Those Who Move
The sun had yet to set, but the castle gates were already shut tight, strictly barring outsiders.
More than twice the usual number of torches hung along the walls, brightly illuminating the surroundings, while the soldiers stood guard with sharpened vigilance.
Even the horses in the stables had been driven outside the castle, lest some small noise become a problem.
As if walking over thin ice, the people within the castle made not even the sound of footsteps, and there was only one place bustling with movement.
“Allahu Akbar.”
As the birth drew near, the midwives who had brought in a birthing chair with a hole in the seat reverently offered prayers to God.
In Islam, the process from pregnancy to childbirth was regarded as jihad, a sacred struggle, and was considered so important that a mother who lost her life in childbirth was called a martyr.
With hearts as devout as if they were presiding over an important rite, the midwives set to work in earnest, and before long Ayshe’s screams rang through the castle.
How many hours had it already been?
The labor pains had begun during the day, yet even now, with the sky dyed pitch-black, no proper news had come.
Maintaining his composure as best he could, Yusuf asked Şemsi, who was drinking substitute coffee with him.
“Did you say the Pasha’s child is studying in Kostantiniyye?”
“That is correct.”
The capital gathered the finest educational institutions, and if one’s parents had a measure of renown, like Suleiman or Yahya, they would send their children to the capital for their education, so there was nothing particularly unusual about it.
Come to think of it, he did not seem to have taken much interest in the personal affairs of Şemsi, who could be called one of his closest aides.
Though much of that was because Şemsi rarely spoke of private matters.
“The Pasha’s son, is it? When I visited the capital, I should have met him once.”
“He is still a child with many shortcomings to catch Your Highness’s eye.”
“If he resembles you, Pasha, then he should still be worth looking forward to.”
If possible, Yusuf hoped he had not inherited that expressionless face.
Having to struggle to read Şemsi’s expression alone was enough for him.
“How did it feel when you had your first child?”
“I believe I was anxious then as well. When I held my son in my arms, I offered a prayer of thanks to God.”
Şemsi, openly expressing emotion? Frankly, Yusuf could not imagine it.
Having said that, Şemsi took a sip of the substitute coffee to wet his throat, then spoke.
“Still, if I may offer advice as one who became a parent before you, it is that Allah may take back at any time the gift He has given.”
It would not have been unreasonable to grow angry at such ominous words on an important day, but it was also necessary advice.
A ruler had to maintain reason at all times.
Even if it was the death of a child he had regarded as Allah’s gift.
When a heavy silence settled over them, the news they had been waiting for came with a knock.
—Your Highness, they say the delivery is over.
There were many things he wanted to ask—whether Ayshe and the child were all right, what the child’s sex was—but Yusuf merely rose from his seat.
Those were matters he could learn by seeing for himself.
With a stiff expression, Yusuf crossed the corridor and entered the room where Ayshe was.
“You have come?”
Seeing Fatima greet him with a smile, the result was easy to guess.
“It is a son, then.”
It might sound cold, but though Islam taught that men and women were equal in name, this was an age when preference for sons was rampant.
If it had been a daughter, Fatima would not have been cradling the child so dearly with a smiling face.
“Yes, it is a boy.”
Fatima carefully placed the child, wrapped in a white swaddling cloth and an infant’s outer garment, into his arms.
On the child’s clothing hung an amulet called a boncuk, a blue bead painted with a white and black eye, meant to drive away evil spirits.
Holding the weighty child in his arms, Yusuf gazed at him closely.
Perhaps because he had been washed and sprinkled with salt according to tradition, there was no unpleasant smell, and honey had been applied to his lips in the hope that he would speak sweet and beautiful words.
He had been adorned in his own way, but frankly, a newborn was just a lump of flesh that could not even open its eyes.
It was not a face one could call cute even as empty flattery, yet it gave Yusuf a strange feeling.
“They say Ayshe and the child are both all right?”
At Yusuf’s question, Fatima nodded.
“Fortunately, they say both are safe. Of course, we will have to keep watching Ayshe a while longer.”
