Cleanup and Dirty Tricks
Just as in chess and janggi, which are wars scaled down, no matter how many pieces remain, you lose when the king is captured—in real war, it is the same.
No matter how many troops you have, no matter how much capacity you possess to continue the war, if the Sultan is captured, everything is over.
If Yusuf were captured, even the Georgian campaign, which had completely seized the initiative, could be overturned; considering this, protecting the Sultan with a mere ten thousand troops might seem dangerous.
For Georgia might stake their remaining hopes and attack.
However, if the majority of the remaining ten thousand troops were the central army, it was a different story.
‘With our current forces, even if the twenty thousand Qizilbash who fled were to raid us, we could win.’
Cavalry armed with chainmail, Janissaries armed with guns, and even the cannons being dragged behind them—considering all this, it was a force the Qizilbash could not rashly attack.
And needless to say, the weak Georgian army.
Though it was August, the not particularly hot weather and the cool wind that blew occasionally made the march pleasant, and the four-day march reached its end.
“That appears to be Akhaltsikhe.”
The faintly visible Akhaltsikhe had drawn near, and its scenery could be seen clearly.
Just as Akhaltsikhe means “new fortress” in Georgian, Akhaltsikhe was a city that began as a fortress, and it boasted solid defenses.
High walls encircled the city, and atop the hill, the citadel—the final defensive structure—displayed its imposing presence.
It was a citadel that had withstood even the attack of the great Timurid Empire a hundred years prior.
“Şemsi Pasha, if we had to capture this place, how long do you think it would take?”
“It would take more than two weeks with our current forces.”
Because the Sipahis had been given small and medium cannons with good mobility, the number of cannons had markedly decreased, but all twelve of the Orban cannons—whose destructive power was something to boast of—remained intact.
It was a city that could not be captured in a short time even with such forces.
“As expected, the problem is the citadel?”
“Yes. No matter how many cannons we have, destroying a citadel on a hill is no easy task.”
Well, this could not be helped.
Considering that the flying cannonballs were, at best, stones prettily carved into spheres or round lumps of iron, there was a limit to their destructive power.
Of course, considering the cost and effort that had gone into building that fortress, investing a mere two weeks might be nothing.
While Yusuf and Şemsi were lightly assessing Akhaltsikhe, the Ottoman army finished forming its ranks, and the military band began to play.
Boom! Thud!
Along with the spirited music, the Ottoman army stomped their feet, and a light vibration and tremendous sound rang out.
The soldiers atop the walls watched that sight with terrified faces.
The Ottoman army’s notoriety had spread throughout Georgia ever since Yusuf annihilated five thousand Qizilbash despite being numerically inferior.
Georgia had been cowed into kneeling before Yusuf when he was merely a Sanjak-bey; now that he had returned as the Sultan of the Empire, it was enough to make them tremble in fear.
Before battle even began, morale had hit rock bottom, and the thick gates opened as about ten people came out.
Those who finished a thorough body search were able to stand before Yusuf, and immediately knelt and paid their respects.
“We greet the Padishah of the great empire. I am called Tavadi Rusudan.”
Toward Rusudan, who introduced himself with his body lowered as much as possible, Yusuf spoke coldly.
“Who said I was curious about the likes of your name? Speak of why you have come.”
Rusudan felt a sense of foreboding at Yusuf’s reaction, which was sharper than expected.
The fact that they had come saying they heard Kvarkvare, the ringleader, was dead meant that he had met the envoy they had sent.
He had thought they could have a reasonable conversation unlike before, but the atmosphere was strange, and something he had momentarily forgotten came to mind.
“…Your Majesty, where is the envoy we sent this time?”
At that trembling voice, the corner of Yusuf’s mouth slowly rose.
“His head should be hanging in Ardahan, but I do not know where the torso went. He must have known he would die coming here, yet he was a strange fellow who trembled and begged for his life. Was he not?”
“He was a man whom even merciful Allah would not deign to glance at.”
At the Janissary Agha’s response, jeers burst out here and there.
At their reaction, Rusudan felt a chill run down his spine, and opened his mouth as calmly as possible.
“Kvarkvare, who committed the gravest sin, is dead.”
“And yet you lot still live.”
“We too acknowledge that we have wronged Your Majesty. We shall pay for that sin with loyalty!”
To Rusudan, who shouted fiercely while banging his head hard against the ground, Yusuf spoke firmly.
“I have already said I will collect the nobles’ payment in blood. Return. I shall wait until sunset. If you do not surrender by then, all of Akhaltsikhe shall pay that price.”
