Outskirts of Domokos, Early September 1433

  Sultan Murad II reined in his horse at the crest of a low ridge, gazing across at the town of Domokos, nestled atop a gentle hill. Dawn light filtered through the lifting morning mist, revealing a desotion that tightened the Sultan’s chest with a mix of relief and rage. What had once been a proud Ottoman garrison town was now deathly silent. Half-burned cottages and bckened timbers lined the dirt streets. The fortress on the rise beyond the town, Domokos’s stalwart castle, y breached and partly colpsed, its stones heaped where Byzantine cannon shot had torn through. Curls of smoke still rose from a few smoldering embers amid the ruins, as if the nd itself still remembered the fury of its fall. Murad had ridden hard with 45,000 men to recim this keystone of South Thessaly, expecting at least the csh of steel to mark its return to Ottoman hands. Instead, he was greeted by emptiness and the bitter odor of soot.

  Murad rode on. His face was hard. The stallion moved steady beneath him as he went down toward the abandoned town.

  Behind him stretched the vast host of the Ottoman army – ranks of weary sipahi cavalry and footmen fanning out into the pin. They had marched from Thessaloniki through Larissa with grim purpose, joined by Turahan Bey’s returning forces, all converging here to punish the audacity of the Byzantines. Yet Domokos offered no living soul to punish. A hot wind carried only silence and the distant cnk of Ottoman banners and armor. No volley of Greek muskets, no st stand from a desperate garrison – just a void where Murad’s vengeance had no immediate target.

  Turahan Bey rode up beside the Sultan, his face ashen as he beheld the wreckage of the castle he’d once overseen. The seasoned commander had rarely looked so drawn. “They emptied it, Sultan,” Turahan said quietly, bitterness sharpening his tone. “Every st man and vilger is gone. Constantine took them and… destroyed what he could not carry.” He pointed to the fort’s shattered gatehouse, its doors missing – pried off their hinges and hauled away. Even some of the stone battlements had been dismantled in pces, leaving gaps like missing teeth. It was evident Constantine’s army had salvaged stone, timber, and iron from the fortress before departing, denying the Ottomans any shelter or spoils. Even the wells had been poisoned. The realization fueled Murad’s anger: the fake Emperor had anticipated his arrival and made certain Domokos would be useless to him.

  Murad dismounted amid the ruins of the town square, boots crunching on broken roof tiles. A handful of Janissaries fanned out ahead as an honor guard, alert for any lurking threat. But only crows greeted them, fpping off from a gutted granary where grain stores had been put to the torch. The Sultan’s lips curled in disgust as he strode past the charred remains of what had been the mosque, its minaret toppled, the prayer hall burned out. Once, it had been a church before being converted. A deliberate act of desecration, or simply colteral damage?

  Either answer stoked his ire. His gloved hand brushed against a sooty wall, and he pulled it away to find his fingers bckened.

  “Cowards,” Murad muttered under his breath, voice low and cutting. “They dare not even face us here.” He tried to convince himself that the emptiness of Domokos was proof of the enemy’s fear – that Constantine fled rather than defend his ill-gotten prize. Yet in his gut, Murad felt no triumph, only the sting of humiliation. The Greeks had seized Domokos in his absence, and now they had slipped from his grasp before he could strike them down. They deny me even the satisfaction of retribution, he thought darkly.

  As he moved through the abandoned marketpce, something unusual snagged his attention. Smeared across a rge stone wall was a swath of deep red ochre paint. At first Murad took it for dried blood, but Turahan’s sharp intake of breath made him step closer. It was paint indeed –Inscription in Arabic script, the crimson letters stark against smoke-stained stone. One of the Janissaries murmured a puzzled prayer under his breath at the sight. Murad narrowed his eyes and slowly read the words, written in a rough yet clear hand:

  “I am the Emperor of the Romans, and this nd is my right. Face me on the battlefield, or leave in shame.”

  The audacity of it made Murad’s blood surge. Beside the text, a crude painted figure (stenciled) image stood out in fking red pigment: a stylized silhouette of a man wearing an imperial crown and cape, unmistakably meant to be Constantine, with sword drawn, facing shadow of a turbaned figure on horseback whose features were left ominously bnk. The smaller crowned figure stood bold and defiant; the rger one loomed like a dark wraith. There was no mistaking the intent of the artwork. It was a direct challenge – a taunt aimed squarely at Murad.

