What Religion Is
For Ottoman princes, becoming a sanjak-bey was an extraordinary form of early education.
For a prince to govern a vast territory himself as a sanjak-bey at a young age was, in modern terms, like a conglomerate chairman appointing his elementary-school-aged son as the president of a subsidiary.
Across all of human history, it was difficult to find a country that practiced early education quite like the Ottomans, and that education allowed them to perform splendidly even if they suddenly ascended the throne at a young age.
After all, his grandfather Mehmed II had ascended at nineteen and destroyed the Eastern Roman Empire at twenty-one.
It was a bold and outstanding method of education, but if there was one regrettable point, it was that the prince had no opportunity to learn the duties of his father, the sultan.
‘It can’t be helped, regrettable though it is. To the sultan, even his son is a rival aiming for his position.’
Thinking of it that way, the sanjak-bey post was both education and a check.
Like a lion driving its grown cub out of the pride, and that wandering male then biding his time to become the leader.
In any case, once a prince came of age, he was even forbidden from coming to the capital, so things like acting as regent or co-ruler, as in other countries, were out of the question.
Only after his father died did he have to receive an indirect handover from officials, including the grand vizier, and that was why, like a honeymoon period, even officials he found utterly displeasing were kept alive in the early days of his reign.
Of course, he would purge them within a year or two.
The important thing was that Yusuf was also in a position where he had to learn the duties of a sultan, and with the recovery from the great earthquake and the expedition piled on top, he had become even busier.
Meeting Oruç amid that frantic busyness was half a chance to catch his breath.
“So those two beggarly wretches are a Venetian envoy and Michelangelo?”
Yusuf pointed to the envoy among the two whose identities were suspect.
The clothes, reduced to rags, were faintly but still recognizably the remnants of fairly expensive garments. It was only that their wretched appearance undermined their credibility.
“If that fellow is truly the envoy who traveled to and from the Safavids, he wouldn’t have admitted it willingly, would he?”
“After we had such trouble catching him, he refused to reveal his identity and only kept repeating that he should be ransomed and released. So I threw him in as an oarsman.”
“No wonder he was ready to spill everything.”
In terms of ordinary punishments, the order of severity was execution, torture, and then service as an oarsman, and rowing was just that arduous and miserable.
Torn muscles and lashings while rowing were an everyday matter, and if one could barely eat even bread soaked with urine, one’s tongue could become rather loose.
If he truly was an envoy, then the reason the West and the Safavids had fallen out of step made perfect sense.
“Alper Pasha.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
Alper Pasha, the Silahdar Agha in charge of security, made his obeisance, and Yusuf pointed at the envoy, who was trembling and glancing all around.
“Take him away and put him through the verification procedure.”
It was not that he distrusted Oruç; the prisoner was simply valuable enough to require confirmation.
The fact that no one had been stabbed did not erase the crime of swinging a blade in front of him, and the price for baring one’s teeth at the Ottomans had to be paid.
That was why the fleet led by Kemal Reis was seizing Venetian merchant ships in the Mediterranean, and if they secured an envoy as well, they could pressure the Mamluks too.
‘For envoys to travel between those two countries, they have to pass through Mamluk lands.’
The Mamluks could not have been unaware of the secret meetings between Venice and the Safavids.
Now that they had even captured an envoy and secured evidence, the Mamluks could not completely evade responsibility, and countless ways to make use of the envoy were already coming to mind.
This was a matter to discuss with the officials once his identity was confirmed, and Yusuf turned to the last remaining man.
“Is this man’s name truly Michelangelo?”
“That is what he said himself. The slaves we captured at the port also knew the name, so I brought him here. Is it perhaps a name you know?”
How could he not?
Europe was in the Renaissance, so there were many outstanding talents, and when it came to artists, three could be named.
Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo Buonarroti, and Raffaello Sanzio.
All three were great artists, but if he had to choose the one he coveted most, he would choose Michelangelo.
The reason was simple.
‘Because I can make use of him longer.’
Da Vinci, already elderly, had less than ten years left to live, and Raphael, living up to his handsome face, would indulge in women and die young at the age of thirty-seven.
He was ugly, arrogant, stiff-necked, and did not hesitate to make cutting remarks, but he was also someone who lived long thanks to an ascetic lifestyle, so Yusuf wanted him. He had not expected him to fall into his hands like this.
Of course, that was assuming he was not an impostor.