“…Understood.”
Seeing that there was no room for persuasion, Rusudan hurriedly rose from his place.
For spending time here would only put his life in danger.
As Rusudan was lightly paying his respects and trying to leave, the Janissaries who had received Yusuf’s signal drew their swords.
“A single mouth like yours should be sufficient to deliver the message, no?”
“Lord Rusudan!”
In an instant, swords were pointed at the necks of all his companions except himself, and at the eyes looking at him desperately, Rusudan tightly shut both eyes and turned his body.
Those who had not imagined he would abandon them so were shocked and called out to Rusudan again, but he did not look back.
Nine lives were taken, and the time for the final choice came upon Akhaltsikhe.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Your Majesty, the time is almost up.”
The sun that had risen high in the sky was already tilting toward the horizon, and the red sunset encroached upon the surroundings.
Even as the given time was slowly ending, there was no great movement atop the walls, and Yusuf raised his hand.
“Prepare the bombardment.”
“Yes, Your Majesty!”
At Yusuf’s order, oxen pulling iron lumps weighing nineteen tons moved.
The twelve Orban cannons moved along with oxen cries almost like screams, and took their positions for bombardment.
They stacked wood beneath the cannons to adjust the angle of fire, and the time to wait only for the sun to set had come.
“Şemsi Pasha, does it look to you as though I am pointlessly taking the long way around the easy path?”
Preparing a siege to cut the heads off nobles could be seen as a waste of time and manpower.
The betrayal was certainly repugnant, but a normal monarch would have forgiven them by this point.
“I am ashamed, but I cannot say that is not the case.”
“As ever, you are honest. You do not still see me as a prince, do you?”
“How could I, when you have grown to such an extent that I must look up to you?”
After exchanging light jokes with Şemsi, Yusuf stretched out his hand and grasped the setting sun.
“From now on, my empire will become very vast. So much so that the sun shall not set.”
A country where the sun does not set.
Until now, it had merely been a grandiose figure of speech, but with the discovery of the New World, it had become an attainable goal.
If a nation grew to that extent, the central authority’s control would inevitably weaken.
“I have no intention of tolerating those in my grasp moving while forgetting their place. And this present inconvenience shall serve as help then.”
“Everything shall come to pass according to the Padishah’s will.”
At Şemsi’s answer, Yusuf smiled faintly.
“However, that does not mean I intend to waste time needlessly. It seems they have finally moved.”
Yusuf’s gaze turned toward Akhaltsikhe.
Faint screams and cheers rode the dry wind, and smoke billowed up.
The troops that had manned the walls disappeared, and voices that had grown louder were heard clearly.
-Catch the noble bastards!
-Let’s catch the noble bastards following Lord Mzechabuk!
∗ ∗ ∗
No matter how thick and high the walls, they cannot stop an enemy within.
The Ottoman army that entered through the wide-open gates completely occupied the fortress.
The subjects who were to greet a new ruler locked themselves in their homes, praying that sparks would not fly, and the soldiers who had raised the rebellion meekly laid down their arms.
Once the city had been completely secured, Yusuf made his entry into Akhaltsikhe, and the one who welcomed him was an old man with deep wrinkles etched into his face.
“Mzechabuk, you’ve grown quite old since I last saw you.”
It was not merely a comment on his appearance.
The greed that had filled his eyes had scattered like the wind, and his cloudy pupils were like those of one preparing for his final end.
“Is it not because so much time has passed since I first met the Padishah? More importantly, the foolish one Your Majesty seeks is here.”
Soldiers who received Mzechabuk’s signal brought a coffin and set it down, then opened the lid.
Perhaps because he had been the highest authority in Samtskhe, or perhaps to serve as an offering to appease Ottoman fury, it was a well-preserved corpse.
Though nearly ten days had passed, decomposition had not progressed much, and it plainly showed how much he had suffered before death.
“For one who rendered all your efforts futile, he is a sorry sight. I am also greatly disappointed in you, who were bested by such a man.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Rather than making excuses, he simply lowered his head.
No matter how much he argued that he had shown an opening while following Yusuf’s orders, being defeated was the result of letting his guard down.
“What do you wish me to do with them?”
At Yusuf’s question, Mzechabuk glanced slightly behind him.
The nobles captured after defeat in the civil war looked up with desperate faces, and among them were many children and women.
Receiving their desperate gazes, Mzechabuk spoke calmly.
“Dispose of them according to the Padishah’s will.”
“Mzechabuk!”
“Aaaah! Why!”