  For a moment, an incredulous silence hung in the air. One of Murad’s younger officers, literate in the Arabic script, read the painted words aloud again in a halting voice, as if to ensure he hadn’t misinterpreted such brazen insult. Others gathered, whispering in widening circles. Only a fraction of the soldiers could read, but understanding spread swiftly as officers and Janissaries murmured the message to one another. The visual alone required no literacy: the figure of the Christian Emperor standing fearless before the faceless Sultan conveyed its own unmistakable story. A ripple of unease mixed with anger coursed through the ranks.

  Murad felt a hot flush creep up his neck. His initial reaction was a snarl of contempt. He spat on the ground at the foot of the wall, spittle dark on the dust. “Childish provocation,” he growled, turning aside as if to dismiss it. “The work of desperate men pying at soldiers and scribes.” He forced a dry ugh, attempting to show his disdain. But the brittle sound convinced no one – least of all himself. Underneath his outward scorn, Murad’s pride was deeply pricked. Never in his life had he been addressed in such a manner, and by a Byzantine upstart no less. Sultans were accustomed to receiving eborate pleas for mercy or groveling surrender terms from defeated foes – not gauntlets flung in their face painted on castle walls. This was a new kind of insult, one that struck at morale and honor before swords were even drawn.

  Grand Vizier Halil Pasha stepped forward from the retinue, his elderly features drawn tight with concern as he gazed at the provocative graffiti. He knew well the Sultan’s temper and the importance of prestige before the army. Halil’s voice was soft but urgent. “Your Majesty, do not let this… affront force your hand,” he implored. “Constantine seeks to enrage you. He baits you to fight on his terms. We must be cautious.” Halil’s eyes flickered to the watching soldiers – he too noted the hushed voices, the way the men stole gnces at their Sultan to gauge his response. Imperial invincibility had been one of the Ottomans’ greatest weapons; now these crude daubs threatened to chip away at that aura.

  Murad’s nostrils fred. For a heartbeat, Halil’s warning only stoked his resentment – he did not relish being lectured on temperance at a moment like this. The Sultan rounded on the wall again, drawing his dagger in a fsh. With an angry thrust, he stabbed the bde into the heart of Constantine’s painted silhouette and dragged it downward, gouging through pster. “I am not so easily led by the nose,” Murad snapped, voice echoing off the deserted buildings. Red fkes of paint fell like blood at his feet as he rent a long scar through the Emperor’s stenciled form. “He wants to provoke me? Fine. I shall answer his provocation.” Murad turned to Halil, eyes bzing. “This Constantine will get what he so boldly asks for – both my fury and my pursuit.”

  Halil bowed his head, lips pressed thin, knowing further argument was futile for now. Murad wheeled to face his gathered officers and the knot of Janissaries beyond. “Let it be known,” the Sultan called out in a crion voice, gesturing at the vandalized slogan, “that I do not flee from a fight! I will meet this so-called Emperor on the field and grind his arrogance into dust.” His words rang with conviction, and many soldiers answered with cheers, a reflex of loyalty, though edged with a zeal to erase the insult done to their sovereign. Murad saw some of his men grinning fiercely at his procmation, eager at the prospect of battle. Yet, in the furthest ranks, others exchanged wary looks. The Sultan’s rage was clear, but was it wise? Whispers drifted at the edges of hearing, whispers Murad could imagine even if he could not discern the exact words: The Emperor dares our Sultan to attack… He calls himself rightful lord of this nd… Does our Sultan dey? Will he answer the challenge? Such murmurs, seditious or simply fearful, were unacceptable. Murad knew the only cure for doubt now was decisive action.

  “Have that filth scrubbed off every wall,” Murad commanded brusquely, sheathing his dagger. “I will not have my camp surrounded by Greek boasts.” A squad of attendants hurried to comply, fetching water and limewash to obliterate Constantine’s parting messages. But no amount of scrubbing could erase the effect the words had already had on Ottoman minds. As Murad remounted, he caught sight of Turahan Bey still staring at one of the inscriptions with a thunderous expression. The bey’s pride had been wounded as well – Domokos had been his charge, and here was stark evidence of his failure, funted for all to see. Turahan met Murad’s gaze with fire in his eyes. “My Sultan,” Turahan hissed, “grant me the vanguard when the time comes. I’ll ram those words down Constantine’s throat myself.”