It was an age when one in four mothers died of puerperal fever, and childbirth was judged to be more dangerous than going to war.
Of course, any experienced midwife knew enough to keep outsiders away and use boiled water and clean cloth, but that alone was not enough to completely prevent infection.
Yusuf, who had ordered just in case that they disinfect with strong distilled liquor, shook off his worry and said,
“Ayshe will be fine.”
“Yes, I think so too.”
Yusuf looked down at the squirming child and thought.
‘How long will you be able to survive?’
The child might die before he even passed through infancy, when children died the most, and if Yusuf failed to become sultan, he might be murdered by Selim or one of the other brothers.
Even if Yusuf did become sultan, he might die in a struggle with other brothers yet to be born.
No one knew the future.
“Try to survive as long as you can, Mehmet.”
∗ ∗ ∗
As if by prior agreement, the princes reduced their public activities and shut themselves away in their respective sanjaks.
From the outside, it seemed as though peace had arrived, but those sensitive to the political situation felt it was the calm before the storm.
In the shadows, a fierce battle was already underway.
Espionage to dig out information and counterintelligence to prevent information leaks were being carried out, and situations of blood washing away blood repeated themselves quite literally.
In Trabzon alone, no one found it strange anymore when corpses occasionally washed into the harbor.
Yusuf, who had more secrets than his other brothers, focused more on counterintelligence than espionage, but that did not mean he had let go of outside information.
“My brothers are so busy.”
He did not know whether he was lucky or whether the spies he had sent were exceptionally capable, but he was able to know where his brothers were playing their tricks.
“So Selim was most concerned about Mehmed after all.”
Including Abdullah, who had died first, Mehmed was the sixth brother, and he was the sanjakbey of Kefe, which bordered the Crimean Khanate.
Originally, he was the one who would have entered a political marriage with the Crimean Khanate in Selim’s place.
Kefe, in the northern Black Sea, was situated in a place that interfered with relations with the Crimean Khanate, and there was also the possibility that the Crimean Khanate might have an affair with Mehmed, so he was worth eliminating.
“Korkut still seems unable to let go of his obsession with Saruhan.”
His obsession was so severe that he was targeting Mahmud, newly appointed as the sanjakbey of Saruhan.
Well, it was only natural. He had to fling away the stone that had rolled in if he wanted to return.
“At this rate, the sixth and below will all die soon, just as in history.”
Even if they were of Ottoman blood, it was not as though only monsters like Selim or Suleiman were born.
That was why they did not even know that Alemshah, who had gone ahead of them, was beckoning from Allah’s side.
Putting aside thoughts of brothers who did not interest him much, Yusuf jabbed a point on the map.
“The unexpected one is Ahmed. I didn’t think he would show interest in Shehinshah.”
The spies Ahmed had sent were coming and going from Konya, Shehinshah’s territory.
He did not know what they were doing, but considering the brotherly affection among the princes, it was unlikely to be anything good.
Yusuf knew little about Shehinshah, so it was difficult to make a separate judgment, and after pondering for a moment, he thought of it simply.
“If he gets caught in some scheme and dies, that’s good. If not, then so be it.”
Yusuf’s power was already large enough that he would not feel threatened just because one or two more princes were added.
Circassia and Georgia were already widely known as Yusuf’s allied forces.
Circassia, which had no choice from the beginning, and Georgia, which had been struck with the whip of conquest and forced to go all-in on Yusuf, were in effect a community of shared fate.
‘Dukagjinizade Ahmed, who asked me to help him become a sanjakbey, also became the sanjakbey of Ankara, just as in history.’
If an Ottoman child survived until forty days after birth, a rite called the Forty Hammam was held in a Turkish bath known as a hammam, where the child, the mother, and the midwives invited relatives and neighbors to enjoy themselves in the hammam.
Not long after that rite, a congratulatory gift sent by Ahmed had arrived, showing just how friendly he was.
‘That does not mean I can trust him with certainty, though.’
If he could not even properly trust family, how could he trust someone he had met only once?
It was easier to think of him simply as a neutral party who would side with him if the conditions suited him.