Curses and insults poured out toward him, who threw away even the last remaining chance, and among the faint-hearted women, some fainted.
As the commotion grew, Yusuf sharply commanded:
“From this moment, kill any who open their mouths at once.”
The nobles only quieted after swords were pointed directly at their throats.
“Why do you say so?”
“Your Majesty has no use for them. They are those who could not see who the most dangerous person was, and those who closed their eyes despite knowing.”
“Correct. They are not the ones I need.”
Yusuf, satisfied with that answer, gave the order.
“Kill all the men. The children and women will be made slaves and taken back to the homeland.”
—O Padishah! Spare us!
The nobles were dragged away in the soldiers’ hands, and Mzechabuk silently squeezed his eyes shut.
It was the moment the name of Samtskhe vanished from history, and he could not bring himself to watch the scene with open eyes.
“Mzechabuk, what do you intend to do?”
“I wish to spend the rest of my life in a monastery.”
Mzechabuk had been born two years before Bayezid II, and he was of an age where death could come at any time.
Perhaps he wished to repent before death and go to heaven, but since it was the same request as in the original history, Yusuf allowed it.
“Very well. However, I cannot permit you to enter a monastery within Georgia. Is that acceptable?”
“I thank you for the Padishah’s grace.”
“There is no need for thanks. Even if you are deeply connected to me, had you betrayed me, your end would have been the same as theirs.”
Saying he would quietly prepare to leave, Mzechabuk disappeared, and Yusuf looked down at Akhaltsikhe from the fortress.
It was the moment the conquest of Samtskhe came to an end.
∗ ∗ ∗
They had hoped the Sultan’s anger would subside once the conquest of Samtskhe was over, but the Ottoman army planting its flags across Georgia did not stop.
After Samtskhe, the Principality of Guria, which bordered the Black Sea, was conquered, and Kutaisi, the capital of the Kingdom of Imereti, fell into Ottoman hands along with a rebellion.
Across Georgia, nobles fled to escape the Ottomans, and rebellions and surrenders followed one after another.
As tremendous chaos swirled through Georgia, a rebellion for power broke out in the easternmost Kingdom of Kakheti.
“B-Brother, why!”
“Why? An incompetent king who has brought his country to ruin must step down from his seat.”
George, who had indifferently pulled the sword embedded in the chest of his father, Alexander I, answered his younger brother Demetre.
Passing by his trembling younger brother without a trace of pity, George spoke to the men holding him.
“Take his eyes. Cut off the bud of danger.”
“Yes!”
“Brother! Brotheeer!”
Ignoring his younger brother’s faint screams, George walked through the bloodstained palace and gave an order.
“Prepare the army. We are going to Akhaltsikhe.”
At George’s decision, his subordinate spoke worriedly.
“The Sultan is without mercy. He may not accept your surrender.”
“That is why I am bringing my father’s life as a gift. There is no need to worry. Even if he is the Sultan, he will need someone to join hands with for smooth rule.”
A foolish fox poked its head toward the tiger’s den.
∗ ∗ ∗
In Aristotle’s Poetics, it is said, “Tragedy imitates men better than the average, comedy men worse than the average.”
It meant that, like Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet, the protagonist of a tragedy ought to be someone superior, such as a noble, while comedy should take as its protagonist someone lesser than others.
One could say it accurately pinpointed the human nature that feels catharsis at the misfortune of others, and what was happening in Georgia was also connected to that nature.
“As if revealing their base nature were not enough, they are even acting without fear now.”
Receiving the information that had come in, Yusuf twisted his lips.
The thrill of being able to drag down with their own hands the nobles they had always looked up to had summoned madness.
In the early rebellions, they had handed the disposal of captured nobles over to the Ottoman army that had come to occupy the land, but now they were carrying out the executions themselves.
Like Europeans of this era going to an execution ground as though to a theater, the entire city gathered for the execution of nobles, and they were executed cruelly regardless of age or sex.
‘No wonder more nobles are surrendering, saying their chances of survival are higher if they surrender to the Ottoman army.’
The Ottomans, where even if they became slaves, at least the women and children could live, were preferable to having an entire house exterminated.
All the more so because the lower nobility, who made up the majority, had little connection to the betrayal and thus ended with forced relocation.
Of course, if it had ended simply with the execution of nobles, Yusuf would not have paid much attention.
‘Executions in this era are truly entertainment, after all.’
After the French Revolution, when the instrument of execution changed from the gallows for hanging to the guillotine for beheading, people even demanded it be changed back to the gallows because they could not see well.
