Sacrosanct
Because the same time is spent every day, it is called daily life.
When the sun rises, one works; when the sun sets, one falls asleep.
For subjects who looked upon the same scenery until the day they died, rumors were more stimulating than any amusement.
The story most often on the lips of the subjects at present was the Sultan’s achievement in returning after punishing the wicked Georgia and Safavid.
“They say the moment the Sultan set foot there, the people of Georgia said they were ashamed before Allah and drove out the nobles!”
“Bah, what nonsense.”
“Ahem! I’m telling you it’s true. A noble family from there moved to a village not far away, and that’s the story they told. Since they hadn’t sinned against the Sultan, their lives were spared, they said.”
“I heard the Shiite bastards in the east burned their own lands like cowards without even fighting a single battle.”
“How would cowards like that dare raise their heads before the Sultan, eh?!”
Those gathered at the barley tea shops built throughout the empire by the Sultan’s order raised their voices cheerfully.
Since Yusuf had ascended the throne along with the prophecy of an earthquake, many would have believed him even if he said bread could be made from powdered stone, and the unfamiliar barley tea shops were accepted easily as well.
In truth, stomachaches and sick children decreased, and in the cold winter, they became places where adults gathered to chat.
“By the way, have you heard that rumor? It’s news I heard not long ago from a merchant coming and going from the capital.”
“Is it about the portrait, by any chance?”
When someone beside him cut in, the man who had been about to bring up the story scowled fiercely.
“You little—?! There are times when you ought to keep quiet and read the room!”
“Don’t get angry, just tell us! What portrait?”
“Ahem. They say a portrait of the Sultan is being painted in the capital. And it’s to be enshrined all across the empire so that subjects like us can see it! That’s the story.”
Those who had not heard the rumor widened their eyes at those words.
Ordinary subjects did not have the right to see the Sultan’s face.
Even those who lived in the capital had to lower their heads when the Sultan passed by, so only rumors ran rampant.
Some said he was an incredibly handsome man, while others said he looked so terrifying that his enemies wet themselves.
Though it was only a painting, the thought of enjoying the honor of seeing such a Sultan’s face made their bodies grow hot with excitement.
“It’ll come to our city too, won’t it?”
“Well, who knows. Our empire is so vast, after all. It may not come.”
“Still, if it’s our sanjak-bey, won’t he do something about it somehow?”
The sanjak-beys, now bearing such expectations from their subjects, felt burdened.
It was not simply a matter of disappointing their subjects. The problem was that it would reveal differences in ability among the sanjak-beys.
Each sanjak would be given one portrait anyway, but anything beyond that depended on the ability of the sanjak-bey.
‘At the very least, I must obtain more than the fellow in the neighboring sanjak.’
If it were merely an ordinary painting, they might have made copies, but if they dared copy the Sultan’s portrait, their heads would fly; and if they missed this opportunity, they did not know when another portrait would be made.
With the thought that they might be compared to others for at least several years, or in the worst case for the rest of their lives, the sanjak-beys moved their heavy bodies.
The first ones they reached out to were the two beylerbeys in charge of the Balkan Peninsula and Anatolia.
“So, at the very least, we must receive more portraits than Rumelia.”
“Is that not only natural, since the territory of our Anatolia is larger?”
“It is not wrong.”
Rumelia and Anatolia, the two pillars that formed the empire, differed from each other in many ways.
Even the sipahi alone—did Rumelia not arm themselves like European knights, while Anatolia armed themselves like nomads?
There was bound to be some degree of rivalry.
Dukaginzade Ahmed Pasha, who had assassinated Korkut under Yusuf’s orders when Yusuf was the sanjak-bey of Ankara, stroked his beard.
“Very well. I shall try.”
“Thank you!”
The beylerbey of Rumelia made the same decision.
Although the Balkan Peninsula may have had less territory, it was a prime region that paid enormous taxes.
The two regions did not hesitate to lobby the officials staying in the capital, and these movements eventually reached Yusuf’s ears.
As portraits threatened to give rise to untimely regional conflict, Yusuf declared firmly.
“There will be only one portrait placed in each sanjak. However, Trabzon shall be an exception and will be given two portraits.”
At this declaration, the atmosphere that had been noisy for some time calmed somewhat.
Trabzon, where Yusuf had once served as sanjak-bey, became the sole exception, but it was something they could well understand.
