Book II / Chapter 32: The End of an Era

South West of Edessa Late June, 1434

The morning sun hung high over the Macedonian plain, bleaching the sky to a hard white glare. Sultan Murad II sat astride his stallion on a low rise, sweat darkening the embroidered collar of his tunic beneath his mail. He squinted against the brightness, one hand raised to shade his eyes, and surveyed the enemy lines arrayed across the plain. In the distance, the Byzantine and Crusader host stood in unnerving silence beneath their many banners. The double-headed eagle of Constantine’s empire caught a breeze on a forward hillock. Six solid blocks of men formed a ragged line across the gently sloping field. Murad noted how thin the enemy center appeared: just a few ranks of men bristling at the front, with large gaps between their units and only a scattering of reserves visible behind. It was an odd, almost inviting deployment. Too inviting. Murad’s jaw tightened. He knew Constantine was no fool.

Grand Vizier Halil Pasha shifted in his saddle nearby, following his master’s gaze. Three horsetail standards, the tughs of a Sultan, stood planted in the earth behind them, marking where Murad and his guard gathered. Around the Sultan clustered his senior officers: Halil Pasha with worry etched on his brow, stocky Zaganos Pasha chewing his lip in impatience, and veteran general Turahan Bey stroking his beard. Beyond them stretched the mass of Murad’s own army: tens of thousands of Ottoman soldiers fanned out across the plain. The rhythmic thump of war drums echoed from the ranks, a steady heartbeat of impending battle, while now and again a shrill blast from a horn cut through the thick air. Despite their numerical strength, a current of unease rippled among the Ottoman troops. They had tasted defeat against these foes before. Domokos. The memory of that rout one year past lingered like a scar in the Sultan’s mind. Constantine’s new firearms and cannons had shattered Murad’s proud cavalry and shattered the illusion of Ottoman invincibility. Murad had barely managed to disengage then; he would not forget the sting of it.

Halil Pasha cleared his throat softly. “The Roman center is weak, Highness,” he murmured in Turkish, careful and low. “Too weak.” He pointed with the tip of his scimitar toward the distant Byzantine front. “See there,” He indicated the flanks. “Cavalry on the far right, behind that small hill. A large force of Infantry clustered on their left flank near the small rocky spur.” Murad grunted; he saw it too. Lances and pennons peeked above a hillock on the enemy’s north end, and dust hung over a copse shielding troops on the south end. Constantine had tried to conceal his wings, further back, but the Sultan’s scouts and his own eyes discerned the trap. “They want us to drive at the center,” Halil continued, voice tight. “Draw us in, then hit our flanks. Similar tricks to what they used at Domokos.” The name fell bitter on his tongue.

Murad said nothing at first. He watched the distant center where the Byzantine banner fluttered, a black double-headed eagle on crimson, and saw, or imagined, a deliberate slackness in the line there. They think to repeat Domokos, he thought darkly. Lure us onto their guns and break us. His pulse thudded dully in his ears. A bead of sweat slid down his temple and into his trimmed beard. He recalled the shame and fury of that day, his best sipahi cavalry slaughtered in swarms by musket fire, his army forced to retreat. It had been the first major defeat of his reign. Murad had sworn never to let the infidel emperor catch him so off-guard again. And yet here they stood, on another field, under the same blazing sun, facing the same damnable tactics.

Zaganos Pasha leaned forward in his stirrups, eager. “Give the word, Padishah,” he urged. “Let us crush their center before they can spring their trap. A fast strike, right through.” The younger general’s eyes flashed beneath his turban, one hand already gripping the hilt of his sabre. Ever aggressive, Zaganos was spoiling for the charge. Murad’s stallion stamped and tossed its head, sensing its rider’s tension. The Sultan inhaled slowly, filling his lungs with the dry, sun-baked air. His instincts screamed caution, yet also desperation. If he balked here, on open ground west of Edessa, he would forfeit the initiative entirely. And retreat now, with the enemy so close, would be a humiliation perhaps worse than defeat. Murad’s pride and fury burned at the thought. He had already dealt the infidels a heavy blow in the north. Sigismund of Hungary’s crusader column had been intercepted and shattered earlier this month, leaving their vaunted Emperor dead. Only Constantine’s southern host remained in force. Murad was determined to smash this last army and snuff out the Christian resurgence in one stroke. No more delays. Allah had delivered his foes to this plain; now their fate would be written in blood.

