Prologue
January 1, 1419
Imperial Palace, Constantinople
The footsteps of the old man echoed off the walls of his palace. He was Manuel II, Emperor of the Romans, sixty-eight years of age, and heartbroken.
He turned to face the window, his eyes brimming with tears as he gazed over the buildings and streets of Constantinople. The City, once the most beautiful and powerful city on God's Earth, had fallen with the Empire. When the bastards from the West had ravaged her two hundred years ago, they had stripped the beauty from the City, leaving her a mere shell. Even the Crown Jewels in this very room were fake, the real ones being held by the merchant republic of Venice.
Out of the massive Empire of Trajan's day, only Thrace province now remained under the Emperor's control.
Manuel II wept, supporting himself against the window frame. So little was left. 100 ducats in the treasury, barely 8000 men at arms. All that remained of the Roman Empire....
It wouldn't be enough, he knew. The 'Empire' existed at the mercy of the Turk Sultan. Mehmed I, praise be to God, remained loyal and friendly, but that was no assurance for future Sultans. The Emperor knew that when the Ottomans decided against the City, it would fall. The thousand-year-old walls were no longer the impenetrable fortress they once were.
Manuel II fell to his knees. As his tears fell on the stone floor, the Emperor began to pray softly, appealing to what seemed the only way to save his Empire and his people.
An hour later, the Emperor's prayer was interrupted by the door swinging open. Rising painfully, he turned to see a messanger.
"My Lord, I bear an urgent message from Sultan Mehmed I."
January 1, 1419
Imperial Palace, Constantinople
The footsteps of the old man echoed off the walls of his palace. He was Manuel II, Emperor of the Romans, sixty-eight years of age, and heartbroken.
He turned to face the window, his eyes brimming with tears as he gazed over the buildings and streets of Constantinople. The City, once the most beautiful and powerful city on God's Earth, had fallen with the Empire. When the bastards from the West had ravaged her two hundred years ago, they had stripped the beauty from the City, leaving her a mere shell. Even the Crown Jewels in this very room were fake, the real ones being held by the merchant republic of Venice.
Out of the massive Empire of Trajan's day, only Thrace province now remained under the Emperor's control.
Manuel II wept, supporting himself against the window frame. So little was left. 100 ducats in the treasury, barely 8000 men at arms. All that remained of the Roman Empire....
It wouldn't be enough, he knew. The 'Empire' existed at the mercy of the Turk Sultan. Mehmed I, praise be to God, remained loyal and friendly, but that was no assurance for future Sultans. The Emperor knew that when the Ottomans decided against the City, it would fall. The thousand-year-old walls were no longer the impenetrable fortress they once were.
Manuel II fell to his knees. As his tears fell on the stone floor, the Emperor began to pray softly, appealing to what seemed the only way to save his Empire and his people.
An hour later, the Emperor's prayer was interrupted by the door swinging open. Rising painfully, he turned to see a messanger.
"My Lord, I bear an urgent message from Sultan Mehmed I."
Last edited: