Chapter 641: Arguments In The City
"Leave?" The old man snorted with a dismissive, cold scorn. "Beware, young one, I have trodden these streets for lifetimes beyond yours. With these weary eyes, I’ve witnessed our beloved city’s transformation from one treacherous abyss to another—a deceptive snare not wrought by external foes but forged by our own rulers’ hands, cutting off the old imperial values of the Romans."
The veteran, his face contorted with rage, raised a trembling fist, intent on silencing the old man’s ’treasonous’ words. But his comrades, understanding the gravity of the moment, restrained him, their hands a firm reminder of restraint.
"I can, with respect, tell the gentleman here on what he has missed while he is out of the city clashing in war strives with the other few states whom he has neither met or seen before in a foreign place. Look, look! Look around you, look at those kids running bare footed on the roads risking themselves in front of the carriages of the rich everyday while you sit here enjoying your drinks with your pension, look at all of those poor who could not afford to pay their taxes for war and dragged out of their homes, look at those new iron forges dumping one pile after another waste into the used to be beautiful Mediterranean pumping fumes into the skies..."
"...Yes, the old nobles are gone, but there came a new group of nobles after years of conquests, those so-called veterans, like you! And just like the old times, youngsters can no longer improve their social status through art, literature, philosophy, instead the only way they can climb the ladder is through contributions of war! One war after another! Do you realise what outcome this can lead to? The entire social morale and structure can once again be turned all the way upside down, if the empire ever came to a severe defeat, or if there came to a point where the gains of expansion can no longer satisfy the greed of people hoping for promotions! We have all seen this kind of things before, we are walking down the path of the pagan Roman empire, again!"
The old man’s words, steeped in ancient Greek and Latin, fell on mostly deaf ears. The youngsters, teenagers roaming the streets, including the previously enraged veteran, drifted away, uninterested in the philosophical musings that failed to spark the confrontation they craved. Only the bartender of the restaurant remained, his attention fixed on the conversation.
Only one stayed here all the ways till now having an ear on the conversation, that is the bar tender of the restaurant.
Ah, you do speak truths, old sir," the bartender chuckled, approaching to clear the remnants left by the departing crowd.
"You grasp my perspective?" asked the old man, his spirits lifted by this unexpected ally.
"I understand, but have you considered the emperor’s vision? The so-called Greater Roman Ideal?" the bartender queried, his tone laced with a mix of understanding and realism.
"That ideology? It’s a disastrous folly!" exclaimed the old man. "To think it forms the foundation of our state! Dragging one after another generation of our innocent young into bloodshed!"
"Aye, Aye, I hear you, kind sir," the bartender replied, his gaze meeting the old man’s with still a smiling face. "But this ideal underpins the government’s entire strategy. The war of reconquest on the lost Roman lands. It’s why everything – governance, technology, society, policies, education, promotions – revolves around military conquest. And now, our nation is inextricably tied to it, people nowadays have no where to raise their social statues other than chopping off a few heads on the battlefield and returning home with loots and agriculture land. That’s what I wanted to convey, sir. Even if you pride yourself on independent thought, sometimes it’s safer to flow with the tide, lest you be swept away for speaking out of turn..."
"...And kindly, express such views elsewhere next time, please refrain from doing it in my place, for I am merely a modest man trying to have living here in the city. Now, that’ll be twelve coppers for your drink, sir."
Stunned into silence, the old man paid his dues and sat motionless for half an hour, lost in contemplation, until finally, he vanished into the encroaching dusk.
...
In the wake of a decisive victory, the city of Burgas, nestled along the Black Sea coast, and its surrounding regions willingly capitulated to the Roman troops. Emperor Antonius, riding the wave of his recent triumphs, orchestrated another grand celebration in Burgas. Yet, as the ruler of a burgeoning empire with a population now swelling to over a million, his presence in Bulgaria could not be prolonged. Critical matters and a cascade of issues beckoned him back to Constantinople, the heart of his dominion.