“I have heard of him in passing. But if he is truly the man, he should be a great artist. What is this state of him?”
No matter how famous Michelangelo was for going around in ragged clothes, it was not to that extent.
They looked like clothes that even a beggar passing by would hesitate over and then refuse to wear, and at Yusuf’s remark, Oruç scratched his head.
“The truth is, he said he was a decent artist, but his drawings were so strange that I threw him in as an oarsman for about two months.”
“His drawings were strange?”
He considered himself a sculptor and had not formally studied painting, but that did not mean he could not draw.
If that had been the case, he could never have created masterpieces like the Sistine Chapel ceiling or The Last Judgment.
Yusuf’s gaze naturally turned into one directed at an impostor, and Michelangelo flew into a rage and shouted.
Of course, Yusuf, unable to understand his words, looked at the official serving as interpreter, and the interpreter, cold sweat dripping, spoke.
“He says they lacked discernment and were unable to properly appreciate his drawings.”
“Say it exactly as he said it.”
At Yusuf’s command, the interpreter flinched, but whose order was it?
Squeezing his eyes shut, he vomited out the man’s words in full.
“He said, ‘Your eyes for painting are worse than that dog of a pope’s, and you dare say whose painting is strange? You Islamic bastards are always drawing strange pictures, so of course you ended up like this.’”
“I see.”
In Ottoman and other Islamic painting, miniature painting was the orthodox style.
At first glance, it looked rather like caricature, because perspective, volume, and vitality were suppressed to avoid the danger of idolatry.
If one did not understand that foundation, it could indeed look quite strange.
Yusuf stared at the man with the badly crooked nose for a while, then nodded.
‘Seeing him spout insolent words in front of me, there is a high chance he really is Michelangelo himself.’
Being the genuine article was one thing, and tolerating insolence was another.
“Alper Pasha.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
“Throw this man in as an oarsman on a warship. Make it as hard on him as possible, so long as there is nothing wrong with his body.”
“Just leave it to me.”
Alper, who had been glaring at the man who had dared speak insolently before the sultan, received the order with a bright expression.
At Alper’s glance, two Silahdars seized Michelangelo by both arms.
Michelangelo, who had never imagined he would be dragged out just like that, shouted, but soon even his mouth was clamped shut as he was hauled away.
It was a shabby sight for one of the three great masters of the Renaissance, but Yusuf did not think much of it.
“Let us see how long a mere slave can keep acting so stiff-necked.”
If he was tempered as an oarsman, he would come out better behaved, and it would not be too late to offer him a carrot then.
Having neatly settled Michelangelo’s fate, Yusuf smiled broadly at Oruç.
“Oruç, you brought me a useful gift. I hear you also put in effort plundering the Papal States?”
“Everything was thanks to the support you provided, Padishah.”
“Even so, that does not erase the hard work of you and the others. I shall see to it that you are rewarded generously.”
“Thank you, Padishah!”
Now that he had proven his own worth, there was no need to be stingy with rewards.
If they conquered the Mamluks as well, Mediterranean islands such as Rhodes, Crete, and Malta would be their next targets.
They would come into direct conflict with the West, and there would be plenty of room for the Barbary pirates to distinguish themselves.
Yusuf patted Oruç on the shoulder.
“Just continue as you have until now.”
It would be nice if he brought Raphael next time.
∗ ∗ ∗
It was a dark night.
The man who had once, however briefly, sat in the seat of the future master of Topkapi Palace entered the audience chamber with cautious steps.
A deaf servant turned on the faucet, and with the sound of water trickling, Suleiman entered the room and immediately knelt.
“I greet the great Padishah.”
“You may raise your head.”
Once permission was given, Suleiman lifted his head and was slightly surprised.
It had only been a few months since he had last seen his face, so his face had not changed.
But the atmosphere around him had definitely changed.
‘So the rumors circulating among the officials these days were not empty talk.’
The son of Selim who had brought disaster. The heir stripped of the title of shehzade.
Such rumors had been going around, enough to reach even Suleiman, who could not maintain friendly relations with the officials.
Rumors that the sultan, returned from his expedition, had become even more of a monster.
Seeing the substance of those rumors with his own eyes was enough to send chills over his entire body, but Suleiman calmly steadied himself and asked,
“Did you call for me, Padishah?”
“Have you been well? I heard that the work you did with Tahir bore fruit.”