On top of that, it was time for another gift from Ahmed to arrive.
—Lord Yusuf, a guest from the capital requests an audience with you.
“Show them in.”
He had already heard that they had arrived at the harbor.
At Yusuf’s permission, the door opened, and a woman with her face wrapped in a hijab entered, followed by two maids.
The woman, of whom only blue eyes could be seen, paid her respects to Yusuf.
“I greet Your Highness Prince Yusuf. I am Hatice, daughter of Hersekzade Ahmed Pasha.”
Whether she was truly his daughter or not, one could tell how much education she had received just by watching how she paid her respects.
“You have endured a long journey.”
“Thank you for your hospitality.”
When Hatice answered politely, the door, not yet properly closed, opened again, and women including Fatima entered.
“So, you said you were Hatice? I am Fatima Hatun.”
“I look forward to your guidance from now on, Lady Fatima.”
Perhaps her first impression was not too bad, for Fatima nodded readily.
After all, from Fatima’s point of view, there was nothing bad about her son’s harem increasing in number.
However, that was not the case for the one who greeted her next.
“I am pleased to meet you as well. I am Ayshe.”
There was a chill in Ayshe’s voice, and Hatice, curving her eyes slightly, removed her hijab when she saw that aside from Yusuf, there were only women in the room.
Hatice, whose flowing black hair was neatly arranged, was a beauty with an elegant impression, and she politely greeted Ayshe.
“As a fellow woman of Prince Yusuf, I look forward to your guidance.”
Having placed herself on equal footing with Ayshe, Hatice gave a radiant smile.
∗ ∗ ∗
Shehinshah anxiously drummed his fingers on the chair.
To ignorant fools, the status of prince might seem enviable, but to him, it was a nightmare.
To have to kill all his other brothers and become Sultan just to survive was far too heavy a fate.
It was not strange that he had turned to drink to overcome this burden. On days he was thoroughly drunk, he could sleep in peace.
But he ought not to have reached for anything beyond drink.
“Paredin, Paredin! Why do you not come?”
Shehinsha desperately searched for Paredin, his physician and the one who had first recommended opium to him.
Though it had not been long since he had partaken himself, he was already addicted to the opium that had burrowed into his weak mind.
As Shehinsha felt anxiety and agitation, a knock reached his ears.
“Prince Shehinsha, a guest has come to see you.”
“A guest? I do not need one! Is there no word of Paredin?”
Shehinsha had no intention of meeting the guest, whoever it might be, and refused firmly, but he changed his mind at the following words.
“He says he has come bearing news of Paredin.”
“Show him in!”
The middle-aged man who entered upon permission was someone Shehinsha was seeing for the first time, and judging by the rings on his hands and the clothes he wore, it was not difficult to discern that he was a wealthy merchant.
Shehinsha calmed his heart, which was racing of its own accord, and asked.
“Who are you? You know news of Paredin?”
“It is an honor to meet you, Your Highness. I am called Isyubat, a merchant.”
“Very well, Isyubat. Where is Paredin now?”
At Shehinsha’s question, Isyubat bowed his head politely.
“You must not keep him close. He is a minion who takes orders from Ahmed.”
“…My older brother’s?”
Shehinsha furrowed his brow.
He could believe it was possible, but it was not something he wanted to readily accept.
“Who are you?”
To Shehinsha’s cold question, Isyubat answered.
“I am Isyubat Bey, who serves Shah Ismail. I have come to aid you, Shehinsha, by the Shah’s command.”
Seeing the surprised Shehinsha, Isyubat formed a soft smile.
“Become the master of the Ottomans.”
For the glory of Shah Ismail.
∗ ∗ ∗
Aishe and Hatis had been at odds from their first meeting, but Yusuf did not mind greatly.
Once a prince ascended to the throne of Sultan, the fate of a woman who became a harem consort was one of two.
Either she would enjoy glory together with a son who became Sultan, or clutch the corpse of a son defeated in the war of succession and live exiled in some remote frontier.
‘Since Mehmet has been born, I must think of Aishe as a mother before she is my woman.’
