EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

CHAPTER 44: Murad's march

Sultan Murad II chose to establish his command post just beyond the main gates, a vast pavilion surrounded by smaller tents forming something of an impromptu city of canvas. It was there, amid the bustle of messengers and quartermasters, that unsettling reports reached him. A small Ottoman detachment had been bested by an Albanian chieftain named Andrea Thopia, operating out of the rugged central highlands. The triumph had roused other leaders—particularly Gjergj Arianiti—to similar defiance.

The news filtered through the encampment with alarming speed. At every campfire, men spoke of the "Albanian revolt," voices hushed as though even the mention of rebellion might summon fresh enemies from the hills. And why not worry? Marching on the Morea with an open mutiny at their backs was a daunting proposition, and everyone—privates and officers alike—wondered if Murad would risk it. The Sultan, tight-lipped and contemplative, let no one see which way the scales of his mind would tip.

Murad's Dilemma

The corridor outside the makeshift council chamber in Thessaloniki was lit by a single guttering torch. Its sputtering flame danced across the weary faces of the Sultan's advisors as they filed in, each weighed down by secrets and private fears. The Ottoman banners, hanging limp from the rafters, bore silent witness to the tension filling the room like a smoldering fuse.

Sultan Murad II, though hardly the tallest figure in the gathering, commanded the space by force of presence alone. He stood at the head of a plain wooden table, a map of the Balkans splayed across it, its corners pinned by daggers and spare coins. From the shadows beyond, one could sense the sharpened attention of guardsmen—keen eyes, silent tongues, ready to pounce on any hint of treachery.

At Murad's left elbow stood Halil Pasha, Grand Vizier, a man whose mild exterior had long concealed a razor-sharp mind. He tapped the hilt of a dagger against the table, an idle gesture betraying unease.
"My Sultan," he began in carefully modulated tones, "the situation in Albania grows more precarious. Reports indicate that Andrea Thopia has gathered support from several chieftains, among them Arianiti." Halil paused, choosing his words with the practiced caution of one who knew his master's temper. "If this rebellion continues unchecked, it could spiral beyond our reach."

Murad nodded, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the worn parchment. Turahan Bey, still nursing the sting of his previous defeat in the Morea, edged forward. In the wavering torchlight, the lines of fatigue etched into his face told of night-long brooding.
"We all know Constantine is no idle threat," he said. "Grant him time, and the Hexamilion Wall will become unassailable. He's forging new cannons—so the rumors go—and printing words of defiance to galvanize the Christians." Turahan's voice dropped as if confiding a personal secret: "We've already suffered embarrassment at his hands. Another failure could imperil everything."

From a corner of the chamber, Ali Beg observed with a cool detachment that hinted at a lethal efficiency. He stepped forward, boots clicking on the stone floor, and offered a curt bow.
"My Sultan, give me ten thousand men. Let me handle Albania—swiftly, quietly. Snuff out Thopia before he can muster fresh allies." He allowed the words to hover like a challenge. "You continue as planned toward Morea. Show Constantine you will not be distracted."

One might have mistaken the hush that followed for a mere lull in conversation. But in truth, it was an unspoken negotiation, a space in which each man measured the cost of the proposal: the risk of sending a large contingent north, the danger of forging ahead while a rebellion simmered behind their lines, and the nagging possibility that every hour lost benefited Constantine's resolute defense.

A single torch crackled in the silence, dripping hot wax onto the flagstones. Finally, Murad exhaled slowly, as if releasing a burden from deep within.
"Very well, Ali Beg," he said in clipped tones. "You'll have your force and no more. Crush Thopia and whoever stands with him. Make it so severe that no one else dares rise against us." The Sultan's voice was deliberately calm, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something else—was it anger or perhaps a tinge of apprehension?