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It began as a rumor. A rumor that a book was being made, one that contained the life of the Padishah.
When they first heard the rumor, the gossips snorted.
It was not the story of some ordinary person, but the story of the Padishah. He was a being whose name, if spoken carelessly, could have one sharing breakfast with Allah the very next morning.
Putting such a person’s story into a book was something that could get an entire clan annihilated, so it was only natural that no one believed it.
However, the rumor grew and grew, and some who could not contain their curiosity found answers through whatever connections they could reach.
“Are you saying such a book is truly being made?!”
“Yes! The vizier answered as much. He said it was made by the Padishah’s command, and that he had seen it himself.”
“What did he say it was about!”
“He said it was a story of the Padishah’s childhood. He also said it would be better for you to see it yourself than to hear about its contents.”
The man, who had been disappointed for a moment, opened his eyes wide.
Being told to see it himself meant there would be an opportunity to read the book, and the man spoke urgently.
“Return to the capital at once! Go and find out how to obtain the book as quickly as possible. It does not matter how much money it costs!”
It was not simply because he wanted to read the tale of the great Padishah.
It was a time when merely having seen the Padishah in person from a great distance was enough to earn the envy of those around you.
Interest in the Padishah had soared to the heavens, to the point that even those who had been granted autonomy and lived without concern for affairs of the center came to see his portrait.
‘If I can get my hands on the Padishah’s book first, I can put those other bastards in their place.’
The man moved swiftly, but unfortunately, there were countless others in the empire who had thought the same thing.
Because the portrait had already set them aflame once, their reaction was even faster this time, and Yusuf quickly noticed the situation.
“Suleiman.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
“Do you think those who have gathered to obtain this book have done so merely out of vanity?”
“Is it not because they wish to encounter the Padishah’s story as quickly as possible? If the story contained in the book were not yours, Padishah, it would be nothing special.”
Suleiman evaluated the book, which was deeply imbued with his own efforts, with a sullen face.
It was understandable, since he had always read only good and excellent books, only to be forced to revise a dreadful book that was practically in need of deciphering.
“What they are trying to buy is not a book. It is the power that comes from being superior to others.”
How many people in the modern age were obsessed with the latest model that would not even last a few months?
The desire to obtain something better than others before anyone else exists regardless of the era.
‘Of course, this will lead to actual profit as well.’
The fact that one has obtained something difficult to get before others means one possesses something superior to them.
Whether that is skill or immense wealth, it is an opportunity to prove one’s ability.
“What I am selling them is not a book, but power and opportunity. Which means it does not matter how much I squeeze out of them.”
This was not the Ottoman Empire in its golden age, displaying tremendous wealth after conquering even the Mamluks, and preparations for war, which consumed money like a black hole, were tight.
But now a source of money had appeared, so it was only natural to be pleased.
‘A Gutenberg press can print about five hundred books a week, and we have two of them in operation.’
That meant they could print a thousand copies in a single week.
Of course, that was the maximum estimate, so it was better to assume they could print around six to seven hundred copies a week.
“There are too many books.”
It was far too much stock to sell off at a high price.
They needed to adjust the quantity appropriately.
“Suleiman, go and announce it. Only ten copies will be put up for auction each day.”
“What do you intend to do with the remaining stock?”
“The auction will last only one month, and once three months have passed, we will release the stock accumulated in the meantime.”
He was giving two months of leeway based on the person who won the last bid.
He had to show at least that much consideration if people were to gather again when he sold off the subsequent volumes.
There was no copyright law in the Ottoman Empire, so those who bought it first might recklessly transcribe or copy it.
‘There may be no copyright law, but there is the Sultan’s displeasure.’
There was no need to be petty and send them to court. He could simply confiscate all their property and hang their heads on poles.
It was an age with many inconveniences and shortcomings, but it did have its advantages.
∗ ∗ ∗
With the timely intervention of the Barbary pirates, a naval battle between the West and the Ottomans did not break out.
However, that did not mean everything was over.
For the Ottomans immediately drew the blade of vengeance.
“We have sighted a merchant ship fleeing off the port side!”
When prey was spotted from the lookout atop the mast, Kemal Reis gave an order.
“Pursue.”
At Kemal Reis’s command, flags signaling the order fluttered along with the sound of drums, and the galleys forming the fleet shot forward.
The small sailing vessel that had become their target tried to flee as quickly as possible, but in the Mediterranean, it was difficult to shake off galleys powered by oarsmen.
