Chapter 52: FROM ANKARA TO ADANA

They left Ankara without ceremony.

Remy did not look back as the city fell behind them. Its walls, its markets, its order, none of it held his attention once they were beyond its reach. What mattered was the road ahead, and the distance it demanded from those who followed him.

They turned toward Gölbaşı.

The land softened as they approached. The tension that clung to fortified places gave way to something quieter. A lake stretched beside the settlement, its surface still and reflective, disturbed only by the faintest breath of wind. The air carried a different quality there which was cooler, less burdened by dust.

It would have been peaceful, had they arrived alone.

But they did not.

Their company announced itself before they reached the village. Too many bodies. Too many animals. Too much presence for a place that did not expect it. The villagers noticed immediately. Movement slowed. Conversations ceased. Eyes followed them with a caution that bordered on unease.

Remy did not allow it to grow.

He rode forward before anyone else could speak, addressing them in their own tongue. His tone remained even, without force, but without uncertainty.

"We pass through," he said. "Nothing more."

There was hesitation.

Then, slowly, it eased. They were not welcomed, but they were not denied. The difference was enough.

They watered the horses near the edge of the lake. The animals drank deeply, the long dry stretches behind them still evident in how greedily they drank. The men rested in smaller groups, quieter than before, as if the stillness of the place had settled over them.

Remy did not let them remain long.

When they left, the village returned to its silence as though they had never passed through at all.

The road beyond carried them back into the plains.

It stretched outward in long, unbroken lines, the horizon distant and unchanged no matter how far they traveled. Villages appeared only occasionally, scattered and sparse, offering little beyond what was necessary to continue.

It was during one of these stretches that Jehan spoke.

"Why this road?" she asked.

Remy did not look at her immediately. His gaze remained forward, fixed on the path ahead.

"It is a scenic one," he said.

She studied him.

"There are faster routes," she replied. "More direct."

"There are," he said.

"And yet you chose this."

He adjusted his grip on the reins slightly.

"I have wanted to take this road," he said. "So I did."

There was a pause.

Behind them, the company moved as it always did, less steady now, more strained. The distance between water sources, the lack of interruption, the monotony of the plains, it wore on them in ways that cities did not.

Jehan's voice lowered slightly.

"They will grow exhausted."

Remy did not turn.

"Then they will," he said.

The answer settled between them without comfort. He did not elaborate, and she did not press him immediately.

Silence followed, but it was not empty.

His thoughts did not remain on the road alone. He had considered the company more than once. More than he cared to admit. What it had become. What it demanded of him. What had been placed upon him without his consent, yet remained nonetheless.

For better or worse, he had been saddled with them.

Sir Gaston was part of that.

A man of presence. Of expectation. A knight who carried his role without apology. Remy respected that, even if it complicated everything else. The man did not hesitate. Did not question his place. In another context, that certainty might have been useful without cost.

Here, it came with weight.

The others came with it too.

Pilgrims. Followers. Men and women who had chosen to walk behind him, whether through belief, convenience, or need. He had not asked for them. Had not offered himself as anything beyond what he was.

Yet they remained.

He exhaled slowly.

"This was not meant for them," he said at last.

Jehan turned her head slightly.

"What was not?"

"This," he said. "The road. The journey."

"They chose it," she replied.

"They chose to follow," he said. "Not to understand."

Her expression shifted, but she said nothing.

He continued.

"You will care for them if they fall," he said. "If they are sick, I will give what medicine I have. But the responsibility is yours."

She frowned.

"They follow you."

"They follow the idea of me," he said. "Not the man."

The words carried no anger, but something else lingered beneath them.

"I am not responsible for what they have decided to believe."

Jehan did not accept it easily.

She spoke of duty. Of faith. Of the burden placed upon those who were capable of bearing it. Her words were steady, shaped by a conviction that did not waver even when challenged.

Remy listened.

He did not interrupt.

But neither did he yield.

"They gave it to you," he said, "because it is easier."

Her gaze hardened slightly.

"That is not true."

"It is," he replied. "They see someone who can lead, who can speak, who can decide. So they step back and let him do it."

He glanced at her briefly.

"And you allow it."

The silence that followed was sharper than before.

Remy looked forward again.

"I have allowed you to speak as you wish," he said. "To act as you wish. But do not mistake that for agreement."

Jehan did not respond immediately.

There was something unsettled in her expression, something that had not been there before. She seemed to search for a reply that would not come.

Remy did not offer one.

The conversation ended there.

They continued across the plains.

The land grew harsher as they moved deeper. Grass gave way to drier ground. The wind carried less moisture, more dust. The sky remained wide and unbroken, offering no relief from its openness.