  Murad gave a curt nod. “Soon, Turahan. He will pay for all of this.” In truth, beneath his wrath, Murad felt a grudging acknowledgment: Constantine had delivered a blow this day without a single arrow fired, striking at the very heart of Ottoman morale. The Sultan could sense it in the air – a subtle shift, an unfamiliar tension among his seasoned troops. The Janissaries especially stood rigid with offense; these elite warriors considered themselves the scourge of Christendom, yet a Christian so called Emperor had all but called them and their Sultan cowards. They simmered with the need to restore the honor of their corps. Honor, Murad reflected grimly, was a currency Constantine had just devalued for him. If he did nothing, or deyed overlong, that stain would only spread.

  Hooves cttered on broken stones as Murad led his entourage through Domokos toward the southern edge of the town. There, the main road stretched onward toward the distant mountain passes that led south, beyond the broad pins where the Byzantines had made their retreat.

  Dry, te-summer grassnds rolled out before the foothills, empty save for the gently waving golden brush. Murad raised an arm and signaled for his scouting parties to ride ahead. “Find them,” he ordered simply. His voice was cold now, tightly controlled. However angry, Murad was no fool; he would not charge blind. Constantine wanted a battle – the Sultan would choose when and how to give it to him. While his advance guard fanned out, Murad commanded the bulk of his army to make camp on the hills just South of Domokos.

  Within hours, a canvas city sprang up on the pin behind the ruined town. Ottoman tents by the thousands dotted the fields that had days ago teemed with Byzantine soldiers.

  All afternoon the Ottoman camp bustled with preparations and nervous energy. Siege guns that Murad had brought south, a couple of bombards and a few smaller cannon, were being dragged into the camp. Companies of archers and a few dozen arquebusiers took up forward positions, ready to answer any surprise sortie. Cavalry patrols cantered out along the fnks, testing for weaknesses in the surrounding terrain. Murad dispatched ak?nc? horsemen in widening loops to scout the hills east and west of the main road. If Constantine had left any gap, any unguarded path through which a portion of the Ottoman host could snake around and hit the Byzantines from behind, Murad was determined to find it.

  By te day, the first scouts returned with their reports. Murad gathered with his generals – Turahan, Halil, Zaganos, and others – outside his pavilion to hear them. Dusty riders slid from their thered horses and knelt, reying what they’d seen. The Byzantine army, they confirmed, was encamped just a few miles to the south, just beyond Domokos’s shadow, as one scout put it. Murad could not see them from his ground, but the enemy was there. Constantine had not fled far.

  “He makes camp on the forward slope before the pass, Sultan,” reported one scout captain, sketching hastily in the dirt. He drew a line to indicate the gently rising pin south of Domokos, leading up to where mountains constricted the way toward Neopatras. “Their tents cluster here, on high ground. They have dug earthworks and ditches facing north, and positioned cannons on a slight ridge that overlooks the open approach.” Murad knelt on one knee, leaning over the crude map with arms braced on his thigh. The scout tapped a pebble he’d pced to represent the enemy camp. “We approached as near as we dared. Saw banners – the double-headed eagle of the Byzantines – and many long pikes in tight formation around the camp perimeter. They are arrayed for battle, my Lord. They await us.”

  Murad’s eyes narrowed at the mention of pikes. He needed no reminder that Constantine’s army was no rabble; these were disciplined men drilled in new tactics. “How many did you count?” he asked.

  “At least eight or ten thousand, Sultan, not counting camp followers,” the scout replied. “They formed in squares at the slightest arm – we were spotted at a distance, and saw them muster.

  Murad exchanged a gnce with Turahan. The bey grimaced – he had tasted a version of those formations at the Hexamilion. “Constantines tactics,” Turahan muttered, not hiding his frustration. “They’ve learned to blunt our cavalry with pike walls and gunfire.”

  The Sultan’s face remained impassive, but inside he steeled himself. None of this was unexpected; he had anticipated facing Constantine’s pike-and-shot tactics again. At least now he knew exactly where the enemy was and how they were arranged. “And their fnks?” Murad prompted. “What of the terrain to the sides of their camp?” If he could not catch Constantine by surprise, perhaps he could still outmaneuver him.

  Another scout spoke up, a wiry Tatar with mud spattered on his boots. “Rugged, Your Majesty. To their west, the foothills rise steeply – thick with scrub and boulders, not passable by formed troops. We tried riding high along the slope to see behind them, but their outriders drove us off with shots.” He pointed to the ground to illustrate the western side of the Greek camp. “To the east, there’s lower ground but it soon turns to marshy fts near a dried kebed. Hard going for horses. Beyond that, mountains.”

