All Road Leads to Constantia

To prepare for the impending battle, John and Dmitriv meticulously devised their next tactical move, aimed at ambushing the approaching Ottoman reinforcements.

Alongside them, Emil, still seething with discontent over the concept, played a pivotal role in articulating John's strategic blueprint.

Dmitriv himself was taken aback upon learning of the co-emperor's audacious plan through Emil's explanation. While his reaction wasn't as vehement as Emil's, he was undeniably left in a state of bewilderment.

It was understandable; merely hours had passed since their previous engagement, and the untrained peasants, unlike John's disciplined cohorts, were bound to be drained and fatigued.

However, Dmitriv was soon proven mistaken as he conveyed the details of the plan to his men.

"Once more? What are we waiting for? The Romans have devised a brilliant strategy. If we can engage in ten more battles like the last, especially against those loathsome hounds, count us in!" exclaimed one fervent militiaman, quickly echoed by a chorus of similar sentiments.

The intensity of their resentment was palpable, almost as if a divine spirit had descended upon them, infusing them with renewed vigor akin to the Pentecost's transformative event.

But Dmitriv's determination burned bright as he gathered his men, his sigh a mix of weariness and resolve. "Gentlemen, we stand on a different precipice this time," he declared, his gaze firm as it settled on Emil, who met his eye and nodded, acknowledging the gravity of the situation.

"This forthcoming battle challenges us unlike any we've encountered before," Dmitriv continued, his voice steady and unwavering.

"We face a highly trained garrison, larger and more formidable than any adversary we've confronted on these grounds. Let us not deceive ourselves—this may well be a battle that claims our lives, one that engulfs us all in its unforgiving grasp. The co-emperor's motives remain shrouded, a mystery we may never decipher, yet we tread willingly into this perilous venture, knowing that it might snatch us away from the embrace of our cherished ones."

His words hung heavy in the air, a weighty reminder of the stakes they faced. The whole area seemed to hold its breath as Dmitriv's warning settled upon them, each man keenly aware of the dire path they were embarking upon.

Yet, the men stood resolute, their faces bearing an unwavering stoicism, ready to sacrifice their lives without hesitation.

"Loved ones? Have you forgotten, Dmitriv? Our beloved ones have already been torn from us, their lives extinguished. Even as we converse, they endure unspeakable torment at the hands of these wretched creatures. If we must lay down our lives for our unwavering beliefs, then let it be so. If it is God's divine will, then let His plan unfold. Let the gates of Heaven swing open, and may the Lord gather us into His comforting embrace, by whatever means, however harsh."

An elder militia member found his voice, his bloodshot eyes and tormented countenance reflecting the harsh reality he spoke of: his family had been ruthlessly torn from him.

He witnessed his only son, decapitated by the Ottoman authority for rejecting their demands of forced conversion. He witnessed his daughters forcefully taken, then in agony, found out that one of them were raped along the way, her spirit broken to the point of self-inflicted tragedy.

Amidst the chaos, he stood as the sole survivor, tears streaming down his face, the searing agony of loss gnawing at his core.

He fled, a desperate escape born of fear, while his kin were torn from his embrace, helpless to intervene, just as he and countless others had been, united by the shared weight of this haunting ordeal.

"Harken, harken!"

As the words resounded, a chorus of voices erupted in agreement, a cacophony of shared sentiment that reverberated like an echo across the assembly. Dmitriv, standing amidst his resolute men, felt the weight of their emotions, intertwined with the stark warning he had presented.

It reminded him of their collective pain, a pain that had forged their unwavering determination.

Caught in the grip of his men's overwhelming resolve and unwavering hatred, Dmitriv stood there in a moment of silence. Emil, equally unable to counter the fervent determination that had ignited like a flame, found himself at a loss for words.

This arduous plan, conceived with unshakable confidence by the Roman co-emperor, had ignited a fire within these men that refused to be extinguished.

Ultimately, Dmitriv found himself compelled to yield, his resolve giving way to the collective will of his comrades.

"If that is the path we tread, then I shall stand face-to-face with the Romans, ready to delve into the intricacies of their plan. I comprehend the bitterness that simmers within, but I implore you, recognize that our struggle hungers for the strength of men, and men like you are a rarity unto themselves."

With these words, Dmitriv acknowledged the valiant spirit that burned within these peasant militias. While birthed from a place of desperation, it was an ember that carried the legacy of their forebears, a spirit refined and nurtured through generations.