Though this decision settled the uproar, the matter had been noisy for two months, to the point that even ordinary subjects knew of it, and interest in the portraits deepened.
So much so that there was no need to worry about resistance to temporarily placing the portraits in cathedrals and mosques.
It was an incident that later historians would call the Portrait Commotion, and before long, it became known as gossip even in the West.
Of course, the Pope, upon learning the whereabouts of Michelangelo, who had vanished after leaving behind a half-finished masterpiece, clutched the back of his neck.
In any case, regardless of the commotion outside, Michelangelo completed all the portraits with the single-minded determination to sculpt, and the portraits were moved to various places under the utmost guard.
∗ ∗ ∗
With the Sultan’s return, Ayşe and Hatice newly made their nests in the harem.
This was not simply a matter of two women being added; it meant that power within the harem was shifting.
Nigar and Gülfer, who had gained the Sultan’s favor and earned the status of concubines, bowed their heads to the two Hatuns without resistance.
‘They said that if I offend the two Hatuns, it will be hard to be held in the Sultan’s arms again.’
Hürrem always kept her ears open in order to survive in the harem.
Fortunately, even harem women who knew well that careless talk could cost them their heads became loose-lipped in front of the still-young Hürrem.
Moreover, since she was not yet of an age to receive the Padishah’s summons, she could take a step back and observe the movements within the harem.
‘The factions have split in two.’
The easiest way to gain the Sultan’s favor was to make a good impression on the Valide Hatun and the Hatuns.
Around Ayşe gathered women from Orthodox regions, including Circassians. Around Hatice gathered Muslims.
The harem factions had split in two so clearly that even Hürrem could tell, but on this day alone, they gathered in one place without distinction.
“This is the Padishah’s portrait.”
The women stared blankly at the portrait hanging in the harem.
It was a portrait that would not have been hung without the request of Fatima and the two Hatuns, and the women who saw the Sultan’s portrait felt their hearts pound.
It was so vivid that it seemed as if the Sultan might walk out of the painting, and for a long while the women could not take their eyes off it.
This painting was enough to make Hürrem, who had always acted cautiously as if walking on thin ice, behave boldly unlike usual.
“Ayşe Hatun.”
“What is it?”
Facing her radiant golden hair and warm green eyes, Hürrem mustered her courage and asked.
“How did you come to meet the Padishah, Hatun?”
“Are you curious about that?”
Ayşe’s eyes curved prettily.
The image of Yusuf from that time, reaching out his hand toward her as she was being sold by a slave merchant, was still vivid in her mind.
Listening with a flushed face to the story Ayşe told as she savored each and every memory, Hürrem could not hold back and took up a pen the very next day.
∗ ∗ ∗
Yusuf looked at the portrait of himself.
It was a work that made him feel clearly that Michelangelo was a genius. After all, even portraits that had been produced almost as if stamped out were of this quality.
“Grand Vizier, how is the response to the portraits?”
“Hagia Sophia, where the portrait has been hung, is so crowded every day that there is no room to set foot. They say the situation is similar in other regions.”
“Good. It would have been embarrassing if there had been no response.”
“How could that possibly be?”
Yusuf asked Grand Vizier Hersekzade Ahmed Pasha, who was smiling gently.
“Do you meet with Hatice?”
“We exchange messages from time to time.”
“Come to think of it, my ties with you have been quite long as well.”
He had first met the Grand Vizier when he was in adolescence, so quite a long time had passed.
It was when he was beginning to stand out, but no one thought he would become Sultan. Even those of mere vizier rank had not tried to meet him.
That was why he had been quite surprised when Hersekzade, who had even served as Grand Vizier, reached out his hand.
“I also made you break out in a cold sweat by bringing up the gunpowder you were diverting.”
“I apologize. I was discourteous then.”
“Enough. Too many years have passed to bring that up now. And the gift I received then was substantial as well.”
He had no intention of tormenting him over musty old matters. It had also been a meeting where the gains had outweighed the losses.
Yusuf carefully observed the Grand Vizier’s slightly tense face.
“Time is harsher on those who have aged. Unlike back then, your face is full of wrinkles.”
“Is that not the providence of Allah?”
“Still, you need not only feel regret. You have come to have a dependable grandson like Murat.”
Unlike the calm smile around his mouth, his eyes emitted a chilling air, and the Grand Vizier lowered himself even further.