“It was merely reproducing the design you gave us, Padishah.”
“That is not a technology to speak of so lightly.”
The technology of using a waterwheel as a power source to bore out cannons was something that would not appear until two hundred years later.
That was how long it had taken to arrive at the idea of boring out the barrel rather than producing a cannon from a mold.
The innovation created by that difference in thought brought about tremendous change.
‘It became safer, lighter, and the cannonballs’ power grew stronger. And now the Ottomans hold that in their hands.’
Of course, the technological gap would not last forever.
Once other countries realized that Ottoman cannons were superior, they would conduct research as well, and someday they would arrive at the conclusion.
But the time gained while they caught up to the technology was what mattered, and there was no need to be afraid even if Venice supported the Mamluks and the Safavids.
Yusuf praised Suleiman with a benevolent expression.
“What you have done deserves praise, and there is no need for you to diminish your own merit. A proper reward will go not only to you, but to Tahir as well.”
“Thank you, Padishah.”
Of course, the reason he had called Suleiman late at night was not merely to praise him.
“Suleiman, I heard that while I was away, you spent a great deal of time with Mehmed. Is that true?”
“That is correct. He would often come to the workspace.”
“I see. From what you have observed all this time, how does he seem to you?”
Suleiman pondered the question for a moment, then gave a decisive answer.
“A monster.”
“More so than you?”
Suleiman, who had been famous for his brilliance since childhood, shook his head.
“He cannot even be compared to me. He is capable enough to serve as an official right now without any issue.”
It was said that a prince would be appointed as a sanjak-bey at the age of twelve, but ordinarily, until he came of age, he was little more than a figurehead.
Those in charge of his education would govern the territory in his stead, while the prince learned practical affairs at their side.
For someone to say that an eight-year-old child could handle actual administration right away was the highest possible praise.
“It seems you have taken quite a liking to Mehmet.”
“When I think of how he will grow in the future, I am both expectant and afraid. Only Allah knows how he will grow.”
After all, there was nothing more terrifying than a capable person going astray.
Having answered honestly, Suleiman asked cautiously.
“But why do you ask?”
“Mm. I was thinking of sending him off as a sanjak-bey early, but it seems he has already noticed. He was pretending to be a child in the most ridiculous way. Who does he take after, that only his head works so well? Tsk.”
No matter how clever he was, there was the person trying to send an eight-year-old off as a sanjak-bey, and the eight-year-old who noticed and resisted.
Neither was ordinary, and Suleiman’s face turned slightly appalled.
∗ ∗ ∗
After the campaign ended and before returning to the capital, Yusuf made one resolve.
If it would benefit the empire in the long run, he would no longer hesitate.
Now, before conquering the Safavids and the Mamluks.
Before the Muslim population increased, and before he obtained the position of caliph, the pope of the Islamic world, there was something he had to put in order.
“Bring Zembilli Ali Efendi, the Shaykh al-Islam.”
He had to set religion in order first.
∗ ∗ ∗
Shaykh al-Islam
Shaykh meant a tribal chief or religious leader, and the al- commonly found in Arabic was a definite article like “the” in English.
Interpreted literally, it meant the leader of Islam, and within the Ottoman Empire, he oversaw all matters related to Islam.
He appointed qadis, the judges who ruled on Islamic law, advised the sultan on religious matters, and of course, also played the role of legitimizing government policy.
When an Islamic scholar gave an opinion regarding Islamic law, it was called a fatwa, and through this, the sultan’s actions were cloaked in legitimacy.
Because his duties were so numerous and his perspective so broad, Zembilli Ali Efendi could clearly sense how affairs were unfolding.
“In the end, the time has come.”
A complicated state of mind showed around his wrinkled eyes.
Zembilli had hoped that Yusuf’s reputation, built upon his prophecy of the earthquake and his ascent to the sultan’s throne, would subside as time passed.
But that had been a complete miscalculation, and the sultan’s fame had rapidly swollen in size. Even the crowds that had gathered not long ago to welcome his return were proof enough.
For so many people to voluntarily leave their livelihoods behind and gather like that was close to worship.
“Shaykh al-Islam.”
“I know. The Padishah has summoned me, so I must go.”
Answering the urging ulema, the Islamic jurist, Zembilli raised his aged body.
Many felt that the empire stood before change, and its first step seemed to begin with religion.
Zembilli looked up at the majestic dome of Hagia Sophia, which had endured a thousand years.
