Chapter 631: Kaboom!
"Ali, my son," Zaganos Pasha called out, his voice echoing with the gravitas of a seasoned warrior, his face set in stone.
"Yes, father."
His tone was sombre, a quiet storm brewing in his eyes. "I want no more talk of revenge from you."
"But, father..."
"Listen well, my son. We Ottomans ascended through our martial prowess, and now we find ourselves vanquished, outmanoeuvred in warfare. Our current strength is far not enough to challenge the Rumelians under the thief Antonius De’Ricci. I may be too old to witness our resurgence, but you and your brothers must seize this chance to learn from them. Study their soldiers’ discipline, the intricacies of their command, the mechanics of their new weapons. Understand their strategies and contemplate our own path to victory. This is your duty – far more crucial than fleeing your arse back to Anatolia in a fit of agitation."
In that moment, the father’s grip on his son’s gauntlet tightened, his hand a vice of fiery determination, a stark contrast to his recent stoic demeanour. "I am old, my prestige and honour matter little to me now, I have everything to lose, from shame, to honour, to even myself. But you, Ali, and your three brothers, you are still young, you are the future. When I am gone, I want you to forge an army capable of reclaiming the honour and glory I have lost!"
Ali stood, struck by the sudden intensity in his father’s words. He nodded vigorously, a newfound resolve shining in his eyes. "Yes, Father!"
"Now, look." Zaganos pointed his horse whip at the moving Roman troops. "Look on how the different Rumelian troops march alongside one another on this tiny road in the middle of forest with multiple intersections, I am especially interested in those people called ’Commissar’ who oversee maintaining discipline and order, and have you realised? That after a whole day, the different Rumelian units always kept a hundred meter away from one another at a constant speed, do you think our troops can achieve this?"
"No..."
"Then go and learn! Study how those commissars maintain control!" "Yes! Father!"
With that, Ali spurred his horse, galloping towards the front lines, towards an uncertain yet pivotal future. His father remained behind, a solitary figure under the wide sky. At forty, Zaganos knew his time as a warrior was waning. His heart, once unyielding, now betrayed him, no longer able to endure the rigors of war and the hunt. So he turned more towards his family, particularly his four sons, pouring his hopes and dreams into them, for they were his legacy, the future bearers of the Ottoman spirit.
...
Abbas Pasha is now like an ant jumping on a hot pan right now, as he sat tight in the city of Burgas right now, for he has never expected such a violent reaction coming from Constantinople, at the worst possible time. He is like a piece of dead meat lying in the middle of the Balkans, the Rumelians sees him as a threat to be eliminated, the Serbians sees him as a rival, constantly trying themselves on the borders to seek revenge for their hundred years of Ottoman oppression, the Hungarians sees him as a sumptuous meal, and now even the past allies, the Moldavians have turned on him, asking repeatedly for wealth. The only power who are willing to help him out are perhaps the Genoese in the Galata and Cherson, but they could only do it so secretly to prevent upsetting the Rumelians.
In the dimly lit chamber, Abbas Pasha stood alone, the weight of a looming coalition against him palpable in the air. He was the focal point of all the pent-up rage against the Ottomans, a solitary figure bearing the heavy burden of his predecessors’ sins.
"Pasha! The Rumelians have reached Medea!"
His voice was tinged with disbelief. "So soon? How is it possible?"
"They’ve covered the distance in just four days, Pasha!"
A collective gasp filled the room, the air thick with dread. "O Allah, grant us your mercy," someone whispered under their breath, a prayer lost amidst the rising panic.
"They’ll be upon us in five days!" The words hung in the air like a death sentence, sparking a frenzied buzz among the gathered Aghas, Pashas, and Beys.
"The enemy advances with the swiftness of the wind, yet here we are, dawdling slower than elderly grandmothers on a leisurely stroll." The sarcasm in the speaker’s voice was like a spark in dry tinder.
His accusation was met with an immediate and fiery retort. "What are you insinuating, you insolent dog?"
"I believe we all know exactly whom I’m referring to!"