"In this plan, I require 4,000 men from your forces, combined with my own 1,000," John began his strategic briefing, surrounded by his officers and joined by Dmitriv and Emil.

"Take a look at this map. Along this path, we will set our ambush: My soldiers will position themselves on the western side of the road, concealed within the dense woods. Meanwhile, your men will hide on the eastern side, using the cover of bushes. When the Ottoman marching troops pass by, my forces will initiate the attack, drawing their attention," John explained, deftly tracing his plan with his fingers on the map.

"Once my troops successfully divert their focus, your forces will unleash their volleys in a coordinated manner. This layered assault will allow us to inflict significant casualties on the enemy while keeping our own forces fresh for the subsequent phases of engagement," John continued, locking eyes with Emil and Dmitriv.

"However, I am well aware that this might not be sufficient. Even with this ambush tactic, we'll still be outnumbered, and the enemy's discipline could potentially counter our efforts. Similar tactics have been used before, but against these well-trained adversaries, it's been challenging to gain an upper hand."

Dmitriv's brow furrowed in contemplation as he absorbed the concept. While he grasped the overall approach, a sense of familiarity washed over him.

Echoes of history resounded within his mind, tales of similar tactics surfacing, such as the tactical masterpiece the Germanic tribes executed against the formidable Roman Legions under Quintus Varius Severus within the Teutoburg Forest.

The memory of that renowned battle, etched in time, revealed a brutal reality: it dealt significant damage to the Roman forces, obliterating three entire legions.

This famous clash and its aftermath lingered like a haunting echo, where the desperate cry of Augustus himself reverberated through history, "Quintili Vare, legiones redde!" - a plea that echoed across time, bearing witness to the agony of lost legions.

Though Dmitriv lacked the broader historical context, he understood the tactical principle, even if its execution could be difficult against disciplined opponents.

"That's where my next plan comes into play – the deployment of our secret weapon that will reshape the entire course of this war," John said, a faint smile playing on his lips. His voice carried an air of foreboding, a mixture of quiet confidence and impending doom.

Emil leaned forward, intrigued by the mention of a secret weapon. "And what might that 'weapon' be?" he asked, curiosity piqued.

"Instead of employing rolling logs or fiery boulders, we will utilize Greek fire as the key element in this strategy. As our formation stretches thin during the ambush, we will unleash this 'bomb' upon the enemy. Its devastating impact will disrupt the Ottoman formation instantaneously. However, we must exercise caution not to become ensnared by its effects," John explained, his grin widening as he revealed the nature of the secret weapon.

"Greek fire? A 'bomb'? Are you suggesting using this weapon on land rather than at sea? How is such a thing even possible?" Dmitriv queried, his confusion evident.

Dmitriv's confusion was understandable. He knew of Greek fire's origins and its devastating effects, but its practical use on a battlefield, especially outside of naval warfare or defensive sieges, was relatively unheard of. It was a weapon commonly associated with the Romans and Byzantines.

"Do you recall the crates I had your men transport back at the camp from the shore and here? Those crates contain our 'bomb' – spherical metal casings fitted with a fuse, similar to the exploding pots utilized by the Persians in the past," John reminded both Dmitriv and Emil.

"The heavy crates? Those were the 'bombs'? But how will they turn the tide of battle in our favor?" Dmitriv still struggled to fully grasp the concept of this unfamiliar weapon.

Unsurprisingly, the unfamiliarity of the era with our modern-day understanding of "grenades" or "bombs" comes as no shock. The notion of hurling explosive devices was rather rudimentary and restricted during this period.

The early attempts at such weaponry relied on ceramics, a material much weightier and challenging to project in an arc compared to the compact, easily throwable grenades that would define the future.

As time advanced, the evolution from conventional weaponry to firearms and artillery witnessed the gradual ascendancy of this form of armament. This trajectory eventually gave rise to specialized units known as "Grenadiers," who would come to wield and deploy such explosive ordnance on the battlefield.

John recognized that this limitation was the very reason Greek fire seldom graced the battlefield, save for the Romans' use of flamethrowers upon their ships and occasional wall defenses.

Determined to expedite progress, he set his sights on accelerating the weapon's development.

The anatomy of a contemporary hand grenade typically encompasses an explosive charge ("filler"), a detonator mechanism, an internal striker primed to initiate the detonator, and a safety lever secured by a cotter pin.