  “No clear path around then,” Grand Vizier Halil concluded with a troubled frown. “Constantine has chosen his ground well.” The vizier traced an arc around the pebble representing the Byzantine camp. “They have anchored themselves between mountain and marsh. We cannot easily fnk them without a very long detour.” Halil looked to Murad, gauging his mood. “To bypass them entirely would mean leaving a formidable enemy at our backs as we push south – a most perilous gamble.” In other words, ignoring the challenge was not an option. Murad grunted in agreement. Constantine had forced his hand indeed: the Sultan could neither advance further into Southern Greece nor withdraw north without first dealing with the Byzantine army now blocking his way.

  Zaganos Pasha, younger and hot-blooded, could hold his tongue no longer. “Sultan, if they sit and wait for us, let us not disappoint them,” he urged, steel in his voice. “We have far superior numbers. Let us attack at once, before they can entrench further.” He struck a fist into his palm. “A single hard blow and we’ll smash their line. The ghazis are chomping at the bit—every man of us is eager to avenge Domokos’s fall.” Murad heard a few murmurs of assent from other officers; Zaganos gave voice to the common sentiment among the more impetuous ranks. After days of marching and now this affront at Domokos, many were impatient for battle.

  But Murad did not immediately echo the enthusiasm. He rose from his crouch and dusted off his knee, taking a slow breath. His dark eyes swept again over the impromptu map scratched in the dirt, envisioning the field described. Prepared defenses, tight infantry formations bristling with pikes, backed by cannon – a tough nut to crack, even for 45,000 men. Murad was confident in his army’s strength, but he was also a seasoned strategist. A headlong assault up an open slope against well-pced guns and solid infantry could turn into a bloody repulse. And a repulse now, under the gaze of both friend and foe, would be disastrous. He would not feed his elite Janissaries into a meat grinder out of pure rage. Not unless he saw no other choice.

  “The day grows te,” Murad said at length, gncing at the sun dipping toward the western hills. In truth, it was only mid-afternoon, but the Sultan seized the excuse. “We’ve marched hard, and our artillery is not yet in proper position. We will not stumble into their trap half-cocked.” He turned to Zaganos and the other generals. “Have the men fortify our camp outside the town. Double the sentries tonight. If Constantine is bold enough to attack us in the dark or attempt a sortie, we will be ready to make him regret it.” Murad allowed himself a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He doubted the Byzantine Emperor would abandon his advantageous perch to strike first; Constantine clearly wanted the Ottomans to come to him. Still, preparing for that unlikely scenario gave Murad cover to dey the main decision just a little.

  Zaganos looked displeased but bowed in acquiescence. “As you command, Sovereign.” The gathered officers dispersed to carry out orders. Soon Ottoman soldiers were digging shallow trenches and throwing up earthen embankments around the perimeter of their sprawling camp. Shielded by twilight, the Sultan’s army would rest under guard of sharpened stakes and pickets, safely out of cannon range, while Constantine’s challenge hung in the air unanswered for one more night.

  Murad stood at the edge of his camp as dusk settled, arms folded tightly. In the far distance to the south, just visible against the purple-orange sky, he could see the faint twinkle of enemy campfires dotted along a ridge. Constantine’s army was out there, a line of fireflies on the horizon, waiting. The Sultan’s eyes drifted upward to the dark bulk of the mountains looming behind those fires. The passes to Neopatras, the gateway deeper into Greece, y guarded by that host. If he listened hard enough, he imagined he could hear the faint sounds of the Byzantine camp: a trumpet call, the rumble of a cannon being repositioned, perhaps even the beat of a distant drum. Or was that simply his mind pying tricks, amplifying his worries? Murad exhaled slowly. He would not admit uncertainty, not even to himself, but he did acknowledge a reluctant respect. Constantine Paiologos had proven to be a more cunning foe than almost any Murad had faced. This foe taunts me because he believes he has found a weakness.

  By the following evening, tension inside the Sultan’s pavilion had thickened. The commanders gathered again to discuss the coming battle, this time shielded from the eyes of the rank-and-file. A single brass mp cast long shadows across a rge map spread on the low table. Turahan Bey traced a finger along the sketch of the Byzantine lines. “Give me a night and I can haul a few cannon onto the western heights,” he suggested. “Even if the terrain is rough, a small team could manage light guns. We might fnk their camp with bombardment at dawn from an unexpected quarter.”

  Murad considered this. Turahan was eager, desperate even, to contribute to the victory—his honor depended on it. “How long to drag them up there?” Murad asked.

