July 15, 1446, Gregorian Calendar – Sirte Bay, North Africa, Port of Sirte.
The ancient Phoenicians once built cities here, and during the Roman Empire, a port was established as part of the Mediterranean trade network.
Roughly ten kilometers inland from the Port of Sirte lies a narrow strip of land along the North African coast with a Mediterranean climate. Annual rainfall can reach up to 240 millimeters, making it an important base for agriculture and livestock.
The local population consists mainly of Berbers and Bedouins, living a semi-nomadic, semi-settled lifestyle.At this time of year, Bedouin tribes from deeper within the desert drive their camel caravans toward the Sirte region, selling furs, dried meat, dates, and figs harvested from oasis groves during the previous year.
Merchants from Europe and Egypt also arrive punctually, exchanging ironware and textiles—basic industrial goods—for the tribes' agricultural products.
The region isn't far from continental Europe; departing from Catania in southern Naples and sailing with the current, one can reach it in a matter of days.
Currently, a large trading fleet is docked in the Port of Sirte.
Flying the white banner with a blue double-headed eagle, this is the Montferrat Trade Fleet from Genoa.
Sirte is not a large port, and the Montferrat fleet fills it to capacity.
They purchase furs and dates here, as well as crude salt from nearby salt marshes.
The sailors from the fleet swarm into the city, packing brothels and taverns to bursting.
Though Muslims are forbidden to drink alcohol, that doesn't stop them from occasionally sampling fermented grape juice.
Inside a local inn, Albert, the Chief Spymaster, is holding a meeting.
Captain Norwich, Captain Fidel, Standard-Bearer Mehmet, Chief Engineer Lancelot, and tribal leader Abusheh are all present.
"By direct order of His Highness, I will command this operation."
"Captain Norwich, is the trade fleet ready?"
"No problems, my lord. The elite marines have been deployed in groups of three to five at key positions in the city and port."
Albert turned to Captain Fidel.
"My lord, the Duke of Morea, Bayezid, and Ichel are patrolling off the coast of Sirte. A small fleet from the Kingdom of Fezzan just returned from Tripoli—we will intercept and sink them."
Fidel spoke gravely.
"Standard-Bearer Mehmet?"
"A unit of 400 from the Purple Guard has already been positioned on Montferrat's transport ships. If the city turns, they can strike immediately."
"Lancelot?"
"With help from our local informants, we've drawn a rough map of the city. All major water sources and oases outside the walls are marked."
"What about my tribe? You promised me!"Abusheh interrupted angrily.
Albert ignored him entirely.
"Then we move tonight."
This was Albert's first time commanding an operation of this scale. He had prepared extensively, deploying forces far beyond what was strictly necessary.
Even a lion uses its full strength to hunt a rabbit.
He recalled the prince's instructions before departure:
Crush the enemy's ability to respond before they even react.
…
Meanwhile, Isaac was not idle.
After settling affairs at the Royal Knight Academy, he boarded the Saint Nicholas and sailed across the strait, heading for the Black Sea.
By 1452, once the Ottomans completed the Rumelihisarı (Fortress of the Throat), not even a mosquito could pass through the Bosphorus without their permission.
Some matters had to be settled while there was still time.
July 18, 1446 – the Saint Nicholas and several transport ships arrived at the gem of the Black Sea: Theodoro.
After the catastrophe of 1204, the Crimean Peninsula had slipped from imperial control. The local Goths and Greeks had been pushed to the southern part of the peninsula, where they formed a small principality loyal to Trebizond.
Today, the Principality of Theodoro had effectively freed itself from Trebizond's influence and instead paid tribute to the Crimean Khanate.
After some polite greetings with the newly crowned Despot Manuel, Isaac attended the welcome ceremony in passing.
He left all the formal diplomacy to Isult, who had come along.
Isaac's goal wasn't these impoverished and cornered relatives.
"Your Highness, they're waiting aboard the ship," Andelson reported softly.
Isaac nodded, made an excuse, and returned to the Saint Nicholas.
Pushing open a cabin door, he found an old man and a young man who rose and bowed.
"Your Highness, we heard you could help solve our problem?"
The young man, dressed in clerical robes, was the first to speak.
"Patriarch Joseph of Constantinople guided me," Isaac replied casually. "He instructed me to rescue you from your suffering."
"To think the Patriarch, far away in Constantinople, still remembers his loyal flock!"The young priest was visibly moved.
The old man gave him a sidelong glance.
"Your Highness, if you truly aid us, we will swear fealty to you."
"May I have your name?"
"I am Guhuz, last vizier of the Dobruja Seljuk dynasty."
Isaac understood.
This offshoot of the Seljuks had indeed endured a tragic fate.
After the Mongol invasion, the Rum Sultanate fragmented. Some Seljuk remnants, unwilling to submit to the Ilkhanate, fled to Constantinople under Kaykaus II.
The Byzantine emperor accepted them and settled them on the western Black Sea coast in Dobruja.
Harsh Ilkhanid taxes and conscription caused more Turkmen to flee across the sea from Candar to Dobruja.
They eventually established a polity between Moldavia and Bulgaria, loyal to the Roman Emperor.
