By the next morning, the defenders of Nikodia were stunned to see that the enemy camps outside the city walls were nearly deserted. The smoke that had once billowed from countless fires had all but vanished. No more troops marched in or out of the compounds. It was clear—the Sultan had abandoned his goal of taking Nikodia before reinforcents arrived. His new focus was obvious: intercepting Giovanni’s army before it could make a difference.
By midday, several lieutenants, growing increasingly concerned about Giovanni’s fate, began urging Helios to send troops to harass the Turks’ supply lines. But Helios refused.
Only a few hours later, a band of Turkish cavalry appeared on the horizon. Then the trap beca clear. The Sultan’s "retreat" had been nothing more than bait—ant to draw the defenders out. The riders circled the walls slowly, mocking the Romans by waving severed heads mounted on poles, laughing as they jeered at the soldiers who remained behind their stone defenses.
Still, Helios remained silent. No orders were given.
anwhile, across the waters, Giovanni had finally set foot on the Anatolian shore. He leapt from the side of his ship, boots splashing into the shallows.
It had been years since he last stood on Anatolian soil. Though just a few miles from the western shore of the Marmara, this land felt profoundly different. The air carried a strange mix—the tang of salt from the sea, the dry bite of charred wood, and the bitter undertone of death. Ahead, the hills rose gently beneath a canopy of trees, their growth unnaturally rich—nourished, no doubt, by the remains of the massacred. The land bore the scars of Turkish raiders, who, while unable to breach fortified cities, had razed unprotected trading posts and villages to the ground.
Turkish scouts lingered at a distance, keeping watch on the Roman encampnts from the tree line. Before long, Khalid’s cavalry charged out, driving them back. The Turks, mounted on superior steeds, scattered swiftly, refusing open engagent.
With the camp secured, Giovanni imdiately began dispatching ssengers to various outposts and strongholds. Their mission was not only to request intelligence, supplies, and reinforcents if needed—but to carry hope. Their ssage was simple: the Emperor’s army is here. You are not alone. Fear no longer.
It was a ssage Anatolia had been desperate to hear ever since the catastrophe. And now, at last, soone had co to deliver it.
The general was prepared.
From a military standpoint, he knew exactly what lay ahead—an extended standoff between the two forces. Both sides would probe each other’s weaknesses, conduct skirmishes, launch minor assaults, and await reinforcents. It would be a ga of patience, deception, and attrition. Giovanni understood that this phase could last weeks, even up to a month, before culminating in a final, decisive confrontation.
He was also painfully aware of his army’s limitations. His forces primarily consisted of the four thousand cavalry who had successfully landed, supported by only three thousand infantry hastily mobilised in Constantinople during the rebellion in the Balkans. These numbers alone were nowhere near sufficient to decisively defeat the Turkish forces amassed before him.
Thus, his objective remained clear: to break through to General Helios, link their forces, relieve besieged Roman outposts, and disrupt the unrelenting Turkish raids terrorising the countryside.
In that regard, Giovanni had already achieved the most critical part of his mission.
After securing essential supply lines and organising his forces, Giovanni led his army—under continuous escort by the navy—toward the high ground of Libyssa. There, they successfully routed the Turkish contingent besieging the local fortress after a brief but fierce battle. With the fortress secured, the Romans now controlled the straits between Libyssa and Limnai. From this strategic position, Giovanni closely monitored the movents of the Sultan’s army, which had begun encircling the area. Libyssa stood less than fifty Roman miles from the city of Nikodia.
Naval traffic resud between the two armies, guarded fiercely by Roman warships. The smaller pirate vessels employed by the Sultan were swiftly hunted down and destroyed over the following days.
With the imdiate objectives secured, Giovanni finally withdrew into his command tent. For the first ti in over a month, he allowed himself a full night’s rest—a rare luxury amidst the unceasing demands of war.
anwhile, Roman efforts to fortify the coastal stronghold accelerated. Artillery was unloaded at the port, and makeshift training sessions were held for local refugees and citizens—teaching them basic formations such as spear walls and shield lines. Even won, elders, and children were mobilised to craft arrows and makeshift tools from scavenged materials. The ssage was clear: this city would not fall easily. They were prepared for a prolonged siege.
