The Day Corinth's Walls Fell
"What?! HOW?!" Count Orlov's roar shook the chamber, his face flushed with rage, veins standing out along his neck. He hurled a half-empty bottle against the stone wall, where it shattered into glittering shards. Wine streaked down like blood. Silence menyelubungi sekitarnya.
The messenger knelt trembling, stammering out his report."Count, it—it was the harbor… another wave of Ottoman soldiers slipped through the port at night. They opened the gates from within. By the time we realized, it was too late."
Orlov's eyes blazed, disbelief and fury tangling in his voice, while deep in his mind, no one knows what he's thinking, wondering which step he was wrong."That damned boy… who would have thought Selim himself would lead the attack? That child—" He spat the word. "No one could have predicted it. No one!"
Around him, his lieutenants shifted uneasily. The walls of Corinth, once thought impregnable, now stood under the crescent banner of the Sultan. The thunder of Ottoman drums echoed even here, like a reminder of failure pressing in from all sides.
There was no saving Corinth.
Orlov's jaw tightened. With a sharp motion, he gestured to his closest men. "We leave. Quietly. Take only what we can carry. Small vessels from the inner docks—nothing that will draw eyes."
And so, under cover of night, Count Orlov and his retinue slipped away, abandoning Corinth to its fate. The once-proud rebellion was reduced to fugitives moving deeper inland, their ambitions now carried on whispers and the rocking of hidden boats.
When the sun rose, Corinth was firmly in Ottoman hands. Smoke still curled from smoldering houses, and the cries of survivors echoed faintly through the narrow streets. Yet atop the shattered battlements, the empire's banner snapped in the wind—a symbol to friend and foe alike that the city had returned to the Sultan's grasp.
Despite the successful siege, it did not end there.
Muhtasin Pasha wasted no time. With the gates secured and Selim's infiltration celebrated as the turning point, the Ottoman host surged outward. Villages harboring rebels were swept aside, small fortifications dismantled stone by stone. Columns of Janissaries and Albanian auxiliaries pressed into the hills and valleys of Achaia, rooting out the last pockets of resistance.
For weeks the fighting dragged on—skirmishes in olive groves, ambushes along winding roads, sieges of rebel strongholds perched on cliffs. Yet one by one, each fell. Some rebels surrendered outright, abandoning Orlov's cause; others fought bitterly, only to be crushed under relentless pressure.
By the time the dust settled, the province surrounding Corinth was cleansed. The rebellion's flame, once bright and fed by foreign hands, flickered weakly now—reduced to embers scattered across the land. The order in Corinth has been restored back to its predecessors.
Muhtasin Pasha strode forward, his armor streaked with dust and smoke, yet his voice rang with pride."My şehzade, your plan has borne fruit! Truly, the wisdom of the Ottoman prince shines!"
I raised a hand, waving off the compliment with a faint smile."Oh, please, Pasha. It was nothing more than a day's work. The credit belongs not to me alone but to all of you who carried it out. You executed the plan with precision—that is why we stand victorious."
St Petersburg.
"My Tsarina, the Ottoman forces have crushed the rebellion in Corinth. Count Orlov and his followers escaped by sea—small vessels, barely any escort."The chamber fell silent for a moment. The scent of incense and candle wax mingled with the cold breath of Russia's winter seeping through the tall windows.
Catherine the Great lowered her glass of wine with a soft clink, her reflection trembling in the dark red liquid. "Hmm… so the distraction has failed. Well, a distraction is only useful if the main hand holds firm."She rose from her seat, her gaze turning toward the great map of the Black Sea pinned upon the wall. Her manicured finger trailed across the faint ink that marked Taganrog."If that port had not fallen," she murmured, voice laced with restrained anger, "we could have sent reinforcements. But now—" her tone shifted, colder, measured "—our victory in Moldavia came at too steep a cost. Too many men, too much pride lost for so little gain."
Across from her, General Pyotr Rumyantsev stood in rigid silence, hands clasped behind his back. The great field marshal of Russia—hero of countless campaigns—found no words to offer. Only the crackle of the fireplace filled the void between sovereign and soldier.
Catherine finally turned toward him, her expression unreadable beneath the glow of candlelight. "Tell me, Rumyantsev," she said softly, almost as if testing his loyalty. "Do you still believe the Ottomans are the sick men of Europe?"
Rumyantsev hesitated. His jaw tightened. "If they are sick, Your Majesty… then the boy who leads them is the fever that keeps them alive."
For the first time, the Empress's lips curved faintly—half amusement, half dread."A boy," she whispered, "and yet he already casts a shadow long enough to reach St. Petersburg."
Athens Eyalet
After the victory, we turned our efforts toward stabilizing the province. Wherever destruction had scarred the land, we set about repairing it. Not going to lie, many innocent lives had been caught in the storm of rebellion.
"My Shehzade," Muhtasin reported, "so far, we've found no trace of Orlov or his followers. We suspect he escaped by sea."
"Well then," I replied, "there's little we can do now. Instead of wasting resources chasing him, it's better to focus on restoring the eyalet."
Muhtasin considered the thought, nodding slowly. "A good idea, Prince."
Days passed after the rebellion, and I resolved to revitalize the province—winning the trust of the people while at the same time mobilizing my soldiers to rebuild the roads across Athens and Corinth.
Several days into the reconstruction orders, Muhtasin approached me again.
"Prince, many of the soldiers are voicing their disapproval. They argue that it is beneath the Janissaries to repair roads—that such work belongs to common laborers, not the army."
I leaned back, answering calmly. "Of course, we could mobilize the common folk, but we've just come out of rebellion. Things are still tense, trust is fragile. My reason for assigning this task to the army is simple: this special regiment will operate directly under my command."
Muhtasin stroked his beard, thoughtful. "Hmm. If this is about your Nizam-ı Cedid reforms, then yes, it makes sense. But it still doesn't fully answer why the Janissaries specifically were tasked with roadworks."
"Because," I said firmly, "we have the strength to do it. Right now, time is gold. We need people who can work swiftly and with discipline. The army can achieve that."
"Ohh, I see." Muhtasin allowed himself a small smile. "That actually makes sense. And to be fair, ever since they've been trained under your new methods, the stamina of the 40th Orta is remarkable."
I grinned. "As I expect."