Donning the Mask of Wrath
Early cannons were so dangerous that allied troops behind them faced greater peril than the enemy ahead, and they were closer to weapons that startled foes with their sound than instruments for killing them.
Conversely, for enemies unfamiliar with gunpowder, the sound of the cannons—akin to that of a stun grenade—had served as a weapon in itself.
This was why the soldiers, turning their heads at the thunderous roar that drowned out the sounds of the fierce siege, received an enormous shock upon seeing Samcheuhe’s fleet being sucked into the sea along with the explosions.
For it was a sight as though divine punishment were being delivered from the heavens.
It was the thunderous voices that roused the soldiers, who stood frozen as if time itself had stopped under the shock to their hearing and sight.
“They’re friendly forces! The Padishah has come to save us!”
“Have courage! The Sultan has arrived!”
The defenders of Trabzon, who had been holding out with desperate fury, erupted in cheers at their commanders’ shouts, while the Qizilbash, who had believed victory was at hand, fell into chaos.
Even Ismail, who prided himself on his strong will, felt confusion at the present situation.
“How is the enemy fleet here! What have those Venetian bastards done!”
It should not be the Ottoman fleet here; it was not even some other relief force.
Because they should have been fighting the fleets of the West, including Venice.
He had even received reports that the enemy fleet had departed from Constantinople; for them to appear here was utterly incomprehensible.
“Your Majesty! That is not what matters now! Please give the order!”
“You must give the order!”
At the shouts of the commanders, including Mohammad, Ismail steadied his wavering mind.
Because, as they said, there was no time to waste foolishly.
‘There are three choices that come to mind immediately.’
The first was to break through the half-collapsed inner fortress and achieve his goal in the gap before the enemy soldiers could disembark, for although the enemy fleet was right before his eyes, they would need considerable time to land.
This risked turning him into a rat in a trap, so he immediately discarded it.
The second was to face the enemy disembarking from the fleet. The numbers of troops might be roughly equal, but—
‘This won’t do.’
The numbers might be equal, but they had been fighting a continuous siege and were exhausted.
Furthermore, since the enemy too was armed with gunpowder, the best he could hope for was mutual annihilation, leaving only one choice.
Ismail gritted his teeth and shouted.
“…We retreat!”
“Retreat! Sound the drums! Retreat!”
At Ismail’s command, the drums signaling retreat resounded, and the Qizilbash who had been clinging to the castle walls fled in haste.
As the enemy withdrew, cheers spread throughout Trabzon Castle.
“If only I had just one more day.”
Then he could have planted his flag in Trabzon, and there would have been no need to flee so wretchedly.
With bloodshot eyes glaring at Trabzon as if to sear it into his memory, Ismail called out a man’s name.
“Manuchehr!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The man, knowing why his name had been called, gave a respectful salute.
“I shall give you a thousand troops. Stop the enemy.”
“Understood. I shall clear the path for Your Majesty.”
Having received his role in a grave voice, Manuchehr gazed for a long while at his master’s face—the last time he would ever see it in this world—before turning away.
It was a mission tantamount to suicide, and not one to be entrusted to someone with shallow loyalty.
Feeling as though one of his arms were being torn off, Ismail watched the approaching fleet.
He did not know where Yusuf was aboard, nor was he certain that Yusuf was even there, but it felt as though their eyes had met.
“Do not think this is the end, Yusuf.”
Because this was merely a skirmish, nothing more.
∗ ∗ ∗
From atop the lead carrack, Yusuf watched the enemy army receding into the distance with calm eyes.
As expected of the Qizilbash tempered through countless battles, even their retreat on horseback was executed with perfect discipline.
While Yusuf watched the retreating enemies, the Janissary Aga, the commander-in-chief, approached and knelt.
“I have committed a mortal sin, Your Majesty! I have let the enemy escape in vain!”
“It is done. I was watching with my own eyes.”
Unfortunately, although the fleet carried soldiers numbering up to twenty thousand, there was not a single horse.
Because to load even one horse, ten soldiers would have had to disembark from the ship.
Many enemies had died due to the fierce siege, but they still numbered over twenty thousand, and there were insufficient horses to pursue them.
He should have seized them by the ankles before they mounted their horses.
‘I suppose the Qizilbash are truly the Qizilbash after all.’
The enemy was so tenacious in their desperate struggle to buy time that they had even fired cannons toward the harbor, so missing the main force was unavoidable.
The remaining remnants waged street fighting to burn their last lives away, and to suppress them, screams and shouts could still be heard inside Trabzon Castle.
“Your Majesty, the cleanup is complete.”
Quite some time had passed since Ismail had left in a cloud of dust, and upon hearing that all enemies had been eliminated after a thorough sweep of the city, Yusuf disembarked from the ship.
“The damage is great.”
The walls, which had been reinforced repeatedly, had crumbled wretchedly, and buildings he had seen countless times had collapsed into heaps.
The dead who had fallen defending the city filled a vast open space, a testament to how desperately they had held out.
Following the path where the accompanying central army stood in strict vigil, he reached the inner fortress where the blood had not yet fully dried.
“We greet the Padishah!”
-We greet the Padishah!
At the front, Arda knelt and performed a salute, and the soldiers and subjects who had come out even beyond the castle walls awkwardly followed suit.
The battle must have been fierce; a long scar marred the face of Arda, the commander, and the majority of soldiers had bandages wrapped tightly around them with blood seeping through.
“You have worked hard.”
“Not at all. I merely did what had to be done.”
After lightly patting Arda’s shoulder in commendation, Yusuf looked at those who were cautiously and furtively raising their heads.