It was because he sensed that the conversation to follow would not be light.
“Grand Vizier, though Murat is my son, he is quite talented.”
Even if guns and cannons were to become the mainstay from now on, individual martial strength would not be entirely meaningless.
There were regions like Africa or the jungle where guns were difficult to use, and rain might make it impossible to use gunpowder.
The worse the conditions, the more Murat’s martial strength would shine, and Yusuf intended to give him such opportunities appropriately.
“But his rival, Mehmed, is no easy fellow either.”
“…I know.”
Having actually conversed with Mehmed, he had realized it clearly.
That only monsters are born from a monster’s bloodline.
“If I were Mehmed, I would attack you in order to seize Murat.”
“Padishah?!”
“Why are you so surprised? Bringing you down is not impossible. Surely you do not think I am merely watching because you are clean?”
“I-I apologize, Padishah!”
The Grand Vizier prostrated himself and begged, and Yusuf waved his hand.
Even in the modern age, where one had to be mindful of the entire nation’s gaze, corruption was rampant; in this era, if anything, it was worse, not less.
If it was kept to a reasonable level, he simply knew about it and let it pass.
‘Because it’ll make a useful pretext when the time comes to purge them.’
Handing over money while holding their lives in his grasp was quite a decent exchange.
“Enough. I did not call you here to punish you. In any case, you can become Murat’s weakness at any time.”
If the opponent were not Mehmed but an ordinary prince, it would not be a problem.
No matter how much of a prince one was, cutting off the Grand Vizier’s head was by no means an easy task.
But if it was Mehmed, whom even Suleiman had judged frightening, the matter was somewhat different.
At Yusuf’s words, the Grand Vizier, who had only just regained his composure, asked.
“What do you wish me to do?”
“You may find it disappointing, but you must prepare to step down from your post.”
If he descended from that seat this time, he would never again be able to dream of becoming Grand Vizier.
Hersekzade, who had served as Grand Vizier three times, felt a momentary lingering attachment, but soon accepted it.
If the Sultan had made up his mind, the result would not change.
“I shall follow the Padishah’s will.”
“Good. Then, before you leave your post, let us do one thing together.”
“What sort of thing?”
“I intend to create an organization.”
At Yusuf’s words, the Grand Vizier tilted his head. It was an answer he had not expected at all.
“Are you intending to create a new army like the Janissaries?”
If so, it was not beyond understanding.
After all, preparations for the conquest of the Safavids had already begun.
“Perhaps later, but not yet.”
“Then what sort of organization do you intend to create?”
“An organization that will gather information within the Empire and spread the stories I want told.”
After all, there was no law saying agitation and fabrication had to be used only against enemies, was there?
∗ ∗ ∗
The Grand Vizier, Hersekzade Ahmed Pasha, quietly lifted his wine cup.
Muslims were not supposed to drink alcohol, but because the Ottoman dynasty came from nomads who had long had to endure the cold, the Ottomans were lenient toward drinking.
Even ordinary Muslims who were not officials sometimes crossed over into Greek neighborhoods and drank there if they wished.
Of course, if they got drunk and collapsed in a tavern, they might find themselves sold off as galley slaves, but drinking itself was not difficult.
Yet Hersekzade had kept as far away from alcohol as possible. In the politics of the capital, a single small mistake could cost one’s head.
‘Today, however, I have no choice but to drink.’
His conversation with Yusuf had been shocking in many ways.
The seat of Grand Vizier? The fact that he had been Grand Vizier three times also meant that he had stepped down from that seat twice.
It was regrettable, but it was a future that would have come someday.
Still, he had not expected to let it go in this manner.
“So he knew of the corruption and merely watched.”
The wine he had put to his lips for the first time in a long while tasted terribly bitter.
If Yusuf knew about him, it meant he had also grasped matters concerning those who attended the Divan council.
It had not even been two years since his accession, and if one counted the expedition, the time was even shorter. How he knew made chills run down Hersekzade’s spine.
For old times’ sake, it would be better to warn the other officials.
‘This is the Padishah’s test, and his warning.’
From Yusuf’s perspective, there was no need to go through the trouble of persuading the Grand Vizier with words.
If he gave an order, it would be carried out. That was no different even for the Grand Vizier.
The fact that he had brought up corruption that did not need to be mentioned meant that Hersekzade was not to try anything foolish with the organization that would be formed.