Murad turned toward his waiting officers. “We won’t dance to Constantine’s tune,” he said, voice low but firm. “We’ll set our own.” He began issuing orders curtly, slicing the air with a gauntleted hand as he pointed to each sector of the battlefield. “Zaganos, take four thousand horse and pin their cavalry on their far flank,” he commanded. “Shadow every move those knights make. If they advance, you harry them. If they hold, you feint and fix them in place. Keep them busy.” Zaganos bared his teeth in a fierce grin and bowed in the saddle. “At your will, my Sultan,” he said, wheeling his horse and galloping off, shouting for his subordinates to muster the left-wing cavalry. Murad watched a moment as that column of horsemen began to peel away toward the enemy’s northern flank in a cloud of dust. Then he jabbed a finger toward the enemy’s opposite flank, the rocky spur to the south where enemy infantry lurked. “Turahan Bey, take five thousand Azaps, three orta of Janissaries and three thousand Cavalry from the right wing,” Murad ordered. “Drive toward that small hill and overrun whatever the infidels have there. Storm it. Roll up their left flank.” Turahan, a seasoned commander, inclined his head. “By your command,” he replied. He barked orders to his aides, and a ripple of motion went through the Ottoman right wing as select companies of Janissaries, the Sultan’s elite infantry, formed into an assault column. Murad knew those men would follow their orders unto death. They would need to; the hillside probably bristled with cannons. The Sultan’s plan was taking shape: pressure the enemy flanks hard, distract Constantine’s forces.

Finally, Murad turned his steely gaze back to the enemy center. He could just make out rows of enemy men standing unnaturally still in the heat, awaiting his move. So disciplined… It irked him. “And the center, Highness?” Halil ventured, voice hushed. Murad’s nostrils flared. “We flush out their guns,” he declared. With a swift motion, Murad signaled to an officer of the Azaps, the Sultan’s irregular infantry. “Azaplar!” the Sultan barked. “Five thousand forward, into their center. Now.” The officer saluted and sprinted off, red scarf trailing. Moments later, war horns blared across the Ottoman lines, long, droning notes carrying the Sultan’s command.

Murad felt his pulse quicken as he watched the Azaps surge out from behind the cavalry line. They were the expendable ones, lightly armed frontiersmen and levies. Many carried simple weapons: spears, axes, short bows slung across their backs. Now they trotted forward in a loose, uneven swarm, five thousand men fanning out across the plain in front of the Sultan’s center. Murad’s plan was blunt but necessary: he would force Constantine to reveal his hidden firepower. The Azaps would soak up the first volley of the enemy’s accursed pyrvelos and the blast of any cannons behind. Better them than his precious cavalry. Better the blood of peasants than the lifeblood of the empire, Murad told himself, steeling his resolve. Still, he felt a familiar pang in his chest as he watched the Azaps jog onward under the sun, their officers shouting hoarse encouragement.

Halil Pasha edged closer to Murad, lowering his voice. “Sultan…if their center is indeed a trap, perhaps we should hold the men back entirely.” Murad’s eyes remained fixed on the Azaps advancing. “No,” he said after a moment, quiet but resolute. He knew Halil was urging caution as always. But Murad’s mind was set. “We do as planned. Let their guns fire until they choke on powder. We’ll draw their sting, then break them.” He cut a sideways glance at the Grand Vizier. “We end this today, Halil. Here.” Hearing the iron finality in the Sultan’s tone, Halil pressed his lips tight and fell silent.

Across the field, the Roman line remained eerily still as the wave of Azaps trotted closer. Murad felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. Why don’t they fire? he wondered. The distance closed, two hundred paces, then a hundred and fifty. The Azaps were jogging now, a ragged mass of turbans and flashing steel, raising their voices in cries that echoed faintly back to Murad’s ears. Somewhere in the enemy ranks, a trumpet finally blared, high and clear. In the next instant, a line of fire and smoke erupted from the Byzantine center.