To dare look upon the Sultan’s face recklessly was a crime worthy of severe punishment, but in these people’s memories, Yusuf was not the Sultan but the sanjak-bey with whom they had spent long years.
That desire to see his face after so long was not entirely unpleasant, so Yusuf shouted loudly.
“Everyone, raise your heads!”
As they raised their heads at the command, Yusuf met eyes with the subjects and declared.
“By Allah, never again shall the enemy’s foot tread upon this Trabzon Castle! All of you have worked hard!”
At these words, some burst into tears at the thought that the terrible times had finally ended, while others wept as they remembered family and acquaintances who had met death in this battle.
Cheers and tears blended together, echoing through Trabzon Castle, and Yusuf moved his heavy steps to that sound.
Because he wanted to meet those whom so many people had defended at the cost of their lives.
The inner fortress was packed with those who had taken shelter, and after leaving some words of light comfort to them, Yusuf stepped into the castle where he had resided for a long time.
“We greet the Padishah.”
“It has been a while. Nene, and Hasan.”
In the time they had not seen each other, wrinkles had slightly increased on Nene’s face, and despite being newlywed, Hasan had lost more weight.
“It is an honor to see you in such good health.”
“I am glad you are both unharmed. Especially you, Nene. Had you been injured, I would have had no face to show my mother.”
“It is thanks to both of your kindnesses.”
Nene smiled softly and carefully stepped aside, and behind her, three women walked gracefully into view.
“Y-Your Majesty.”
“Come here.”
Yusuf beckoned to the two women calling to him in trembling voices and lightly embraced Aisha and Hatice.
Yusuf lightly patted the two women’s backs, then looked down at the child lifting her tiny face between them.
“Hasna.”
“Kyah?”
Yusuf carefully took Hasna, who was blinking her round eyes as she looked up.
Although he had hugged his sons Mehmed and Murat to his heart’s content before, the feeling of holding his daughter Hasna in his arms was completely different.
Meeting the pupils that resembled him and Aisha, a small smile formed naturally.
‘Is it because she is not a child who will take my place?’
It was a wondrous feeling.
It was enough to make him understand how Suleiman felt, taking his daughter Mihrimah along on every campaign and doting on her.
“I am your father.”
“Ah? Ah!”
Could she have understood these words?
Yusuf lightly patted the back of Hasna, who laughed aloud and rubbed her cheek against him, before returning the child to Aisha’s arms.
He wanted to spend more time with his daughter whom he was meeting for the first time since her birth, but he did not have the leisure.
“Shemsi Pasha!”
“Yes, Your Majesty!”
Shemsi, who had accompanied him in place of the Grand Vizier who needed to fill the Sultan’s absence in the capital, knelt, and Yusuf, his expression hardening coldly, gave the order.
“Muster the army.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Screech-grind!
As the water wheel turned, the boring machine connected to its gears began to rotate, cutting away at thick iron.
It was the process of making cannons with uniform bores, the result of Tahir and his team racking their brains for a long time.
A soft voice reached the ears of Suleiman, who was watching the scene with both fists clenched.
“Is this the thing my father ordered?”
Suleiman performed a salute at the voice that had not yet passed puberty.
“I greet Şehzade Mehmed.”
“There is no need to be overly formal. We are of the same blood.”
“Not at all. I am merely a pasha, not a şehzade.”
Meeting those calm, settled green pupils, Suleiman declined and felt a chill run down his spine.
Because those eyes resembled his, the one who had once given him both warmth and despair.
Mehmed smiled brightly as if it did not matter how Suleiman felt about him, and gazed blankly at the scene of the cannon being made.
As the silence grew slightly uncomfortable, Suleiman was the first to speak to Mehmed.
“Does Your Highness not worry about Aisha Hatun?”
“Worry? How could I not worry about my mother and my younger sibling? But since Father has gone, it must be needless worry.”
Suleiman found that answer frightening.
Worry belonged to the realm of emotion, and no matter how rationally one thought otherwise, it was not something that could be easily suppressed.
Those words meant that reason had complete command over emotion, and as that realization came to him anew, Suleiman felt fear—and with it, the urge to test this child.
“Then do you believe that if the Padishah simply saves Trabzon, all danger will be over?”
Mehmed, who had been staring fixedly at Suleiman as if trying to guess what thoughts lay behind such a question, answered.
“No. On the contrary, if things go wrong, we may fall into even greater danger from now on. Depending on Father’s choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the danger Shah Ismail has dug for us does not end here. Suleiman Pasha, did you not judge the same?”
At the observation of a mere seven-year-old, Suleiman felt chills rise over his skin and nodded heavily.
“If this incident greatly enrages the Padishah and he invades the Safavids, it will become an irreversible situation.”
“Because it would be a war without proper supplies prepared.”
When defending as they were now, there was no need to worry too much about supplies, but if they attacked, the story would be different.
Insufficient provisions, lengthening supply lines, and if the enemy even carried out scorched-earth tactics to prevent them from replenishing supplies through plunder, the Ottoman army would be trapped in an antlion’s pit.
“My father will judge rationally, no matter how angry he may be.”
If one searched through history books, there were countless cases of rulers suffering great defeats because of a moment’s emotion, but Mehmed’s words held firm belief.
The belief that Yusuf would not follow in those footsteps.
“Then fortunately, he will not attack.”
Suleiman spoke as if a burden of worry had been lifted, but Mehmed answered flatly.
“No. Not attacking and merely giving the enemy time is what amateurs do. It is not the correct answer.”
At Suleiman’s puzzled gaze, Mehmed raised the corners of his mouth.
“Father will dance to his tune.”
