"What happened to the Black Sea? Are those Christians fighting another civil war? Did you come to see me for such a trivial matter?" Murad II's furrowed brows relaxed slightly, then furrowed again.
"No, Your Majesty." Nizamettin Pasha bowed, respectfully reporting, "The Bosphorus Despotate, on the northern shore of the Black Sea, has attacked the Empire of Trebizond under the pretext of a succession dispute."
"The Bosphorus Despotate, I remember that thing was the former Principality of Theodoro, right?" Murad tried hard to recall what his Viziers and Pashas had reported to him earlier and motioned for his Grand Vizier to rise.
"Yes, as Your Wise Majesty said, its predecessor was the Principality of Theodoro on the Black Sea coast. Because their territory after the Crimean War rivaled the ancient Bosphorus Kingdom of the Ancient Greek period, they adopted this name." Nizamettin rose, then bowed and replied.
"Is that so?" Murad, after hearing this, was about to continue discussing the topic when he realized he was about to get off track. "We've strayed too far. So, what is the Grand Vizier's opinion?"
"Everything depends on Your Majesty's will." Nizamettin Pasha bowed very respectfully, awaiting Murad's decree.
Murad stroked his long beard, pondering the matter. After a moment of contemplation, he decided to wait and see, "It's just a minor squabble among Christians. Let's observe for now."
"Yes, Your Majesty. Your will is Allah's will." Nizamettin Pasha, without any hesitation regarding this decision, withdrew. Murad, meanwhile, temporarily put the matter out of his mind and continued to recite scriptures with his beloved son.
Two days later, at noon, in a Turkmen tribal pasture in the Erzurum region under the Aq Qoyunlu Dynasty, the Armenian youth named Bagrat, during a break, sat on the dusty ground with the old Greek accountant, John Anagnostes, who had accidentally saved his life a few days prior, discussing recent events.
"Speaking of which, I heard from the Turkmen herders that something seems to have happened in Trabzon to the north." Anagnostes, holding an earthenware bowl filled with murky water, casually brought up the matter.
"Are the Romans fighting another civil war?" Bagrat didn't care much for this; he had heard vague rumors of such things from his parents and grandparents.
"No. It's said that a Roman state on the northern shore of the Black Sea, called Bosporus, has a succession conflict with the Komnenos family." Anagnostes shook his head, then took a sip of water from the earthenware bowl.
"Oh, it sounds like there's no difference from a civil war." Bagrat, with his limited knowledge, didn't have a clear understanding of such matters.
"No, no, no, Sir Bagrat, this kind of succession war is considered an external war. The specific explanation is… oh dear, how should I put it?"
Watching Anagnostes rack his brains to explain it to him seriously, Bagrat couldn't help but smile. After he finally understood the difference between the two, Bagrat asked a question he had always been concerned about, "By the way, Sir Anagnostes, I've always been curious about something. You are clearly well-read, knowledgeable, and your demeanor is different from us common folk with little insight. You are an upright and noble Roman, so how did you become an accountant for the Turkmen and end up with us Armenians?"
The old Greek fell silent at his question, much to Bagrat's surprise. After a long pause, Anagnostes finally raised his somewhat cloudy chestnut eyes and quietly asked Bagrat in return, "Sir Bagrat, do you know Thessaloniki?"
"It seems to be the city of the Roman Emperor." Bagrat tilted his head.
"It used to be, but not anymore." Anagnostes seemed to recall something, sadly gazing westward, "Not long ago, it was captured by the Ottoman Turks who emerged as if from hellfire, just like other Roman cities. And the Romans in the city were either massacred or became slaves to the Turks, sold to different places. For example, I was sold to Erzurum; that was when I was about forty-five years old, I suppose? Saint Mary, how time flies."
Seeing his melancholic expression, Bagrat felt a pang of pity, but out of curiosity, he still tentatively asked the old man, "It seems to hold some special meaning for you?"
"That is my hometown."
Seeing this, Bagrat quietly closed his mouth, no longer asking questions, for fear of touching upon the other's painful memories again. But in truth, he really wanted to ask him what Anagnostes was often seen writing on those yellowed papers recently.
"If only I were literate," he thought, annoyed.
Just as he was pondering this, the voice of the Kurdish overseer came inopportunely, "Hey, what are you damned Armenian pigs doing? Are you slacking off? If the sheep starve to death, my master and I will never let you off!"
"Oh no, that thing found us." Bagrat immediately stood up in fright. Just as he was about to move to herd the sheep, Anagnostes also stood up and quietly asked him, "Do you want to learn to read and write?"
At the same time, Sheikh Hassan, the fifth son of the White Sheep Sultan Kara Osman, received Alexander Komnenos, who had escaped, in the Grand Mosque of Erzurum, his face ashen.
"So, Akçaabat has fallen?" Feeling a dizzy spell, he spoke with a last shred of hope, trying to confirm the matter.
Alexander nodded again in silence, making Sheikh Hassan almost vomit blood: these Turkmen, who had migrated to Anatolia over a hundred years ago, hated mountain warfare the most!
But even so, he couldn't let the fat sheep that was almost within reach get away. "Allah above, this matter is probably a bit troublesome. I will consult my father and ask him to let my brothers help as well. Don't worry, my grandnephew, I, with a devout heart, swear to Allah, you will certainly sit on the throne of Trabzon." This was Sheikh's final reply to Alexander that afternoon.