Hersekzade tossed back the remaining wine in his cup.
“Khh, frightening. Truly frightening.”
He had served three sultans in all, from Mehmed II and Bayezid II to Yusuf.
Mehmed II had been a symbol of terror, to the point that Westerners rang the bells of their cathedrals when news came of his death.
There was even a story that the Pope invited all the envoys staying in Rome and ate and drank with them for three days.
Bayezid II, while gentle, was skilled in political maneuvering and had officials in the palm of his hand.
Both had been great and fearsome sultans, but Yusuf instilled a fear different from the two who came before him.
It was the fear one felt when looking upon something incomprehensible.
“I truly wish I could ask Allah. Is he really the same human as the rest of us?”
The idea of creating a group to gather and manipulate public opinion was not unique in itself.
It was in the same vein as kings publicizing their achievements, merely meaning that he intended to do so more actively.
But what truly astonished him came during their deeper conversation.
Drawing on the experience of his life, he had pointed out every problem that could arise when creating such an organization.
‘He answered every point. No, rather, he spoke one step ahead of me.’
For Yusuf, who knew well the blunders and abuses of intelligence agencies that had continued over long years, it was not difficult to answer, but to Hersekzade, it brought only confusion and fear.
That was because Yusuf had spoken without hesitation of things that could not possibly be said without experience.
It struck him as even more shocking than the prophecy of the earthquake, and Hersekzade, who had worn a complicated expression, erased his unnecessary thoughts.
“All I need do is follow the Padishah’s orders and quietly watch the Empire’s future.”
The organization to be created from now on would grow into a fairly powerful group, but Hersekzade cast aside his greed.
He had no desire to do something foolish and lose everything while trying to seize a small gain.
“The useful fellow in Safavid lands has become rather pitiful.”
Working under such a Padishah would dry the blood from one’s veins.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Achoo!”
Hasan, who sneezed loudly, roughly wiped away his running nose.
For Hasan, who had been born in Trabzon, where temperatures remained above freezing even in winter, weather that dropped below zero was difficult to endure.
Wrapped in thick furs, Hasan clicked his tongue lightly.
“I don’t even know how many times this makes.”
Hasan turned his eyes away from a family who had starved to death while wandering in search of food in the cold weather.
It was a sight far too common to show sympathy for each and every time.
“Lord Hasan, there is no one in the villages around here.”
It was the aftermath of the scorched-earth operation.
Winter had arrived, and those without stored food had moved to cities or other regions in search of something to eat.
Of course, most of them, like that family, froze or starved to death before finding a place to endure the winter.
The hunger was so severe that there were even those who coveted human flesh.
In each city, there had been movements to provide food in order to suppress chaos, but even that was not easy because of bandits and the weather.
“Those Shia bastards made up their minds in a nasty way.”
“They truly are vicious bastards. I never thought they would give up on reconstruction itself.”
His subordinates also looked fed up.
If the Ottomans invaded again, this region would be the first to become a sea of flames, so restoration might well have seemed meaningless.
Still, forcibly relocating people on a large scale and deciding to abandon those who remained was no ordinary act of decisiveness.
He did feel pity for those dying so futilely like this.
“Even so, thanks to it, our work is going well.”
Ismail’s decision may have been correct in the broader sense, but it had planted deep resentment in those living in this region, including the Kurds.
Their resentment toward Ismail, who had made this decision, was even greater than toward Yusuf, the direct cause.
Thanks to that, throwing kindling on the fire had a certain satisfaction to it.
“What is the next city?”
“Mush. There is a family there that may side with the Empire.”
“Hup! Let’s move quickly before it gets dark. Once this work is over, I need to rest properly for once.”
Hearing Hasan’s lament, his subordinate gave a brief laugh.
“Do not get your hopes up. The Padishah will not let you go so easily.”
“Shut up. Once this job is over, I’m definitely resigning! I’m even going to change my name!”
“You still haven’t let go of that dream.”
The subordinates clicked their tongues and moved their feet.
They were tired now of listening to that hopeless wish.
∗ ∗ ∗
Yusuf’s goal was to make the dynasty something sacred and inviolable.
Regardless of religion, culture, or ethnicity, he wanted those who lived in the Ottoman Empire to consider obedience to the dynasty only natural.
Of course, he knew well that this would not be easy.
