Chapter 667: The Old Man’s Adventure (1)
Concurrently, another envoy, steered by the seasoned wisdom of Apostolos in his inaugural diplomatic action, navigated the contrasting route across the Bosporus. His caravan, a veritable treasure trove comprising merchants, gold, jewels, and the finest silks, represented an olive branch extended to the Ottoman elite.
Unlike Abdullah’s journey, facilitated by a bridge-builder, Apostolos had to rely solely on his title, the flag of peace, and a message to Hamza Bey declaring his peaceful intentions. This made Apostolos’ voyage across the Bosporus to Prusa significantly more perilous and unpredictable than Abdullah’s diplomatic venture to Venice.
Yet, Apostolos remained undisturbed, his ever-present casual smile betraying none of the risks associated with his mission.
Their journey across the Bosporus into the heart of Anatolia was fraught with tension and uncertainty. Unfamiliar landscapes unfurled before them, and the presence of Ottoman patrol cavalries and the sight of a formidable guard fortress heightened their sense of vulnerability. The merchants accompanying Apostolos played a crucial role, their negotiations and assurances skilfully averting the suspicions of local Ottoman patrols.
The calm of their passage was shattered when a formidable force of Ottoman cavalry appeared on the horizon.
Their rapid approach, more akin to a battle charge than a mere encounter, sent waves of fear through the caravan. The air was thick with apprehension as the hundreds of cavalrymen bore down on them, their potential for destruction palpable and massacre. The caravan, laden with treasures and devoid of combatants, seemed ill-equipped to face such a threat. Panic ensued as some attempted to flee and the guards hastily formed a defensive circle, though the futility of their efforts was evident against the swift advance of the cavalry.
Apostolos’ face is shaken from the sheer tremor of the hooves of cavalries crashing against the Earth, but still, with a composed grace, he stepped forward, an act of defiance that drew the anxious cries of his personal guard, and awaited the oncoming force with a serene smile.
"What are you doing my lord!" Exclaimed his personal guard. "Come back here!"
Apostolos did not respond.
In a breathtaking display of horsemanship, the cavalry abruptly halted their charge mere meters from Apostolos, their disciplined ranks splitting into two lines moving by the sides to encircle the caravan without spilling a drop of blood. They stood, an imposing ring of steel, their banners—the white horse of Osman and the green crescent and Kilij blade of Zaganos—billowing in the wind. This new amalgamation of banners symbolised a unity forged in the aftermath of Zaganos Pasha’s demise, a potent symbol of the Ottomans’ enduring strength.
The leading cavalry removed that silk linen on his face, and revealed himself. It is a young and energetic face, about in his twenties, but obviously already experienced in combat as seen from that long scar on his eye brow.
Rather than formalities, the young warrior surveyed the cluster of tense Romans, his observation breaking into a mocking laughter."Bakın! Kardeşlerim! Bu Romalılar da ölüm korkusunu biliyorlar!" he proclaimed, inciting a wave of laughter among his ranks.
Apostolos, fully grasping the taunt yet opting for diplomacy over confrontation, maintained his composure. With a steady voice, he retorted, "I have heard tales of Ottoman warriors extending their hospitality to foreign guests through an introduction and an offering of Yayık ayranı to quench their thirst. Is this not the tradition?"
The young warrior’s response was a mix of amusement and scepticism, his laugh chillingly dismissive. "Foreign, perhaps, but friendly? That remains to be seen. Are you allies or adversaries? You do not know me, yet I know you, Apostolos Eurymachus of Epirus, renowned for your guile and espionage. What brings you here with such treasures? A gesture of goodwill, or an attempt to undermine our principles and lead us astray from the Shariah? Your intentions cannot be masked from me, old man; I am well aware of the machinations of Constantinople."
A chill ran down Apostolos’ spine at the young man’s accusatory insight. It dawned on him that the Ottoman Empire had successfully infiltrated the very heart of Constantinople, perhaps even its government, leaving him to ponder the extent of their knowledge and the vulnerabilities of his own state.