It was an age when people took their children by the hand and went to watch the gallows as though going to watch a sporting event.
There was no need to make an issue of the execution of nobles, but the madness of the commoners was sending sparks flying elsewhere.
“Thirty-two dead while fighting over a noble’s property. A person they had always disliked was falsely accused of hiding a noble.”
In addition, all sorts of filthy stories reached his ears, such as refugees being denounced as nobles, murdered, and robbed of their property, or nobles who had been about to surrender to the Ottomans being deliberately killed.
Strictly speaking, this level of side effect had been entirely predictable, but what truly grated on Yusuf’s nerves was something else.
“They commit such deeds while praising me, is that it? What do you think?”
When Yusuf looked around, those gathered here, including Şemsi and Arda, wore faces filled with anger.
“To dare sully the Padishah’s honor—they deserve death!”
“The Empire must bestow death upon those who call upon its master in vain!”
Among those pouring out heated words, Şemsi, who had remained silent, opened his mouth when Yusuf’s gaze reached him.
“It seems they have not yet realized that they now belong to the Empire.”
The master of the Empire was the Sultan, and the Sultan’s honor was the Empire’s honor.
Toward those who could not even grasp this simple fact, Yusuf issued a firm command.
“Inform the sipahis. I will temporarily grant them the authority to punish those who are throwing the Empire into chaos.”
“I will convey the Padishah’s will.”
Originally, the punishment should have been determined by legal judges of each religion, including the Islamic qadi, but there was no way to bring judges along in wartime.
Since the sipahis normally served as police in their own timar territories, he granted them temporary authority to punish, taking into account the special circumstances of war.
That fact alone would likely have the effect of suppressing the chaos.
—O Padishah, one who calls himself the new king of Kakheti has arrived.
Kakheti was far away, and with the largest, the Kingdom of Kartli, serving as a breakwater, it was the only place the Ottoman army’s steps had not reached.
Even so, Yusuf had not been unaware that he was coming all the way to Akhaltsikhe, and at the news that the one he had been waiting for had arrived, he smiled deeply.
“The last prey has crawled in on its own feet.”
Rising from the throne, Yusuf moved at a leisurely pace.
It was time to face the foolish prey who had spared him the trouble.
∗ ∗ ∗
The fact that the Ottoman army was powerful was widely known even in Georgia, and George had heard it many times as well.
However, hearing it only as a rumor and facing it in reality could not help but feel entirely different.
‘So this is the Ottoman elite.’
George swallowed dryly as he looked at the soldiers surrounding him.
Their strange appearance, with hats drooping all the way down the backs of their necks and only mustaches grown on their faces, was not important.
The Janissaries waiting for their master showed not the slightest disorder, and from them flowed an atmosphere thick with the smell of blood that even their neat attire could not conceal.
—The Padishah enters! All, show your respect!
At the command of the Janissary Agha, the Janissaries paid their respects all at once without the slightest deviation, and George hurriedly did the same.
Entering the audience chamber, Yusuf looked down at those paying their respects.
“Raise your heads.”
Seeing George cautiously lift his head, Yusuf was reminded of when he had first seen Mzechabuk.
George resembled that man from back then, an ordinary middle-aged face with a sticky lust for power deeply embedded in it.
Of course, even if he had called up a fragment of the past, it was not enough to change the ending that had already been decided.
“So, what is your reason for coming all the way here to find me?”
At Yusuf’s attitude, colder than expected, George slightly clenched his fist.
He had not hoped for a warm welcome, but he had not expected such an icy reaction.
An ominous feeling surged up, but he had already come too far to turn back, and George bowed his head.
“I have come to swear obedience to the great Padishah.”
“Obedience… By whose permission?”
At those unexpected words, George’s eyes widened, and for a moment his breath caught at the vicious gaze looking down at him.
He could not even feel that his body was trembling pathetically.
“Did you think everything would end if the king of Kakheti, who made a foolish decision, died? Do not be mistaken. You, too, cannot avoid responsibility.”
At words like a death sentence, George cried out urgently.
“Padishah! Please reconsider! I and Kakheti can do anything for you!”
“A mere thing like you?”
Yusuf wore a sneer.
For power, he had killed his own father and blinded his younger brother. It seemed like a cruel act, but in this era, it was something that commonly happened.
Even the Ottomans treated killing one’s own blood kin almost like a rite, did they not?
Yet later generations gave him harsh appraisals such as evil, mad, and wicked.
‘The real problem is not something like morality. The problem is incompetence.’