Just as Hagia Sophia, once a cathedral, had changed into a mosque with the passage of time, there was nothing in this world that remained eternally unchanged.
∗ ∗ ∗
Yusuf stopped cleaning his gun and raised his head.
“You came alone?”
“I did, Padishah.”
At Zembilli’s words as he knelt alone before him, Yusuf nodded.
The reason he had not dragged along a line of people like ulema or qadis, as he had last time, was obvious.
It meant that he would shoulder all the responsibility and disgrace to come.
“Zembilli Ali Efendi, you were the one my father chose.”
“That is correct.”
In order to embrace various cultures and religions, the Ottoman Empire operated the millet system, in which subjects were governed autonomously by their respective religious communities.
In return, however, it involved itself deeply in the selection of each religion’s leader. In the case of the Orthodox patriarch, who was elected, it made sure that a person suited to its tastes was put forward.
And the Shaykh al-Islam was directly appointed and even dismissed.
“What kind of man did my father seem to you?”
“He was a man of deep faith. He was surely one who would go into Allah’s embrace.”
“Indeed, he was a devout man.”
He had not been nicknamed Bayezid the Just for nothing.
“Then my attitude after succeeding such a father must have disappointed you.”
“How could that possibly be?”
“Then you will be disappointed from now on.”
Having said that, Yusuf turned his gaze to the gun he was holding.
Tahir, who had made the gun for him, had been embarrassed because it was the first flintlock gun he had ever made and had offered to make him a new one, but Yusuf refused.
It was certainly crude and lacking in many ways, but it had been a comrade-in-arms that had accompanied him since his first battle.
“This is the gun I have used since my first battle. How many times do you think I have fired it?”
“I do not think you have fired it many times.”
“You are right. I have fired it only enough times to count on both hands.”
He had been a prince from birth, and now he was the sultan.
There were almost no occasions for such a person to be thrown into the middle of a dangerous battlefield, and just as few occasions for him to use a weapon.
“I have used it only a few times in practice, yet this gun has many scratches. No matter how carefully one handles a tool, in the end, it grows old. Then what do you think religion is to me?”
“…What is it?”
“A tool.”
Zembilli, who had asked while already expecting the answer that would come back, gave a bitter smile.
Zembilli was not so ignorant of worldly affairs as to feel devastated.
In a way, when the sultan used Islam, the office that moved most actively at the forefront was the Shaykh al-Islam.
Even so, the fact that he had spoken those words directly was astonishing, and Zembilli forced himself to speak calmly.
“Do you mean, as you said last time, that religion also grows old and must be replaced with something new?”
“I am once again pointing out your limits. That there is nothing eternal in this world.”
“Allah is absolute and unchanging.”
“Allah may not change, but those who believe do.”
For a while, Zembilli looked at Yusuf as if glaring at him, then let out a sigh.
It was not that he fully agreed with Yusuf’s words. He had merely acknowledged that he had been placed within a current he could not resist.
“If I were to resist the Padishah’s will, what would you do?”
“I would use the easy method. There are many who would become my hands and feet besides you.”
It meant that he could replace someone of the Shaykh al-Islam’s rank at any time and raise up someone suited to his tastes.
After a brief silence, Zembilli lowered his head.
“I will follow the Padishah’s will.”
“Will you be all right? I acknowledge that you have done much for the empire until now. If you withdraw here, I will not hold it against you.”
All change was like that.
If there were those who welcomed it, there were also those who opposed it, and their condemnation would be directed not at the noble sultan, but at the relatively easier target, the Shaykh al-Islam.
At Yusuf’s consideration, telling him to step down without tarnishing the reputation he had built up until now, Zembilli shook his head.
“What would change if the reputation of an old man who might die at any moment were tarnished?”
“Those closest to you will be the first to turn their backs.”
Those who opposed the movement of Islam twisting around Yusuf had gathered around Zembilli.
Those with whom he had associated deeply of late were people who opposed changes to Islam, and they would point their blades at the traitor.
At Yusuf’s observation, Zembilli gave an unexpected answer.
“They are the ones I gathered because I wanted it to turn out so.”
“Zembilli?”
“Islam within the empire may be shaken, but the empire must not be shaken.”
These words were quite surprising.
No matter how much his office moved according to the sultan’s preferences, a devout Muslim had uttered such words.
At Yusuf’s reaction, Zembilli let out a light laugh.