A rolling thunderclap crashed over the plain. The front of the Roman line vanished behind a wall of gun-smoke as hundreds of muskets flared in unison. Murad reflexively gripped his reins. A heartbeat later the impact became visible: the Azap line faltered as men at its forefront were scythed down in swaths. Even at this distance Murad could see it, a stuttering ripple through the loose Ottoman ranks as bodies and body parts were hurled backward, torn by lead shot. The Azap advance dissolved into chaos. Some of the stricken fell without a sound; others screamed, clutching shredded arms or guts as they crumpled to the earth. Those unhit instinctively threw themselves flat. Within moments the eager charge had been reduced to confusion and terror, exactly what Murad had expected, and dreaded, to see.

A second volley of musket fire crackled out from the Roman lines, more ragged than the first but no less deadly. Murad saw Azaps dropping like wheat under a scythe. Horses on the Ottoman flanks reared and whinnied at the smell of the powder and blood. The Sultan ground his teeth. Constantine’s musketeers were unleashing a withering barrage, firing and reloading in a disciplined cycle without pause. Even from afar, the Sultan could glimpse the drilled precision in it: as soon as one rank fired, the men behind stepped forward to take their place while the front fell back to reload. It was a devilish tactic, keeping up a near-constant hail of shot. The smoke above the enemy center billowed into a hazy curtain, lit by red flashes again and again. The thunder of firearms rolled continuously now, punctuated by the crash of the enemy cannons.

The Azaps never stood a chance. Those not cut down in the first few moments broke and ran, veering away in panic from that cauldron of fire. Murad watched grimly as dozens of his light infantry sprinted back toward their own lines, some flinging away their weapons in abject terror. Others simply cowered on the field, hugging the ground amid their fallen comrades. Within minutes, it was over. The once-bold Azap vanguard had been reduced to piles of corpses and a scattering of terrified survivors crawling or stumbling back toward safety. The plain in front of the Byzantine center was littered with writhing bodies, like a field of broken dolls. A low groan of dismay went up from some of the watching Ottoman troops behind Murad, seeing their countrymen massacred so effortlessly. Murad’s stomach twisted, but he curled his hands into fists and forced down his anger and dismay. This was the price he’d anticipated. And the trap was sprung now, the enemy had bared their fangs. So that was the bulk of Constantine’s firepower: hidden in plain sight all along, waiting for him to charge headlong. Murad thought fleetingly of his father, Sultan Bayezid, who had galloped into a Mongol ambush at Ankara decades ago and paid with his freedom and life. Grandfather, I understand now, Murad thought, a grim chill settling in his chest. This is how you felt at Ankara, caught in the jaws of fate.

But Murad was not yet in those jaws. He still had a chance to win this. The Azaps had done their work: the infidel guns were hot and perhaps low on powder after that furious fusillade. And through the clearing smoke, Murad glimpsed a new development: the Byzantine forward line, three of the six tightly packed squares, was shifting. Not falling back, he realized, but wheeling sideways, moving not toward their own rear but toward his right, angling across the slope in a slow, deliberate arc. They weren’t recoiling, they were maneuvering, likely to support the enemy's left flank against Turahan Bey’s assault. But to Murad’s eyes, in the haze and heat, it also looked like disorder. A ripple of motion in a rigid line. A crack. He seized on it.

“Look!” he shouted, pointing with his scimitar. “They break formation! They shift, they falter!”

Indeed, the enemy center now seemed disjointed, three forward units sliding east across the hills, leaving a broad, tempting gap in the middle of the line. Whether it was an attempt to reinforce their flank or a symptom of disarray, Murad could not yet say. But the path was open.

Murad seized the moment. He wheeled his stallion around and raised his right arm high. The engraved gilt armor plates on his forearm caught the sunlight as he signaled to his reserve: the Kapıkulu cavalry, his household Sipahis who waited just behind him. “Forward!” Murad roared. “Into the gap, now!” A clarion call rang out, Ottoman war horns bleating urgently to carry the Sultan’s command. In a clatter of hooves and shimmer of steel, elite Sipahi cavalry surged around the Sultan and thundered toward the enemy’s center. Murad had held roughly five thousand of these heavy cavalry in reserve; now he committed over half of them to the charge. Murad’s blood stirred as he watched them go. Break them, my lions, he silently beseeched. Shatter the infidel line.

