EMPIRE REWRITTEN [Isekai ? Alt-History ? Strategy]

Chapter 50: Shadows Beneath the Crescent

Bertrandon inclined his head, adopting a casual tone. "If you ever care to share..."

"Perhaps one day," Iskandar replied, shutting the book quietly. "For now, it's simply the jumble of a restless mind."

Once they landed in Candia, Bertrandon observed the usual bustle—Venetian governance stamped firmly on local life. But he also noticed how Iskandar sought out certain people, visiting places and discussing theology in hushed corners. The Tatar's outward persona was that of a wandering intellectual, politely curious, seeking to exchange knowledge with whoever might share it. Yet Bertrandon felt that intangible tension follow them—like a shadow never far behind.

The final leg to Rhodes brought a heightened sense of watchfulness. The Knights Hospitaller fortress loomed large, its ramparts reflecting the last glow of sunset. Here, the talk was more military in tone—how the knights stood guard against the Ottomans and how the seas must remain free for Latin commerce. In the narrow corridors of the fortress, Bertrandon listened to boasts of fortifications and cunning ramparts. But not all defenses were physical, he realized, as he glimpsed Iskandar slipping away to speak privately with a local Greek merchant.

Later, in the fortress courtyard, their conversation resumed:

"Rhodes is a symbol," Iskandar observed, voice echoing against the stone walls. "A bastion of knighthood and faith—but faith alone might not save them from the Ottomans."

Bertrandon gave a slow nod. "Your words, my friend, carry a sense of urgency. As though time is running out."

Iskandar's face betrayed nothing, but his voice trembled with quiet intensity. "Time always runs out, Bertrandon. For men and for empires. The question is whether we reshape the world before it does."

They parted for the night, but Bertrandon lay awake in his cramped bunk, replaying Iskandar's words. Somewhere in that gentle scholar's calm stare was a storm brewing—one that might well redraw maps and topple rulers.

And still Bertrandon could not ascertain the full scope of Iskandar's mission.

Alone in his quarters—whether on the ship or in a cramped tavern—Iskandar worked by candlelight on the manifesto that would spread Sheikh Bedreddin's vision: unity of faiths and equality among all peoples. Each sentence demanded careful crafting. The words had to inspire without arousing immediate alarm. They had to travel widely, slip through port cities, and echo in the hearts of Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike.

He reflected on Bertrandon's curiosity, recognizing the Burgundian's skill at observation. Still, he did not yet trust him fully. For all his warmth, Bertrandon remained an agent of Duke Philip—whose political aims might or might not coincide with Bedreddin's dream of a more just world.

So Iskandar locked away his true intent behind mild smiles and academic commentary. He would use the next weeks, months—however long it took—to position himself where the seeds of rebellion could be sown and nurtured.

Their arrival at Antalya came at dawn, the sky a palette of pale gold and soft rose. Bertrandon leaned over the ship's rail, marveling at the view. Tall walls embraced a sprawling city, each district enclosed behind its own gate. The port, known as the Mina, teemed with foreign merchants—Muslim, Venetian, Catalan—discussing deals in a cacophony of tongues.

Iskandar stood beside him, silently absorbing the sight. From the tilt of his head, Bertrandon guessed he was reading more than just the architecture—he was gauging the city's pulse, its fractures, and perhaps its potential for dissidence.

They made their way past Ottoman guards. The Christian quarter stood behind stout walls; gates that slammed shut at dusk, effectively corralling foreigners within. Another quarter housed the Jews—each group living separate lives under the watchful eye of local authorities. Minarets pierced the skyline, calling the faithful to prayer.