In the southern part of Saint Josephland lay the Maibre Oasis, the largest among the Jufra oasis cluster. The Maibre tribe led a semi-settled life here.
This vast oasis was strategically located between the city of Jufra and the port of Surt, making it a critical node in north-south trade. The constant flow of merchants and caravans brought wealth to the region, making Maibre the most powerful tribe in the area.
The current Sheikh of the Maibre tribe, Adnan Maibre, was a learned man, fluent in Latin and Greek, and once studied at a Mamluk Islamic academy.
He welcomed talents from all walks of life. Italian engineers, hired at high salaries, drilled wells, designed fortifications, built castles, and established new academies around the oasis.
Sheikh Adnan did not concern himself with religious purity. Whether Sunni traditionalists, Ibadi followers, or Shia believers, all found their place within his town.
Drawn by his reputation for compassion and tolerance, heretical scholars and refugees persecuted elsewhere flocked to Maibre, seeking his protection.
New villages sprang up around the oasis, and more and more tribes came to trade.
From slaves to nobles, everyone praised his wisdom.
Under his leadership, Maibre gradually grew from a small town into a budding city.
At that moment, this wise middle-aged man was pacing anxiously in his room.
The door burst open. His son, Mursid, stormed in, face full of urgency.
"Out! Knock first!" Adnan snapped.
Mursid sighed and obeyed.
"Father! Abdullah is demanding another hundred men and five hundred sheep!"
"Give them."
"Father! You can't keep doing this! They're eating and drinking us dry! How long can we keep this up?"
"The elders are very unhappy with how you're handling things, and you know it—but..."
"But what?"
"Why do you keep yielding to Abdullah?"
"King Abdullah," Adnan corrected him.
"So what? If the tribal alliance could elect him king, they could just as easily elect you."
"This is for the sake of Allah."
"Allah? Just yesterday that so-called king got drunk with his favorite concubine, defying the will of Allah in broad daylight."
Mursid said sarcastically.
"You're the Sheikh. Your duty is to strengthen our tribe, not to pledge blind loyalty to a king."
"You know all this. I'm just doing my duty as your son."
Mursid turned and left.
Adnan remained alone, his expression dark and conflicted.
—
The next day, news came that Surt had rejected the final ultimatum. The king flew into a rage and summoned the nobles of the alliance.
By the time Sheikh Adnan arrived at the palace council hall, the others were already present. King Abdullah sat in his usual seat, eyes half-closed, lazily picking fruit from a platter with his plump hand.
"Adnan, you're late. Don't tell me you were out informing the kafir," a shrill voice said.
It came from the king's favored courtier and brother-in-law, Sheikh of the Fatihya tribe and Grand Vizier of the kingdom. His word carried much of the king's will.
"Lord Fatihya, I was arranging the grain supply and got delayed," Adnan said respectfully.
"Speaking of grain—we march soon. You'll need to prepare at least a month's worth."
Fatihya smiled thinly.
"My lord, I..."
"That's settled. We move north tomorrow."
"Go prepare."
The crowd dispersed with murmurs of assent.
Adnan looked up at the king, who still sat silently with eyes closed, lips tightly pressed.
—
On November 9, 1446, after some probing maneuvers, both sides agreed to a decisive battle in the desert south of Saint Josephland.
On the side of the Grand Duchy of Surt:The center consisted of infantry from the Purple Guard and the First Legion of the Royal Guard, commanded by Mikhail, with Ibrahim as his second.The left wing was made up of the Black Legion's infantry, commanded by Maruna.The right wing consisted of conscripted tribal infantry, led by Ghazi, with Eldosh assisting.All cavalry was grouped together under Mehmet, who hoped to deliver a decisive blow on the battlefield.Isaac oversaw the deployment from the center, laying out a defensive formation with deep trenches and tall earthworks to blunt enemy charges.
On the side of the Fezzan Tribal Kingdom:The elite standing army formed the center, personally commanded by King Abdullah.The left wing was led by Grand Vizier Fatihya and held the bulk of the cavalry, aiming to smash through what they believed to be Surt's weakest right flank.The right wing was under Sheikh Adnan, composed mostly of his own men and conscripts from affiliated tribes.
There were no pre-battle rituals, no grand declarations from leaders, no surprise flanking cavalry.
Isaac ordered the twin purple eagles and the flag of Surt raised. The battle began.
The enemy sounded the attack horn. On the left, Vizier Fatihya shouted commands, driving tribal horsemen and camel riders forward against Surt's right.
Fezzan's central 1,200 regular infantry advanced in orderly formation, wearing deep green robes, shields raised against incoming arrows.
Behind them waited 800 elite cavalry, mounted on desert horses, clad in light armor, sabers and flanged maces in hand, waiting for the infantry to wear down the enemy first.