“There is no need to be surprised. It is because I believe Islam is safer precisely because it lies within the empire’s embrace.”
Regarding relations between Muslims and non-Muslims, the Quran spoke of peace and coexistence when Muslims were not persecuted.
In that sense, the empire was peaceful. Christians, who made up the majority of the empire, and Muslims were coexisting together.
That was the reason Zembilli regarded the empire’s security as important.
“If you go so far as to say that, I will say no more. Keep only one thing in mind. Once you have begun, you cannot step back.”
“If the Padishah’s command is ultimately for the peace of the empire, I will obey.”
“There is no one who desires that more than I do.”
“Then I will listen closely to the Padishah’s plan.”
At Zembilli’s ready answer, Yusuf began.
“As you know, if I only wished it, I am in a position where I could be revered as a saint as much as I please. You know that, do you not?”
“…I know.”
It might have been better if it were only at the level of a saint.
Despite the Quran, there were even people now claiming that Yusuf was the prophet who succeeded Muhammad.
There was no heresy like this heresy, and yet he could not suppress it either.
How could he have people flogged for serving Yusuf, the sultan?
“You asked me before. Whether I intended to become a god.”
“The Padishah said he had no intention of becoming something as cumbersome as a god.”
It had been an answer he had not expected, so it remained vivid in his memory.
For a ruler, desiring to be revered like a god was a natural desire, yet he had rejected it head-on.
“That feeling has not changed even now. So there is no need to make such a grave face.”
“This old man’s face is grave by nature.”
“Let us say that is the case. In any event, such movements are not found only within Islam.”
“I have heard that there are those among the People of the Book who make such claims as well.”
In Islam, including the Ottomans, Christians and Jews together were called the People of the Book, and here, “the Book” referred to the Pentateuch of Moses and, in the Bible, the Old Testament.
At Zembilli’s words, Yusuf lifted the corners of his mouth.
“Why do you think such a claim came about?”
“Padishah?”
An expression of bewilderment appeared on Zembilli’s face.
He had thought it a little strange. Though he did not follow Islam entirely, in any case, the sultan was nominally a Muslim.
He had said it was strange that there was a movement to venerate such a sultan as a saint, but he had never imagined the sultan himself might have been pulling strings.
“Why are you so surprised? A tool cannot choose its master. It is the master who chooses the tool.”
At Yusuf’s brazen attitude, Zembilli swallowed a hollow laugh.
It was odd and yet fascinating that his earlier words had not been empty talk, and that he truly regarded religion like a tool.
“Do you truly intend to become a saint?”
“Even if I do not go so far as to become a saint, should I not at least earn their respect?”
Though they had been brought under Ottoman rule, most regions still lacked any sense of being imperial subjects.
And beneath that lay, to some extent, the feeling that they did not wish to serve a heathen emperor.
“First, I intend to suspend the devshirme.”
The devshirme, which was even called a blood tax, was a system that conscripted Christian boys, and it was met with tremendous resistance in the regions where it was enforced.
If he suspended this devshirme system, he would receive enormous support, but...
“Will that be all right?”
“I am well aware of the advantages of the devshirme.”
The key officials within the Ottoman state and the Janissaries came from the devshirme, and because they had been all but indoctrinated from childhood, their loyalty was high as well.
For a sultan, it was a system too valuable to discard, but Yusuf assessed it coldly.
‘Even if you work hard to indoctrinate them from childhood and raise their loyalty, they are still people. Loyalty can waver at any time.’
One needed only look at the important role the Janissaries played whenever the sultan changed.
Of course, to steady that wavering loyalty, much wealth was distributed and they were treated well, but if one was going to secure their loyalty that way anyway, there was no need to maintain a system while being cursed for it.
“Zembilli, in your opinion, if someone was not selected by me through the devshirme, do you think I would be unable to receive their loyalty?”
“I do not think so.”
Yusuf’s renown was such that it had even penetrated religion, the realm of faith.
Leaving loyalty aside, if someone showed even the slightest sign of opposition, he might be cut down by the comrade beside him.
“Or do you think I will make blunders in the future and my authority will fall lower than it is now?”
“It will rise higher.”
Even if he conquered only the Mamluks and then spent the rest of his life idling in luxury, he would still be praised as a great sultan.
There was no reason to worry about loyalty just because there was no devshirme.
“Still, will it not cause problems for future generations, including the prince?”