Belligerent yet incompetent. He was exactly the sort of talent suited to ruining a country.
Even in the original history, he attacked the Kingdom of Kartli, was taken prisoner, and ruined his country only three years after ascending the throne.
The harsh criticism that pointed to his morality was, in truth, no different from words mocking his incompetence.
“There is no place by my side for an incompetent man like you.”
At Yusuf’s brief assessment, George was swept up in rage.
The face of his father, who had kept his younger brother closer despite George being the eldest son, came to mind, and he forgot even his fear as he shouted fiercely.
“Who are you calling incompetent—! Aaaagh!”
“How dare you run your mouth so freely before him!”
There was no mercy in the hands that subdued George, whose fate had been decided before he even arrived, and Yusuf looked down indifferently at George, whose face had been roughly slammed into the floor.
“Crawling here without even knowing where you were to die—that is incompetence. And it seems it has begun.”
Bang! Bang-bang!
It was the sound of the three thousand Kakhetian soldiers who had followed George being suppressed before Akhaltsikhe.
Only now realizing that he had come in search of his own grave, George laughed as if he had lost his mind, and Yusuf turned away from the foolish George.
“Shemsi Pasha.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
“Now that we have taken Kakheti as well, the conquest of Georgia is over.”
There were still a few minor cities that had not submitted, but they would have no choice but to bow their heads if left alone, so it was not wrong.
“The conquest may be over, but it cannot yet be said to have entered the empire’s embrace. By killing all the nobles, we have created a vacuum in administration.”
Unless they intended to leave Georgia as a lawless land, officials had to be appointed in haste, and it would take quite some time for administrative stability to be restored.
Since the native powers had been smashed, this was unavoidable.
“So you will have to suffer a little for me.”
“…Padishah?”
It was rude to question the sultan’s command, but Shemsi was in no situation to mind etiquette.
After all, it sounded as though he had just heard something absurd.
“I intend to bind the Georgian lands conquered this time into the Georgia Eyalet. And you will have to serve as the beylerbey of this place for a while.”
At present, the Ottoman Empire had eyalets only in Rumelia, meaning the Balkan Peninsula, and Anadolu, meaning the eastern peninsula; if one was established in Georgia, it would be the third eyalet.
That meant Shemsi would have to rebuild Georgia’s administrative foundations from scratch.
“Padishah, could you not permit me a single act of rudeness?”
At the blazing look in his eyes, Yusuf smiled and spoke firmly.
“No.”
Yusuf lightly patted the shoulder of Shemsi, whose hands could only tremble before the tyranny of rank, and offered him some consolation.
“It will be a year and a half from now. You only need to suffer for that long. You will have to join me in the conquest of the Safavids anyway.”
“May I resign my office?”
“Of course not.”
Even as he let out a groan, Shemsi quickly began thinking over what had to be done immediately, and Yusuf, watching him with a faint smile, thought to himself.
‘A year and a half from now. That is the time needed before I put a hole through Ismail’s head.’
It was the time needed to prepare the supplies required for war and arm his troops with better weapons.
If things went wrong, he might have to face not only the Safavids but also the Mamluks, who usually kept the Ottomans in check, so thorough preparations were necessary.
Of course, if given time, the Safavid side would also be able to prepare for an attack.
“Then I will have to make sure they have no such leisure.”
Yusuf wore a deep smile.
∗ ∗ ∗
The man shambling along as he watched the red sun slowly sinking did not look well at all.
Dressed in clothes like rags that seemed not to have been changed in ages, the man’s face was as wretched as his shabby attire.
Even in good condition, his face would not have reached average, and with his nose badly crooked, anyone would have judged him an ugly man.
“This damned world. Those doglike bastards! I ought to just hang myself.”
The Italian Peninsula had been swept up in the flames of war, and in order to make up the war expenses, people tightened their belts first on anything that was not immediately urgent.
The art world was the one struck hardest, and the man walking along was one of its victims.
It had been a year since the Papal Court that commissioned his work had paid him properly, and all his assistants had left for Florence.
If that had been all, it would have been bearable. As one could tell from his shabby clothing, he was an ascetic man.
However, the senders of the letters that arrived yesterday had turned his stomach upside down.
“They want money again?! What business does someone who opposed my work so fiercely have prattling about money!”
The memory of being beaten by his father and uncle when he said he would pursue art was still vivid, yet now they were hounding him for not sending money.
Thinking of the letters from his good-for-nothing father and brother, the man ground his teeth.