Upon removal of the safety pin, the user hurls the grenade, causing the safety lever to disengage upon release. This action then activates the striker, triggering a primer that ignites a fuse (referred to as the delay element).

The fuse steadily burns down to the detonator, culminating in the ignition of the main charge, resulting in explosion.

In this instance, however, John chose a more conventional approach for the grenade, employing a flammable fuse instead of a cotter pin. Igniting these fuses using steel and flint would undoubtedly be a laborious task, yet the necessity to control their timing was paramount. He couldn't risk accelerating centuries ahead, altering the course of history in an instant.

Delicate precision was required when manipulating time, an art John practiced judiciously. His discretion was paramount; he was cautious not to unveil the existence of future weaponry prematurely, lest his adversaries gain knowledge of these lethal innovations.

At this juncture, the crucible of brilliance spanned across the territories of Italy, the Holy Roman Empire, and the Mamluks, with even the Ottoman Empire being no exception.

"Given time, the might of the weapon I alluded to shall become apparent. For now, ready the men. Our immediate objective is to set forth and prepare our ambushes,"

John declared, his focus undeterred as he refrained from divulging intricate details to the puzzled Bulgarians.

John's officers, however, felt a surge of pride as they heard their co-emperor introduce this new weapon to their allies. It affirmed their service under a leader worthy of allegiance, a ruler who emerged perhaps once in a millennium.

They took pride in serving this exceptional leader, a figure capable not only of diverting their predestined path towards Ottoman dominion but also of ensuring their empire's existence is etched into the annals of history for posterity.

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[Constantia, Bulgarian 'Millet'.]

Indulging in the opulent surroundings of the palace, Emir Yılmaz, the Pasha of Constantia, relished his nightly indulgence. A native Bulgarian, destiny had interwoven his life with the Ottoman forces when, as a child, he was taken under the wing of the previous Sultan and molded into a formidable janissary soldier.

His unwavering dedication and exceptional service propelled him through the ranks, culminating in his appointment as the esteemed Pasha of Constantia.

Since the ascension of Mehmed I to the Ottoman throne, Emir had remained steadfastly loyal. Yet, his loyalty had traversed a tumultuous path, having previously pledged allegiance to Suleyman Celebi, who vied for supremacy in a bitter struggle ultimately quelled by the sword of Musa Celebi, his own sibling.

Although his birthright tied him to Bulgaria, Emir harbored no patriotic sentiment for his homeland; instead, he harbored a disdain that ran deep, viewing his origins as tainted and feeble.

Years of enduring intense indoctrination, torment, and the shaping influence of the Ottomans during his tenure as a janissary's devsirme, alongside other non-Turkish youths, had transformed his initial misgivings into an all-consuming loathing for his own people.

This abhorrence overshadowed any loyalty he harbored for his adopted Turkish identity.

In the assembly of dignitaries convened during the Sultan's recent explosive tirade, Emir stood among them as a representative of the Bulgarian vilayet.

As the Sultan's words wove a tapestry of their collective failure to maintain control over their elayet, Emir concealed a seething fury beneath a facade of outward composure.

The Sultan's gaze, charged with scorn, ignited a blazing furnace of anger within Emir, fueled not only by the Sultan's affront but also by the knowledge of Emir's Bulgarian lineage.

This combination of factors stirred emotions far beyond mere resentment, birthing a profound sense of revulsion.

Hence, when the Sultan's decree reverberated through the halls, proclaiming the eradication of Bulgarians from their homeland, and ushering in an era of forced Turkification, coerced conversions, and the dreaded devsirme, Emir seized this grim opportunity with an unparalleled fervor.

His compliance was swift and enthusiastic, carrying out the edict's sinister intentions with zeal.

Throughout the enforcement of the edict, Emir and his cohorts perpetrated a relentless campaign, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake.

Countless Bulgarian villages were reduced to ash, their inhabitants subjected to unspeakable horrors.

Men met their grim demise, while women were condemned to lives of enslavement. Amongst the wreckage, the cries of captured children echoed, their innocence forever shattered.

Yet, in his twisted semblance of mercy, Emir offered a cruel choice to the men he encountered - conversion or a grisly death at the edge of his unforgiving axe, or even worse, the desolation of crucifixion.

This abhorrent pasha wielded his authority with an iron grip. His tenure as a janissary had honed him into a merciless warrior, while his rise to the position of pasha revealed a malevolent ruler.

