The Black Powder Crusade
A concept and prologue trailer for a alt-history novel.
The Thracian breeze was cool in the muggy air of mid-spring. The sun shone brightly down on the open field. Radu enjoyed this weather greatly, but despite the nearly cloudless sky, thunder still rumbled. It was a man-made thunder, and it had been ceaseless for nearly a week. Radu ceases his daydreaming when he feels a familiar hand on his shoulder. That of his friend and confidant, Mehmet. Ever the bundle of tension and ambition, the young sultan looked impatient as ever. And just like that, reality returned. They were in no meadow; they were in a war camp. Opposite to them, the great Theodosian walls.
“Radu, come with me. I need help.” Mehmet said.
“Are your usual intimidation tactics and lack of patience not yielding results?” Radu quips. But Radu understands Mehmet’s tension. He was young for a sultan, his older siblings having died and left him to inherit the throne from his father. He wasn’t the favored; he was what was left, and the Pashas made sure to let him know that. That is why they are outside the walls of Constantinople. Not because of faith, not because Mehmet received a vision, that’s just what inspires the men to throw themselves against the Romans’ walls. It comes down to this young firebrand betting it all to prove himself. As Radu follows closely behind Mehmet, they near the cannon line. The huge bronze tubes fire hundred-pound stones into the impenetrable walls. Despite the constant bombardment, despite the rubble and breaches in the walls, the Romans hold strong. Every day the siege continues is a day a relief force could come to the city. The war was already prohibitively expensive. Mehmet paid a high price to a Hungarian for these cannons, and he wanted his money’s worth.
“Orban!” The young sultan shouts at the cannon maker. It was he who designed the great guns, at no small expense. In fact, Mehmet threatened to kill him if he failed to deliver. “What is the delay!?”
“Forgive me, sultan, it’s the metal. The cannons weren’t meant to sustain continuous bombardment this long.” The master craftsman gestures to cracks that have begun to appear on the outside of their largest cannon, Basilica.
“It looks fine to me, fire it.”
“Mehmet, perhaps you should listen to the man. He built them after all.” Radu pleads on Orban’s behalf.
“We haven’t the time. Every minute we are outside the city is a minute our enemies plot our ruin. Load the cannon and fire!”
To disobey Mehmet was to lose your head. To choose between the chance of death and the certainty of it is no contest. As ordered, the cannon was packed with powder, and a massive stone ball was placed in the front. Orban primed the cannon, sweat on his brow as he prepared to fire the gun. Lowering the torch, there is a spark. Metal groans, and before anyone has time to react, the cannon rips itself in two. Radu thought Allah himself must have knocked him off his feet. The blast sent him back 4 feet. When he got up slowly, the world around him was a haze. Soldiers rushed about, some carrying the wounded, some with buckets to put out fires. His ears ring, world spins, he looks for his friend. Radu finds the sultan on his back. The first thing he notices isn’t the turban that was blown clean off his head, nor is it the soot covering his face. The first thing Radu notices is the massive shard of bronze embedded in his chest. The ringing in his ear stops, and Radu feels sick. Mehmet is dead, the sultan is dead.
The defenders on the walls of Constantinople didn’t know what had happened. First, there was a great explosion from the Ottoman camp, then chaos followed. They watched from the walls as leadership immediately fell apart. Soon, word came seeping in, and the news spread like wildfire.
“The sultan is dead! Mehmet is no more!” A messenger on horseback screams as he rides through the city. He wastes no time, stops for no one. His destination is the imperial palace to bring the news to his emperor. Constantine XI sat on his throne, his face weary from the siege and years of rule. When the frantic messenger comes in, he fears the worst, but his words are not omens of death. Indeed, they breathed life into the man. Constantine grinned, then laughed, then cried. His city was safe, his people safe. Rome would live on yet another day. There was much to do, so much to do. He had to take advantage of the situation, but first, he must give thanks. Constantine left his palace immediately, waiting not for horse or carriage. He walked barefoot through the streets to Hagia Sophia. Once inside, he threw himself to his knees and gave thanks to almighty God. “Heavenly Father, thank you for sparing us. Your mercy is most gracious, and I will forever remain your humble servant.”
The Ottoman camp was gone within two days. Constantine walked the grounds where what remained was left. Weapons, armor, and the great bombards that shredded his wall were all left behind. Constantine had made his decision, and the cannons would be divided up. He would keep a few, but the others were to be given to the mercenaries as payment for their services. He needed to save the gold to repair the damage to the walls. The weapons the Turks left behind would be given to Orhan. when the right time comes, he will be released to start his war of succession. This wasn’t the end, Constantine knew it. But this was an opportunity he couldn’t afford not to exploit. As he walked the grounds, messengers were sent out in every way and manner possible. They deliver the news. The Sultan is dead, his heir is but a child, and the pretender is a drunkard. Let the word spread to every ear. Let all of Christendom know. The infidel is weak, and now is the time for a crusade.
One by one, the eyes of Christian rulers turn to the Ottoman lands. Skanderbeg comes down from the mountains of Albania. Vlad Dracula, brother of Radu, Voivode of Wallachia, stalks the shores of the Danube. Any Turk unfortunate enough to be caught in his clutches is left as an example. The Bulgars stir, the Serbs arm themselves to retake lost lands. But most of all, far to the north, John Hunyadi hears the call. With permission from his king and ward, he marches south, and hell follows with him. By the time the word has spread to every corner of the Christian world, the first cannon arrives in Genoa. Given as payment to the Italian mercenaries who helped hold the walls, the massive cannons were studied. Venice would receive some for payment as well. The two rival merchant republics would eye each other with suspicion, both thinking the same thing. Who can duplicate and sell these great bombards first? And who would buy them?