It was only natural to keep in check elements that could endanger his own child.
And if one considered only value, Aishe was greater than Hatis.
Not only was it uncertain whether Hatis was truly the daughter of Grand Vizier Ahmed, but even if it were true, daughters in this era could become political scapegoats at any time.
Hatis was literally a gift for the sake of amity, and such a shallow friendship could easily go awry.
On the other hand, though Aishe was of slave origin, she held tremendous influence in Circassia. Which side was superior was clear.
‘That said, I have no intention of taking Aishe’s side, either.’
There had been far too many cases where affection for harem consorts influenced the selection of heirs to the point of birthing tyrants.
He could leave the matter of the concubines to Fatima. No matter how much the two schemed and crawled about, they could not compare to Fatima, who had survived in a ruthless harem for over a decade.
Indeed, just as Yusuf had thought, Fatima was keeping the two, who had shown an uneasy start, well under control.
Yusuf set aside his useless thoughts.
He had no time to waste agonizing over women’s matters.
It was already the year 1506, and if one turned their gaze beyond the Ottomans, where princes growled at one another, there were many matters worth noting.
In 1504, the Italian War waged by France and the Habsburgs over Italy had reached its conclusion.
Spain, which had struck France hard in the back, took the Kingdom of Naples in Italy.
This meant that among the titles the fledgling Charles V would inherit was that of ruler of Italy.
‘The depths of Ismail’s strength, despite having wasted his troops so greatly, remained astounding.’
In 1505, Ismail had occupied even the Hormuz region, familiar as the Strait of Hormuz.
The White Sheep Dynasty had lost so much territory that, by modern standards, it was barely maintaining its lifeline in the region of Iraq, including Baghdad.
‘Literally, it is merely keeping its lifeline.’
How long could a country that trembled at the mere sight of Ismail last?
It was at a level where internal division would occur on its own if left alone, so Ismail also thought of it as prey already caught.
In short, it meant Ismail had gained leisure, and it was time to turn his gaze to Dulkadir.
‘I can already see the signs of that happening.’
The soldiers who had advanced east were beginning to gather in the west, and the movements of spies presumed to be sent by Ismail had noticeably increased.
His brothers, too, seemed to sense the signs and were busily moving behind the scenes.
“Things are turning interesting.”
Yusuf clenched and unclenched his hand.
For all his knowledge, he did not have a perfect grasp of the era’s currents, but he knew that the princes were stepping to the forefront faster than in the original history.
This meant the conclusion of the war of succession could also come faster than before, and thinking so, his heart pounded.
‘Is it fear? Is it anticipation?’
What was certain was that he could not distinguish between the two.
It was just as Yusuf, who had truly lived as Yusuf and laughed drily that he had become fully Ottoman, was about to resume his work.
“Father.”
“Open the door.”
At Yusuf’s command, the firmly closed door opened, and a child with chubby cheeks slowly walked in.
“Mehmet, come here.”
Mehmet, who had come trotting over, stuck fast to his leg, and Yusuf lifted the child and seated him on the desk.
His eyes, calmly settled in an unchildlike manner, were a green that sparkled brilliantly like those of his parents, and dirty blonde hair poked out from beneath his disheveled turban.
“What brings you here at this hour?”
It was a difficult question to ask a child barely twenty months old, but Mehmet answered without difficulty.
“I wanted to see you.”
“Is that so?”
Yusuf smiled lightly at the clumsy voice and tidied the disheveled turban.
Perhaps thanks to excellent genes, his language development was faster than other children. If asked whether he was a genius, he could not answer with certainty.
‘Still, he must be smart. Everyone who has raised a child themselves said so.’
No matter how bright Mehmet was, it was uncertain whether he would inherit the Sultanate.
‘Since longevity is among my traits, I might live longer than Mehmet.’
Princes who lived happy lives under a long-lived king were rare.
Think of growing old and dying after a lifetime of nothing but torture by hope. How could one be happy?
Perhaps it would be grandsons, not sons, who fought the war of succession.
‘That would be quite interesting in its own way.’