The pope who had commissioned the work was no more to his liking. When he thought of that eccentric old man who knew nothing of art, gave no money, and only thought of squeezing him dry, curses came first.
“You cannot even pay me properly as it is, so why are you fighting the Ottomans!”
He spat complaints as he thought of the pope, who had worsened the finances further by needlessly making enemies.
In any case, these many reasons had come together and made him cross the Aurelian Walls that guarded the city of Rome.
Contract or no contract, he decided it would be better to return to Florence and take on new work.
As the man walked in order to take a ship to Florence, he soon sensed that the atmosphere in Ostia, the harbor he was about to reach, was strange.
Black smoke rose, and screams and shouts could be faintly heard.
Just as the man, sensing at a glance that something was very wrong, tried to quickly turn away, a group of horsemen came riding in.
“What is this beggar bastard?”
When men with turbans wrapped around their heads, bloodstained swords, and appearances different from Europeans surrounded him, the man began to tremble.
Whether the man trembled or not, the men who appeared to have attacked Ostia frowned.
“We came to catch rich bastards fleeing, and instead some beggar is wandering around?”
“Let us just kill him and go! He does not look useful at all.”
He did not understand the words being exchanged, but seeing the tips of their blades turn toward him, the man cried out urgently.
“S-spare me! Is there no one who can understand me?! I am a great artist!”
Fortunately, there was someone who could understand him, and he relayed his words to the red-bearded man leading the group.
“Lord Hizir, this fellow says he is a great artist. What should we do?”
“An artist? Not a beggar bastard?”
The man frowned slightly, pondered for a moment, then replied.
“What is this fellow’s name?”
“He asks what your name is.”
At those words, the man shouted his name.
“Michelangelo Buonarroti! Michelangelo!”
“It is a name I do not know. Shall we just kill him?”
At his subordinate’s idiotic words, Hizir smacked him across the head.
“Would we know an artist’s name even if we heard it? Let us take him to my elder brother. If he is useless, we can make him row like that Venetian fellow we caught back then.”
“Yes, Lord Hizir!”
The man, rubbing his aching head after being struck, tied Michelangelo tightly with rope and shouted.
“We return. To Lord Barbarossa!”
Not long afterward, news of the pirates who had attacked the harbor threw the Papal States into an uproar.
∗ ∗ ∗
At present, the Ottoman wars were being fought in two places.
There was the war between the expeditionary force led by Yusuf and Georgia, and the naval war between the Ottoman navy led by Kemal Reis and the Western fleet centered on Venice.
Even for the Ottomans, fighting on two fronts was a burden, but in this case it was all right.
In the case of the expeditionary force, the disparity in strength was overwhelming, and the one leading the army was Yusuf.
No one dared doubt the military insight of Yusuf, who had led armies since adolescence and had killed all of his formidable brothers to ascend the sultan’s throne.
The only concern was supplies, but they could be transported by sea, and since the conquest was progressing quickly, food and the like could be procured locally.
In other words, there was no reason for the officials remaining in the capital to worry.
There was no need to worry about the war against Venice and the rest of the West for a different reason.
Though envoys had not gone back and forth, both sides understood each other’s circumstances precisely.
The West wanted to draw attention and hinder the conquest of the Safavids, while the Ottoman navy understood their intent but had to respond for the moment.
Though their aims differed, they shared the common point of not wanting a battle to break out, and in truth, it was closer to a standoff than a naval war.
Perhaps they had let their guard down because, like dogs that did not bite, they only growled at each other and no battle actually occurred.
“Pirates! Does it make sense that our Papal States were attacked by pirates!”
“Y-your Holiness, please calm yourself.”
At the shout of Julius II, whose face had turned bright red, the cardinals and the others broke out in a cold sweat.
The pope clenched his teeth, suppressing the urge to swing the staff in his hand.
“What scoundrels dared set foot upon the sacred land of God without fear!”
“According to the survivors’ testimony, Barbarossa, who operates from his base in Tunis, was at the center of it.”
Tunis was a harbor in northern Africa close to the island of Sicily, and one of the main bases of the Barbary pirates, the scourge of the Mediterranean.
If pirates had appeared, it was obvious they would be from there, and Barbarossa was a byname familiar to the pope.
“Barbarossa?! Is he not the fellow who captured two of my ships a few years ago! How did no one know until that bastard came all the way here!”
“It seems the Spanish side, which discovered their movement, was too busy preparing for an attack to properly warn us.”
There had been dozens of pirate ships attacking the harbor, and for Spain, which occupied southern Italy, taking up a defensive posture was more important than warning the Papal States.
