Chapter 625: The Father And The Son
The youngest son of Zaganos Pasha, Ahmed Çelebi, still in the bloom of his teenage years, had successfully hunted down his prey. It wasn’t because he was the fiercest warrior among his siblings, but rather because his elder brothers had deliberately given him the opportunity. They had all already proven their worth to their esteemed father, either on the battlefield or within the political arena. Ahmed, however, had yet to showcase his unique strengths.
Zaganos Pasha said nothing, recognising the ruse his sons played. He knew full well that his progeny, skilled in archery, would never miss their marks in such an apparent manner or have arrows embedded in the deer’s hind, allowing Ahmed the privilege of the final, killing shot. Quietly, he sipped his unfermented grape juice, observing his sons as they skilfully skinned the deer.
Beneath the blanket of a star-laden sky, the family settled together. Each son held a traditional instrument, and their voices rose and fell in harmonious song as the game meat sizzled over the fire. The eldest, Mehmed, meticulously carved portions of venison, handing them over to the second eldest, Ali. Ali, in turn, skewered the meat, passing it to Hamza, responsible for ensuring it roasted evenly without charring. The youngest, Ahmed, diligently prepared the marinade, brushing the meat with oil and seasoning it with salt.
Amidst their tasks, the brothers shared jokes and tales, their laughter echoing in the still night. Their venerable father watched, massaging his weary legs, waiting patiently as his sons concluded their preparations.
The atmosphere was convivial, each relishing the feast, until Zaganos dropped a revelation that silenced the merriment. "I’ve made up my mind to attend Antonius’ coronation in Constantinople."
The sons are halted as they could not believe what their father has just said.
"But honourable father." The eldest son responded first. "It might be a trap, a trap by the Rumelians to get you killed! Father, we are still too weak to accept any form of risk!"
Ali quickly added, "Father, you’re the last Ottoman Pasha with the authority to unite all Ottomans. You’re irreplaceable. Without you, the minor Aghas and Beys will almost certainly fragment our fragile Anatolia."
Hamza remained silent, his furrowed brows conveying his mix of respect and concern. He trusted in his father’s wisdom, yet the news was undeniably unsettling. Meanwhile, Ahmed, still clutching a skewer of lean meat, watched the exchange with wide eyes. The intricacies of politics were still a realm he was grappling to understand.
"I understand your concerns my sons." Zaganos Pasha said with a soft chuckle. "Before tonight, numerous anxieties weighed on my mind: the Ottomans’ future, the ongoing conflict with the Mamluks, our rebellious Aghas and Beys, the Armenian uprisings, the looming threat from Uzun Hasan’s White Sheep Turkomans at our borders, our delicate economic balance, and our declining harvests. Each issue is severe, pressing us from all sides. As a man in his mid-forties, I’m not blind to my age. Old wounds torment me increasingly, and my body weakens even if my mind remains sharp. So, before I die and go stand before Allah, I must secure a future, buy enough time for both the state to recover, and for you brothers to grow up."
"Father..." the eldest son whispered; his voice thick with emotion.
"Please, father, don’t speak so," the second son, Ali, interjected, tears glistening in his eyes. The youngest, Ahmed, struggled to hold back his own tears.
Smiling, Zaganos Pasha gently patted his youngest’s head. "I might have frequently berated Candarli Halil Pasha, even spitted on his face, and cursed him for most part of my career, but I can’t deny his wisdom in raising his offspring to stay united. He often spoke of the strength in unity — how one can easily snap a single twig, but not a bundle of them. Having observed you four on this journey, I’ve made my decision."
The pasha stood and gazed towards Constantinople. "If I meet my end in Constantinople, it’ll ignite the fury of all who follow the teachings and guidance of Allah. We might even broker peace with the Mamluks and rally against Antonius in another Jihad taking back what we have lost. But if I succeed in striking a peace treaty, we will gain crucial years to solidify our internal matters and build our army. As for confrontations with Antonius, they’ll most likely occur on our land — the reason I cleared the Rumelian settlements in Erdek. Mehmed, you must’ve noticed the challenge posed by the Rumelian forts."
