Chapter 77: The battle of Domokos

The Ottoman camp stirred long before dawn. Under the faint light of stars and flickering torches, final preparations for battle were underway. Murad  moved through the lines on horseback, clad in partial armor with a thick cloak draped over his shoulders against the early chill. As he passed, soldiers snapped to attention. The Sultan made a point to meet eyes and offer a firm nod or a few words of encouragement. He could feel the tension in the cool predawn air. Men whispered prayers, kissed talismans, tightened straps on helmets and cuirasses. In one corner, a Janissary officer was quietly reciting verses from the Quran to a circle of kneeling archers; in another, sipahi cavalrymen checked their horse tack and lances in stoic silence.

The horizon was just beginning to pale when Murad returned to his tent for the final moments before battle. He sank to his knees on his prayer rug, facing toward Mecca, and bowed his head. In the muffled quiet, the Sultan offered a simple prayer: that Allah grant victory to the faithful, that courage not falter in the hour of trial, and that his judgment as commander be sound. He rose, feeling the weight of responsibility settle calmly on his shoulders. Outside, the janissary musicians were preparing their martial music to spur the troops on. The familiar kettle drums and zurna flutes would soon echo across the plain.

Murad fastened his polished breastplate and donned his helmet, its jeweled plume catching the first grey light. By now the camp was fully awake and humming with purposeful activity. He emerged to find Grand Vizier Halil and Zaganos Pasha waiting with his horse. Behind them, two standard-bearers held aloft the gilded banners of the Sultan—one, the green flag emblazoned with crescent and sword; the other, the great horse-tail standard signifying his command. They fluttered gently in the morning breeze.

“Sultan, the men are assembled as ordered,” Halil reported. Even the cautious vizier now had a hard glint of determination in his eyes. “Cannons moving forward into position, Azabs in the center with Janissaries as reserve, Sipahis divided on both wings. Akinci skirmishers stand ready at the flanks.” Murad nodded in approval. He mounted his stallion in one smooth motion, accepting a gilded mace from a servant, today it would serve as his symbol of authority in battle, easier to brandish from the saddle than a sword.

“May Allah strengthen your arm today, Hünkar,” Halil offered quietly. Murad managed a small reassuring smile. “Have faith, Halil. We fight for the glory of the empire.” He then addressed the gathered officers, raising his voice so those further down the line could hear: “Allah is with us! Remember, our enemy is cornered and outnumbered. Do not underestimate them, but do not fear them. Today, we show Constantine and all of Christendom the might of the Ottoman Sultanate!” A subdued cheer answered, growing louder as it rippled outward and more men caught wind of the Sultan’s presence. Murad trotted his horse forward, preparing to ride down the ranks.

As the first pink streaks of dawn colored the east, the Mehter band struck up its battle tune. Trumpets blared and massive drums pounded a steady, thunderous rhythm. The music rolled across the fields, an ancient sound that had heralded countless Ottoman charges. Its notes were meant to instill courage in Murad’s soldiers and dread in his foes. The Sultan felt his blood quicken to the cadence. With banner-bearers at his side and bodyguards in tow, he rode the front of his formations. To the archers and few handgunners in the vanguard he shouted, “Steady aim, lions. Make each shot count!” To the cavalry on the wings, lances glinting in the growing light: “Hold fast until the signal, then ride as the wind!” And to the Janissaries clustered around their white-and-red regimental flags, Murad simply raised his mace high. They answered with a disciplined roar, saluting their Padishah. Seeing their fervor, Murad felt heartened. These were veteran warriors, many who had stood with him at previous campaigns. They would not break easily.

As Murad returned to the heart of his formation, he found Zaganos poised at the ready, leaning eagerly forward in his saddle, anticipation flickering in his youthful eyes. Murad's gaze sharpened like tempered steel, holding the young pasha's attention captive.

“Mind yourself,” the Sultan cautioned, his voice steady with quiet authority. “Do not dash your riders blindly upon their pikes. Probe, harass, seek the weak seam in their ranks. When you find it, I shall send the blade that splits them wide.”

Zaganos inclined his head reverently. “It shall be done as you command, Sultan. Prudence will guide our steps.” He spun his steed gracefully about, charging off toward the left flank, his voice ringing out sharply as he rallied his captains into motion.

