War raged on, yet they had no choice but to fight.
It had to be admitted—the Ottomans' plan this time was remarkably successful.
They had used a small force to pin down the western garrison, while massing their siege weapons at the central wall, forcing reinforcements to be pulled from the east. Then, under the cover of night, they launched a risky assault on the eastern wall.
In a situation lacking food and cannon fodder, this was the plan most likely to bring a swift end to the war.
Now that the Byzantines had fallen into the Ottoman trap, all that remained was a race against time.
"Hyah! Hyah!"
Isaac charged at the front of the formation, with over 200 of his own cavalry and Yaroslav's Ruthenian horsemen following close behind.
Together, they numbered over 500—riding through the dark toward battle.
The rest of the infantry trailed behind.
The Long Wall of Corinth had to be held. If the Ottomans were allowed to sack the region and leave with 60,000 captives like they had in history, Morea would be finished.
Anxious, Isaac spurred his Andalusian steed forward.
"Your Highness, when the battle begins, please move to a safe location. Let me take the front line."
"Night fighting is dangerous. A stray arrow could end everything."
Knight Conti rode up alongside, offering a sincere warning.
"Very well. I'll stay back and provide cover."
As they crested a small hill, they saw the glow of fire in the distance and heard the sounds of battle.
"Everyone halt! Rest for fifteen minutes!"
Isaac gave the order.
The strength of cavalry lies in their mobility and impact. Exhausted horses were useless.
The riders dismounted, fed their horses and themselves, and drank from their water skins. No one spoke. The night was quiet except for the distant clash of steel and the chewing of men and beasts.
Some soldiers, having fought all day, wolfed down food and promptly fell asleep.
Isaac didn't eat—he only drank a little water.
Judging by the noise, the fighting ahead was still fierce. The wall had not yet fallen.
They needed a way to use cavalry to maximum effect. Sending them straight at the wall would be a waste.
"Yaroslav."
"Yes, Your Highness."
The Ruthenian commander stepped forward.
Isaac surveyed the small mountain that separated the eastern and central walls. The north side was steep and overlooked the battlefield—a natural fortification.
Neither side had paid much attention to it.
"Is there a path that can take us north of the wall?"
Yaroslav thought carefully.
"Yes, Your Highness. Smugglers carved a trail into the mountain for tax evasion. It was discovered a few weeks ago but hasn't been sealed yet."
As he finished, his eyes lit up.
"More importantly, the Ottomans surely don't know about it."
Isaac weighed the risks and paced.
"Dare we gamble?"
In the firelight, the teenager's face trembled with excitement.
"Of course!"
Yaroslav replied eagerly.
"If we succeed, I'll make sure my father recommends you for honors."
Fifteen minutes passed. The riders mounted again.
"Put out all torches. If you can't see, just follow the rider ahead."
In those days, many soldiers suffered from night blindness—but not the horses.
Under Yaroslav's guidance, they found the smugglers' trail.
It was narrow but wide enough for a single wagon.
As they rode through the wooded mountain path, hooves thudding softly on earth, the darkness worked both for and against them. It hid the Ottomans, but also masked Isaac's cavalry.
When they finally emerged onto the coastal plain, the Ottoman siege camp was only a few hundred meters away.
From here, Isaac could clearly see the flames atop the walls and the brutal melee between attackers and defenders.
Fortunately, Constantine had positioned most of the Greek fire reserves on the eastern wall, making it the best-defended.
Traditional firearms couldn't function well at night, but Greek fire didn't require precision—it could be sprayed wildly.
Even so, the Janissaries had reached the wall and were locked in deadly struggle with Constantine's personal guard.
"Almost there! Almost!"
In the Ottoman camp, a thin middle-aged man clenched his fists and stared at the wall.
His eyes burned with hatred. His face twisted with rage.
It was Zagan Pasha, Isaac's old nemesis.
After being rescued, Zagan had offered to accept punishment. But Murad II pardoned him and allowed him to continue advising the army.
This latest feint and ambush plan was Zagan's own design.
Next to him stood a young Ottoman noble—fine features, long eyebrows, full lips, and a short, neat beard.
He wore Ottoman noble attire, but at his waist was a Latin-style longsword. Leaning on a chair, he peeled an apple with a small knife, seemingly absorbed in the task.
"Zagan, calm down. Don't let cowards like Halil get in your head."
"As long as the kafir still occupy Constantinople, there will be no peace. But remember—our goal is profit, not vengeance."
"Like this apple. You peel it to eat it, not to destroy it."
