WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: Ceaseless
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈
Chapter 92: The Bohemian Artillery (2)
──────
The second capital of the Eastern Roman Empire.
Thessalonica.
A grim silence hung over this ancient city, once called the Pearl of the Aegean.
The winter wind blowing in from the coast was damp and cold.
Yet even that wind could not clear away the stench of rotting corpses that weighed upon the city.
An Eastern Roman soldier patrolling the walls could barely remain standing, using his spear shaft as a cane.
The sight beyond the walls was no different from a vision of hell.
Far in the distance, Ottoman Turkish tents stretched endlessly through the morning mist.
It was the army of Sultan Murad II.
But they did not attack the city.
They did not raise ladders or break down the gates.
Like a wolf cornering its prey and waiting for it to collapse from exhaustion, they merely tightened their grip around the city's throat in silence.
A rough voice slipped from the soldier's lips.
“I'm starving...”
The soldier's eyes were sunken, and their cheeks had wasted away until only skin remained. The soldier was already in no condition to fight.
It had been a full year since the Ottomans surrounded the city.
The granaries within the walls had long since run empty.
Worn down by hunger, the citizens boiled leather shoes and searched the sewers for rats.
Yesterday, a rumor spread that guards had dragged away a woman who tried to boil the corpse of a dead child in a market alley.
Hell was not beyond the city walls.
Hell was inside them.
* * *
Creeeak.
The old window of the palace opened.
Andronikos Palaiologos, second prince of the Eastern Roman Empire and Despot of Thessalonica, gripped the window frame with trembling hands.
His face was wrapped in layer upon layer of bandages.
He had leprosy.
His body had become ever more bloated and burdensome, while his mind wavered like a candle about to go out.
Yet the sound of prayers drifting from beyond the walls tormented him more than the pain of his suppurating flesh.
“Allahu Akbar...”
“Allahu Akbar...”
The words sounded like a funeral dirge for the Empire.
“Your Highness.”
At the voice behind him, Andronikos turned his head with difficulty.
It was the chamberlain, also worn down by hunger.
“The representatives of the citizens have come again.”
“...What did they say?”
“They say they can endure no longer. They say we should open the gates and surrender... They say that if we surrender to the Ottomans, they might at least give us bread.”
“...”
“Your Highness, the citizens' anger has reached its limit. We cannot hold out by ourselves any longer.”
Andronikos squeezed his eyes shut.
It was miserable. Citizens of Rome, defenders of Christianity, were crying for the gates to be opened so they could beg infidels for food.
But who could cast a stone at them?
Even he, their ruler, had to steady his wavering heart dozens of times each day.
Emperor Manuel II in Constantinople, the imperial capital, wanted to help, but he lacked the strength to do so.
The Christian brothers of the West had long forgotten the East while fighting among themselves for thrones.
Especially Sigismund of Hungary.
That man deserved to be struck by God's lightning!
The miserable news that the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, blinded by his hunger for the crown, had led crusaders on an expedition to Bohemia only to suffer a crushing defeat had reached Thessalonica as well.
Once Sigismund was defeated, Murad II had cast aside all concern for the western border.
With its back secure, the wolf could now focus entirely on its hunt.
That prey was Thessalonica.
“Your Highness, we must surrender!”
A noble from the pro-Ottoman faction bowed their head to the floor and pleaded.
“I have heard the Sultan is merciful. If we open the gates and offer tribute, we may at least preserve our lives. Would that not be better than starving to death?”
“Mercy? The mercy of infidels means becoming slaves!”
A noble from the opposing faction shouted.
“Better to live as slaves than die together and become corpses!”
“Your Highness! Do not listen to them! It would be better to beg the Latins for aid! Venice!”
The opposing noble pleaded as well.
“They are masters of the sea and merchants mad for money. If we ask for their protection in exchange for handing over this city, they will not refuse!”
Andronikos's head throbbed.
The Turkish turban, or the Latin bishop's mitre.
Either choice would trample the Empire's pride.
To a Roman who believed in the Orthodox Church, Catholic Latins were as hateful as the Turks, perhaps even more so.
The nightmare of the Fourth Crusade.
Were those fellow Christians not the ones who raised the banner of the cross, set aside the recovery of the Holy Land, and plundered and ravaged Constantinople?
But...
He remembered the last letter sent by his aging father, Manuel II.
‘If Thessalonica falls, the Empire will be severed at the waist. But if you die, I will have nothing left. My son, do whatever you must. Even if the imperial eagle banner must be lowered, do not let yourself be trampled beneath the hooves of infidels.’
Andronikos let out a trembling breath.
“We have been abandoned. Neither God, nor the Emperor, nor the knights of the West will come to save us.”
With a bandaged hand, Andronikos felt across the map on the table.
The blue waters of the Aegean Sea.
The sole power that ruled those waters.
The Most Serene Republic, which would make a pact even with the devil for gold.
“Chamberlain. Send a letter to the Doge.”
“Your Highness, surely you do not mean...”
Andronikos opened his eyes as if he had made his decision.
“Yes... We will hand over the city.”
“Your Highness! That is selling Rome's pride! How can you hand over an imperial city to mere merchants?”
“Does pride feed us? Does it save my people? The citizens are eating one another!”