The swift speed unique to pirate ships must have made it difficult to give warning, and there was also the fact that their defenses against pirates were lax because they were helping keep the Ottoman navy in check.
Whatever the reason, what mattered was that the harbor had been attacked.
“So how great is the damage?”
“Fortunately, the damage itself is not great. Because we had sortied to deal with the Ottoman forces, there were not many ships, and they plundered quickly and withdrew before the army arrived.”
“…The hand of that heathen empire must have reached into this attack. What they want will not be material gain.”
“That is our judgment as well.”
Speaking coldly, this attack on the harbor did not balance out in terms of profit and loss.
Even if news of the attack had come late, it was not as though there had been no defenses at all; there were defenders, including coastal artillery.
They must have suffered considerable damage, yet in truth they lacked the time to plunder properly.
It was an attack that would not have happened unless someone had instigated them with the promise of suitable compensation, and no matter how one thought about it, the Ottomans were the most likely culprit.
“What is the state of public opinion?”
“It is poor. They are voicing complaints that we provoked the Ottomans’ displeasure for no reason and brought about this damage.”
If things were like this, they had no choice but to withdraw the fleet currently grappling with the Ottomans.
On top of that, unfortunately for the pope, there was one more piece of bad news.
“And it appears Michelangelo Buonarroti has been abducted by the pirates.”
Though he was not on good terms with Michelangelo, he did acknowledge the man’s skill.
Had that not been the case, he would never have contracted him to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and carve the sculptures for his own tomb.
At the realization that he could no longer hope for the ceiling painting he had been anticipating, nor even the sculptures that would adorn his tomb, the Pope clutched the back of his neck.
Around the same time, out on the sea, another man was feeling his blood pressure surge.
“This painting looks awfully strange, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s because it’s different from the ones I saw in the palace. I’m not sure bringing this fellow along won’t just get me scolded for nothing.”
“Whose painting are you calling strange! And I am a sculptor! Bring me marble. I’ll fix those knot-hole eyes of yours properly!”
“You think marble is some kind of toy?! Will you shut up before I tie you to a rock and throw you into the sea?!”
“Hey, throw this painting into the sea. Why are all the people different sizes? It’s unpleasant.”
“You ignorant pirate bastards who don’t even know perspective!”
∗ ∗ ∗
While a big catch was being hauled in from the west, Yusuf was too busy to pay attention to affairs on the distant sea.
Kakheti, whose king and main force had been taken prisoner all at once, lost the will to resist and declared its surrender.
With the complete conquest of the three kingdoms that made up Georgia, the Georgian campaign had effectively come to an end.
It had been a campaign of a little over two months, and in truth, had he compromised to some extent with the Georgian nobles, it likely would not even have taken that long.
In any case, the conquest was over, and the expeditionary army, leaving behind sipahis to command the garrisons that would receive each city’s surrender, began gathering once more around the Sultan.
“It’s finally over.”
The plains of Akhaltsikhe, where Yusuf had settled, were covered with Ottoman tents, and the sheer number of assembled soldiers was enough to strike fear into the subjects who lived there.
At the highest point of Akhaltsikhe, the banner symbolizing the Sultan fluttered, visibly showing that the master of Georgia had changed.
As it was his first campaign since becoming Sultan, he felt a certain depth of emotion; and when he thought that this land was only a handful compared to all that he had yet to conquer, a thirst rose within him.
He felt as though he understood the hearts of past sultans who had devoted their entire lives to conquest.
“Shemsi Pasha, what is the state of our supplies?”
“Thanks to the provisions gathered from across Georgia, our food situation is sound. However, if we were to fight the Safavids, I believe we would be somewhat short on gunpowder.”
“That cannot be helped.”
When operating cannons that consumed gunpowder in vast amounts, this was unavoidable.
On top of that, the fleet sent out to keep the West in check also needed gunpowder, so there was a limit to the supplies they could receive.
This shortage of gunpowder would continue to surface until they occupied India, where saltpeter was produced, and they needed to establish saltpeter fields of their own.
As he had felt during the campaign, dry Georgia was a fairly suitable region for cultivating saltpeter fields.
“Pasha, if you are short on manpower, what do you think of having Hasan attached to you?”
“He is an excellent talent. I believe it would lessen my burden somewhat. But did you not promise to take him to the capital?”
“I said I would take him. I never said I would keep him in the capital.”
“Then I shall accept him gratefully. I can entrust him with financial matters.”
“There is a separate task I intend to give him, so you must not work him to death.”