The eldest son nodded. "Yes, they have numerous new technologies that made them a meat hard to bite, we lost hundreds of men trying to take down those two forts of Erdek."
"I will gradually hand over the future of the state to you four brothers, I hope that you four young men can unite together, no dishonesty or quarrels should exist between you four brothers, the relationship of you four men should be as hard as iron, and use the time to grow as strong as possible, and bring back the former glories of the Ottomans... If you can achieve that, then my death shall be as insignificant as a pebble being threw into the seas."
"Father..."
"The future, is decided by you four brothers, or by Antonius De’Ricci, but not by me, nor by that Sultan of the Mamluks, and if I can come back, I shall eradicate the threat of the Mamluks, to pave the stone for you brothers."
"..."
Silence ensued, heavy with emotion and introspection.
...
Moskva, September, the Kremlin.
A regal young man stood tall, his stern yet handsome face framed by a dark, thick beard — a testament to his maturity. He gazed southward, searching for something.
"Благородный Великий Князь, мы подтверждаем, что Антониус Де’Риччи действительно освободил Константинополь от неверных и послал приглашение Вам присутствовать на его коронации этой зимой."
"Honourable Grand Prince, we have confirmed that Antonius De’Ricci have indeed recovered Constantinople from the infidels and have sent an invitation for you to attend his coronation in the coming winter."
The man, who is known better as Ivan III, asked back. "I have heard that the Greeks have adapted a new form of warfare?"
"Yes, your Majesty."
"Inform the ambassador of my intent to attend," Ivan said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "And send word throughout the city. I want fifty of our finest craftsmen, scholars, and military officers to accompany me."
"Yes, your Majesty."
...
"...I have long admired your prowess in both military strategy and as a beacon against the growing Ottoman encroachment into Europe. Ever since I rallied my troops, I’ve held you in great esteem. I would be deeply honoured if you would consider sending an ambassador to witness both the reclaiming of Constantinople and my humble coronation..."
- Antonius De’ Ricci’
In a castle nestled amongst the rugged Albanian mountains, the venerable national hero of Albania, Skanderbeg, wiped his brow with a cloth. He had just finished reading a letter delivered to him. Below, in the sunlit courtyard, Gjon Kastrioti, Skanderbeg’s sole son, held his wooden sword aloft, the sun glinting off its rudimentary form.
"Maintain your stance!" Skanderbeg called out. "Hold it firm!"
The old man then turned to the ambassador. "How many states are invited to the coronation?"
"Almost every single lord of the states in the Europe and Asia, your Majesty."
"Including the Muslims?"
The ambassador hesitated briefly before confirming, "Yes, Your Majesty, several Muslim rulers have also been invited."
Skanderbeg frowned for a second but immediately relaxed his eyebrows and nodded. "I see, if that is the case..."
Skanderbeg’s brow furrowed momentarily, but he soon nodded in understanding. As he contemplated his response, a brisk northern gust swept through, causing him to cough. As he steadied himself, his gaze returned to his son — still valiantly holding his sword skyward, though clearly strained and worn out with his hands and legs uncontrollably shaking violently. A moment of introspection passed, and then Skanderbeg’s decision was made.
"If that is the case, then I shall be going for the coronation, with my child, and at the same time, the League of Lezhë (Albania) shall recognise Antonius as the one and only emperor of the Roman Empire."
The ambassador’s eyes widened in astonishment and gratitude. He bowed deeply, his voice shaking with emotion. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I cannot express the depth of my appreciation on behalf of my Basileus."
Skanderbeg offered a gentle smile, turning to his son. "Alright, lad! You’ve practiced enough for today. Lower your sword and rest."
Relief washed over Gjon, who raced to his father’s side. Skanderbeg lovingly wiped the boy’s sweat-drenched face.
"Listen here boy, prepare your things for a trip, do not ask any servants or maids for help, we are going for a prolonged trip in the next few months to a place far away from here, a gigantic city, called Constantinople."
Gjon blinked in surprise. "Why are we going there, father?"
We will witness great events and meet many individuals," Skanderbeg explained, his gaze distant. "Some might even become your friends that you can rely on in the future."
Gjon nodded earnestly. "As you say, father."
