Chapter 672: The Old Man’s Adventure (6)
Ahmed Celebi has not slept for almost two days in a row, with little to no rest on a daily basis and limited appetite for dealing with state affairs. He rode there in a rush, after seating there for half a day, while he is already having a headache when riding here. It is only hereby now, only after everything was settled did the full brunt of exhaustion and weakness finally claim him. The sight of the man’s head rolling before him exacerbated his agitation, leading to an overwhelming sense of physical collapse due to rest deprivation, poor circulation, and the day’s exertions. Consequently, he blacked out.
For two entire days, the prince regent was lost to sleep, failing to wake up despite of all the commotions going on around him.
Upon awakening, his first inquiries were about the duration of his sleep and the whereabouts of the Roman delegates, to which the servants could not provide answers. "How long have I slept? Where are the Roman delegates?"
The servants have no idea.
"GO! Call Ibrahim! Now!" The prince regent, in a newly arisen rage, ordered the servants to summon for his court officer in charge of diplomacy. But immediately, Ahmed Celebi felt a sharp tear in his head, as if his inner souls are being torn alive, forcing him to slowly lie back down there, with the servants hurriedly coming forward to apply their remedies and fresh water.
Moments later, the diplomatic officer hurried in, immediately announcing, "Your Majesty! The Rumelians... The Rumelians...!"
"What!" Ahmed Celebi’s eyes bulged up again. "Speak! At once!"
"The ambassador of the Rumelians wanted to express to you their wish to leave the Sultanate a day ago, waited a day for your response, and they have begun packing up now, right now they should be already on their way to leave Ankara!"
Hearing this, Ahmed Celebi attempted to rise, but his weakened state caused him to roll off the bed and thud onto the floor. As servants scrambled to assist him, he shoved them aside, commanding with determined urgency, "Prepare me a chariot, with the finest horses! I must get there as quickly as possible!"
As Ahmed Celebi lay bedridden, his mind was far from at rest. As the de facto ruler of the Ottoman Sultanate, the weight of his responsibilities pressed heavily upon him. He understood the critical importance of forging peace with the Rumelians, not just for the sake of ending a prolonged conflict but as a strategic necessity. Achieving peace would allow him to reallocate resources and direct his brother Hamza Bey’s forces toward more pressing threats on the eastern frontier against the Aq Qoyunlu and the looming challenge from the Mamluks to the south. These thoughts swirled in his head, mingling with concern and strategic calculations, underscoring the urgency and complexity of the decisions that lay solely on his shoulders.
....
Just half an hour later, a chariot pulled by four incredibly fast horses dashed out of Ankara, once again stirring chaos in the market. However, the citizens and merchants seemed to have grown accustomed to such disturbances, allowing the chariot to pass while expressing their displeasure through spits and curses, before promptly cleaning up the aftermath.
Ahmed Celebi sat lifelessly on a couch inside the carriage, enduring the constant jolts as the wheels clashed against the rocks of the poorly maintained old Roman roads. Yet, the physical discomfort paled in comparison to the turmoil within his mind, while the physical discomfort is yet bearable, but the agitation on the events of things, is tearing his souls.
It took them no time to catch up with the caravan fleet of Apostolos, with little protection this time round, for they could no longer trust the troops sent to protect them, and instead hired a private mercenary band, creating a roll of dust on the old roads, which is far visible from a mile away. Giving the riders an easy way of pursuit.
Apostolos took a look back at the line of Ottoman cavalries bearing the flag of the white horse, and sighed before he raised his hands, and halted the massive caravan fleet on its tracks.
The carriage aligned itself with Apostolos, with the most of his strength, Ahmed Celebi raised up the curtains to his carriage, and called out in a withering tone. "Please, lord Apostolos, come up with me for a chat please..."
"I believe that we no longer have any terms that we can reach to together, your Majesty." Apostolos replied. "All the words that I wanted to convey is already in that letter I gave to you. And remember, your Sultanate still owes us an explanation, very good explanation, of course, and the best way to come to that explanation, is through a new round of war."