‘In that regard, Confucianism certainly has its advantages.’
Though the power of the ministers had been strong enough to threaten royal authority, had they not trembled under the name of treason?
When it seemed the nation might collapse, righteous armies rose up, and the ministers, even if they installed a puppet king, did not bring down the dynasty.
The fact that Joseon was able to overcome countless crises and endure for so long owed much to the influence of Confucianism.
Of course, it had just as many abuses, but where was there a country steeped in religion that had no abuses?
In any case, making the Ottoman dynasty sacred and inviolable was something that had to be done slowly and carefully, like boiling a frog, and results were beginning to appear little by little.
“Padishah, praise for abolishing the devshirme has not ceased!”
At the words of the Patriarch of Constantinople, whose face was flushed, Yusuf smiled faintly.
Although he had declared its abolition when sending the portrait, the reaction had come late because people had been half in doubt.
But as the children who had been trainees returned, they came to truly feel it.
“Even so, the response cannot have been entirely favorable. People other than Muslims have also become subject to conscription, after all.”
“The abolition of the devshirme was significant enough to suppress that resentment.”
There had been cases where children were castrated so they would not be selected for the devshirme, and in Albania, rebellions had even broken out because of this system.
How terrible must it have been for a traditional folk song cursing the Sultan to have survived even into modern times?
‘Still, it’s only the first step. It’s too early to be pleased.’
It was premature to simply rejoice.
Many places in Ottoman territory had been conquered less than half a century ago, and there were still many who did not serve the Ottomans wholeheartedly.
“If there are any other changes, report them to me.”
“Understood, Padishah.”
After the Patriarch withdrew, Yusuf, left alone, tapped his chair.
He had told the Grand Vizier and the Janissary Agha to select members for an organization that would be used to manipulate public opinion, so usable personnel would soon be sent up to him.
It was unfortunate that Hasan, skilled in agitation and fabrication, was in Safavid lands, but it meant he would have people he could use immediately.
“Ambiguous, isn’t it.”
The manpower would soon be in his grasp, but there was no story worth spreading.
The fact that he had played the prophet, or that he had returned after splendidly concluding the conquests of Georgia and the Safavids, had already spread even to the smaller cities.
They said rumors traveled a thousand li without feet, but for word of mouth alone to spread this quickly showed just how deeply people cared about news of the Sultan.
He had the means, and the response was favorable, but he lacked suitable material.
“Hoo. If there’s nothing, there’s nothing to be done.”
Still, he could hardly spread some absurd rumor that he used the ground-shrinking art like the people of a northern country in the distant future.
Even if such rumors were believed, they would only become troublesome later.
Yusuf rose from his seat and was about to return from the audience chamber to his own room when it happened.
—Padishah, the Valide Hatun requests an audience.
“Mother does?”
It was an unexpected visit for Yusuf.
After becoming Valide Hatun, Fatima had rarely come to see him.
It was not for lack of affection, but to avoid giving the impression that she was needlessly involving herself in politics. For such a woman to come without warning made him wonder what this was about.
“Let her enter.”
Once Yusuf gave permission, Fatima entered the audience chamber with confident steps.
He welcomed Fatima warmly, her beauty still undiminished despite her middle age, but tilted his head at the girl following behind her as if she had committed some crime.
“Welcome. I am glad to see you looking well.”
“How could I look unwell when I live by the grace of the Padishah?”
“So, what brings you here? With a child in tow, no less. I assume you did not bring her for me to take into my bed.”
At Yusuf’s jest, Fatima gave a small laugh.
“If you wish it, you may certainly take her. All women of the harem belong to the Padishah, after all.”
“No, thank you. I am not so starved for women that I would take a child like that. If that is not the reason, please tell me why you brought her.”
At Yusuf’s question, Fatima looked down at Hürrem, who was trembling pitifully as she bowed.
“For some time now, a strange book has been circulating among the women of the harem.”
“A book?”
When Yusuf asked in puzzlement, Fatima looked down at Hürrem and spoke coldly.
“Alexandra, hand over the book.”
“Y-yes….”
Fatima snatched the book the girl hesitantly offered as though seizing it from her, then handed it to Yusuf.
Wondering what sort of book it could be for Fatima to react this way, Yusuf looked at it and burst into a soft laugh.
“Was this book popular among the women of the harem?”
“Regrettably, yes.”
