, Dowager Empress Anna, standing on the steps of the Augustaion. Draped in imperial purple, her silver hair crowned with a modest diadem, she watched her son approach — pride and sorrow warring within her eyes. Behind her stood priests, senators, and dignitaries, each bearing candles and banners.
When Leo dismounted, he knelt before her and kissed her hand.
Anna placed her palm on his head. "My son," she said softly, "today you wear the laurel of victory — but may you also remember the crown of thorns that every emperor must bear."
Leo rose, his eyes shimmering, and turned to face the gathered multitude.
"Citizens of New Rome," his voice rang clear, "this victory is not mine. It belongs to those who sleep beneath the walls of Nicomedia, to the farmers who gave their sons, to the widows who prayed for dawn. It belongs to Khalid, to Giovanni, to every soldier who marched beneath the Cross. And it belongs even to our fallen foes — for through their struggle, peace is restored."
The crowd fell silent. Even the sea breeze seemed to still.
Then, as the emperor ascended the steps of Hagia Sophia, the bells tolled once more — solemn, thunderous, divine. He entered through the great bronze gates, barefoot as tradition decreed, offering his crown before the altar of Christ Pantocrator, murmuring the ancient prayer of thanksgiving that had been spoken since Constantine himself.
Above the city, the chants of the people rose into the evening sky:
"Glory to God, who grants victory to the Basileus!"
With this massive victory in Anatolia, the young emperor have finally removed all the foreign threats, and consolidated support internally from his government, and the military, it is only with this triumph that did he finally declare to the world his dominance.
This marks the true starting point of the young emperor’s reign.