The words sent Ahmed Celebi gasping for air as he clutched his heart. The man, with a face pale as a sheet of paper, continued waving for the attention of the old man. "Please, honourable senior, can we just, have a chat, here, and now? I can give you, a, very, good explanation here and now."
Apostolos remained silent, his stance unwavering, casting a shadow over any potential reconciliation.
Ahmed Celebi, in a final plea, leaned out of the carriage window, resting his whole body against the door. "Please?" His voice and eyes were drenched in desperation.
"Very well," Apostolos relented with a sigh, as he climbed onto the chariot and drew the curtains closed. Ahmed Celebi signalled, and the coachman, with a swift motion, spurred the carriage onward to a secluded spot.
Now, it was just Ahmed Celebi and the venerable Apostolos, isolated once more.
Struggling to rise, Ahmed Celebi’s legs trembled beneath him. Before Apostolos fully grasped the situation, the prince’s knees crashed heavily onto the carriage floor, his head bowed, disrupting the silence with a startling noise. Even Apostolos, who seemed unflappable, was taken aback by the young prince’s abrupt gesture, the old man hurriedly stood up, and leaned forward wishing to assist the young man to get back on his feet.
"What are you doing! Prince Ahmed! Get up! Now!"
Apostolos attempted to pull the man up from the ground, but it just felt like Ahmed Celebi, who have been so weak since just now, been rooted to the ground, totally unable to pulled up.
The prince looked up, his eyes reddened, a web of capillaries visible. "Your Excellency! I am aware that my gesture cannot undo your anger, or the losses suffered by Rumelia, but I implore you to accept my deepest apologies for my actions and reconsider the negotiations, for I am now more sincere in my request than ever!"
Seeing the man’s hands tremble and sensing the carriage driver’s curious gaze, Apostolos sighed deeply, marking the day’s end with a decision. "Alright, young man, I will return to the negotiation table. But remember, that act of submission cannot compensate for the lives lost. It’s your sincerity and earnestness that compel me to reconsider, understood?"
The young prince clenched his teeth, a gesture unbecoming of his past self, resistant to display such vulnerability before his family’s archenemy. Yet, maturity and the weight of his role had taught him the necessity of enduring indignity for the sake of his nation’s preservation.
Inwardly, Ahmed Celebi vowed to redeem this dishonour, dreaming of a day when those who now stood as adversaries would atone for their actions and the humiliation borne by him, his siblings, and his father.
Under the expansive skies just outside Ankara, the landscape bore witness to a tent pitched in no man’s land, a neutral ground chosen by Apostolos to resume the peace negotiations. This decision, stemming from a deep mistrust of Ottoman civil security following recent events, signalled a tense atmosphere far removed from the cordiality of formal diplomacy.
Within this makeshift council chamber, representatives from both the Ottoman Empire and the Roman delegates faced off, the air thick with anticipation and unspoken grievances. At the helm of these discussions stood Apostolos and Ahmed Celebi, each embodying the resilience and desperation of their respective factions.
Apostolos, his patience worn thin by previous encounters and betrayals, dispensed with customary diplomatic niceties. His opening salvo was direct, aimed at uncovering the stark realities of the Ottoman’s resources. "Prince Regent," he began, his voice betraying no hint of jest, "tell me truthfully, how vast are your grain reserves?"
Ahmed Celebi, perhaps more accustomed to the embellishments of courtly dialogue, responded with a rehearsed confidence. "Our granaries are well-stocked, ensuring sustenance for our nation for at least another year."
"Incorrect," Apostolos retorted sharply, a dismissive shake of his head dismissing the prince’s claims. "I have seen with my own eyes the desolation of your national barns, hollow and forsaken. Your soldiers, guardians of your realm, are compelled to scavenge for food amongst the very people they vow to protect."
Caught off guard, Ahmed Celebi struggled for a moment, but Apostolos was relentless, pressing on with an inquiry about the Ottoman military’s readiness.