It was written in Persian, the language of refinement, but to be honest, it was a book riddled with errors, starting with the grammar and extending to countless misspellings.
Once one became accustomed to Persian, it was the sort of book that would make one kick off the blanket in embarrassment even in sleep.
However, like junk food that strangely tempted the tongue, it contained cheap yet eye-catching content.
“It is the story of me and Ayşe.”
There was the part where he had gone looking for a Circassian male slave and happened to obtain Ayşe, described as if he were a prince who had come to rescue a princess.
There were also passages written with great emotion about how, when Ayşe left for Circassia, where smallpox had spread, in order to help Yusuf, the two worried about each other’s safety.
There were quite a few parts that differed from reality, but if viewed as a romance novel, it was not half bad.
It felt something like reading an internet novel from the early twenty-first century plastered with emoticons.
“Why did the Valide Hatun bring this book to me?”
“Because this child had the audacity to write such an impure book.”
“V-Valide Hatun. That was not what I intended.”
“Silence!”
Hürrem, sensing that her life was in danger, hurriedly tried to protest, but Fatima sharply rebuked her.
“How can you say such a thing after writing a book that portrays the great Padishah as weak?”
It could indeed be a problem.
After all, the hardships and difficult times Yusuf had endured were written plainly in this book.
It was a book that ran counter to the idea that a ruler had to appear strong.
“Hmm. It does not seem bad.”
“…Padishah?”
At those unexpected words, not only Fatima and Hürrem, but even the Silahdar Agha standing guard widened their eyes.
“Is it not true that there was a time when I was weak? What matters more is that I overcame it all and rose to this position.”
Being in the position of the weak was not only a bad thing. It made it easy to gain sympathy and goodwill.
“If handled well, this could be useful.”
“Padishah, are you serious?”
Fatima, who had never interfered in Yusuf’s affairs, nor even questioned him, since he had seized the position of Sanjakbey by his own power at the age of eleven, went so far as to ask this.
Yusuf set the book down as though it were nothing.
“Using stories is hardly unusual.”
It was common for those in power to spread stories in order to solidify their rule.
There were tales such as the Dangun myth, in which Dangun was the grandson of Hwanin, the god of heaven, and the myth of Park Hyeokgeose, who was said to have been born from an egg.
In Greek and Roman mythology, Heracles and Perseus, who appear as sons of Zeus, were also of Egyptian origin and became the founders of the Spartan and Mycenaean dynasties respectively.
In other words, regardless of East or West, ancient or modern, people had used the power of stories for authority.
Even outside an era of theocracy based on faith, widely proclaiming news of victory followed a similar principle.
“But those do not reveal such weakness.”
She was not wrong.
They spread the history of Mehmed II’s conquests, including Constantinople and many other places, but did they not hide the story of how he became Sultan at a young age, only to restore his father to the throne after being threatened by his retainers?
Even for those who were not rulers, human psychology was such that people wished to show their impressive side rather than stories of their weak and difficult days.
“It is fine. From what I see, this is actually rather bland. It does not even include the story of how, not long after I was nearly poisoned, I was stabbed.”
“Poisoned?! No, more importantly, Padishah.”
Fatima, who knew about the assassination attempt he had miraculously survived thanks to a silver coin but had not known of the attempted poisoning, looked confused.
Yusuf’s eyes curved gently. It was a warm smile not easily seen from him.
“I wish to approach my subjects not as a god, but as a human being.”
“…Why did you come to think that way?”
“The failure of a god, who must be perfect and flawless, invites the denial of his very existence. Rather than a god, would it not be better to be a humble hero?”
At the joke that was not humble in the slightest, Fatima gave a small laugh as if she had no choice.
“How could I block the Padishah’s path? Do as you wish.”
There was no particular need to receive permission from the Valide Hatun, who oversaw the harem, but there was no harm in having it.
After expressing his thanks lightly, Yusuf looked down at Hürrem.
She was a figure who had created a major turning point in Ottoman history, but since she had been born after he became Yusuf, right now she was nothing more than a little girl.
‘It’s impressive enough that she hasn’t wet herself.’
If she had been framed for the crime of insulting the Sultan, it would have been difficult for even a young girl to survive.
She must know that her head could be severed by the blade of the Silahdar charged with guarding him, and yet this was a fairly composed reaction.
“Alexandra, do you wish to continue writing?”