It was a conversation that would have terrified Hasan had he heard it, but there was no helping it.
In this era without public education, regardless of the quality of talent, the quantity was absolutely lacking, and capable people had no choice but to suffer more.
‘Once I return, I will have to seriously consider the matter of public education as well.’
Of course, he could not make even higher education public, but it would be better to establish a system that taught literacy and basic arithmetic at least.
Only then would he be able to pick out those with outstanding talent.
Education was a hundred-year plan; even if he began efforts immediately, there was no knowing when he would see results, so he felt the need to put it into practice as quickly as possible.
That was something he would have to do upon returning to the capital, and with the Georgian campaign finished, it was time to go back.
“Janissary Agha, are there any complaints among the Janissaries? There must be things they feel disappointed about.”
At Yusuf’s question, the Janissary Agha immediately knelt and lowered his head.
“We are the hands and feet of the great Padishah. How could we harbor complaints?”
“You might.”
“Please believe us. We will always devote our loyalty to the Padishah.”
Yusuf looked down coldly at the Janissary Agha as he made that declaration with cold sweat running down his face.
Fundamentally, Yusuf did not blindly trust the Janissaries.
No matter how much loyalty was instilled in them, those who held military power were prone to harbor other thoughts, and the Janissaries were men who could degenerate at any time.
“You may envy the sipahis who returned laden with plunder. If one is human, it is only natural to feel that way.”
The sipahis who had spearheaded the Georgian campaign had gained extra income in proportion to their hardships, and the Janissaries who had remained with Yusuf had reason to feel a sense of relative deprivation.
Since such an atmosphere did in fact exist, the Janissary Agha closed his mouth, and Yusuf, looking over the Janissaries kneeling behind him, soothed them.
“Do not be impatient. My conquests begin now, and you will always be with me.”
“We shall always keep that in mind!”
As that simple statement—that there would be many opportunities ahead—dispelled some of the impure mood circulating among the Janissaries, Yusuf nodded.
The Janissaries were the core force that maintained the Sultan’s power, and they themselves knew that fact clearly, so it was necessary to appease them like this from time to time.
‘But looking after them this way is only temporary.’
As more and more troops armed with guns were mass-produced, they would serve to check the Janissaries, and the more Yusuf’s achievements accumulated, the harder it would become for the Janissaries to entertain other thoughts.
Watching Yusuf handle the Janissaries with such skill, the commanders were impressed, yet also fell into a slight fear.
After all, they could not know what kind of monster this Padishah, still only a young man, would become once he gained even more weight and experience than he had now.
“Arda.”
“Yes, Padishah!”
“What news has come from the Safavids?”
“They are moving exactly as Your Majesty predicted. They have prepared to scorch their own lands in anticipation of the Empire’s attack.”
Even without knowledge of the future, it was not a difficult prediction.
For the Safavids, who were inferior in strength, it was the only method available and the most effective tactic.
In the original history, had Ismail not insisted on futuwwa, the chivalry of Muslims, and fought a head-on battle, the one who laughed might have been different.
‘And Ismail will never invoke anything like chivalry against me.’
He was no longer the Ismail of the original history, who only ever advanced from victory to victory; he had become not a brave lion, but a clever wolf who had learned defeat.
He was now in a state where, if it meant defeating the opponent who had continued to deal him defeat, he could display at least some patience.
‘Even so, the situation does not change.’
With the failure of the siege of Trabzon, the flow had already shifted to him, and Ismail had no choice but to dance upon the board that had been laid out for him.
Through the spies he had planted, Yusuf had already piled up enough firewood, and now it was time to set it alight.
“It is about time we returned. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed.”
Yusuf asked the gathered commanders.
“I am thinking of taking a slight detour on the way home. Does anyone have any objections?”
“None at all, Your Majesty.”
“How could we object when we will be enjoying an amusing spectacle along the way?”
Those who had already heard the plan burst into cheerful laughter.
The Ottoman army was to return by cutting a great path through Safavid territory.
‘For Ismail, there will be no choice but to carry out a scorched-earth strategy.’
If he did not, Yusuf intended to launch an offensive straight toward the Safavids.
If Safavid lands were thrown into chaos because of the scorched-earth strategy, Yusuf’s army planned to leisurely withdraw from Safavid territory.
What would those who had watched their lands vanish in vain think?
Would they understand it as an unavoidable choice? Or.
“Will they insult Ismail as a coward?”
Yusuf smiled deeply.
Ismail had already fallen into a trap from which he could not escape.