Then, a dismounted cavalryman noticed the few siege tunnels once dug to sabotage the Rumelian walls—long, narrow pits carved for demolition. Now abandoned and half-collapsed, they were just deep and wide enough to serve as makeshift shelter. Without delay, the Janissaries guided the Sultan down into one. The tunnel, once filled with slaves and peasants digging through earth and stone, was now crammed with nobles—Pashas, Beys, and the Sultan himself—pressed shoulder to shoulder, drenched in mud, sweat, and blood, their eyes hollow and unblinking.
The Sultan said nothing. He wished to ask, how many men have we lost? Yet the words withered on his lips, for he knew the answer no longer mattered.
Word spread quickly. One by one, soldiers realised their Sultan was within the tunnel. Like moths to a flame, they gathered, pressing into the narrow passage, desperate for refuge from the relentless rain.