“…If you permit it, I wish to write.”
It was something she had begun on impulse, and she had nearly died for it, but Hürrem felt it. This was an opportunity that would never come to her again.
“Good. Then listen carefully to what I say.”
“Please speak.”
Yusuf thought quickly.
What content had to be included, and what he had to gain from this writing.
‘It has to start thoroughly with the underdog. It should become a story of beginning as the weak, overcoming countless trials, and ultimately ascending to the position of Sultan.’
Having organized his thoughts, Yusuf waved the book Hürrem had written in his hand.
“In the story you will write, I must overcome times so perilous and difficult that my subjects feel compassion for me, and then rise to the position of Padishah.”
“Compassion?”
She asked back, apparently finding it strange that he would receive compassion from his subjects, and Yusuf nodded.
During the war of succession, the pro-Ismail forces within the empire had died off due to the failed Turkmen rebellion and Ismail’s repeated failures.
However, one of the reasons there had once been an Ismail craze within the empire was that people had felt compassion for him, who had lost his family and had been forced to live in hiding.
‘Which means emotional appeal is plenty useful even in this era.’
It was easy to think of it as borrowing Ismail’s heroic tale.
Of course, if it ended as a mere heroic tale, would that not be embarrassing for someone with memories of the modern age, overflowing as it was with every kind of story?
“I am not telling you to write a heroic tale. I mean that you should include my love story with Ayşe as poignantly as you did here, while keeping what I said earlier in mind. Can you do that?”
“Of course!”
Why was it that, even though complaints poured out telling dramas and films to stop inserting romance, it was never easily removed?
Because it sold that well.
‘When men read it, they will be able to enjoy it like a heroic tale, and when women read it, they will feel it as a romance novel.’
His brothers, who were already in Allah’s embrace, would become villains, but the empire’s subjects currently supported Yusuf to the point that they could not even imagine another Sultan.
No matter how much one tried to package them as good people, it would never work. Besides, he had sent half of his brothers into Allah’s embrace himself, so it would be ridiculous to feel guilty over this much.
All he had to do was become the protagonist and enjoy the popularity. Of course, there was one point he had to make absolutely clear.
“It is fine for Ayşe to take up much of the story, but you must also include Hatice’s story. Do you know why?”
“…For my safety?”
Though she was still young, she seemed to have fairly good basic sense.
“Yes. Jealousy sometimes makes people act boldly. Since I am watching closely, she will not take your life, but she could torment you nearly to death.”
“I will include the stories of both Hatuns.”
“If there is anything you are curious about, receive the Valide Hatun’s help.”
At Yusuf’s words, Hürrem’s face brightened.
When living in the harem, the person one had to be closest to was the Sultan’s mother, the Valide Sultan.
That was because a concubine Hatun would usually leave the harem and follow her son once he became a Sanjakbey.
Becoming close to the greatest authority in the harem meant properly establishing one’s place within it, so it was only natural that she would be pleased.
‘Well, at best, it would only be about the level below a favorite concubine.’
That was the extent of the power one could gain in the harem without sharing the Sultan’s bed.
“Alexandra.”
At the call, Hürrem lifted her head, and her eyes met Yusuf’s.
As Hürrem’s gaze was stolen by those emerald eyes that shone like jewels, Yusuf continued.
“It does not seem fitting for you to keep using your old name. I shall grant you a new one.”
At those words, Hürrem could not answer right away.
For the thought of her name changing felt as though she were casting away her entire life before she had been taken as a slave.
After a brief silence, Hürrem spoke in a heavy voice.
“I will receive it with honor.”
“From now on, your name is Hürrem. In Persian, it means one who is joyful.”
Though the time and reason differed from when Süleyman had bestowed it, considering what she would do from now on, it was a rather fitting name.
After mulling over her new name several times, Hürrem bowed her head deeply.
“Thank you. I will live according to the Padishah’s will.”
Yusuf nodded in reply, then lightly shook the book he was holding and smiled mischievously.
“More importantly, your Persian has many shortcomings.”
At Yusuf’s words, Hürrem’s face turned bright red.
The fact that it was written only in simple words was not the problem; there were far too many mistakes in grammar and vocabulary.
Considering she had not been learning it for long, the mere fact that she had written something was worthy of praise, but it was problematic to release it as it was.
He had not wanted some masterpiece like Shakespeare’s, but at the very least, should it not meet the basics?