So that it gnaws away at him from within.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Padishah! An attack is dangerous when proper supplies have not even been prepared!”
“I know, so you need not worry. I am not that foolish. Shemsi Pasha.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
“I give you an order. Make it known throughout all Ottoman lands. Announce that the enraged Padishah has declared he will conquer Georgia and the Safavids.”
At the command that differed from what had just been said, Shemsi smiled faintly.
“Do you intend to wear the mask of rage?”
“I do. I must make that Ismail tremble in fear.”
Enough that he would be frightened in advance and choose scorched-earth tactics, burning his own lands himself.
Killing intent filled Yusuf’s green eyes.
“To do so, I will trample Georgia thoroughly.”
The traitor’s end had been decided.
∗ ∗ ∗
Living Yusuf’s life, he felt it often, but this truly was an era in which human life was terribly fleeting.
If one was kidnapped, one could be sold as a slave overnight, and if one lost a war, thousands or tens of thousands could be massacred.
A peddler could discover at any time that a village he had passed only a short while ago had become ruins, and a passing nomad might turn into a bandit and aim for one’s life at any moment.
As-salamu alaykum—one had to dwell on that greeting, meaning “may peace be upon you,” because one never knew when peace would be broken. This time, it had simply been Trabzon.
“Many have died.”
“I am sorry, Padishah.”
Of the four thousand troops defending Trabzon, three thousand had been killed or wounded, and of the fifteen thousand subjects, four thousand had become casualties.
Including those hovering between life and death, the dead numbered over three thousand, and for the restoration of Trabzon, bodies had to be cleared away all day long.
“You have nothing to apologize for. You fulfilled your role faithfully.”
He always felt this, but no matter how much knowledge of the future he had, it was no reason to underestimate the people of this age.
He still did not know why Venice had only made preparations and had not moved, but what would have happened if Venice had acted?
‘The fleet would have moved west, reinforcements would not have arrived in time, and Trabzon would have fallen.’
His two concubines and his daughter might have been taken prisoner by Ismail, or they might have taken their own lives before being captured.
In that situation, no matter what result followed, the Ottomans would inevitably be dragged around by the Safavids.
Whether through negotiations to rescue the captured women, or by waging war to show the Sultan’s dignity and the Ottomans’ continued strength.
The initiative would have passed to the other side, and the result would not have been particularly good for the Ottomans.
That was how lethal Ismail’s move had been.
‘And even though reinforcements arrived before it was too late, Arda’s ability to hold Ismail off until then cannot be called lacking in the slightest.’
No matter how much the civilians in the fortress had helped, he had endured for more than twenty days with four thousand soldiers against thirty thousand enemies.
Even if their siege weapons had been somewhat poor because they had brought supplies through Samtskhe, Arda’s achievement could not be belittled.
If even a man who would not have left so much as a name in the history books was like this, how could one look down on people of the past?
“Arda, I hear your son died in this war as well.”
“…My third son.”
“Your third would be Serdar, was it? He was a mischievous one. I remember him cutting off all the arrowheads from your arrows. Do you remember?”
“I do. Shamefully, he did it on the day I was to go hunting with the Padishah. How could I forget?”
It had been a day when every sort of ridicule had poured down on Arda as he stared at the arrows without heads and laughed in disbelief.
And Serdar had run all over Trabzon, fleeing Arda as he chased after him with a club.
“They say perhaps that hiding paid off, for he held out until the end.”
On the other hand, because he had inflicted that much damage, he had died in such a state that he was hard to recognize; if not for the broken sword laid beside him, they would not have found him at all.
Of course, Serdar was not the only one who had shown an especially heroic figure. They had been able to endure because there had been countless people who risked their lives.
“Shemsi Pasha.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
“Reward generously those who survived this battle. And we will build a mosque for the dead. Also, spread word of their deeds widely so that others may follow their example.”
“Understood.”
Yusuf looked at the corpses laid in makeshift coffins, then coldly turned away.
He was sorry to those who had died in this battle, but this was not a reward given out of pure feeling.
It was, quite literally, a measure to make them into an example.
It was to give people the belief that even if they died fighting for the nation, they need not worry about those left behind.
‘Patriotism cannot be built in an instant. It can be built slowly like this.’
This position was one in which even the sacrifices of many had to be used as political means.
With his heart slightly heavy, Yusuf changed the subject.
“Are preparations for the fleet’s return nearly complete?”
“Yes. All the cannons it was carrying have been unloaded, and except for a few supply ships that will take gunpowder and necessary provisions from the capital, all are ready to return to Gelibolu.”
“You have done well. Kemal Reis.”
There was no need to keep the fleet floating about in order to conquer Georgia, which was mostly inland.
It would merely be a waste of strength.
They only needed to take the cannons that could be used in sieges and field battles, and Yusuf gave Kemal an order.
“There may be provocations from the West. I will leave the judgment after that to you.”
“Please trust me and leave it in my hands.”
“And contact Urji as well. If the western fleets move, tell him to run wild to his heart’s content.”
When a vacuum appeared at sea, it was the pirates who grew excited.
“Urji and the other Barbary pirates will be delighted.”
“Even if the opportunity is there, how much of their share they take will depend on them.”
After giving a short answer, Yusuf patted Kemal on the shoulder a few times and returned to the fortress, where he picked up Hasna as she toddled toward him.
“Ah! Kyahaha.”
Seeing her laugh so brightly, he felt the heaviness in his heart ease a little, and toward Yusuf, who smiled faintly, the two women spoke as if jealous.
“No matter that she is my daughter, would you not spare me a glance as well?”
“Ayse Hatun is right. You do not show even a single smile to us so easily.”