Halil Pasha remained by the Sultan’s side, silent but for the faint recitation of a prayer under his breath. Murad appreciated the vizier’s presence, Halil’s calm served as a ballast to the excitement of others. Together they guided their horses up a small knoll that afforded a view of the field ahead. Before them stretched the expanse of flat plain separating the two armies. In the distance, across perhaps a mile, dust hung suspended in the air above dark ranks of men, the Byzantine host, already awake and arrayed for battle. Any hope of catching them unawares had vanished with the dawn; the element of surprise was long lost, replaced now by the stark certainty of battle.

Murad could make out blocky formations standing in ordered silence. Sunlight glinted off pikeheads held aloft like a bristling forest. Here and there, banners with the double-headed eagle of Byzantium fluttered, and in between those dense infantry squares were the muzzles of cannon, positioned to cover the approaches. It was a fearsome defensive posture, even for such a small army. Murad narrowed his eyes. Constantine’s army looked like a fortress without walls, an island of iron in the sea of the plain. He truly means to stand his ground. The Sultan’s respect for his enemy’s audacity grudgingly rose. But so did his determination to smash it.

A trumpet blast from the Ottoman lines drew Murad from his thoughts, the signal that all units were in position. The Sultan lifted his mace high, and one of his heralds bellowed across the ranks: “By the command of Sultan Murad, advance!”

With a mighty cry, the Ottoman army surged forward across the plain. Murad remained atop the low knoll, surrounded closely by his guards, commanding a sweeping view of the assault unfolding below.

First to move ahead were the cannon crews and skirmishers. Teams of oxen strained in their yokes, hauling heavy artillery pieces forward into firing positions. But as they moved forward, the Byzantines sprang their trap. Before Murad’s guns could even settle into range, sudden flashes erupted along Constantine’s distant front line. A heartbeat later, deep booms echoed ominously across the field.

Murad stiffened in his saddle, eyes narrowing in grim realization. The Byzantines had the advantage, longer range and carefully prepared positions. Enemy cannonballs shrieked through the air, plowing mercilessly into the Ottoman ranks still exposed during their vulnerable advance.

A storm of iron descended upon his forward artillery teams, smashing directly into gun carriages and oxen alike. Men cried out in shock and agony as deadly projectiles tore gaps into their lines, scattering crews and obliterating equipment. One Ottoman cannon, nearly into position, burst into splinters as a Byzantine ball slammed squarely into its carriage, flinging shattered metal and mangled bodies across the torn earth.

Yet despite the chaos, some Ottoman crews bravely pressed on. Frantically, gunners struggled to position their remaining cannons amidst the storm of enemy fire, quickly uncapping touch-holes and igniting linstocks. Murad clenched his fists, helplessly watching as his batteries finally loosed their first ragged volley.

Stone shot leapt forth in reply, but frustration gnawed at Murad as he saw most projectiles fall short, kicking up harmless eruptions of earth far from the enemy's disciplined lines. Only a few cannonballs came close enough to cause alarm among the Byzantines, an occasional distant crash suggesting some minor damage, but the majority proved ineffective and unable to match Constantine’s deadly reach.

“Curses upon their guns,” Murad muttered darkly, grinding his teeth. The Byzantines had turned artillery into a lethal advantage, punishing his advancing troops and exacting a steep toll before they even neared their ideal firing positions.

“Order the left battery to adjust their angles and keep firing!” Murad roared to the signaling officer at his side, voice hard with determination. The officer hastily waved a red banner, transmitting the command through clouds of acrid smoke. Ottoman cannons fired again, their staggered blasts echoing defiantly across the battlefield, though still struggling for distance.

“They’ve prepared well,” Halil remarked grimly, flinching instinctively as another enemy projectile tore through the air nearby. Murad’s face hardened into resolve. Constantinople’s artillery had proven its deadly worth, but mere cannon fire alone would not decide this day. If victory was to come, it would have to be won up close.

Murad raised his mace, catching the eye of Zaganos Pasha on the left wing, and then gestured forward. It was time to send in the cavalry. With a whoop, Zaganos unfurled his personal pennant and galloped ahead, leading a vanguard of akıncı light cavalry out from the flank. Hundreds of riders fanned out, moving swiftly across the front in loose order. Their mission: harry the Byzantines, draw their fire, and probe for any reaction. Murad watched as the akıncıs swept close to the enemy’s extreme right.