Andronikos shouted in a harsh voice.
“If the Turks invade, the men will be slaughtered and the women dragged into harems. Better... better to sell the city to merchants who believe in the same cross.”
He staggered back and dropped onto the throne.
“At least they will keep their promises. If they protect the city and put bread into hungry mouths, what does it matter whether their banner bears an eagle or a lion?”
Tears mixed with wound discharge ran down from beneath Andronikos's bandages.
“Go. Bring the Venetians here. Tell them I will give them this entire city... Tell them to please save us.”
* * *
Venice, the Doge's Palace.
In an office overlooking the rolling waves of the Adriatic Sea, Doge Tommaso Mocenigo looked down at the parchment document on the desk.
It had been brought by an envoy from Thessalonica.
[ Agreement for the Transfer of the City ]
[ All governing rights, taxation rights, and port monopoly rights of Thessalonica are transferred to Venice. ]
[ In return, Venice is obligated to guarantee the safety of the citizens and freedom of Orthodox worship, and to defend the city from the Ottoman Turks. ]
“I can hardly believe it.”
Mocenigo shook their head.
“Those proud Romans are offering us their city of their own accord. And without asking for a single coin, only our protection.”
Thessalonica.
The jewel of the East after Constantinople, and the heart of Aegean trade.
Taking it would mean seizing complete control of the eastern trade routes.
Under normal circumstances, it would be a strategic stronghold difficult to obtain even after sacrificing tens of thousands of mercenaries.
“This is an opportunity.”
Francesco Foscari, seated opposite Mocenigo, had a sharp gleam in his eyes.
As an ambitious man seeking the position of the next Doge, he was highly enthusiastic about Venice's expansion.
“If we gain Thessalonica, the territory of our Republic will extend beyond the Adriatic and across the entire Aegean. Those Genoese will be sick with envy. The entrance to the Silk Road will be in our hands.”
“But the price will be a full-scale war with the Turks.”
Like the old merchant Mocenigo was, they calculated the risks first instead of being swayed by the sweet profit before them.
“Murad II is a hungry wolf. If we snatch away a city the Sultan considered their prey, the Sultan will see red. Hungary and the Empire are both helpless now. Can we fight the Ottomans alone?”
“We would be at a disadvantage in an ordinary battle. But a siege is different.”
Foscari's finger pointed to Thessalonica on the map of the Aegean.
“We have an invincible fleet of galleys. If we break the naval blockade, the city will be safe. The Ottomans cannot defeat us at sea.”
“At sea, perhaps.”
Mocenigo replied coldly.
“But what of the land? Thessalonica is not an island like Venice. It is a peninsula connected to the mainland. When Ottoman Janissaries climb the walls and their massive stone-throwing cannons batter the gates, can our sailors leave their ships and fight on land?”
Venice's weakness was obvious.
They were princes of the sea, but on land they were cripples who could not take a single step without mercenaries.
And their enemy was the Ottoman Empire's elite army, which had crushed the finest knights of the West at Nicopolis.
If they sent a few thousand mediocre Italian condottieri, they would only lose money and be wiped out.
“We need a shield to defend those walls. A powerful, reliable shield. We need overwhelming firepower that can shoot farther than Ottoman cannons and shatter a Janissary charge.”
Silence followed.
Where in Europe could they find such an army?
France was in civil war, and the Empire was too busy managing its own affairs.
Then Foscari's eyes narrowed sharply.
“There may be a way, Your Highness.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Do you remember the agreement with King Ulrich I of Bohemia?”
Mocenigo's eyebrows twitched.
“You mean... the agreement for artillery support?”
“Yes. The agreement that Bohemia will provide the latest Gunpowder weapons and troops when we need them.”
Foscari added in a confident tone.
“Rumor has it that Bohemia's cannons are made with devilish technology and have twice the range of existing cannons. There could be no better force to teach the Ottomans a painful lesson.”
Mocenigo stroked their chin and worked the numbers in their head.
Funds for relief of Thessalonica's citizens.
Then the cost of hiring Bohemian mercenaries and transporting them.
The risk was war with the Ottomans.
But what would they gain if they succeeded?
A monopoly on eastern trade.
Control of the gateway to the Black Sea.
And the chance to humble Genoa.
If Thessalonica could be fortified and Ottoman expansion stopped, Venice would rule the eastern Mediterranean for the next hundred years.
The merchant's instinct whispered to Mocenigo.
This was a profitable deal.
A very profitable deal.
“The walls of Thessalonica are high and sturdy. If we place Bohemian cannons upon them... this may be worth attempting.”
Mocenigo made a decision.
“Good. We accept Thessalonica's offer. Send a delegation to Andronikos at once. Send a transport fleet loaded with bread and meat as well. Show the starving citizens Venice's overwhelming wealth and win their hearts.”
The Doge picked up a quill and signed their name upon the parchment.
The second heart of the Eastern Roman Empire had passed into Venice's hands.
Now, even if they wished to, they could not turn back.
“Foscari.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“You will go to the King of Bohemia yourself. Tell the King that it's time to keep the promise.”
Mocenigo's eyes gleamed with greed.
“Tell the King to send the vaunted army of steel to the Balkans.”
Footnotes:
Join our discord at https://dsc.gg/wetried