He did not know how many children he would have from now on, but the possibility of having double-digit grandchildren was high.
It was a country that reused the same few names all the time, so cases of sharing the same name would be common. Even now, the name Suleiman was being used by the children of Ahmed and Selim.
“Father?”
Perhaps because his thoughts had stretched on a bit, Mehmet called out, tilting his head.
Yusuf answered, pinching Mehmet’s plump cheeks.
“It is nothing.”
Yusuf patted Mehmet’s head a few times as the child giggled as if tickled.
Time spent with the child was more enjoyable than he had thought, but he did not have time to play for long.
Yusuf set Mehmet down on the floor again.
“I shall play with you later. Return now.”
“…Yes.”
Though his face was slightly downcast, Mehmet returned without throwing a tantrum, unchildlike as it was.
Most of those who had come with Mehmet returned as well, but at Yusuf’s glance, one maidservant naturally remained.
“What happened before Mehmet came here? Speak without hiding anything.”
As mentioned before, it was the first time Mehmet had come at this busy hour while he was occupied with work.
There must surely have been a reason he came.
“Yes, before coming here, he exchanged a few words with Hatis.”
“The contents?”
“Hatis said that he might have a younger sibling.”
At these words, Yusuf burst into laughter.
Did he not know better than anyone the target he had to win over?
‘Certainly, it seems she is of no ordinary bloodline.’
He looked forward to the children that would be born from now on as well.
∗ ∗ ∗
His previous visit to the capital had yielded many benefits, but the greatest harvest had been establishing connections with the capital’s bureaucracy.
Thanks to that, he could roughly tell what atmosphere was flowing in the capital.
With Mehmet’s birth, he had been able to resolve the succession issue that had been pointed out as a weakness, and Yusuf’s standing among the bureaucrats had risen as well.
‘But if Mehmet dies, it is a standing that could be extinguished at any time.’
As Syomsi had warned, one never knew when a child might die.
Because it was an era where one in five died before reaching the age of five.
It was only natural to have relations with Hatis, who had newly become a concubine, and there had already been several nights spent together.
However, it was the first time she had come so suddenly at night like this.
“Hatis, what is the matter? I do not recall summoning you tonight.”
It was a cold remark to the point that one would not think they had ever been intimate, but to Yusuf, it was a natural reaction.
The harem’s conjugal relations were managed by Fatima, and this was an act that ignored her authority.
As if she had anticipated Yusuf’s sharp reaction, Hatis, with an unwavering face, quietly knelt.
“Your Highness, I have a request.”
“A request so important that you must seek me out alone in the late night?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
If it was a request of little importance, he had no intention of letting it pass easily, even if it was Hatis with whom he had spent many nights.
Even at a moment when she could be rebuked, Hatis answered without fear.
“Please punish the two attendants who followed me here.”
At the unexpected answer, the corners of Yusuf’s mouth rose.
Because it meant she was cutting off, by her own hand, the two people who could be called hers within the palace.
“The reason?”
“Those two are reporting information about Your Highness to their father.”
Having spoken thus, Hatis bowed her head deeply, and Yusuf spoke as if it were no great matter.
“I already know.”
Trabzon was not so lax a place that two servants who had entered openly could play the role of spies.
At best, the information they had extracted was closer to trivial personal gossip—content so harmless that Hatis could have written it in a greeting letter—so he simply left them be.
“You are asking me to punish them because you know I am aware of this. Am I wrong?”
“…You are not.”
At Yusuf’s attitude, which seemed as though he were watching a spectacle, Hatis bowed her head even deeper.
Still, it could be said that her voluntary confession took courage, which was commendable.
“So, what punishment do you wish me to deliver?”
“Behead those two.”
It was an excessive punishment for the information they had extracted, even though she could have asked for leniency.
Of course, killing two mere slave servants was no difficult task.
“And if executing them causes a rift with the Grand Vizier?”
“That will not happen. Reporting their actions to Your Highness and having them punished is all part of my father’s plan.”
Yusuf smiled as if intrigued.
“He told you to earn my trust in this manner?”