At the two women glaring at him, Yusuf merely laughed it off.
After all, since arriving in Trabzon, he had kept Hasna close enough that it would not be strange for them to feel jealous.
“She is my daughter, but is she not a wondrous and special child?”
To every parent, their own child was special.
Because affection clouded one’s eyes, it was difficult to judge one’s child objectively; rather, it became hard to see just how special the child truly was.
Before Mehmed began studying in earnest, he had not had a sense of just how clever he was, and he had not known how outstanding a body Murad, born as a large healthy baby, possessed.
Was it because he had grown used to such things through the cases of those two children? For some reason, Hasna’s specialness quickly caught his eye.
‘It has been quite a long time since I thought I wanted to see someone every day like this.’
It was probably not simply because she was his daughter and had a pretty face.
For that, his emotions had been worn down too much by his past experiences.
“If you are already like this, how will you ever send her off to be married later?”
“That is something to think about when the time comes.”
Because he did not know how long this feeling would remain.
Still, one thing was certain: when this child reached marriageable age, the nation would likely become noisy in many ways.
‘Watching that will be entertaining too.’
After all, chances to keep beside him and observe a beauty said to topple kingdoms were not common.
While he was lightly spending time with Hasna, the Janissary agha guarding the fortress came to him.
“Padishah, an envoy has come from Samtskhe.”
“Is that so?”
For Samtskhe, it must feel as if fire had fallen on their feet.
The fact that Circassia had seized the port and that their entire fleet had become food for fish was not the problem.
If they could not somehow soothe Ottoman anger, their end was obvious.
“Ah?”
Hasna, seemingly hungry, nibbled on her fingers. Yusuf stroked her head and spoke in a gentle voice.
“Kill them all and hang their heads on the castle gate.”
Dozens of heads were set upon poles above the half-collapsed city gate.
∗ ∗ ∗
The value of a standing army lay in how many troops could be mustered, and how quickly.
In that respect, the Ottoman Empire stood among the foremost nations of the age.
When the call to arms was issued in Anatolia, the sipahis moved toward Trabzon in perfect order, as if they had been waiting for it, and began joining up one after another.
The Ottomans’ movements were extremely blatant, enough that those who always kept watch on their greatest enemy noticed almost at once.
“Doge! What do you intend to do now that matters have come to this!”
At the reproach from the envoy sent by the Papal States, Leonardo Loredan, the Doge of Venice, let out a sigh.
“Who could have foreseen that matters would come to this?”
“Had Venice moved its fleet, this disgrace could have been avoided! Do you not know what will happen if Safavid collapses at this rate?!”
The reason the Ottomans had not been able to move east at will was because the Mamluks and the Aq Qoyunlu had kept them in check.
Safavid had to take on that role in place of the Aq Qoyunlu, but at this rate, Safavid looked ready to collapse.
This was not a problem that would end with Safavid’s fall.
“Do you truly believe the Mamluks can stop the Ottomans?”
“…With our support, who can say?”
The Doge answered so, but inwardly a negative reply rose within him.
It was not that the Mamluks were weak. It was simply that their opponent was who he was.
For he thought that the infidel emperor who had never once experienced defeat would be difficult to overcome, even for the Mamluks with their mountains of gold.
“How can you place your trust in people panting as they dig uselessly into the ground?”
“You go too far. It is not useless.”
The Doge frowned.
Because of his own blunder, Portugal had gained command of the Indian Ocean, and as a result, Venice’s spice trade was in a position to suffer a major blow.
To make up for it, he had quickly concluded an agreement with the Mamluks to build a canal, so of course it was unpleasant when the envoy pointed that out now.
The envoy took one step back for the moment.
“Hoo, my words were too harsh. But you must understand this clearly. If Safavid collapses, the Mamluks will be next.”
If the Ottomans conquered even the Mamluks, Venice, which profited through Mediterranean trade, would inevitably suffer damage.
Under the envoy’s pressure, the Doge sighed.
“Very well. Though it is late, I will have the fleet move even now.”
He did not know how much help it would be, but if a fleet moved from the West, the Ottomans would not be able to attack Safavid with their full strength.
It was a decision meant to let them breathe, at least a little.
After the envoy withdrew, the Doge, left behind, shouted in anger.
“But where on earth did the envoy who went all the way to Safavid go!”
It was a decision made by those who had no idea that, unlike what he had boasted with his mouth, Yusuf had no intention whatsoever of setting foot on Safavid soil.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Aaaaargh! Damn it!”
What a position it had been, one he had finally grasped in his hands.
Qvarqvare hurled the wine cup in his hand against the wall.
The words of his uncle Mzechabuk, that he had made a foolish choice, rang in his ears, and the reality that made him realize those words were true was unbearable.
—We have brought Mzechabuk.
“Bring him in!”
Qvarqvare did not even realize that the servant, who had once called Mzechabuk a criminal, was now calling the man by his name.
Whether because prison life had not been easy, Mzechabuk entered with an unhealthy complexion, staggering, and sneered at the sight of his drunken nephew.
“How unsightly. And you acted as though you had gained the whole world. The stench of liquor is overpowering.”
“Shut your mouth. This is your last chance to live.”
Qvarqvare, swaying slightly from the drink, seized his uncle by the collar.
“Tell me at once how to stop the Ottomans. If you spent so long beside the Sultan, surely you know a way?!”
“A way to stop them? Khahahahaha.”
With a hoarse voice, Mzechabuk burst into laughter, and after laughing until he coughed and hacked, he answered.
“It is already too late. This is not something that can be resolved by laying down your life, or even mine as well. That is the kind of thing you have done. Do you understand, you fool?”
