Chapter 721: "Memory eternal!"
The crowd was supposed to remain silent. It was a rule of the Orthodox funeral rite that no weeping or loud mourning should disturb the sanctity of the prayers. But in reality, quiet sobbing could be heard throughout the gathering. It was impossible to contain the grief of so many. The sobs of nobles, soldiers, and commoners alike resonated beneath the great dome. The Ecumenical Patriarch gave a heavy sigh but did not rebuke them. He continued the liturgy, his face stoic and his voice unwavering.
At the forefront of the crowd sat the imperial family. Anna, her face pale and drawn, sat like a statue. Her once-dark hair was now white as snow, and her tired eyes, red from endless tears, were shut tight as if she wished to shut out the world. The woman who had once stood as firm as a fortress now sat hollow, drained of life. Agatha, their daughter, openly wept. Her sobs were the loudest in Hagia Sophia, unrestrained by custom or decorum. Several servants tried to calm her, but she waved them off, tears flowing freely down her face.
Leo sat next to his mother, but his gaze was fixed on his father’s body. His eyes, however, were not filled with grief alone — they were filled with fear. He gazed upon his father’s crown and scepter, knowing that they would soon be his. Every problem, every enemy, and every burden that his father had borne for decades would now be his to bear. No longer could he lean on his father’s guidance. No longer could he call upon his father’s wisdom. He would now be the one called to defend the walls of Constantinople, to meet with foreign envoys, and to command soldiers into battle.
It was no longer "one day" that he would be emperor. The day had come.
The fear of that truth swirled in his mind like a storm. He felt the weight of it crushing his chest, and he clutched his hands together to stop himself from trembling.
The emperor’s body was placed in a sarcophagus of polished marble and gold. His image, carved in relief on the lid, bore the face of a man who had ruled, fought, and suffered for his people. The stone lid was laid upon the sarcophagus, sealing him away.
The soldiers raised their spears. The people raised their voices.
"Memory eternal!"
"Memory eternal!"
"Memory eternal!"
Leo stood before his father’s tomb, his heart heavy with both grief and resolve.
He would carry the weight. He would carry it all. He has to carry it all.
...
While, of course, not everyone was saddened by the news of the emperor’s passing, there were those who, on the contrary, were delighted.
In the remote plains of Thessaly, there stood a small fortress known as Istanbul. It was an unassuming stronghold that housed a man who, for years, had spoken not a single word to the nearby village folk. Ever since his arrival under the escort of the Roman army, his presence had been shrouded in mystery. It was well known among the villagers that every once in a while, men from government agencies would pay him a visit, often carrying sacks of fresh grain, fine clothing, or even livestock.
The man himself lived in quiet seclusion with his mistress, his aged mother, several servants, and a small contingent of guards—unarmored, but armed nonetheless. Rumors of his wealth spread quickly through the countryside, for not every man could afford to live in a fortress with personal guards and household servants. Everyone knew he was rich. But no one knew where his wealth came from.
For years, whispers circulated in taverns, market squares, and wheat fields. The village folk would wonder aloud, "Is he an exiled lord? A merchant of foreign lands? Or perhaps a criminal seeking refuge under imperial protection?" The children of the village would dare one another to climb the hills near the fortress, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive master, but they rarely saw more than a shadow behind the high stone walls.
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The night after the emperor’s death, shadows moved under the veil of darkness. Figures cloaked in black scaled the fortress walls with the precision and silence of experienced men. Their movements were quick but deliberate, as if they knew exactly where they were going. These were not local peasants or bandits. Their tanned skin, sharp eyes, and the way they moved without hesitation revealed one thing — they were Turks.
Once inside, the cloaked figures made their way to the inner courtyard of the fortress, where dim lanterns flickered softly in the night air. The master’s guards, unarmored but sharp-eyed, gave a brief glance before turning away, making no move to stop them. There was no need. They had been expecting them.
The visitors soon reached the main hall, where they found him — their master, their Sultan.
There he sat, an aged man with an ashen beard and sharp eyes that had seen far too many winters. His posture was calm, regal even, though his body carried the weight of time. Beside him sat his elderly mother, her frail hands stroking a gray cat that purred gently in her lap. She leaned slightly forward, her eyes closed, as if she could feel the world move without needing to see it. Near her side sat her youngest grandchild, fast asleep, leaning against her arm with complete trust and innocence.
The visitors knelt as one, their knees pressing against the cold stone floor. Their heads remained bowed low, their foreheads nearly touching the ground, and their voices became a collective hiss.
"Your Majesty! That old thief — that Antonius who stole our country, our homes, and our future — is dead! He is finally dead!"
The words echoed like thunder within the chamber, and one of the men, unable to contain himself, broke into a quiet, breathless laugh. A few others chuckled as well, letting out the excitement they had bottled up for so long. One of them quickly glanced over his shoulder, peeking out the door to ensure no outsiders were eavesdropping on this secret meeting.
One man, his eyes alight with fervor, whispered eagerly, "Your Majesty, Sultan of all Ottomans, it is time! The old thief is gone! Please, lead us once more!"
Another man, his hands trembling from excitement, added, "Yes, Your Majesty! The usurper is dead, and his son is but a child — an untested, inexperienced boy. The court will fall into chaos as his lords and councilmen fight for power. It is destined! This is our moment to strike, to rise up once more and reclaim what is rightfully ours. It is time, my Sultan! The Rûm have taken our lands, our wealth, and our future. But now, we can take it all back!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!" More men entered the hall. One after another, they knelt, each one speaking in hushed but fervent voices, eyes brimming with the wild hope of exiles who had waited too long. Their eyes darted to the master of the house, their Sultan, waiting anxiously for his reply.
The old man remained still. His face, carved with deep wrinkles from years of war, captivity, and exile, did not move. His eyes, sharp and gray like a winter sea, gazed straight ahead, unmoving. His hands rested on his lap like stone. He sat as still as the marble statues of ancient kings.
The elderly woman at his side, the Sultana Dowager, sat even more still. Her weathered face bore no emotion as her fingers rhythmically stroked the cat’s fur. Her cloudy eyes remained closed, as though she were in prayer or listening to the whispers of the unseen.
The young boy at her side dozed peacefully, his head resting against her shoulder, his soft breathing the only sound that punctuated the room’s silence.
"Your Majesty," one of the men pressed forward, his eyes wide with urgency, his voice barely a breath. "Sultan Beyezid, the time has come. The time you have waited for all these years. Your people, your army, your Janissaries — they await your word. They wait only for you. Speak, my Sultan! Give us the command, and we will summon every loyal heart to your banner. We will restore the House of Osman!"
The man’s words hung in the air, trembling with expectation.
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The Sultan finally shifted in his seat.
His fingers tapped slowly on the armrest of his chair, one tap after another, his eyes lost in thought. The tapping echoed softly in the quiet chamber.
The eyes of every man in the room were fixed on him.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then, for the first time that night, he looked to his mother.
Her face remained unchanged. Her eyes remained closed, her head bowed. But she, too, had heard everything. Her fingers, however, had stopped petting the cat. The cat looked up, perhaps sensing the change in the air, and leapt from her lap, padding softly to the side of the hall.
"Mother," the Sultan said, his voice low but firm. "What do you think?"