“That is correct. He said that since Your Highness is not one to easily trust people, I must earn your trust by any means, even like this.”
It was a method that could backfire depending on the person, but the Grand Vizier had a better eye for people than expected.
For it was a method that worked quite well on him.
“But why did you report even these details to me? It would have been better to hide them.”
“I am now Your Highness’s woman, not my father’s. And—”
Hatis paused briefly, let out a light sigh, and spoke.
“Did Your Highness not anticipate even such facts?”
Yusuf smiled gently.
A clever woman. Seeing how deftly she found a place to survive.
∗ ∗ ∗
The Sanjak of Kefe was an important region occupying the narrow waterway connecting the inland Sea of Azov and the Black Sea.
Just as one could not enter the Black Sea without passing Constantinople, one could not pass through the Sea of Azov without passing Kefe.
Geographically, it was one of the ports the Ottomans considered most important, and accordingly, it was a wealthy region.
Mehmed, who governed such a Kefe, took the clothes and tilted his head.
“I don’t think I’ve seen these clothes before. Where did they come from?”
Precious fabric was worth more than ordinary jewels.
They were clothes expensive enough to slightly surprise even Mehmed, who had seen many garments while governing Kefe, and the maid answered politely.
“These are clothes presented as a gift to Your Highness by a merchant who arrived some time ago.”
“Is that so? I should meet him once.”
“He was a merchant who had been active in Kefe for some time, but I understand he left after sending the gift. He said he had gained great profit thanks to Your Highness and that, should he visit again, he would most certainly like to pay his respects.”
Thinking it rather strange that someone would give such a gift and ask nothing great in return, Mehmed draped the clothes over himself.
At the soft, wrapping sensation, Mehmed smiled faintly.
Not long after, smallpox swept through Kefe.
∗ ∗ ∗
He knew that since Selim’s spies who had been staying in Kefe had all slipped away at once, they had achieved their intended goal.
However, because he had not known what they were plotting, he had been on high alert; upon hearing the news that smallpox was spreading from Kefe, Yusuf was slightly surprised.
‘No matter how much history repeats itself, of all places, germ warfare at Kefe…’
In 1346, one hundred and sixty years ago, the Mongol Empire had attempted to capture Caffa, located on the coast of the Black Sea.
However, while waging a siege, the Black Death began to spread within the Mongol army, and the Mongols threw soldiers who had died of the epidemic into the fortress of Caffa via catapults.
The Black Death began to spread in Caffa, and Genoese merchant ships that fled Caffa arrived in Sicily in southern Italy, causing the Black Death to spread throughout Europe.
It was the beginning of the medieval Black Death, which killed one-third of Europe’s population in just a few years, and an event regarded as the first instance of biological warfare in human history.
‘And Caffa and Kefe are the same city.’
In the end, at the very place that had suffered the world’s first biological warfare, history was repeating itself, albeit with a different disease.
An emergency meeting was convened as soon as the information came in, and Yusuf asked Somsi,
“Pasha, so what is the current situation in Kefe?”
“All ships departing from Kefe have been barred from entering port, and Kefe has been placed under lockdown.”
It was the most textbook measure, and a necessary one.
Smallpox was not a highly contagious disease, but because Kefe was a trade port, it could spread to distant places via ships.
“Are there no other measures?”
“They intend to inoculate the people of Kefe with cowpox, following the Circassian precedent.”
Inoculation was a preventive method, not a cure. However, by vaccinating those not yet infected, a state of herd immunity could be created.
“Then let us dispatch the cowpox vaccine and doctors that we have as well.”
“Understood.”
“And what of Mehmed’s condition?”
“As the outbreak spread from Kefe Fortress, the possibility of his infection is high.”
“Even if he survives by luck, his chances of ascending to the Sultanate have practically vanished.”
What made smallpox fearsome was that even if one survived, the majority were left with pockmarks.
They were terribly hideous scars, and no one would push a prince with pockmarked cheeks to become Sultan when there were perfectly fine princes available.
‘He brought this upon himself.’
Admittedly, the current Sultan, Bayezid, had proclaimed the implementation of inoculation.