The ground shook under the fury of the Sipahis’ advance. Murad, still on the rise with his remaining guard, leaned forward in his saddle, heart pounding as he tracked the charge. The brilliant tableau of battle unfolded before him: his cavalry’s wedge gleaming as it entered the smoke-stained void where Constantine’s front ranks had stood. The Roman tagmata had indeed split apart to either side, seemingly unable to hold their ground after delivering their volleys. Murad’s riders shouted their battle cries, harsh Turkish oaths, as they closed the distance. He could hear the whoomp of their drums urging them on and the high ululating war-cries of the zîrâh trumpets. The gap yawned wider; the Roman center appeared truly open, like a door left ajar. Triumph tugged at Murad’s lips. This was his chance to drive a spear straight into the enemy’s belly and finish it.

But as the first ranks of Sipahis barreled into the gap, disaster struck.

The Roman tagmata had been shifting earlier, yes, three of them advancing laterally toward Turahan Bey’s assault, drawing Ottoman attention to the flank. It had looked like a response, even a weakening. But now, in the final moments before impact, they moved again, not outward, but inward.

With a precision that seemed to defy the chaos of the battlefield, the tagmata re-formed in an instant. Orders snapped down the line, inaudible to Murad, but their effect was unmistakable. Like steel jaws closing, the formations pivoted and folded in with terrifying speed, their interior ranks parting to allow musketeers to surge forward at the flanks.

What had looked like disarray was a rehearsal; what had looked like retreat, an invitation.

The pyrvelos gunners dropped to one knee, leveled their barrels. Pikes locked into place behind them. From above, the whole maneuver looked like a corridor snapping shut, tight, deliberate, and final.

The Sipahis never stood a chance.

A thundercrack of musket fire ripped across both flanks, and the charge shattered into ruin.

From his vantage, Murad stared in horror as the head of the charge seemed to disintegrate. He could not hear their screams over the crashing gunfire, but he saw horses tumbling, flipping end over end as they were cut down mid-gallop. Armored riders were punched from their saddles and hurled to the ground, riddled with bullets. The momentum of the charge shuddered, stalled, as the ranks behind piled into the carnage ahead. Then, to add to the nightmare, field cannons fired with grapeshot. Whole files of sipahis on the edges of the column were there one heartbeat, gone the next, blown apart or left convulsing in ruined heaps.

Murad felt as though a giant hand had reached into his chest and clenched his heart. His elite cavalry, the pride of his army, were being butchered in the crossfire. “No… No!” he snarled through his teeth. His horse pranced anxiously beneath him, sensing his anger and despair. All around, his officers and guards watched in mute shock. What had looked like victory an instant ago had flipped to disaster. Within the smoke-clogged gap, the once-impenetrable sipahi charge was collapsing into chaos, riders veering, trying to escape the kill zone as musket fire and grapeshot tore through them. Some tried to wheel about; others pressed forward blindly, only to be cut down. It was an ambush of terrible perfection.

“My Sultan… our center attack is broken,” one of his bodyguards said in a strangled voice, stating the obvious. Murad shot the man a withering glare that silenced him. The Sultan refused to give in to despair. He tore his eyes from the nightmare at the center and looked to his flanks, perhaps there lay salvation.

On the Ottoman right, Turahan’s storm column had opened with force, Azab cavalry loosing volleys of arrows as Azad irregulars and Janissaries advanced behind them. For a moment, it looked promising. The enemy line atop the low ridge seemed stretched thin.

But the defenders held, and they were far from thin. In truth, most of Constantine’s army was positioned there. A wall of braced pikes anchored the ridge, backed by massed Burgundian crossbowmen firing in deadly volleys. A cannon further back fired intermittently, raking the slope and staggering the advance.

What had begun as a push turned to a halt. The ridge was low, but it was packed with men. The Ottomans couldn’t force a breach.

It had become a stalemate.

Murad felt a hollowness in his gut. It was all unraveling.

He wheeled his horse in a tight circle, scanning every corner of the field as dread coiled tighter around his ribs. On the left wing, to the north, Zaganos Pasha’s cavalry had locked into a full engagement with the Crusaders. Dust and banners danced in the distance, St. George’s cross, Hunyadi’s black raven, and the Burgundian gold-on-blue intermingled with the horsetail standards of Zaganos’s timariot sipahis.

The melee was fierce. Heavy-plated knights drove in hard with couched lances and warhorses, smashing into the Ottoman line. The front-rank sipahis and Wallachians bore the brunt, many went down in the first clash, horses toppling, riders gutted on impact. For a moment, the Crusaders had the clear advantage.