Upon his return, Constantinople buzzed with the anticipation of another grand triumph. However, the mood among its citizens was tinged with a subtle discontent. The expectation of a major celebration had been dashed, shifted away by the whims of their leader. Despite the undercurrents of dissatisfaction, Antonius, true to his imperial duties, partook in the customary religious rituals at the venerable Hagia Sophia and presided over a tournament in the recently refurbished Hippodrome, a monumental structure echoing the city’s glorious past.
During these turbulent times, the chief architect of Constantinople found his responsibilities curiously diminished. With the empire’s focus and resources funneled into the relentless war efforts, his once-daunting tasks were whittled down, offering a rare respite in a city usually teeming with architectural ambitions.
As these events unfolded, the time had come for the foreign delegates, witnesses to the empire’s might and splendour, to depart from the imperial city, carrying with them tales of triumphs and tribulations from the heart of the Roman world.
Zaganos Pasha, representing the remaining Ottoman powers in Anatolia, was the first to depart. He extended a gesture of reconciliation towards the new regime, offering a truce. This peace would halt Ottoman piracy in the Black Sea, cease raids on the Aegean Isles, and allow the Romans to reclaim their holdings in Erdek, if they wish to.
Seated majestically on his throne, Antonius warmly embraced this olive branch and pigeon of peace, praising Zaganos Pasha for his strategic foresight. His approval was marked by a gracious nod, an acknowledgment of a potential era of peace.
Next, the Mamluk delegation stepped forward, proposing a mutually beneficial trade agreement. They offered war horses, wheat, and ships in exchange for the empire’s renowned weapons, technology, olives, and grapes. However, their words carried a warning about Zaganos Pasha, labelling him a ’cunning fox.’ With a smear on their faces.
Antonius, with an amiable smile, readily accepted this lucrative trade offer. Rising from his throne, he extended a respectful bow to the Mamluk ambassador, directing them to his advisor, Alexios, for the detailed negotiations.
The Balkan ambassadors followed, congratulating Antonius on his conquests while seeking the empire’s protection against external threats, arguing that it is vital for the states of Serbia and Bosnia to partake in the future developments of regional peace.
The emperor, knowing who is the threat they are trying to refer to, nodded with little expression on his face, adopted a more cautious stance, he neither outright approved nor rejected their request. Instead, he steered them towards Abdullah for in-depth discussions.
Meanwhile, the Hungarian King had already departed, eager to rejoin his Black Army. His departure was hastened by the recognition of the Greeks’ military prowess, understanding that he needed to act swiftly to secure his interests in the rapidly changing political landscape, if he is late, he would miss his opportunity to share the cake afterwards for his kingdom.
Only two significant figures remained in Constantinople now, with one being Skanderbeg of Albania, and another one being Ivan of Moskva.
The following day, a commanding presence entered the palace. Skanderbeg, clad in full armour yet unarmed without his signature weapons, exuded the same prestige and dominance that had once repelled Ottoman invasions. This time, however, he arrived not at the head of an army, but accompanied only by his young son. Rejecting a courtier’s offer to sit in the waiting room for a morning drink against the cold, Skanderbeg chose instead to stand, motionless and imposing, before the palace gates, still like a golem.
Upon receiving the news, Emperor Antonius hastened from the Great Palace. He found the Albanian hero steadfast, now holding a spear in his hands apparently just snatched from a guard who came to swap duty, causing a stir among the guards who struggled in vain to persuade him to move. Skanderbeg’s son, that little boy, seemingly bewildered by the unfolding scene, stood silently by his father’s side.
"Your Excellency!" Antonius implored, attempting to coax the Albanian monarch from his post. Despite Skanderbeg’s age, his strength was unyielding, a testament to his years of battle-hardened resilience. "Please, consider your health! It is winter, and the world would not look kindly upon me if you were to fall ill at my doorstep? Quick, come inside with me!"