It was a natural decision for a ruler; even if the cowpox inoculation proved to be a wasted effort, considering the damage that smallpox could cause, it was better to attempt it.
However, the Ottomans, who recognized local autonomy, left the actual adoption to discretion, and the princes who were Yusuf’s rivals had rejected its introduction, questioning its reliability.
And this was the result.
“It is a good thing to have one fewer competitor, but this is something Elder Brother Selim has done, is it not?”
“Judging by the circumstances, it is so. The timing of the spies’ departure and the outbreak of smallpox coincide.”
“If so, there must be a reason he went so far as to use smallpox.”
The spread of smallpox in Kefe was favorable news for Yusuf.
Even though inoculation had been implemented, doubts about its effectiveness had always remained; through this opportunity, its efficacy could be proven.
The problem was why Selim, who would obviously know this, had used smallpox.
“He is a man who prefers a method that will kill for certain, rather than one that merely has a chance of killing.”
“There is surely also the fact that it is difficult to kill him directly.”
Indeed, a prince who could not even save his own life in his inner quarters could not have survived until now.
To be honest, using smallpox was something no one could have predicted, so that aside.
“Moreover, suspicion could be cast upon the person who stands to gain the most from this affair.”
“If rumors are spread using the spies, it will look as though I orchestrated it.”
If it were simply killing another prince, the victim would be judged a fool, but if an epidemic were used, one could be heavily denounced.
But neither Yusuf nor Somsi showed great signs of worry.
“It is fortunate that preparations have already been made. Is it not, Pasha?”
“That is correct. If baseless rumors begin to circulate, I shall send to the Padishah the letters in which you repeatedly recommended inoculation but were refused.”
They could not completely shed suspicion, but if they used the logic that one would not repeatedly make such offers to someone they intended to kill with smallpox, it would not be a great problem.
Selim would not know that such letters had been exchanged. They had not been sent to Selim or Ahmed.
‘It would truly be a welcome thing if those two died of smallpox.’
In any case, the fact that Selim had used smallpox as an assassination method also meant that he had secretly been vaccinated while publicly claiming he had not received it.
This meant there would be no happy ending where his greatest rival, Selim, conveniently died of smallpox.
‘Nor had he prepared these letters expecting smallpox to be used as an assassination method.’
They were simply letters prepared to avoid groundless misunderstandings, like a pear falling when a crow flew by.
He had not expected them to prove so useful.
Yusuf, concluding the hastily convened meeting, let out a light breath.
“At last, my elder brothers have begun to move in earnest.”
“The Padishah has also reached the age where he must settle his succession.”
Bayezid was sixty years old this year; by Korean reckoning, he was of an age to hold a sixtieth-birthday celebration next year.
Of course, even in this era there were people who lived to one hundred, but it was also an age where it would not be strange if he died at any time.
For even Ahmed, the eldest of the brothers, was over forty.
Uncharacteristically, Yusuf asked Somsi on impulse.
“Pasha, do you think I can become the master of the Empire?”
“Are you afraid?”
Normally, he would have said no.
No matter how trusted a confidant the other might be, no matter how beloved, he had thought that one must not rashly reveal one’s emotions.
Perhaps it was closer to an obsession.
A war of succession was something where one could lose one’s life over the smallest crack, and he had to show the appearance of a ruler that the people of this era desired.
“I cannot say I am not worried at all. Do you think that is wrong?”
At Yusuf’s question, Somsi smiled faintly.
“Where is the person without fear? Even Muhammad, the final prophet, is said to have felt extreme anxiety and fear when he first met the angel Gabriel, thinking he had been bewitched by Satan—to the point of wanting to throw himself off a cliff.”
“But no one wants a weak ruler consumed by fear. Is that not so?”
“I do not mean to reveal it to everyone. I mean only that you need not bear it alone in your heart. When Muhammad felt fear, he received the help of his wife, Khadija. Your Highness is not alone.”
At these words, the first to come to mind was Ayse.
Since her confession, he had come to think of Hatis as his wife as well, but compared to Ayse, the years they had accumulated were different.