In Nikodia, the reopening of the sea passage brought a flood of life. Ship after ship arrived with fresh supplies—dicine, weapons, food, and reinforcents. Refugees and the wounded were ferried back to Constantinople, easing the burden on the beleaguered city. Morale soared.
In a single masterstroke, Giovanni Junior had undone an entire month of the Sultan’s tireless siege work.
...
The Romans could afford to wait.
But the Zaganos Sultan could not.
His furious roars echoed from inside the command tent, loud enough to be heard across the encampnt, laced with guttural Turkish curses. Monts later, a nobleman was kicked out, dragged across the dust by two Janissary guards. The man, once a proud lord of the Sultanate, now scread for rcy, pleading through tears and trembling words about his past contributions to the empire. It was useless.
His boots kicked helplessly against the ground like a stray dog.
And then—silence. His cries ended abruptly as the axe ca down.
His head rolled before the assembled ranks.
"Correct if I’m wrong... wasn’t this the eighth noble executed today over logistics?" a Janissary officer muttered to his companion.
The latter shrugged. "I’ve lost count. There’s just... too many."
The mass purge wasn’t without cause.
Two days prior, buried within a mountain of correspondence, the Sultan had discovered a damning report—one he was never ant to see so late. It revealed the truth: the Sultanate was teetering on the edge of economic collapse. Provinces throughout the empire were starving. Crops once destined for the people had been funneled almost exclusively to the army. Peasants were selling their children, their lands, even their freedom—so Turkish veterans had reportedly sold themselves into slavery for the non believers to feed their families.
It shattered everything the Sultan believed about his rule.
In his eyes, the Sultanate had been a realm of wealth and abundance—overflowing with grain, silver, and gold. Each year, he had ordered new barns and vaults built to contain the growing surpluses. And now—poverty? starvation?—in re months?
He was in disbelief.
His bloodshot eyes stared blankly at the severed heads lined outside his tent. More than a dozen nobles had died in the past day. But all, after prolonged hesitation and fear, had confessed the sa truth: the report was real.
Inside the tent, the Sultan paced frantically, blade in hand, slashing at the air. His breath ca in ragged pants, his voice raw from screaming.
"Why?!" he roared at the silent nobles around him. "Why?! I demand an answer, you rats! Where is my money?! Where are my grains!? Where is it!?"
No one answered. They dared not move, praying that soone—anyone—would arrive to save them.
Then, the tent flap opened.
In stepped Ali Çelebi, the Sultan’s brother, who have been gone from the army for a few days.
His eyes were just as red. He looked haggard, covered in sweat and gri, his lips cracked from thirst. Kneeling before the Sultan, he shouted:
"Brother! Everything these n have said is true!"
Gasps rippled through the tent.
"I traveled across the roads to Ankara. I’ve seen thousands of starving peasants with my own eyes. I executed wealthy landlords who hoarded grain and bought state land in secret. I swear upon our ancestors—the barns of Ankara are nearly empty!"
Silence.
The nobles dropped their shoulders in relief. Their lives, for now, were spared.
The Sultan stared at his brother in disbelief. Then, without a word, he hurled his blade to the ground and rushed to lift Ali up. His hands trembled as he looked into his brother’s face—dried lips, darkened neck, hair soaked in oil and dirt.
"Have you no eyes?" he cried out to his court. "Look at my brother! Get him water! Bread! I want him bathed and fed imdiately!"
But Ali Çelebi shook his head, refusing with urgency.
"There is no ti for that, my Sultan!" he barked.
He pulled a bundle of scrolls from beneath his cloak and thrust them into the hands of the clergyn.
"These are the records of all we’ve seen on the road," Ali said, his voice hardening. "And let be frank, dear brother—this is no coincidence!"
"This," he said, his voice rising with fury, "is a trap laid for us over two decades ago by that accursed Roman serpent—Antonius De’Ricci. May the devils drag his soul through hell!"
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