As he beheld the anguish of his people, it was as if Emir believed he had attained a coveted place in the paradise envisioned by his prophet. His eyes bore witness to a hellish vision, an eerie conviction that he had communed with the prophet himself.

It was a conviction that led him to bear the sword, not as a noble defender of faith, but as a self-serving mujahid, perverting the very ideals he claimed to uphold.

Within the opulent confines of his palace, a macabre scene unfolded. Enslaved women, a testament to his depravity, surrounded him.

Their eyes, once filled with vitality, had been hollowed out, their spirits broken. Resigned to their cruel fate, they existed as mere shadows, incapable of defying the Pasha's insatiable desires.

Emir found solace in this haven he had carved for himself. The torment endured during his grueling training days at the Ottoman barracks seemed like a distant memory in comparison to the life he now relished.

The current abundance of pleasures and comforts felt like his own personal paradise. Yet, this paradise was destined to be short-lived, for amid his enjoyment, an unwelcome message from the Fortress disrupted his idyllic reverie.

"These contemptible Bulgarian curs! How dare they snatch my prized possession from my grasp!" Emir's fury blazed as the contents of the message reached his ears, revealing the fall of Tekirgöl Fortress into the hands of rebel Bulgarians.

"Bring those incompetents before me! Let me gaze upon the faces of these failures who allowed my fortress to slip through their fingers so easily," he demanded vehemently, his rage palpable. He refused to accept their defeat as a mere casualty of war, yearning to confront the ones responsible for this loss.

With an air of defeat hanging over them, three figures were ushered into Emir's presence. Among them were John's disguised soldiers: Filipe, Andreas, and Iosef. Armed with a carefully concocted version of events, they stood before the incensed Pasha, resolute yet cautious in their approach.

"Now, I would like to know why I shouldn't relieve you of your heads this very instant, you ghazis," the Pasha's voice cut through the tension like a chilling wind, his cold demeanor meant to instill fear in the hearts of the men standing before him.

"Please, your Eminence, spare us the weight of your wrath. We beseech your forgiveness for our perceived cowardice. We were caught unawares by a cunning surprise assault from the Bulgarian insurgents. They employed an enigmatic strategy to breach the fortress walls under the cover of night while we were in slumber."

Andreas responded immediately, his posture humble and convincing. His companions stifled their laughter, maintaining a façade of feigned fear while chuckling inwardly.

"Are you toying with me? Even if surprise caught you off guard, is there no trace of resistance left in you?" Emir's scimitar began to slide from its sheath, its glint directed menacingly at the trio, sending shivers down their spines.

"And the commander? Kemal? Was he not a skilled leader?" the Pasha inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Our commander fell in single combat against the rebel leader. His death shattered the morale of our brave ghazis, leading to their capture or demise. Only the three of us managed to escape," Iosef replied, his voice quivering while his heart danced with triumph.

"Only three survivors? Quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say?" The Pasha's words hung in the air, instantly putting the trio on edge. 'Does he suspect something?' echoed their collective thoughts.

"In any case, I shall spare your lives. Sacrificing ghazis in this turmoil is unwarranted," Emir declared, sliding his scimitar back into its sheath.

"However," his tone turned icy, "You three will join the men in reclaiming the fortress. Only then shall I pass judgment upon you." His words dripped with a stern warning, a fiery promise of consequences to come.

"By your will and Allah," the trio spoke in unison, their escape from what had seemed like certain death a momentary reprieve.

"Now, crawl away, you dogs," the pasha ordered, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. His attention shifted to another figure, a stalwart guardian and fellow janissary named Orhan.

"Orhan! Assemble the ghazis and select fifty of your comrades. Reclaim this fortress swiftly and without mercy. Let their severed heads decorate our gates. Bring their leader to me, alive,"

Emir's command resounded, his bloodshot eyes revealing his unyielding determination.

Orhan, with a respectful bow and salute, promptly pivoted and strode purposefully toward the palace exit. He was poised to execute the orders he had received with immediate effect.

Returning to his seat, Emir surrendered himself to the sensuous allure of his enslaved concubines. The pressing matter seemed to recede to the recesses of his mind. He cared not for any subsequent reports, deeming the issue inconsequential and beneath his concern.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, his complacency regarding this matter would come back to haunt him. For now, however, let the pasha revel in his fleeting triumph, blissfully unaware of the impending reckoning that awaited him.