“You need someone to polish the writing.”
As it happened, there was such a person.
Someone with excellent literary cultivation, and easy to put to work.
“I shall assign Süleyman Pasha to you. He will be of help.”
Yusuf smiled as though he had played an amusing prank, and before long, Süleyman arrived.
With his body lowered as if prostrating himself, he shouted in a voice raised in stark contrast.
“O Padishah, just who wrote this text that is painful even to look upon?!”
Yusuf burst into laughter for the first time in a long while.
Like a fate gone awry, the meeting between the two had been askew from the very beginning.
∗ ∗ ∗
Everything proceeded smoothly.
Having seized her opportunity, Hürrem poured out writing with all her passion, and Süleyman struggled to polish it.
‘Mass-producing books won’t be difficult, either.’
With the completion of the Reconquista that drove Islam out of Spain, Muslims and Jews were expelled from the Iberian Peninsula.
In the process, Bayezid II strictly forbade discrimination against Jews and accepted them, and in the meantime, through the Jews, he had obtained Gutenberg’s printing technology.
Even in the year 1500, there were said to be around three hundred printing houses in Germany alone, so it was a technology that would have arrived someday—but what mattered was that it could be put to use immediately.
Thanks to that, the printed books were soon able to reach the hands of the officials who attended the Divan council.
“Ahem, O Padishah. The book is entertaining. However, is it truly all right for a book like this to circulate?”
“Through the mouths of those who read it, its contents will surely become known even to those who cannot read. We worry that the Padishah may perhaps come to be regarded too lightly.”
At those words filled with concern, Yusuf raised the corners of his mouth.
“Me, you say? How dare they?”
At Yusuf’s question, the officials instantly came to their senses.
The Sultan before their eyes was not someone whose authority could be diminished by a mere book like this.
Through the portraits placed throughout the Ottoman realm, they had come to clearly realize what sort of being Yusuf was regarded as by his subjects.
‘Did they not say that people gather in the cities where his portraits are displayed as if making a pilgrimage to a holy site?’
‘If even the Principality of Wallachia, which received a single portrait because it is a vassal state, is coming to ask whether it can receive more, then there is nothing more to say.’
His position was far too solid for a mere book to harm him.
One might argue that the maker of the book should be hanged for insulting the Sultan, but imagining him being looked down upon was impossible.
While everyone remained silent, the Grand Vizier quietly opened his mouth.
“However, O Padishah. Your subjects are unlearned and are more faithful to emotion than to reason. I worry that foolish sympathy may reach even the imperial tradition of succession to the throne.”
“You mean they may think the empire’s law of succession, which requires all brothers to be killed, is too cruel.”
“That is so.”
It might seem unlikely that mere public sentiment would influence the succession law, but the reason the law of fratricide disappeared and the Kafes, which confined brothers, was implemented was also because public sentiment deemed it cruel.
The fact that the Grand Vizier, who did not know the future, had predicted this meant he possessed tremendous insight.
However, this too had already been included in the plan.
“If that is truly what my subjects desire, then that would not be bad either.”
At Yusuf’s words, the officials’ eyes widened. It must have been an unexpected statement.
‘Excellent bloodline traits can, if mishandled, turn into poison for the empire.’
If one’s children were outstanding, it was good because the succession would be secure, but if capable men fought each other to the death, the empire could also be divided.
At the very least, it would be enough for those outside the empire, drooling like jackals, to grow covetous.
That would be the failure of his goal to create a mighty empire and give his subjects a peaceful life.
“Something like the succession law is not urgent right now. If the world wants it, then we need only adapt accordingly. Is it not still too early to worry about such things?”
“It seems that, in my old age, I have only grown prone to needless worry. Forgive me, O Padishah.”
Yusuf lightly waved his hand.
“Enough. It is not as though your concern was meaningless. And there is no need to feel disappointed, either. In the books to come, there will also be the story of you and Hatice.”
At those words, the Grand Vizier made a subtle face.
“I am grateful for Hatice’s story, but there is no need to include mine.”
“I told them to properly refine and include the part where you insolently tested me, so it should be fine. Surely you won’t die from it.”
“…O Padishah.”
With the Grand Vizier’s sigh, the book began to spread throughout the Ottoman realm.
It was the beginning of Yusuf’s biography, which would one day lead historians all over the world into battles over the truth.