Boom! Boom!
The cannons at the bows of the five galleys that had approached to a suitable distance spat fire, and columns of water surged up.
Luckily, the first volley missed, but the goddess of fortune did not smile twice in a row.
Craaaack!
“Aaaaagh!”
A sailor who had been reporting on the pursuing ships from the stern was unlucky enough to be struck by a cannonball and crushed, and the ship’s speed dropped as cannonballs struck one after another.
Realizing that escape was impossible, the sailing ship tried to turn and engage in a cannon duel, but the Ottoman navy, which had already devoured more than one or two merchant ships, swiftly closed in.
The galleys drew so close that the enemy could not get an angle for their cannons, then threw ropes fitted with hooks.
Now that they had entered close-quarters combat, the fate of that merchant ship could be considered sealed.
“Including that ship, that makes nine Venetian merchant ships.”
Nine ships might not sound like many, but considering the value of a single merchant vessel, it was an enormous blow.
On top of that, they had already fought several naval battles with the ships of the Knights Hospitaller, who occupied the fortress of Rhodes, not just merchant vessels.
‘With this, trade between Venice and the Mamluks will rapidly stiffen.’
More than half a year had already passed since the hunt began.
In other words, it was more than enough time for news that the Ottoman navy was attacking merchant ships in the Mediterranean to have reached both sides.
“What matters now is how those whose livelihoods have been cut off will act.”
“Are the Venetian scum not simply paying for their sins? After their defeat, we clearly concluded a truce, did we not?”
“It is not them I am worried about.”
He had already heard the news that a Venetian envoy had gone to the capital once, only to be turned away at the gate.
They ought to be grateful they had not been executed, but since they were not the sort with that much shame, they would surely make another move.
“They will certainly drag the Mamluks into this.”
Because if trade declined, Venice would not be the only one to suffer losses.
The Mamluks, who had laid hands on the monster called the canal through Yusuf’s idea and the Ottomans’ ability to act, were suffering from financial hardship.
For the Mamluks, they had no choice but to move.
“The Padishah must have thought of everything.”
At those words, Kemal cast off his worries. It was true.
Faithfully carrying out the Padishah’s orders. For now, that was the only thing he needed to think about.
The merchant ship was captured smoothly, and Kemal Reis, who had been recording the spoils, prisoners, and military achievements, scratched his head in the captain’s cabin.
“Damn these names!”
The fifth Abdullah had died, and when he recorded that the seventh Abdullah had cut down two enemies who resisted, the fifth Abdullah came to find him.
The one who had died, he said, was the twenty-ninth.
Kemal tore up the document he would have to write all over again, took out a fresh sheet of paper, and had just picked up his pen when—
“Lord Kemal Reis! You must come out. Two ships are approaching!”
At the words that they were approaching, not fleeing, Kemal went outside, and just as his subordinate had said, he could see ships drawing near.
The ships of the fleet surrounded the two vessels flying white flags, and men crossed over to the other side’s ships.
After a brief commotion, one galley approached the carrack Kemal was aboard, and at Kemal’s instruction, a subordinate crossed over to the galley.
“They are envoys from the Mamluks! They say they were on their way to the capital to see the Padishah!”
At the answer that came back, Kemal gently closed both eyes.
Amid the salty, damp sea wind, it seemed as though he could smell the fishy scent of blood.
∗ ∗ ∗
The heat of the auction was intense.
The books were sold for the price of expensive slaves, and the ducats piled up to such an extent that the finance minister even requested that the auction be extended.
Of course, it was rejected immediately.
As Sultan, he could not overturn a plan he had already announced merely for monetary gain, and if he let his eyes glaze over because of side income, it would be putting the cart before the horse.
The auction came to an end as scheduled, and the books that would spread throughout the Ottoman Empire were steadily piling up.
The contents of the book were being passed around quietly among those who had read it, but because the exchanges were only among the upper class, its influence was not yet great.
However, if there was one thing that had changed…
“Reject them all. Do they intend to grow my harem to the size of a city?”
It was that upper-class women who had encountered the book had begun to wish to enter the harem.
Of course, the harem did not accept only slaves, and upper-class women did enter it as part of political marriages as well, but they were only a fraction.
“Shall we reject every one of them without exception?”
“Sorting through them would be work in itself, so reject them all. Do not create needless occasions for anyone to lose face.”
“I shall convey that to the Valide Hatun.”
Yusuf clicked his tongue lightly.