Feeling as though even the smallest hope had been severed, Qvarqvare’s hands began to tremble, and Mzechabuk spoke with despair and emptiness in his voice.
“Remember this clearly. It was you. The root cause that brought about the destruction of every great house in Georgia was you.”
The nightmare came striding near.
∗ ∗ ∗
The Venetian fleet, which had wasted ages doing nothing but preparing to set sail, finally moved.
Having been defeated in the previous naval battle against the Ottomans and suffered only enormous losses, Venice had taken that lesson to heart and did not move alone.
For the fleets of the Papal States and Spain moved with them.
‘Unexpected. Spain joined them? Since they took southern Italy, perhaps it is only natural.’
They had grown geographically closer to the Ottomans, so lending a hand to keep them in check was not especially strange.
At the news that had come from the capital, Shemsi asked carefully.
“What will you do?”
“Leave it be. Even if one more has joined than expected, it is not a particular problem. I will leave it to Kemal.”
Even if the three had allied, their strength was only comparable to his fleet’s, or inferior to it.
Just last year, Venice had been struck by the Duchy of Ferrara on Italian soil, losing ships including fifteen galleys to capture, with more than two thousand soldiers killed.
No matter that it was Venice, they could not immediately recover from such damage.
The Papal States, too, possessed authority but lacked practical military force, and did not have many ships they could mobilize.
As for Spain, having suffered so much at the hands of the Barbary pirates that they attacked Algiers, the pirates’ stronghold, whenever they had the chance, they did not appear especially enthusiastic either.
“They are enemies Kemal can handle on his own, and they likely do not truly intend to fight us.”
They could not afford to waste much time on other things while France had emerged as an immediate new threat.
Besides, the troops in the Balkans had not been moved in preparation for any unforeseen situation, so even if they were pushed back at sea, it would not cause any great disaster.
Seeing Shemsi agree with a stiff face, as though he found the West’s behavior deeply displeasing, Yusuf spoke leisurely.
“There is no need to take it so much to heart. Time is on our side. Once we conquer the Mamluks, those Venetians, merchants to the bone, will roll over and show their bellies. We can torment them then.”
“I apologize for troubling you with my concern.”
“It is fine.”
After all, Yusuf likewise disliked Venice, which would strike from behind and line its own pockets at every opportunity.
Having answered so, Yusuf looked out from the fortress.
Laborers who had flocked in from nearby cities were putting all their effort into restoring Trabzon, and what played the greatest role in that was, as expected, cement.
“Hasan, how much cement do we have in stock?”
“Thanks to the amount stockpiled in preparation for war, we have enough to use in restoring the walls, but I expect it will be difficult to repair the collapsed buildings.”
“That will have to be done slowly.”
If the cement production base had been intact, there would be no need for such worries, but they were in no situation to produce cement in the short term.
“You made certain to destroy it so that the production method would not fall into Ismail’s hands, yes?”
“We used gunpowder as well, and made certain of it.”
Secrets did not last forever, and since it was not some astonishing technique beyond imagination, they would discover it someday.
But even if the whole world came to know the secret of cement, he did not want it placed in Ismail’s hands.
That was how troublesome an enemy he was.
“Then what has passed to him would be the matchlocks, I suppose.”
“I apologize for failing to conceal them, Padishah.”
At Arda’s apology, Yusuf shook his head.
If they had held out trying to protect the secret of the weapons and the fortress had fallen, it would have defeated the whole purpose.
In any case, the structure of a matchlock was not difficult, so there was a high chance Ismail would make matchlocks.
‘There is no need to fear it pointlessly.’
When it came to the use of gunpowder, the Ottoman Empire was ahead of any nation in this era.
They could not catch up to the Ottomans in a mere few years, and even if they achieved some results through enormous investment...
‘In those few years, we can move several steps further ahead.’
By then, there would be more than enough time for the flintlock guns being produced in the capital to be issued to every Janissary.
Unlike the enemy, who would struggle to keep their match cords lit, the combat power of the Janissaries using flints would be beyond comparison.
“Hasan.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
“When this war is over, come up to the capital with Nene. I will give you a post.”
“Th-thank you, Padishah!”
It was not exactly a reward. If he was going to assign him work, he needed to put him in a suitable position.
Watching Hasan focus only on the fact that he had become an official, unaware of the suffering awaiting him in the capital, Shemsi inwardly clicked his tongue.
For it was obvious he would regret it when he was reduced to skin and bones.
“By the way, have there been any envoys coming lately?”
“Since we hang their heads up as soon as they arrive, no more have come.”
Ordinarily, even in the middle of war, one received envoys who came calling.
One could not completely close the channels of communication, and besides, one would at least listen out of curiosity as to what they had to say.
But this time, there had been none of that.
Even after news spread that the envoys from Samtskhe had been slaughtered to a man, envoys from various nations came, thinking they would be fine since they had not directly raised armies.
Of course, all of them ended up hung on poles, reeking of rot.
“The mood should be ripe by now. Would you not say?”
“They must be trembling at the mere sound of the Empire’s name.”
They would be burning with anxiety, then rotting away inside, unable even to meet him despite trying to appease the Ottomans’ anger.
‘Even the commoners, not just the higher ranks.’
It had been more than a month since the troops began gathering in Trabzon, and the forces assembled there alone numbered fifty thousand.
Even people of this age, who had few proper sources of outside news and were poorly informed about external affairs, could not fail to know when something of this scale was taking place.
Moreover, the spies planted swiftly during the mustering of the troops were spreading this news far and wide, so they would learn of it faster and more accurately.
“Tell the entire army. It is time to harvest.”