"You sick little vile wretch..."
The chamber erupted into chaos, the air thick with accusations and defensiveness, each voice trying to drown out the others.
"Silence!" Abbas Pasha’s voice thundered through the room, cutting through the cacophony like a scimitar. The room fell into a tense quiet, the previous uproar still echoing off the walls. "Who has not arrived yet?"
"...Emin bey from Pieven, Ecrin bey from Constantia, and Adem Agha from Plovdov."
"Typical of them!" sneered a voice laced with disdain. "They have lost all sense of loyalty and honour, both to the Ottomans and to Allah. Sometimes I question whose side they truly stand on."
"At least they haven’t forsaken Allah as you have! Trading with those infidels, selling away the precious metals of Bulgaria!" another voice retorted hotly.
"What did you just say! Do you dare to repeat yourself again!"
"..."
The tension in the room escalated, the air thick with animosity and resentment, as tempers flared and old rivalries resurfaced, mirroring the impending threat outside their walls.
Abbas Pasha exhaled a weary sigh, reflecting on the changes over the past decade. When these men first fled to Bulgaria, they were different – united in their struggle. Initially, they cooperated: saving refugees from the south, building an army, and unanimously electing him, Abbas Pasha, as their leader due to his extensive experience in the now-defunct Janissary Corps. Together, they had successfully repelled multiple invasions from various Christian states. But as the immediate threats waned and a semblance of peace settled in, the long-suppressed conflicts began to surface. Disputes over territories, differences in religious beliefs, and tensions between old and new inhabitants of the land started to tear at the fabric of their unity.
Yet, as their chosen leader, Abbas Pasha knew he must carry on.
"Spread my orders!" he commanded, rising from his seat with a clatter of metal. "Gather our armies and march towards the Rumelians! Do not forget, we still hold the fortress of Rezovo, valiantly guarded by my courageous son Yavuz. Constructed of solid rock with a concrete foundation, it will buy us a few weeks of time! Rally to it, and we shall have all we need to withstand this attack!"
...
"Boom!"
"Reload! Prepare for a double volley! Full metal rounds!"
"Ready!...."
"Fire!"
A battery of large-calibre artillery roared to life, their deafening booms echoing like the wrath of thunder gods across the battlefield. Each cannon discharged with a ferocity that shook the very air, sending lethal metal rounds hurtling through the sky. The foreign dignitaries, gathered to witness the siege, stood rooted in awe and horror. Their eyes widened, and some recoiled involuntarily, as they comprehended the sheer destructive capability of these modern engines of war. This was an unparalleled display of military might, far surpassing any traditional siege weaponry they had ever seen.
The cannonballs traced a deadly arc through the sky before crashing into the fortress’s fragile stone walls. Each impact sent waves of panic through the defenders. Men atop the walls scrambled in terror, seeking refuge from the relentless metal onslaught. They had yet to face the full wrath of these killing machines directly, as the walls were the priority targets, but the psychological effect was already devastating.
In no time, the once-imposing walls began to crack and crumble. Yavuz, the so-called courageous son and commander, stood on a distant tower, his face drained of colour, legs shaking uncontrollably. He watched in horror as each cannonball struck, his heart sinking with the falling stones. Abbas Pasha had praised his son’s bravery and he is indeed right, but this was a terror Yavuz had never known – the overwhelming power of modern artillery, for his so called bravery is mostly on when he is handling close quartered combat with nothing but blades. Those who had experienced it had either fled or perished, leaving these inexperienced defenders unprepared for the hellfire raining down upon them.
"Fire!"
"Steady, lads! Fire!"
"Good job my boys! Come! Load another three volleys! Tear that wall down and we shall call it a day!"
"Aye aye captain!"
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
Overwhelmed, Yavuz frantically waved his arms, his hearing nearly obliterated by the relentless booming. Desperation took over as he shouted orders to the panicked soldiers below. "Surrender! Surrender!" His voice was lost in the cacophony, a futile plea against the unyielding might of the artillery.