"Ah, since you bring that up, I must regretfully inform you that I am no longer in the position I once held. Given your awareness of the capital’s inner workings, you’re surely familiar with the recent turmoil, regarding the revolt of Elassona in Thessaly. My failure to unveil the deceit of a prominent governor has led to a waning confidence from the emperor in my abilities. Thus, I stand before you, stripped of my real influence, merely a nominal head of the secret service carrying no significant power on my title. Opting against a quiet demise in Constantinople, I’ve embraced the role of a diplomatic envoy, traversing the lands while my health permits."
The young Bey’s eyes narrowed into slits as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Your words, they fall on sceptical ears, elder."
"But you cannot kill me, am I right? First, you must lend an ear to my propositions." Apostolos met the scepticism with a nonchalant shrug. "Am I wrong, Hamza Bey?"
Hamza Bey straightened; his gaze still laced with an unspoken threat. "Your assurance bewilders me, Rumelian. My sword has been stained by the blood of no fewer than twenty of your kin. Adding one more would scarcely trouble me."
"Ah, but I am convinced you shall refrain," Apostolos asserted, hands clasped behind him with a calm poise. "Were your intentions murderous, this conversation would never have prolonged. Our encounter would have ended in bloodshed at its very inception. Though we have not met prior, your father’s legacy is known to me—a knight of honour and courage, a devout Muslim of faith, who eschewed the needless slaughter of emissaries and traders. It is in the light of his virtues that I hold expectations of his son to mirror such nobility."
Hamza Bey’s silence was a thick cloak around them, a testament to the tension that hung in the air.
"And" Apostolos pressed on, his voice steady but filled with a wisdom that came from years of navigating political landscapes, "I am aware, noble Bey, that your presence here is not as our executioners but as our guardians and observers, watching our safety."
The silence from Hamza Bey was palpable, his gaze unwavering.
"And it has come to my understanding," Apostolos added with a deliberate calmness, "that though your brother tasked you with providing us an escort, you chose personally to undertake this duty, out of concern that your men might, for reasons their own, bring us harm. Am I correct in this assumption?"
At this, Hamza Bey’s restraint shattered. With a fury that seemed to rip through the calm, he unsheathed his blade, slamming it into the earth right before the old man. The action sent a resonant hum through the ground, the blade quivering as if alive with rage.
"That is a remarkable blade," Apostolos observed, unphased by the display of anger.
Hamza Bey, his patience worn thin, issued a stark ultimatum, "Hear this, sage trickster. I will entertain your propositions at Ankara. Fail to convince me, and I will personally ensure you meet your end."
"Understood," Apostolos replied, gesturing forward with an air of resignation. "Lead the way, please."
Hamza Bey made a few claps, as the cavalries dispersed, forming a corridor for the Rumelians before them, with their blades in their hands raised to sky high, and their eyes of focus on every passing by Rumelian as if they are going to be eaten alive. Apostolos, despite with his heart pounding, walked through this threatening welcome ceremony. However, for the rest of the Romans, especially the merchants and civil servants who had no experience with this kind of things, had their legs trembling like as if it is winter.
Once past the gauntlet, the Ottoman cavalry reformed and shadowed the convoy, their weapons still drawn, a constant reminder of the precariousness of the Romans’ situation.
"You like this ceremony, my ’friend’?" Hamza Bey inquired, a hint of mockery in his tone.
"Of course I do." Apostolos nodded, still with that grin. "Such fine, robust, elite soldiers, with skills and experience, finest cavalry force that I have ever seen."
"Of course they are the finest." Hamza Bey couldn’t hide his pride. "I trained them by myself, around a thousand of them, trained to the best and dedicated to kill Rumelians."
"It seems, then, they may find themselves somewhat discontented for the time being," Apostolos quipped lightly. "No Romans will fall by their hands today."
"Oh?" Grinned Hamza Bey. "Are you sure about that? We shall see, old man."
...
In the chill of the night, under a sky blanketed with stars, the convoy had settled by the main road connecting Prusa to Ankara, establishing a temporary camp. The calm of the evening was suddenly shattered by a distant scream, slicing through the tranquillity like a blade.