It was time to harvest Georgia’s neck.
The army that had been crouched in Trabzon, biding its time, began to advance eastward.
∗ ∗ ∗
The other Georgian states were not so foolish that they would be negligent in selecting envoys even after hearing that the envoys of Samtskhe had been annihilated.
They sent envoys comprised of people who had some personal connection to Yusuf, or who had participated in the previous succession struggle for the throne.
They faintly hoped that even if Samtskhe could not, they themselves might avoid the wrath of the Ottomans.
However, it was soon revealed that this was a delusion.
It did not matter what connection they had with the Sultan, or what assistance they had provided.
The leaders of each state felt their minds reel at the fact that the envoys had not even passed Trabzon Fortress before they were all beheaded with perfect equality.
For it meant this was no ordinary wrath.
“What are we to do! Produce a countermeasure at once!”
“Are you telling me we cannot even reach the Safavids?! Who is responsible for this mess, yet they do not send even a single reinforcement!”
Watching the envoys who had come all the way to his palace shouting at the top of their lungs, Kvarqvare downed his drink.
As the envoys frowned at the sudden reek of alcohol, he sneered.
“Why did you not help properly so that things would not come to this? It seems rather rich coming from you lot, who did not send a single reinforcement.”
“What do you mean by that!”
“I mean that had you sent troops, we could have captured Trabzon without delay. Had that happened, matters might be somewhat different from what they are now.”
Having said that, Kvarqvare burst into hearty laughter.
“You said you would act cautiously and took charge of nothing more than secrecy and military supplies, yet now you will suffer the same fate as us—truly amusing!”
“N-Nonsense! Worry not about us, but about yourself! We shall be perfectly fine!”
Though they had played their part in the betrayal, everyone gathered here truly believed that and nodded their heads.
Unlike Samtskhe, which had borne the brunt of the wrath and stood a high chance of being extinguished, they did not believe excessive retribution would come merely for supplying some goods.
The reason they had sent envoys to the Ottomans and come here to press the matter was simply that they wished to minimize the damage they would have to concede.
“Well, I suppose we shall find out in due time.”
Kvarqvare lightly recalled the conversation he had shared with his uncle, Mzechabuk.
He had said that those dreaming grand dreams were envisioning things unimaginable to people like themselves, who merely remained on a small patch of land.
Those dreaming grand dreams.
“Usually do not cling to petty gains.”
And to them, those before their eyes and the houses of Georgia were nothing more than petty gains.
Just as the envoys were looking strangely at Kvarqvare for speaking such incomprehensible words, the door burst open urgently.
“Disaster! The Ottoman army has begun its advance!”
Though he had been prepared for this, Kvarqvare felt his heart plummet.
Dazedly watching the envoys flee as if escaping, he tipped the rest of the wine into his mouth.
A fishy scent rose from the wine. Soon to be a smell he would grow sick of.
∗ ∗ ∗
The forty thousand sipahis and the ten thousand strong central army moved leisurely, like beasts of prey closing in to strangle the breath of captured quarry.
Unfortunately for Georgia, they could not even dream of employing the scorched-earth tactics that the Safavids had used to halt the Ottoman advance.
Unlike the Safavids, who had to push deep into the interior, Georgia bordered the Black Sea, so supplying the army was not difficult.
Even if slow, they did not stop, and arrived at the city dividing the border between Samtskhe and the Ottomans.
“It is Artvin!”
A city that had once blocked the path of five thousand Qizilbash.
By original history, it was a city that should have fallen to the Safavids in 1502, but thanks to Yusuf’s exploits, it had been defended.
Enemy soldiers shrouded in fear could be seen densely packed atop the stout walls.
“They appear quite numerous.”
“No matter their numbers, they are nothing more than scarecrows.”
Yusuf nodded at the words of the confident Janissary Agha.
They were soldiers deployed to block the forces of the Lazistan Sanjak and Erzurum, so their numbers were considerable, but the enemy was already submerged in fear.
Cannons, including the large siege artillery brought from the capital, were aimed at the enemy’s walls.
Watching that scene, Shemsi cautiously asked Yusuf.
“Forgive my impudence, Your Majesty the Padishah. Do you truly intend to eliminate all of Georgia’s nobles?”
He knew well what Shemsi was worried about.
In this age of a class system, the concept that all people are equal did not apply even in war.
Commoners who merely followed the tide were plundered and killed when defeated in war, but the nobles who were the true instigators of war continued their bloodlines.
Take the Grand Vizier Hersekzade Ahmed Pasha, for instance—he was the son of a duke of the Kingdom of Bosnia.
His house had opposed the Ottomans, yet they had ultimately produced a Grand Vizier.
Even apart from such cases, the Ottomans often granted autonomy to the houses that had ruled the lands they conquered.
‘Because it is more convenient.’
They already lacked talented men to dispatch, and allowing the existing houses to govern minimized resistance.
They considered it better to simply entrust governance than to suffer headaches from rebellions.
However, Yusuf had no intention of seeing that happen this time.
“Must I not demonstrate wrath? There is no need to show it by senselessly slaughtering subjects.”
Killing so many people simply to show wrath would not only be difficult but would only serve as cause for nobles and commoners alike to band tightly together.
Furthermore, the Ottomans had a great weakness compared to Western nations.
‘A severe lack of population is the weakness.’
If time passed like this, the Ottoman population, despite possessing vast territory, would become smaller than Italy’s.
An era where population was military power would unfold; it was a fatal weakness.
There was no benefit to slaughtering hundreds of thousands in lands that would soon become his own.