In the mid-14th century, the rise of neighboring Orthodox states led them to convert en masse. Bishops were dispatched from Constantinople.
Later, in an attempt to meddle in Ottoman succession, Timur's son Shah Rukh released Prince Mustafa, sparking civil war.
Dobruja's then-ruler, hot-headed and overambitious, got involved—and the Ottomans destroyed them in one fell swoop.
A governor was installed. The Ottomans viewed the Dobrujans as both ethnic and religious traitors, crushing them mercilessly. Their population and territory dwindled year by year.
Today, only 30,000 remained—Turkic-speaking, Orthodox, semi-nomadic descendants of the Seljuks.
The original Seljuk royal line had been annihilated; the remaining tribes formed a confederation under Guhuz's leadership.
"How is your current situation?"
"Dire, Your Highness," said the young priest quickly.
"The Ottomans won't let us build churches. The lambs of God have lost their connection to the Father."
Isaac shot him a look.
Is that what I asked?
"Our pastures and fields were seized," said Guhuz with sorrowful eyes. "They drove us into the mountains and coastal scrub, denying us access to the cities."
"Bulgarian and Romanian Orthodox are tolerated, but we're treated worse than Shia heretics."
"In the past decades, our population has been halved."
Understandable—no one likes traitors.
"How much influence do you have over your people?"
"I lead the largest tribe. My three sons, through marriage alliances, each lead one of the others."
Isaac glanced at the hunched old man.
Not bad. Didn't expect this much from him.
He began to pace.
"If I rescue your people, you'll swear loyalty to me?"
"If you help us drive out the Ottomans, then—"
Isaac stood and moved to leave.
What nonsense. If I could defeat the Ottomans, I wouldn't need your allegiance at all.
"Your Highness, saving Dobruja doesn't necessarily mean defeating the Ottomans," Andelson interjected.
"Oh?"
"Nomads follow water and pasture. The Ottomans took their land—why not give them new land instead?"
"Where could that possibly be?" the young priest asked eagerly. "Surely the Empire has no spare land?"
"Elst, the Empire may not," Andelson replied, "but His Highness has acquired overseas territory."
"I believe North Africa's Sirte region is ideal."
The dagger was out of the sheath.
"North Africa? Isn't that heathen territory?"Elst asked.
"For the glory of God, we shall reclaim it and give it to our brothers," Andelson said solemnly.
Isaac looked to the silent Guhuz.
"Vizier, what do you think?"
"Your Highness, we do not fear the desert. Our ancestors were born in it. What we fear is a life with no hope."
"We can endure hardship and war, but not hunger without purpose."
"Will you, as a devout believer, swear to give us hope?"
Isaac drew a cross over himself.
"I, Isaac of the Palaiologos family, swear before God: if the Dobruja Seljuks remain loyal to me, I will give them hope—and preserve the identity and status of Guhuz and his family."
"Guhuz, you don't need to move everyone at once. Try relocating a portion. My vow stands."
"May God bless you, devout prince."
Guhuz also drew a cross.
They shared a pleasant dinner on the ship, host and guest both satisfied.
The next day, Guhuz and Elst returned to Dobruja to prepare the first wave of migrants.
In Isaac's plan, the Dobrujans would replace Berbers unwilling to convert, serving as a loyal nomadic buffer around the harbor.
Deserts are often ungovernable. Better to entrust them to brothers of the same faith than heretics.
Once surrounded by hostile Muslim tribes, the Dobrujans would naturally gravitate toward Isaac.
"Well done, Andelson."
Isaac poured him a drink.
"It's my honor to serve you, Your Highness."
"I'm putting this resettlement project under you and Isult."
"You know… your predecessor Lothair is now a baron and governor."
Andelson's eyes lit up.
"I am ready to die for you!"
…
That night, Sirte Port was far from peaceful.
Chief Coordinator Albert sat in the command center, pouring a strong drink—but not drinking.
His Highness had entrusted him with an important mission. He couldn't afford failure.
He had personally led sailors to scout locations, helped draft maps, coordinated with informants, and tracked the Fezzan fleet's movements.
Albert had barely slept in three days. His eyes were bloodshot.
Outside, a chaotic murmur rose. Gunshots rang out. Flames flickered.
Footsteps approached.
Albert tensed.
The door opened.
"Chief, the Purple Guard has secured the docks."
He nodded and took a sip.
Moments later, the door opened again.
"Our sailors set fires throughout the city, luring out Sirte's religious guard."
He nodded, downed the rest.
"Chief Albert! The guards fell into our trap—236 killed, 64 captured out of 300!"
One gulp.
"Chief, Abusheh—with our help—killed his uncle. He's joined up with the Guard and sailors to assault the governor's mansion."
Albert smiled and drank.
Then, silence. No more reports. The city quieted, as if fast asleep.
Albert grew restless, fingers tapping the desk.
Then, urgent footsteps.
"Chief! We've won! The governor surrendered! Captain Fidel crushed Fezzan's fleet! Our flag now flies over the city!"
Albert opened his mouth, as if to speak.
He swallowed the last gulp of liquor and mumbled.
The man fluent in six languages suddenly couldn't speak.
"Chief?"
"Good… drink."
He began to snore.