  Turahan frowned. “Most of the night, with a team of men and mules, if we’re not detected. And it would be at most two or three smaller cannon – anything heavier is impossible to haul up such slopes.”

  Halil Pasha interjected, shaking his head. “Risky. If the Byzantines spot a few guns on the hill, they’ll adjust or attack that detachment at once. And two cannon alone won’t break them.” He tapped the map. “Their superior artillery is massed and entrenched, aimed right at the field before them. We’d do better to focus our strength.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed. Superior artillery… it irked Murad to admit the Greeks might hold any such advantage, but by all accounts Constantine’s guns were excellent – he had seen their handiwork at Hexamilion walls. The Ottomans had a few of guns of their own, but much of Murad’s artillery were heavy bombards meant for siege, difficult to maneuver in a field battle. Constantine, however, possessed cannons on carriages, easier to redeploy on the battlefield. And his men knew how to use them effectively.

  Zaganos Pasha leaned forward, bristling with impatience. “My Sultan, every hour we sit here strengthens their nerve and weakens ours,” he said bluntly. “The men see those fires on the hills and remember the damned graffiti in Domokos. They wonder if we mean to let the challenge stand.” His tone was respectful but urgent. “If we appear hesitant, even for good reason, it will sow doubt. We should attack at first light, hit them before they expect it. A dawn assault, with prayers on our lips and the sun at our backs.”

  Murad’s gaze snapped to Zaganos, and the younger pasha fell quiet, uncertain if he’d overstepped. The Sultan knew Zaganos spoke truth about the army’s temper. Already, in the encampment, he had sensed an undercurrent: hardened warriors unusually quiet or uncharacteristically boisterous as they coped with the enemy so near. One janissary agha reported that some veterans murmured about the Sultan’s dey, grumbling that “these accursed guns” were giving even the Padishah pause. Another said a dervish preacher had stoked the men’s spirits, prociming that Alh was testing their faith and that by tomorrow the Sultan would surely lead them to glorious battle. Rumor upon rumor—the lifeblood of camp politics—swirled, and not all were favorable. Murad could ill afford dissension. He trusted his Janissaries’ loyalty, but idle minds bred dangerous thoughts.

  Straightening to his full height, Murad fixed each of his gathered commanders with a firm look. In that moment, the flickering mplight caught the angles of his face, highlighting the determination etched there. Gone was the outward rage that he’d shown at the wall; now the Sultan appeared as a man of iron will, resolved and clear-eyed. “I have heard your counsel,” he said, measured and calm. “Now hear mine. Constantine chose his ground expecting we would rush in blindly. We shall not.” He raised a hand to preempt any protest. “But neither will we wait overlong and py into his tale that we fear him. Tomorrow, we take the fight to this self-procimed Emperor.”

  A tension seemed to lift in the tent at those words – the decision, long hanging in the air, was made. Several officers nodded eagerly. Turahan exhaled, pounding a fist to his breast in salute; Zaganos permitted himself a tight, satisfied grin. Halil Pasha closed his eyes briefly, then inclined his head in acceptance, resigned to the necessity of battle.

  Murad unfurled his fingers over the map, as if physically grasping the terrain before him. “We will engage at dawn, when their sentries change and their men are least alert,” he continued, his voice gaining energy. “I’ll unleash our cannons first in a thunderous barrage – all the field guns we can bring to bear. We’ll pound their forward line and answer those insults painted in Domokos with iron and fire.” There was a predatory gleam in the Sultan’s eyes now. “Under cover of that barrage, our light infantry will advance at the center in assault columns. They are to close with the enemy pikes as swiftly as possible. Janissary archers and arquebusiers will target the gaps between the pike blocks, keep their gunners occupied.”

  He sliced a hand through the air, envisioning the movements. “Turahan Bey, you and your timariot cavalry will take the right wing. Zaganos, you on the left. The ground may be narrow, but find footing where you can. When our infantry engages their line, I want your cavalry to sweep in on both fnks simultaneously. Even if the terrain is uneven, press in hard. The Greeks have left us no wide avenue to ride through – so we will make one by crushing their fnks until they falter.”

  Turahan’s scarred face lit with fierce resolve. “At st, we ride to break them,” he said, bowing. “The right wing will not fail you, Sultan. My riders will hit like a hammer.”

  Zaganos smirked wolfishly. “Nor the left. We’ll see how these pike squares hold when caught from two sides and torn at the middle.”