He took a bite and smacked his lips.
"Yes, thank you for the reminder, Your Majesty."
"I am no longer Sultan. Stop calling me that."
Muhammad's gaze turned cold as he looked toward the Janissaries scaling the wall.
He had just finished his first stint as Sultan.
In 1444, Murad II, weary of politics, passed the throne to his 12-year-old son, Muhammad.
But Muhammad had immediately stirred chaos—inviting a Shi'a dervish into Edirne, sparking religious unrest.
At the same time, Grand Vizier Halil Pasha (who favored peace) clashed with Zagan Pasha (who favored war).
Governors rebelled. Karaman attacked from the east.
Pope Eugene IV believed the Ottomans were weak.
A crusade was launched. Murad returned to lead and won a decisive victory at Varna.
Weeks ago, Zagan had suffered a crushing naval defeat. Halil seized the moment to denounce both him and Muhammad.
The Janissaries, denied a pay raise, staged a coup. Murad reluctantly resumed the throne.
He didn't want war, but for the empire's honor, he launched a punitive expedition.
This attack had been Muhammad's last gift to Zagan—three Janissary regiments and 10,000 private troops, the most they could afford to feed.
3,000 were sent west to distract the enemy, 6,000 advanced on the center with siege equipment, forcing eastern reinforcements to pull back.
Then, under cover of night, the elite Janissaries stormed the eastern wall.
If they broke through, they'd seize supplies—the gamble would be worth it.
Nothing could stop them once the wall fell.
Muhammad smiled coldly as he watched the desperate defenders.
...
"Are the fire oil bombs ready?"
"Ready."
"Are the horses rested?"
"Ready to fight."
"Then let's fight."
Isaac spurred forward, glancing back at the 500 cavalrymen.
"Ahead lies the Ottoman siege camp. They were arrogant—barely dug trenches. We can jump them easily. No more words. Follow me!"
"Charge!"
Conti charged ahead, with Yaroslav close behind.
They were like predators in the dark, pouncing on prey bathed in moonlight.
The earth trembled.
"Raise our banner!"
Isaac's standard bearer lit a torch and hoisted the double-headed purple eagle, so those on the wall could see them.
The cavalry formed into a wedge and charged. The Ottomans, caught off guard, couldn't organize a proper defense.
Most of their elite had gone up the walls, leaving only wounded and guards behind.
They never expected an attack from the rear.
Weren't the kafir cowards who only cowered behind walls?
Conti smashed through the first line and stormed the camp.
"Throw the fire bombs!"
One by one, riders hurled oil-soaked bombs onto tents, granaries, and arsenals.
Flames roared skyward.
Wounded Ottomans crawled from burning tents, screaming in agony.
"Your Majesty, we must flee!"
Zagan, recovering from the shock, urged Muhammad to retreat.
"Fool! I have 500 guards—we can fight them! If I flee, what about the Janissaries?!"
"Your life is more important! We must go—now!"
Zagan tossed Muhammad onto a horse.
"Damn it! I am the Sultan's son! I cannot run from battle!"
"Forgive me, my prince. You're the empire's only heir—we cannot risk you."
Zagan slapped the horse's flank. It bolted.
"Cavalry, protect the prince! Infantry, hold them back!"
He leapt onto his own horse and followed.
The abandoned infantry, unwilling to die for nothing, scattered.
Seeing their own banner in the distance, the defenders atop the wall let out a triumphant roar.
The Janissaries, once close to victory, now faltered.
Their camp was burning. The command tent destroyed. Their general gone.
Constantine's guards counterattacked, driving them back.
"Conti! Forget the pursuit! Help the defenders!"
Isaac saw the fleeing enemy was too far ahead. His own horses were too tired to give chase.
Better to end the battle quickly.
Conti turned and led his cavalry toward the base of the wall.
Isaac scanned the field, sensing something.
He looked over—and in the fleeing enemy ranks, a richly dressed youth turned to meet his gaze.
Isaac straightened, facing him directly.
The youth clenched his fist, then galloped away without looking back.
The battle was ending. The wounded and remaining Ottoman foot soldiers knelt and surrendered.
On the wall, the Janissaries still fought fiercely, but the tide had turned.
It was finally over.
Isaac walked into the Ottoman command tent—it hadn't caught fire.
On a table sat an apple with a bite taken out of it.
For some reason, seeing that apple annoyed him.
He kicked it away.
Muhammad II was still young and inexperienced. Only after his abdication in 1446 did he begin serious study, eventually becoming the terrifying conqueror he is known as today.