They encountered nomads along the way.

Tents stood against the horizon, arranged with purpose rather than permanence. The people who lived there watched the company approach with open curiosity. Their presence did not carry the guarded tension of the villages, but it was not without its own wariness.

Remy approached without hesitation.

When they learned he spoke their language, words were exchanged. Questions asked and answered.

Their curiosity centered on the same point.

Why this route?

A company of their size should have followed the coast. Safer. More predictable. More traveled.

Remy gave them no deeper explanation.

"We pass through," he said, as he had before.

It was enough. They remained briefly, long enough to exchange small goods and gather what information came without obligation. Then they moved on.

Şereflikoçhisar followed.

The air changed before the town came into view. Dry. Bitter in a way that settled at the back of the throat. The land around it bore the mark of salt, white flats stretching outward in stark contrast to the darker soil they had crossed.

Trade defined the place. Salt moved through it in steady measure, carried by men who understood its value. The structures were practical. Movement was constant, but not chaotic.

They stayed for two nights.

Remy allowed it.

The company needed it.

Fatigue had settled deeply into them. The long stretches of the plains had taken their toll, and without rest, they would begin to lose more than strength.

He moved among them as he always did, observing, correcting where necessary. The illness that had appeared before did not return, but the risk remained. It always did.

When they left, the road carried them toward Aksaray. Where Şereflikoçhisar had been defined by its environment, Aksaray was defined by movement. It was a hub, a meeting point for travelers from multiple directions. Inns stood ready to receive them. Markets operated with constant energy. Mosques marked the presence of order and structure.

Remy listened as they entered.

Voices carried information as much as sound. He spoke with travelers where he could, gathering what they knew of the road ahead.

Ottoman presence was strong.

Stronger than before.

It did not surprise him.

Konya lay ahead.

A city of significance, not only for trade, but for something less tangible. Scholars. Dervishes. A place where attention was not easily avoided.

Their company would not pass unnoticed there.

He led them to a caravanserai.

The structure stood apart from the rest, built of stone and shaped with clear purpose. High walls enclosed it completely, offering security not only from theft, but from uncertainty. Inside, space was organized with efficiency. Animals were kept within. Merchants and travelers found rest without exposure to the open road.

It was, for the moment, safe.

They entered.

The gates closed behind them.

Remy dismounted, his gaze moving across the interior. He noted the positions of others, the layout, the exits. Habit, more than necessity.

Sir Gaston approached him.

"Will we remain here for a time?" he asked.

Remy considered the question only briefly.

"Yes," he said.

Gaston nodded once, accepting it without argument.

Remy continued.

"The road to Konya is not one we rush into," he said. "Not with this number."

Gaston's expression shifted slightly.

"You expect trouble."

"I expect attention," Remy replied. "And attention becomes trouble when given reason."

He glanced toward the rest of the company.

Some rested already. Others moved with the slow relief of those who had been granted a pause they did not expect.

Remy exhaled quietly.

His reasons were not entirely practical.

He knew that.

There was pettiness in it. Bitterness that had settled over time, built from decisions made around him rather than by him. He recognized it for what it was.

But recognition did not remove it.

Even so, he did not intend for it to cost them.

"They will recover here," he said.

Gaston followed his gaze.

"Aye," he said.

***

They left the caravanserai after several days.

Remy did not rush their departure. The walls had provided more than rest. They had given the company time to recover from the strain of the plains, to regain some measure of order. Horses stood steadier. Movements were more sure. The signs of exhaustion had not vanished, but they had lessened.

That was enough.

The road to Konya lay open.

It did not take long before the shift became clear. The land remained broad, but the presence of movement increased. Travelers passed more frequently. Caravans carried goods with clearer purpose. The isolation that had defined the previous stretches faded into something more connected.

Konya rose gradually.

It did not impose itself the way Bursa had. There was no immediate tension, no sharp transition from open land to controlled space. Instead, the city seemed to draw them in quietly, its presence felt before it was fully seen.

When they entered, the difference was unmistakable.

Konya carried weight, but not in the way of walls or guards alone. It was in the people. In the way they moved. In the calm that did not come from ease, but from certainty. Scholars walked its streets. Dervishes gathered in quiet circles, their movements measured, their voices low. Markets thrived, but without the sharp edge of bargaining that marked other cities.

Remy observed it all. The Ottomans were present, that much was clear. But their control here felt different. Less visible. More ingrained.

Their company drew attention, but not the suspicion they had faced elsewhere. Eyes followed them, yes, but with curiosity rather than judgment.