But Zaganos had prepared for this. His front line had orders to yield, just enough to invite overextension. As the knights pressed deeper, the sipahis pulled back by fifty paces, disciplined and fast, opening a pocket meant to expose the Crusader flanks. The counterstrike was seconds away.

Then it broke.

From the rear of the Ottoman formation, one detachment abruptly peeled off. Murad narrowed his eyes. The banner, white cross atop red wings, marked them unmistakably. “The Wallachians,” Halil said grimly. Alexandru’s regiment, shaken by the collision and mistaking the fallback for collapse, had bolted. Several hundred riders galloped northward, abandoning the fight entirely.

Murad’s chest tightened. “Fools,” he muttered. “It wasn’t a rout… until now.”

The damage was done. The sudden flight cracked morale wide open. Without the Wallachians holding the flank, the Ottoman cavalry’s cohesion shattered. In minutes, the sipahis too were in retreat, some trying to wheel for a last strike, others simply fleeing. The counterstrike never came.

And now, with the Ottoman flank broken, the Crusader cavalry re-formed, disciplined even in the chaos. Murad could see them turning south, lances lowered again, beginning to sweep toward his center.

Worse still, four of that cursed Roman tagmata were now on the move, moving from their positions with steady, unhurried momentum, marching to meet the Crusader thrust and drive straight into Murad’s center. The other two tagmata, meanwhile, resumed their lateral advance toward the ridge, pivoting deliberately to strike Turahan Bey’s flank.

Murad’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. One by one, every element of his battle plan was collapsing. He tasted something bitter at the back of his throat, regret, fury, despair all mingled. Around him, a few of his personal guard exchanged worried glances. Some janissaries holding the ridge behind him shifted nervously, awaiting orders that did not come. The only sounds were the distant gunfire and the rising clamor of the victorious allies as they pressed in from all sides. Murad’s hands went slack on his reins for a moment, a terrible weight settling on his shoulders. Not like this, he thought.

“Sultan,” Halil Pasha said urgently, breaking into his thoughts. The Vizier’s face was ashen. In the span of minutes he seemed to have aged years. He reached out and gripped Murad’s stirrup, an uncharacteristically familiar gesture born of desperation. “It’s over,” Halil pleaded. “We must retreat while we still can. Save what men remain. Save yourself, Padishah.” Halil’s voice cracked. “Constantine’s troops are closing in. If we flee now, regroup at Thessaloniki or Adrianople. But if you stay—” He didn’t finish, but Murad knew well. If you stay, you die. Or worse. Murad looked down at Halil Pasha, this seasoned counselor who had been at his side through so many trials. The Vizier’s eyes glistened, perhaps with tears or sweat. Murad realized Halil was ready to physically drag him from the field if it meant preserving the Sultan’s life.

For a moment, Murad’s resolve wavered. An animal instinct screamed at him to survive, to live to fight another day. He imagined himself rallying an army in exile, his young son at his side, avenging this defeat in time. But that thought was swept aside by a wave of scorching shame. Retreat now would mean abandoning tens of thousands of his soldiers to slaughter or captivity. It would mean the absolute collapse of Ottoman power in these lands, the undoing of everything his forefathers had built. And it would mean his own name forever stained as Murad the Coward, who turned his back at the moment of truth. No. He could not. He would not run. Murad straightened in the saddle, squared his shoulders. A strange calm settled over him, born of fatal resolve. “No, Halil,” he said quietly. “The hour of flight has passed.” He managed a thin, sad smile for his old friend. “Go, if you wish. Take whoever will follow. Save my son.”

Halil’s eyes widened. “Sultan—” he began, voice breaking, but Murad had already turned away. The Sultan beckoned to two of his solak guard, the janissary officers who carried the royal standards. “Bring Prince Ali” Murad commanded. The guards hesitated, and Murad barked with sudden fire, “Now! Fetch my son!” They spurred off to the rear. Murad’s mind raced even as eerie composure settled over him. Prince Şehzade Alaeddin Ali had been kept back with the baggage and rear guard, safe from the fray; he would be brought shortly. Murad intended to send the boy away with a detachment of his most loyal men, perhaps to the fortress at Bursa, or over the straits to Anatolia. Anywhere but here. The dynasty must survive even if he did not.