“And when betrayal is committed, are they not the nobles rather than the common people who should fear what fate they will suffer? For they are the ones who make the decisions.”
“That is true.”
“Then we must make them tremble.”
They had to feel to the bone that betrayal meant the extermination of their clan.
Only then would traitors like those in Georgia never appear again.
“Of course, before that, an example must be set first.”
It was a plan to incite and instigate commoners into betraying the nobles.
Then it was necessary to instill such fear that they would turn their blades against the masters who had long ruled the hilt of the sword, and that example would be Artvin.
The sound of cannons rang out across Artvin.
It was the signal heralding the tragedy to come.
∗ ∗ ∗
It was not as if a declaration of war, which only became formalized in the twentieth century, had been issued, and having already committed betrayal, they could not expect such things.
The Georgian states would have liked to receive even Genghis Khan’s declaration of war, which was close to a threat: ‘I will give you time to surrender. If you do not surrender, we will fight until one of us is dead.’
Had that been the case, they would have been swept up in worry rather than fear, at least.
But the Ottomans did not even give them the leisure to worry.
“Shall we at least offer them a chance to surrender?”
There had been no declaration of war, and by killing every envoy that came, they had completely closed the channels of dialogue.
Even so, they must have known that Artvin would be the first target.
In Yusuf’s eyes, he could see a gloomy aura enveloping Artvin, like sinners facing hell.
The fear of countless people, felt through his ability to read emotions, flooded in enough to make his head ache, but Yusuf spoke resolutely.
“Enough. If they were going to declare surrender, they should have done so long ago. Besides, nothing makes as fine an example as large, bulky game.”
Yusuf gazed at Artvin with eyes that had sunk into cold composure.
The fortress was stout, and since the forces in western Samtskhe had all converged there, nearly ten thousand troops were gathered in the cramped fortress.
At a glance, it seemed a difficult place to conquer.
‘Flimsy. No, fragile.’
He could feel no will whatsoever from the soldiers standing like scarecrows.
They were filled with the fear that they might die, and resentment at why they had to fight the Ottomans, who had been on their side only recently.
It did not seem difficult to overcome a fortress defended by such men.
“Inform the entire army. The time has come to show how intense our wrath is.”
“Yes, Your Majesty the Padishah!”
With Yusuf’s words, magnificent drumbeats rang out.
Perhaps because they had not expected a siege without even the customary envoys sent to request surrender, flustered movements could be seen atop the walls.
The first to move among the advancing troops were the artillerymen.
“Prepare to fire! Prepare!”
The artillerymen attached to the small cannons—brought over from the fleet and additionally supplied from the capital—shoved powder charges and cannonballs into the muzzles.
As befitting artillerymen seasoned through many wars, once all preparations were complete, the commander gave the order.
“Fire!”
Boom! Bang!
As the flag signaling the command to fire was waved, heavy cannonballs were launched with thunderous roars, and white smoke obscured their vision.
The cannonballs that struck the walls shook the stout fortifications, and those unfortunate enough to be hit had their bodies shattered and were flung backward.
When a comrade beside them turned into a bloody pulp from a cannonball fired from a distance unreachable even by bows and catapults, the soldiers’ faces filled with terror.
It did not matter that only some had died. What mattered was that they could be the next victim at any moment.
Behind the small cannons firing rapidly as if gnawing away at their sanity, medium cannons took position and unleashed their roars.
Thud-thud! Thud!
“Y-You there, compose yourself! There is nothing to fear!”
Unlike the small cannons, the impact shook the walls more violently, and the voice of the commanding officer shouting for the soldiers’ sake trembled as well.
The explosions made their ears ache so much that they had to scream at the top of their lungs to be heard by the soldiers, and somehow the white smoke had reached them, carrying an acrid stench through the scent of blood.
The deafening explosions had long since sent the birds in the mountains flying, and amidst the continuous thunder, no more birds took flight.
‘It is fine. I can endure it.’
Riparit, an Aznauri of Georgia’s lower noble class, clenched his trembling fist.
Unlike common soldiers, as a nobleman he nevertheless possessed some knowledge of cannons.
Cracks spread across the walls, and the soldiers were in the worst state—unable to properly swing their weapons even once, gripped by fear—but that bombardment could not last forever.
It was not a matter of wasting gunpowder; rather, the cannons expanded from the heat generated by the bombardment and needed to be cooled.
This was evident from the sight of some of the smaller cannons, which had been spewing flames earlier, pulling back.
“The enemy's weapons are pulling back! Do not fear! The end is near!”
To Liparit, who had shouted thus, a faint sound came that hardly suited the battlefield.
Moooo!
The labored lowing of cattle bored into his ears, and Liparit's eyes shook violently when he turned his head.
For atop thirty four-wheeled wagons drawn by sixty oxen, massive cannons were on the move.
The soldiers, who had suffered under cannons far smaller than those, could not help but fall into extreme terror at the sight of the massive guns.
“I-It's going to collapse! The wall is going to collapse!”
“Stop your nonsense!”
When a soldier clutching his head in fear screamed out, the nearby commander swung his scabbard to silence him.
He had acted desperately to prevent them from succumbing to hollow dread, but the soldiers' eyes had long since turned like those of rotten fish.
The soldiers could only watch as the massive Orban cannon—eight meters long, with a range exceeding 1.6 kilometers—finished its preparations to fire.
“F-fire!”
An enormous quantity of gunpowder—embarrassing to compare with what had been loaded until now—was poured inside, and more than ten men swarmed to load a single cannonball.
Even the commander shouting the order had a trembling voice, and just as fire was about to touch the Orban—
Crack!