“Hmph. Why should I worry about descendants so foolish that they cannot even receive loyalty from the men beneath them?”
Rather than have such descendants remain on the sultan’s throne, it would be better for them to go up to the guillotine and for a citizens’ revolution to break out.
At Yusuf’s resolute words, Zembilli looked faint.
The more he conversed with him, the more frightening it became to wonder what thoughts he usually carried in his head.
“If a decent descendant succeeds me, he will devise whatever measures are necessary with his own ability. In any case, I intend to fill the void left by the devshirme with examinations.”
“...The candidates will not be limited to Muslims, I suppose.”
“Of course not. And you will have to make the Muslims understand this.”
Zembilli’s complexion darkened at being given such a difficult task, but it was not over yet.
“I intend to send portraits bearing my face to various regions. They should at least know whom they serve and live under, should they not? Of course, I will not use the Islamic style of painting.”
“There is even the issue of idolatry, then.”
Islamic miniature painting had developed under the notion that even painting the ruler’s portrait left room for idolatry.
Zembilli let out a deep sigh.
“I will do my utmost.”
∗ ∗ ∗
“So paint my portrait. You must paint at least a hundred of them.”
“...Pardon?”
Michelangelo, who had only just escaped being an oarsman, felt his mind go blank for an instant and cried out in alarm.
“I am a sculptor!”
“Then will you make a hundred statues?”
Michelangelo quietly picked up the brush.
∗ ∗ ∗
The hand moving the paint-stained brush was cautious.
Color was applied one layer at a time atop wood that had been treated with steam to prevent splitting, then prepared with glue and white pigment.
Michelangelo had never formally studied painting, to the point that brushwork felt unfamiliar to him, and he had always considered painting inferior to sculpture, so he had never imagined he would be painting a portrait.
Though he had taken on the ceiling painting under the pope’s pressure, if he had been told to paint the pope’s portrait, he would have thrown the brush in the pope’s face.
But now was different. He did not want to become an oarsman again.
‘It is not that I value my life.’
Blisters would burst on his hands, his whole body would scream, and he would have to force disgusting food down his throat.
Being an oarsman was a dreadful torment, but he could endure that much.
He had never been close to luxury to begin with, and he had lived his life keeping his distance from both alcohol and women.
But he could not endure the fear that he might never create works with these hands again and might die as refuse of the sea.
‘So I must win the sultan’s favor no matter what.’
The one fortunate thing was that, having completed about half of the ceiling painting, he had gained some sense for painting.
At this moment, he almost felt grateful to that pope he could not bear the sight of...
‘No, that is not right. If not for that man, I would not have been dragged here in the first place!’
The instant his emotions surged, his brush slipped, and a chilly voice came to him.
“It seems there was a problem with that brushstroke just now.”
After hearing the interpretation, a chill ran down Michelangelo’s spine.
When the sultan pointed out a small mistake, killing intent poured from the eyes around him, as if to say he had dared to make a mistake despite receiving the honor of painting the sultan’s face.
Michelangelo quickly moved his brush and covered the mistaken part.
“How could that be? There is no problem with the painting.”
At those green eyes, shining clear as though piercing through his insides, Michelangelo grew slightly tense, and Yusuf opened his mouth.
“If you say so, then so it must be.”
Thinking he had overcome one crisis, Michelangelo increased his speed.
He only needed to paint the face. The time he had been granted was short, and the longer he remained in the same space as the sultan, the more he felt his lifespan was being shaved away.
Having finally finished painting Yusuf’s face, Michelangelo put down the brush and said,
“The face is finished.”
“Bring it here.”
At Yusuf’s command, Silahdar Agha Alper Pasha, who served as his guard, brought over the panel painting.
In the portrait was a handsome young man both familiar and unfamiliar.
It was not that the image had been beautified, but because there were no clear mirrors, one’s own face inevitably felt more unfamiliar than the faces of others.
“Alper Pasha, how does it look to you? Is it identical?”
“Compared to the Padishah, I think the painting falls short.”
“So you mean it was painted properly.”
Cutting off the transparent flattery, Yusuf looked at the painting with satisfaction.
The goodwill gained from one’s face was quite important, and if his face was this attractive even without embellishment, it seemed the investment in charm had been worthwhile.
“Use this face as the standard and paint one hundred portraits. And I will assign you guards.”
“I will not run away.”