They remained for a short time. Long enough to rest. Long enough to gather what was needed.

Remy spoke with a few where he could, with scholars, traders, men who had seen the roads beyond. Information came easily here, offered without resistance, as though knowledge itself held value beyond possession.

He did not linger.

Konya was not a place to remain unnoticed for long.

They departed as they had arrived, without disruption.

The road carried them onward.

Karaman came next.

The shift was immediate.

Where Konya had been calm, Karaman held something firmer beneath the surface. Its walls stood strong, not merely as defense, but as a statement. This had once been a capital, and the people had not forgotten it.

Remy saw it in their posture.

In the way they watched strangers.

There was pride there. Not loud, but unyielding.

Their arrival was noted.

Not questioned immediately, but not ignored either.

Remy did not invite attention. He kept their movement steady, their purpose clear. They passed through without incident, though the weight of the place lingered even as they left.

The road beyond opened again.

Ereğli followed.

The land softened once more, fields stretching outward in wide, cultivated lines. Grain bent slightly beneath the wind. The air carried the scent of earth and harvest, a contrast to the dryness they had endured before.

The town itself reflected that simplicity.

It existed for the land.

People worked. Wagons moved with the purpose of harvest rather than trade. There was less interest in travelers, less reason to question them.

Remy allowed the company to rest there.

Food was easier to obtain. Water more reliable.

The men recovered more quickly in such places.

He observed them as they moved through the town. The way some relaxed too readily when comfort returned. The way others remained cautious, unwilling to trust the ease.

He said nothing.

They left the following day.

The road began to change again.

Ulukışla marked the shift.

The land rose gradually, then more sharply. The air cooled particularly as night approached. The warmth that had followed them for much of the journey gave way to something thinner, harder against the skin.

Travelers gathered there with a different purpose.

Preparation.

The mountains ahead were not to be taken lightly.

Remy saw it in the way others adjusted their supplies. The way animals were checked more carefully. The way conversations shifted from idle talk to measured planning.

He did the same.

"Rest well," he told the company. "We move through the pass soon."

They understood.

Even those who had not yet seen it felt the change coming.

The nights were cold. Fires burned longer. Cloaks were drawn tighter. Sleep came harder for some, interrupted by the unfamiliar bite of the air.

Remy did not sleep deeply.

He rarely did.

The next morning, they moved.

The Cilician Gates awaited them.

The entrance to the pass did not announce itself with grandeur. It narrowed slowly, the land drawing inward until the path ran between walls of rising stone. Cliffs climbed on either side, their height imposing without effort. This was not open land. It was constrained by its very nature.

"Stay close," he said.

The company tightened.

Wagons moved more carefully. Horses stepped with greater caution, their movement restricted by the narrowing path.

The cliffs rose higher as they advanced.

Shadows pooled where sunlight could not reach.

Remy's gaze moved constantly.

This was a place where danger did not need to announce itself.

Bandits favored such terrain. He knew it. So did the others. The tension spread through the company without a word being spoken. Conversations ceased. Movements became deliberate.

They passed through without incident.

But Remy did not relax.

Not until the land opened again.

Pozantı came into view like a release of breath.

The first true stop beyond the mountains.

The difference was immediate. The air felt lighter. Movement less constrained. Travelers who had come through before them showed their relief openly. There was no reason to hide it.

Remy allowed the company to rest there.

They needed it.

The strain of the pass had taken more than physical effort. It had worn focus, and patience.

Here, they regained both.

Only briefly.

They moved again.

Tarsus followed.

The change was striking.

Palm trees lined parts of the approach, their presence marking a shift in climate and landscape. The air carried warmth again, but different from before, softer, more alive.

The city itself bore the marks of age.

Ruins stood among active streets. Roman stone remained where time had not fully claimed it. Trade moved through it with an energy that felt layered, built upon what had come before rather than replacing it.

Remy observed it all.

The mix of old and new. The way people moved through spaces shaped by centuries.

They did not remain long.

There was no reason to.

Adana lay ahead.

They reached it under a different sky.

The land around it was fertile, fed by the river that cut through it with steady purpose. Fields stretched outward, green and productive. The air carried warmth and moisture, a relief after the dry lands they had crossed.

Adana lived through its harvest. Cotton. Grain. The rhythms of the place were tied to what the earth gave rather than what the roads brought. Yet trade flowed through it as well, drawing a diversity of people that set it apart from the smaller settlements they had passed. Languages mixed. Customs overlapped.

Remy guided the company through its outskirts.

He did not take them deep within.

There was no need.

They had come far.

Further still lay ahead.