The answer came swiftly in bursts of smoke and the sharp crackle of gunfire, as Constantine’s Pyrvelos opened fire. Even at long range, the volley was effective; Murad watched as horsemen toppled from their saddles, bodies pierced by musket balls. The horses themselves shrieked and bucked wildly, panicked by the sudden thunder of firearms, several breaking formation and fleeing in terror. The surviving riders desperately wheeled their mounts away, firing back a few scattered arrows as they retreated. It was merely a brief skirmish, but it exposed the disciplined resolve of the Byzantine ranks—they had neither faltered nor broken formation to pursue the cavalry, standing firm and reloading in ordered precision as their enemies withdrew.

Now Zaganos and the main sipahi heavy cavalry made their move. With a blare of horns, armored horsemen thundered across the plain, their lances held high, points glinting in the sunlight. Murad’s heart pounded as he witnessed the grand charge. This was a maneuver he had devised—hit one flank, then the other, like testing the beams of a fortress for a crack. The earth shook with the onrush of over a thousand sipahis. Surely, even the stoutest infantry would waver under such a sight. Murad leaned forward in his stirrups, breath held.

The Byzantine flank did not waver. As the cavalry closed in, the pike squares nearest the threat pivoted smoothly, their front rank kneeling and rear rank standing, presenting two layers of spear points. The Sultan could just make out the glinting line of musketeers tucked between those pikes. A sudden eruption of smoke and lead from the square tore into the charging sipahis at close range. It was as if the very rectangle of men breathed fire. Murad saw horses rear and crash down, riders flung hard to the ground. The momentum of the charge faltered as the front ranks of cavalry crumpled against the hedge of pikes. Some Ottoman riders veered off, unwilling to impale themselves; others, bolder or unable to turn in time, smashed directly into the enemy line. For a brief moment, Murad thought the line might break—but it held. The sipahis who made contact were stabbed from their saddles by long spears or shot at point-blank range by the second rank. In minutes, what had been a proud charge was reduced to chaos: riderless horses galloping back, wounded men crawling or limping to safety, and dozens of bodies littering the ground before Constantine’s unbroken flank. Zaganos Pasha himself narrowly escaped, rallying what he could of his decimated front and pulling them back out of musket range.

Murad ground his teeth in frustration. His left-flank assault had been repelled with frightening ease. “Damnation,” he growled, fists tightening on the reins. He had anticipated stubborn resistance, but he had never imagined the Byzantines possessed such a staggering quantity of guns. Around him, his staff officers stood pale and silent, equally stunned by the disciplined firepower that had torn into their cavalry.

Halil Pasha laid a hand on Murad’s arm, trying to calm him. “They fight like a wall, my Sultan. We must be patient, wear them down.” Murad wrenched his arm away, not in anger at Halil but at the situation. He could see that a straightforward cavalry sweep would not break these formations. Constantine’s men stood tortoise-like, with pikes bristling and guns reloaded in deadly cycles.

Gritting his teeth, Murad signaled for the Azab infantry to advance en masse. If shock cavalry had failed, perhaps sheer numbers and determination could shatter the Byzantine lines, creating an opening for his elite troops. With thunderous cries, waves of Azabs surged forward, many carrying large wooden shields in a desperate bid for protection against the merciless enemy fire.

Behind them, the Janissaries followed, a disciplined and formidable second wave. Commanders barked sharp orders, maintaining perfect formation even amid the chaos ahead. Ottoman archers unleashed volleys over their comrades’ heads, attempting to disrupt the disciplined Byzantine squares.

As thousands of Azabs neared enemy lines, the Byzantines unleashed their full, devastating fury. Cannons switched mercilessly to grape shot, scattering iron fragments through the Ottoman infantry like a storm of metal. Wooden shields splintered violently, soldiers collapsing in tangled heaps, their anguished cries mixing with the thunderous roar of artillery. Smoke and dust billowed thickly, transforming the battlefield into a haze-filled nightmare.

Yet even amidst the carnage, the rhythmic drums and piercing flutes of the Janissary Mehter echoed defiantly, rallying courage and fortitude from the desperate ranks. The Janissaries themselves surged forward, disciplined formations pushing relentlessly through the chaos. Murad strained forward in his saddle, eyes narrowed, heart pounding with anticipation. Through the swirling smoke, he glimpsed the fierce glint of curved blades clashing against Byzantine steel.

Suddenly, a powerful cry went up from within the melee, a distinct Janissary battle shout that cut sharply through the din. Murad's breath caught sharply. Had they breached the enemy square? Could the tide finally be turning? He leaned anxiously forward, desperate for clarity, eyes straining against the choking haze to discern the fate unfolding amidst the chaos.