If he could run, he wanted to, but it was obvious that he would be dragged back in less than a day.
At Michelangelo’s answer, Yusuf twisted his lips.
“I said I would assign you guards, not watchers. Without guards, how long do you think your life would remain attached to you?”
“...What do you mean?”
“About two years, I suppose. Once I go on campaign, the chances of your dying will be high.”
Michelangelo’s eyes shook violently, and Yusuf rose from the chair in which he had been sitting.
On one side of the wall was an Islamic miniature, a painting of his own enthronement ceremony.
To a modern person more accustomed to Western civilization, Islamic miniatures might appear flat and, at a glance, like cartoons, and one might be tempted to dismiss them, but this style of painting certainly had its own value.
However, the reason he had Michelangelo paint portraits was that the more realistic Western style of painting was better suited to this particular matter.
‘But it would be troublesome to believe the Islamic miniaturists will understand that.’
He would surely look like someone threatening their place.
“Painting my portrait is not a simple matter. Among the painters in the palace, you will stand at the center of change and controversy. You will receive jealousy as well.”
“I am not a painter, but a sculptor.”
“Since you have painted my portrait, you are now a painter as well. That is why you should have made a hundred statues instead.”
Yusuf smiled playfully.
Of course, even if he had known this in advance, Michelangelo surely would have painted the portrait.
He was not the sort of person who could stamp out identical statues like a machine.
Yusuf lightly patted Michelangelo’s shoulder, who looked somewhat aggrieved.
“You need not worry. With the guards I send, there will be no reckless fool who would harm you.”
At this point, Yusuf decided to offer him a carrot.
He looked obedient now, but since he had a strong rebellious streak, Yusuf had to handle him carefully.
“If you complete all the portraits, I will support you so that you may sculpt whatever you wish. Of course, if necessary, you will have to do painting work again.”
Though a condition had been attached, Michelangelo’s eyes sparkled at the words that he could sculpt again.
Support for a genius with little material desire was nothing special.
“If you wish, you may go directly to the quarry and find a stone you like. That is what you have been hoping for, is it not?”
“How did you know?!”
Michelangelo looked astonished, but for Yusuf, who knew him fairly well, it was not a difficult prediction.
Michelangelo thought of sculpture as the act of liberating a form trapped within stone.
When he was making the statue of David, he had even told a girl who came by with a curious expression that he was awakening the angel inside the rock.
There was also the anecdote of how he had wandered a quarry for months searching for the stone he wanted.
A simple desire like wanting to find a stone he liked was something he could indulge as much as he pleased.
“Of course, all of this comes after you finish every last portrait.”
“Just leave it to me. I will complete them as quickly as possible!”
Leaving the passion-filled Michelangelo behind, Yusuf stepped outside and smiled faintly.
It would not be bad for him to finish the portraits quickly and then devote himself diligently to sculpture.
After all, any statue made by a slave belonged to his master—himself.
“Alper, summon the Patriarch of Constantinople and the Sheikh al-Islam.”
Michelangelo, whose hands were faster than a painter’s, was pouring his passion into the work, so the portraits would be completed soon.
It was necessary to move things along at that pace.
∗ ∗ ∗
It was not yet the time for the churches within the Ottoman sphere of influence to bear the name Orthodox Church.
After many things changed in the Western Church through the Reformation, they used the term Orthodox in the sense that they had preserved legitimacy without changing.
There were still seven years left before Martin Luther opened the floodgates of the Reformation by condemning the church for selling indulgences, so the name Orthodox Church had not yet appeared.
In any case, affairs concerning the churches within the Ottoman Empire were handled by the Patriarch of Constantinople.
‘There is also the Armenian Patriarch, but that side is a bit troublesome.’
It was not yet the age when nationalism would emerge, but the Armenians were tightly united around the Armenian Apostolic Church.
It was similar to how the Jews were united around Judaism, and since religion was effectively standing in for a state, he did not want to carelessly strengthen their power.
“You have both come at the right time.”
Yusuf welcomed the two as they knelt and paid their respects.
“Patriarch Pachomius, Sheikh al-Islam. Soon the portraits will be completed one by one. However, there is a problem.”
“What is it?”
“There is no suitable place to put the portraits.”
A portrait bearing the sultan’s face could not simply be placed in just any building.
Considering security, it would be best to place them within the city’s citadel, but that would make them less accessible to his subjects and diminish the meaning of having gone to such trouble to create them.