Adnan's right wing advanced slowly, a hesitant rabble of tribal conscripts armed with basic weapons.
"Father! They've given us nothing but the worst conscripts! They've abandoned us!" Mursid shouted.
Adnan looked at his ragtag line and then at the well-organized army nearby. His face remained expressionless.
"Mursid, gather our elite private soldiers at the rear of the formation."
"Alert our allied tribes: if anything happens, retreat immediately."
He looked at the king's banner—the smiling, cold-hearted fat man beneath it.
You've gone too far.
If you win, I'll accept it.
But if you lose... don't blame me for being ruthless.
"Charge!"
Eager to gain glory, Fatihya whipped his cavalry, lashing any stragglers.
Outwardly he was the glorious vizier, but in truth he knew he owed everything to his sister, the royal concubine. He had neither achievements nor respect.
This jihad was his best chance.
The enemy was a bunch of kafir-loving traitors, ill-equipped, low morale—no match for his elite.
Once he crushed the weak right flank, he could sweep through the center and capture the enemy commander.
"Sheikh! Our cavalry and camel riders are getting out of sync. Should we slow down?" his lieutenant asked.
Fatihya realized the problem but replied firmly, "No! Let the cavalry strike first, the camel riders will clean up the rest!"
Despite his arrogance, Fatihya had some military sense.
The tribal cavalry gripped their sabers, pressed their heels to their horses, and charged.
Trenches and pits slowed a few riders, some falling with their horses, but the rest rode over their comrades' corpses, shields raised.
As they entered arrow range, Surt's tribal conscripts loosed arrows—but sparsely, too scattered to halt the charge.
2000 paces… 1500… 1000...
The roar of hooves shook the earth.
Ghazi clenched his whip, staring at the approaching cavalry's fierce expressions.
His nearby conscripts were trembling with fear.
"Change formation!" he roared.
The flag bearer waved the signal. The front ranks of conscripts gladly moved aside.
Behind them stood a line of soldiers in blue-purple robes, wearing leather armor, manning pre-positioned matchlock guns, all aimed at Fezzan's cavalry.
The command was given.
Bang! Bang!
Surt's Purple Guard gunners fired.
Neighhh!
Terrified horses reared, tossing riders.
The enemy's charge faltered.
"Cowards! All of you!" Fatihya shouted.
"They only have a few guns! Keep charging!"
The cavalry began regrouping.
"Sheikh!" his lieutenant nudged him.
"What?"
"Do you smell something odd in the air?"
Fatihya sniffed. The stench was familiar, pungent—but he couldn't place it.
"Ready?" Ghazi asked Eldosh.
"Yes, my lord."
"Begin."
The gunners retreated. Behind them, pained, frenzied roars rang out.
A group of flaming camels burst from Surt's right flank, charging straight into the cavalry mass.
The fire-crazed beasts, in their agony, had become unstoppable, smashing through anything in their path.
"Slow down! Move aside!" a cavalry officer shouted.
Too late.
Both sides were moving fast. The gunfire had disrupted the cavalry's formation. The collision was inevitable.
Before the eyes of all in southern Surt, in Saint Josephland, the burning camels crashed into the cavalry, unseating riders and setting horses ablaze.
Chaos erupted.
"For the Prince!"
"Charge with me!"
Eldosh led the tribal infantry in an all-out assault on the disordered enemy.
Within moments, the camels had scattered the cavalry and barreled into the camel riders, now carrying the blaze with them.
"Mehmet is clear to move," Isaac said, signaling the charge.
"Charge—for Rome!"
Seeing the signal, Mehmet rallied the reserve cavalry.
He led them into the enemy's disorganized left flank, aiming to annihilate Fezzan's elite mobile forces in one stroke.
"Sheikh! We must flee! Their cavalry is upon us!"
Fatihya stared blankly at the chaos. The screams of burning men rang in his ears.
Then it hit him.
That stench… it was naphtha.
A common desert fuel, rarely used due to its foul odor.
"My lord! No time!"
Snapping out of it, Fatihya leapt onto a horse and fled with his guards.
Back at the central command, King Abdullah was equally unsettled.
The center was still exchanging volleys, both sides suffering losses.
But his left flank—the one he'd pinned his hopes on—had collapsed first.
"Damn Fatihya! Damn him!"
He roared. His concubine trembled beside him.
"It's all your brother's fault!"
He seized her throat, blaming her entirely for the failure.
Only when she foamed at the mouth did he regain his senses.
"Send word! Have Sheikh Adnan block the enemy with the right wing! We'll retreat!"
He summoned a runner.
The runner glanced to the right, face pale.
"Your Majesty…"
"What?"
"Sheikh Adnan… has already fled."