The thick timbers laid on the ground to steady its aim splintered, and the Orban cannon lurched with a heavy clatter. Without a moment to stop it, the fuse caught fire.
Soon, a thunderous roar that shook heaven and earth resounded.
Eeeee—
Billowing dust and smoke hid the sky, and his ears rang with tinnitus beyond mere pain.
Even Yusuf, who was at a relatively far distance, momentarily worried for his eardrums, and for the first time experienced darkness swimming before his eyes from noise alone.
It was an incredible sound, like the tales of a pregnant woman twenty kilometers away miscarrying from the noise alone.
‘Useless.’
Once fired, it took three hours to reload, so it could not fire more than a few shots a day, and it consumed an enormous amount of gunpowder.
Honestly, it was a weapon with disappointing returns for the investment, and just as Yusuf clicked his tongue lightly—
“The gate has collapsed! The enemy's gate has collapsed!”
The enemy's gate, struck by a cannonball powerful enough to shatter thick walls, was beyond battered—scarcely a trace remained.
The enemy, who had not dreamt the gate would be blown away in a single shot, as well as their own allies, who had not dreamt the poorly aimed cannon would strike the gate, were momentarily stunned.
“Charge! Charge!”
“The enemy's gate is open! Charge!”
The Sipahis mounted their horses and charged like madmen toward the gate that had opened so futilely.
Cavalry stormed through without a chance to mount a proper defense, and the red-hot Orban toppled to the ground amid the broken timbers.
Thud!
“O, Allah!”
The artillerymen stamped their feet and called out to Allah toward the Orban cannon, which seemed to have fulfilled its duty as it lay embedded in the ground, split open.
At the sight, which felt like a farce, Yusuf let out a light, hollow laugh.
‘Is this too because of luck?’
Luck often arrived without rhyme or reason, so it was frequently unclear which events it influenced.
Are there not sayings like a blessing in disguise, or the old man who lost his horse?
But Yusuf, recalling as if by déjà vu the time a lord had been struck by a catapult during the capture of Erzurum, concluded that this event too was the work of luck.
In any case, determining whether what had just happened before his eyes was luck or not was not important.
“Şemsî Pasha.”
“I know. I shall spread the word far and wide.”
It was the moment when rumors began to spread—that the Padishah had commanded, and with a single cannon shot that shook heaven and earth, the gate had collapsed.
∗ ∗ ∗
Luck can become misfortune for another.
Yusuf's luck acted as misfortune for Artvin.
“I-I surrender...!”
A trembling soldier hurriedly cast aside his weapon, but what answered him was a cold blade.
A resentful gaze, as if asking why his surrender was not accepted, fixed on him, and the Sipahi who swung his blade spoke indifferently.
“For those who have betrayed the Padishah, there is only death.”
Outmatched both in individual prowess and in numbers, the only thing they could place their faith in was the castle wall.
Having lost even that so futilely, nothing remained for them but death.
Whether they fled or fought, the Ottoman army swung their blades as though they had no intention of taking prisoners, and the trembling soldiers cast aside their weapons and armor.
They had thought to hide among the commonfolk, but even this was not the right answer.
“P-please spare us! What could we possibly know!”
“If that is so, you should have fled, not stayed here.”
This was the reply to a man who had been dragged out after hiding in his home, and the man’s face twisted with utter grievance.
Georgia's feudal system had largely been destroyed by the Mongol invasions, yet much of its remnants still remained.
It was an era when peasants could not freely leave their land, and acting on the thought of fleeing was by no means easy for them.
But the conqueror had no reason to hear out their circumstances one by one.
“Kill them. It is the Padishah's command.”
“Understood!”
At the single word of command, the soldier swung his blade without mercy.
There was no hesitation in the hands of the cruel Ottoman invaders, and the punishment for adult men was death.
“Kyaaaak! Kyak!”
“Padishah.”
Women old enough to serve as women became objects of plunder, and all the children were captured.
Though fated to be sold as slaves, Artvin was filled with the basest desires of mankind, such that merely keeping one's life was considered a blessing.
In a way, there was nothing unusual about it. This was usually what became of the vanquished in this era.
Yusuf turned his head, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Did you think you could escape my grasp?”
“P-Padishah!”
They were nobles, including the lord of Artvin, and the captured lord, who had been caught while fleeing, prostrated himself deeply.
“I shall offer all that I possess and pledge my loyalty!”
“I have no need for the loyalty of a dead man.”
At the frigid reply, the lord crawled forward on his knees and said.
“Then at least my son! Please, spare my son's life! He will be of use to the Padishah!”
The lord, having shouted thus, grabbed his daughter's arm and said,
“I offer my daughter to the Padishah. She is beautiful; more than enough for your pleasure!”
Yusuf, watching the spectacle of a man offering his daughter as a bribe while begging for his son's life, grabbed the lord by the head.
Gripping him as if to tear his hair out, Yusuf forced his head up and glared at him.
“The moment this place was conquered, everything here became mine. Do not try to bargain with what is mine.”
Under normal circumstances, the lord's offer might not have been a bad one.
After all, as the lord's son, he would have had some education and legitimacy, enough to smooth governance here.
But Yusuf, having already made his decision, roughly released the hair he had grabbed and ordered,
“Kill every last man and put their heads on display. Make those who once served them come spit upon and insult them. All the women are to have their names changed and taken as slaves.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
At Yusuf's decision to erase even the traces of their former nobility, they wore expressions of utter despair.
“Once all is finished, burn Artvin and spread word throughout Georgia. Of our wrath.”
Flames that evoked the cruel Mongol invasions of old rose from the west.
Along with the sweet temptation that by displaying the heads of the nobles, one might yet survive.