“Therefore, I intend to place the portraits in cathedrals and mosques.”
Pachomius, the Patriarch, nodded as though it were not difficult, but Zembilli, the Sheikh al-Islam, expressed opposition.
“You know how sensitive we in Islam are to idol worship. There is already some talk about these portraits as well.”
“There is no need to worry. I plan to build new structures in each city. They will only be placed there temporarily.”
The buildings to be constructed in the future would not merely be places to house portraits.
What he was planning for the moment was to post imperial news to be announced to his subjects in the form of wall notices.
‘A kind of state propaganda venue.’
Among the methods that could be attempted in this era, the most useful means of propaganda was the newspaper, but with a major expedition being prepared, he could not afford to pay attention to that as well.
Perhaps after conquering the Mamluks and gaining some breathing room.
For the current level, simply announcing propaganda to his liking through wall notices was enough.
At Yusuf’s words, Zembilli replied as though relieved at least somewhat.
“If it is temporary, I will do my best to smooth things over.”
“Reliable as always. And Patriarch, after the portraits are sent, I will also publicly proclaim the abolition of the devshirme system.”
“Thank you, Padishah! All your subjects will praise the Padishah’s mercy.”
The Patriarch bowed his head deeply.
Though he was under Ottoman control, the Patriarch’s role was ultimately to care for the well-being of the subjects who believed in the church.
If the devshirme, which had caused wails to echo through the churches every time it was carried out, was to be abolished, there could be no better news.
“The children currently being educated will be given the choice to return to their parents’ arms.”
If the devshirme was abolished, there would be pain and confusion for a while.
Among the trainees, there would be children who wished to return to their parents, but there would also be those who had been separated from their parents for a long time, or who would regret wasting the education they had already received.
He intended to take in such children, and the vacancies that appeared could be filled with orphans.
‘The bigger problem is those like the Janissaries, who have already finished their education and settled into their positions.’
Those who became officials were better off. They were of devshirme origin, but they were no different from ordinary officials.
However, the Janissaries were subject to many restrictions, beginning with a ban on marriage, on the grounds that they were the sultan’s slaves.
‘In the end, I’ll have to lift these restrictions.’
It also meant that, ultimately, he would have to improve the constitution of the central army.
Even in the original history, the reason the Janissaries became an entrenched corrupt force was because marriage was permitted and Muslims were allowed to join, causing Janissary positions to become hereditary.
This issue was not urgent. In any case, the more guns were distributed, the more useful conscripts would become, and there were many ways to keep the Janissaries in check.
“Patriarch, I trust you know well what your role is?”
“I will ensure that all believers are moved by the Padishah’s grace.”
“You understand well.”
This was an age when even good deeds went largely unnoticed unless they were announced.
Rather than waiting for someone to recognize them, it was better to proclaim them widely to all corners, and if matters proceeded well, he would be able to increase his influence over the Orthodox Church as well.
‘Ultimately, I must ensure that the House of Osman is not bound to a single religion.’
He needed to obtain the flexibility required to rule a vast empire without trouble.
“In addition, before long, discrimination based on religion of origin will also disappear.”
In the Ottoman Empire, one’s occupation was heavily influenced by one’s religion of origin, and since only Muslims were drafted for compulsory military service, the military was mostly occupied by Muslims.
Orthodox believers, including Greeks, mainly engaged in maritime work and commerce, while Jews and Armenians mostly worked in commerce and industry.
When the Patriarch’s face brightened even further at the statement that this framework would be abolished and he tried to offer his thanks, Yusuf raised a hand.
“This is not something to simply rejoice over. It means that from now on, not only Muslims but all subjects will be included as targets for conscription.”
Taxes would decrease, but the advantage of increasing the number of troops who could be armed with guns could not be ignored.
All the more so when he thought of how often he would have to wage war in the future.
“It means you must properly smooth over any backlash that may arise.”
“…I will do my utmost.”
“Good. In the long term, this decision will be better.”
This was good for the empire as well.
If occupations were nearly fixed, wealth could become concentrated in certain ethnic groups, and that would naturally grow into resentment toward those groups.
“You may go now. Go and carry out what I have commanded.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Two months after the Patriarch and the Sheikh al-Islam shouldered their heavy orders.
Michelangelo, having produced one hundred portraits, collapsed from overwork, and Yusuf’s portraits began to be delivered throughout the Ottoman Empire.