Moments later, young Prince Ali came riding up behind the remaining janissaries, flanked by a handful of guards. At just nine years old, Ali was already tall for his age, with the fierce eyes of the Osmanlı line. He dismounted and stumbled toward his father. Murad swung down off his horse and for a breath every sound of battle seemed to fade. The boy’s dark eyes searched Murad’s face. He knew what this meant. “Father,” Ali choked, voice cracking. “Come with us. We can regroup—” Murad pulled his son into a tight embrace, armor pressing against the boy’s chest. It was the first time he had held Ali so since the boy was a toddler. He felt Ali’s racing heartbeat against his own and the tremor in the young prince’s frame. Murad held back the sting in his eyes. “My son,” he said huskily, “my Sultan.” He placed his hands on Ali’s shoulders and held him at arm’s length, memorizing his face smeared with sweat and dirt and tears. “You will live,” Murad said. “You will live, and you will fight another day. Inşallah, you will reclaim what is lost. But for me… for me, this is the end of the road.”

Ali shook his head frantically, tears spilling now. “No,” he whispered, “I won’t leave you.” The boy’s voice carried such anguish that Murad’s composure nearly broke. The Sultan pressed his forehead to his son’s. “You must,” he said, so softly only Ali heard. “Live, so that the Ottomans live. This is Allah’s will.” Murad kissed his son’s brow quickly, then steeled himself and turned to the guards. “Take the Prince,” he ordered briskly. “Ride hard and fast. Protect him with your lives. Go!”

Halil Pasha stepped forward, bowing deeply. His face was wet as well, though with sweat or sorrow one couldn’t tell. “I will see him safe, Highness,” Halil said, voice thick. He gently took Ali by the arm. The boy resisted for an instant, casting one last heartbroken look at his father. Murad forced himself to smile reassuringly and nod. “Go, Ali” he urged. “Be brave now. We will meet again… in this life or the next.” At that, Ali allowed Halil and the guards to lead him away, stumbling, mounted onto a fresh horse. With a shout, the Vizier marshaled a knot of cavalry around the prince and spurred eastward. A strange peace washed over the Sultan. The die was cast. His heir was on his way to safety, or at least to a fighting chance. Allah, protect them, Murad prayed silently. Protect my son.

Now Murad turned back to the field and surveyed what remained. The Ottomans were being pressed into an ever-smaller pocket. To his front, Roman tagmata were advancing cautiously over the corpse-littered center, muskets and pikes leveled as they closed in. To his right, enemy soldiers under Serbian and Italian banners were descending the low spur, fanning out to encircle the faltering Janissaries and spahis of the Ottoman right. To the left, a triumphant horn blast announced the charge of Hunyadi’s knights sweeping in from the north flank.

All across the plain, cohesion snapped. Units broke. Banners fell. What remained of Murad’s army began to rout, some in ones and twos, others in entire waves, abandoning the field in a tide of panic and despair.

Murad strode to his stallion and swung into the saddle once more. He drew his scimitar. The curved blade gleamed dully, its edge honed to a razor. Only a handful of loyal souls remained around him now: his solak Janissary bodyguards, perhaps fifty of them, stood determined; a few dozen sipahi cavalry of his personal guard still mounted; and scattered clumps of infantry rallying to the Sultan’s banner. Perhaps two thousand men in all. It was a pathetic remnant of an army. But Murad felt no shame. These were the truest of the true, and he would spend their lives and his own dearly. He raised his sword high overhead, the gesture both a salute and a final signal. “Oturan! Osmanlılar, benimle!” he bellowed. “Ottomans, with me!” His voice rang out clear over the din. A final fierce energy surged through him, a mingling of rage and exaltation. “For Allah and empire!” Murad roared. “Charge!”

A ragged cheer answered him, “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”, as the Sultan of the Ottomans spurred his horse and hurtled forward into battle one last time. Behind him, his remaining cavalry and janissaries rushed in a final, compact charge, straight toward the advancing Roman center. Murad lowered his scimitar like a lance, eyes fixed on the knot of enemy standard-bearers ahead. So be it. He felt oddly free in that knowledge. Fear had evaporated, burned away by purpose. In that moment, Murad was simply a warrior, like his father Bayezid, like all his ancestors, fighting with honor until the last.