  Murad allowed a grim smile. It was a bold pn – aggressive and unforgiving, relying on coordination and sheer force. If successful, it would be a decisive victory that would silence any doubts. If it failed… Murad banished the thought. It would not fail. It could not fail. He would make adjustments as needed on the field; he, the Sultan, would be there in person to drive the effort. Constantine wanted him on that field, and by God, Murad would be there on his own terms.

  “Halil Pasha,” Murad said, turning to his vizier, whose face remained pinched with worry. “You will remain with the reserves—our Jannisaries infantry and the rest of the guns. Ensure our camp and rear are secure, in case the wily fake Emperor has tricks beyond the battlefield.” It was a subtle reassurance to Halil that caution still had a role. Murad was effectively saying: if something unexpected occurs, Halil would be empowered to respond or cover a retreat. The vizier understood and pced a hand over his heart. “By your command, my Sultan. We will guard your back.”

  The Sultan nodded, satisfied. His pn offered a blend of method and aggression: an organized dawn assault, with all parts of his army engaged to exploit their strengths. It was not the ideal scenario he would have chosen, he still would have preferred to starve the enemy out or force them down from their perch, but this would have to do. Constantine had maneuvered him into a corner where declining battle would look like weakness. Very well, Murad thought, let the world witness our strength instead.

  He stepped away from the table, moving toward the tent fp. Outside, night had fully fallen. The camp was quieter now, save for the crackle of campfires and the low murmur of thousands of men at rest. In the starry darkness to the south, those Byzantine watch-fires still winked provocatively. Murad clenched his fists once at his sides, then released them. His decision was made and procimed; there would be no turning back. A strange calm settled over him, the crity that comes when resolve solidifies into action. The doubt and anger that had tugged at him since Domokos would be answered on the morrow.

  “The Emperor wants a battlefield confrontation,” Murad said softly, almost to himself as much as to his remaining companions. “At sunrise, we shall grant his wish.” He lifted his chin, imagining Constantine somewhere beyond those hills, perhaps peering into the darkness toward the Ottoman camp, wondering what the Sultan would do. Murad hoped the Greek was feeling confident tonight. Let him be assured his trap had worked; let him sleep soundly in the belief that Murad’s pride will drive him straight on Byzantine pikes. For in that confidence might lie his undoing.

  “We will fight – and we will dictate how that fight unfolds,” the Sultan decred in a low, firm voice. In that moment, a feeling almost like grim anticipation flickered in his chest. Murad II, prideful but pragmatic, would seize control of this narrative come dawn. He would show Constantine, his own men, and all of Christendom watching that the Ottoman Sultan was no pawn to be toyed with by inscriptions and taunts. With a final sweeping gaze toward the south, Murad turned and issued the final order for the night: “Let the men rest and be ready. Come dawn’s first light, we march out and settle this.”

  Thus the decision was sealed. In the predawn hours to come, the fate of Domokos’s empty ruins and all the nds beyond would be decided in blood and thunder. Murad stepped back into his tent to snatch a few hours of rest, his mind already churning through the details of the coming engagement. The die was cast – tomorrow, the Sultan would meet the fake Emperor’s challenge head-on. The trap was sprung, but Murad intended to be the one who snapped it shut. And as the camp settled under the bnket of night, one thing was certain: the battle to come would be fought not only with steel and shot, but with the pride and resolve of two empires cshing on the field of destiny.

  Author’s Note:Some of you may be wondering, if Murad knows Constantine has set a trap, why does he walk into it?

  That’s the point.

  Murad understands the risks: entrenched cannons, pike walls, average terrain. But after the "graffiti" in Domokos and the murmurs in his camp, not attacking would look like fear — and that’s a bigger threat to a Sultan’s authority than enemy gunpowder.

  He takes a calcuted risk: deys one night, preps the artillery, and hopes that superior numbers, even at high cost, will shatter the Byzantine line and restore Ottoman dominance.

  As for the graffiti? It’s not the paint that matters, it’s the message. In a pre-modern army bound by honor, propaganda that questions a ruler’s courage spreads like wildfire. Constantine didn’t need to win a fight to wound the Sultan, just leave a message where every soldier could see it.

  This chapter is about that tension — between pride, politics, and strategy — and how even wise rulers sometimes must fight not because it’s smart, but because it’s necessary.

  Author’s Note 2:The final arc of Book One begins! The battle comes next.If you’ve enjoyed the ride, a short review would really help new readers discover it!