And his mother, Fatima, was also an unwavering ally.
“Yes… that is so.”
Yusuf nodded.
Of course, hearing such words did not mean he intended to bare his true feelings, but once he thought there was no need to live quite so much like an Ottoman royal, he felt considerably more at ease.
Seeing Yusuf’s face, which had been stiff and rigid of late, soften a little, Şemsi asked,
“Then are there no additional orders, Your Highness?”
“There are. Dispatch those who will carry out the cowpox vaccinations as quickly as possible. There is no need for needless sacrifices to increase. And.”
Yusuf let the end of his sentence trail slightly before continuing.
“See to it that Mehmed does not survive by some stroke of luck.”
If his brother was only going to tremble in fear while waiting for the day he died, then cutting off that breath was mercy—and brotherly affection between princes.
Whether Mehmed would want it or not was another matter.
∗ ∗ ∗
Mehmed, who held the sanjak of Kefe, was not particularly fortunate.
In the end, Mehmed lost his life to smallpox, and as personnel from Trabzon, acting under Yusuf’s orders, were dispatched to Kefe, the epidemic quickly began to subside.
The capital was ablaze with two topics. The first was the effectiveness of vaccination, proven in Kefe.
Considering past cases, smallpox had been brought to an end far more quickly, so its effect had, for all intents and purposes, been proven.
As people no longer needed to fear smallpox, Yusuf’s reputation rose greatly.
The other was the suspicion that it had been Yusuf who had spread smallpox in Kefe.
However, this rumor remained only a faint suspicion after the Sultan, who had received the letters exchanged between Prince Mehmed and Yusuf, dismissed the allegations.
There were now six surviving princes, and after Mehmed’s death, the princes attracting attention in the capital were divided into three.
Ahmed, the eldest and secure in the matter of succession thanks to his many sons, saw his standing rise sharply after forming an alliance with Korkut.
Although Mehmed II had enacted the law of fratricide, making it legal for princes to kill one another, not everyone looked favorably upon it.
Those who criticized the great bloodshed that came with every war of succession supported Ahmed’s actions.
The one evaluated next most highly was Yusuf.
Though he was the youngest, scholarly circles were in an uproar over the newly recognized method of vaccination.
On top of that, he had the support of the military thanks to the great victory he had won against Ismail, and as the cement recently said to have been developed by Yusuf began to be supplied to the fortresses on the front lines, his reputation within the army rose significantly.
Last of all, Selim’s evaluation improved after he entered into a political marriage with the Crimean Khanate, which had expanded its territory explosively over the past few years.
Although he had shown no outstanding achievements, if the Crimean Khanate intervened in the war of succession, tens of thousands of cavalry would support Selim, making him worthy of being counted among the leading candidates.
Six princes were still alive, but in effect, the field of candidates had narrowed to three.
Though he had taken another great stride closer to the throne of Sultan, Yusuf never let his guard down.
Because he knew that unexpected variables could arise at any time.
That was why, through the informants he had scattered across the Ottoman realm, he was able to learn an interesting fact.
“The Turkmen have begun gathering in Şehinşah’s domain.”
The Turkic peoples included many groups—Turks, Uyghurs, Kyrgyz, Kazakhs, and others—and among them were the Turkmen.
Of course, this was an era before nationalism had been born, so there was no concept of them all being one and the same nation.
In any case, the Turkmen were a headache for the Ottomans. The Qizilbash, supporters of Ismail, were these very Turkmen.
‘And not simply because they are Shiites like Ismail.’
They were a nomadic people.
They roamed across the Ottoman realm, paid no proper taxes, and did not submit to Ottoman rule.
In effect, they were as troublesome as a thorn lodged in one’s throat.
He had been paying attention because such people were cautiously gathering around Şehinşah, and then he learned one more interesting fact.
“Şehinşah and Şahkulu met, did they? Things are taking an interesting turn.”
Şahkulu, whose rebellion had created the pretext for the princes to rise up, had met Şehinşah. That meant one thing.
“So you are finally moving again, Ismail.”
War was approaching.