Maintaining the harem also cost money. Rather than increase the number of women he might not even remember having shut away in the harem, it was better to obtain another handful of gunpowder.
Yusuf asked the eunuch who managed the harem about one person’s well-being.
“How is Nigyar’s health?”
“Ever since her pregnancy was confirmed, the Valide Hatun has been watching over her with great care.”
Nigyar was the first woman he had embraced after becoming Sultan, and along with Gülfer, she was a woman in the position of ikbal with whom he shared his bed regularly.
It had not been long since he learned that she was pregnant.
‘Pregnancy is taking longer than I expected.’
In the Ottoman Empire, the only place that recorded and managed everything like Joseon was the harem.
Considering they had moved according to plan, from her menstrual cycle to the dates they shared a bed, it was late.
Given that it had taken quite some time for her to conceive the previous three children as well, it was better to assume that his traits and luck were having some sort of effect.
“If Valide Hatun is watching over her, there should be no problem.”
Yusuf was about to say more to the eunuch when—
-Padishah, they say an envoy from the Mamluks has arrived.
“From the Mamluks?”
Thinking that what was bound to come had finally come, Yusuf gestured for the eunuch to withdraw.
The eunuch left through the open doors of the audience hall, and the chamberlain who had brought word of the envoy’s visit entered.
“You said he came from the Mamluks?”
“Yes. What shall we do?”
Relations between the Mamluks and the Ottomans were far from good.
Because the Mamluks, whose internal affairs were too chaotic to allow expansion outward, had continued to keep the conquest-hungry Ottomans in check.
‘Perhaps they sensed who it was that would cut off their breath.’
The season had already passed spring and was entering summer.
Through the cannon-boring machine Tahir and Süleyman had built, cannons had begun to be mass-produced, and Hasan, dragged off by Şemsi, had created saltpeter fields in Georgia.
Military provisions were being stockpiled without greatly disturbing prices, and the soldiers were being armed with guns that could even be fitted with bayonets.
‘If I were only thinking of dealing with the Safavids, I wouldn’t have needed as long as a year and a half. Half a year would have been enough.’
No matter how much the Mamluks and the Safavids tried to hide it, he had already noticed the subtle exchanges between them.
“If they block my path, I need only sweep them all away. Let him enter. Let us hear what he has to say.”
“As you command, Padishah.”
The chamberlain who received Yusuf’s order went outside, and not long after, the Mamluk envoy arrived.
Though the meeting had been arranged suddenly, the Mamluk envoy did not lose his composure and paid his respects.
“I greet the Padishah of the Empire. I am called Aziz Yarbai, come by the command of Sultan Al-Ashraf Qansuh al-Ghawri.”
“You must have suffered much on the long road here.”
Yusuf leisurely looked the envoy over.
Given that he had come as an envoy, he seemed to hold a fairly high position; rings adorned with jewels glittered on his fingers, and his eyes were closer to those of a merchant.
“It seems you did not encounter pirates on your way here.”
“By Allah’s protection, I did not.”
“I thought as much. Had you met pirates, you would likely have been left with only two fingers.”
After all, they would have cut off every finger that wore a ring.
At the chilling words, Aziz’s eyes shifted uneasily, and Yusuf let out a small laugh.
“It was a joke. You seemed tense, so I meant to ease you. Now, what brings you here?”
“We ask that you cease the plundering that interferes with our commerce.”
“Plundering, is it…”
Letting the end of his words trail lightly, Yusuf ordered the silahdars.
“Cut off one of that man’s fingers.”
“P-Padishah?! W-wait just a— Aaaargh!”
The silahdar pressed the bewildered envoy down and, with the sword he had drawn, cut off the index finger of his left hand.
The sharp stench of blood spread, and Yusuf gave an answer to the eyes trembling in terror and confusion.
“Did I not tell you? If you met pirates, you would be left with only two fingers. You have seven more to go.”
The pirate chief twisted the corner of his mouth.
∗ ∗ ∗
A single finger rolling across the floor, and drops of blood dripping down a blue-edged blade.
The blood soaking his palm, and even the weight of the silahdar pressing down on his body.
None of it felt real, yet the terrible pain surging from the place where his finger had been severed breathed reality into it.
“I-I am an envoy! Do you think our kingdom will let this matter pass?!”
As the wailing envoy said, it could become a diplomatic problem.
So Yusuf flicked a finger.
“Cut off another.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
Without even a chance to resist, the silahdar’s blade struck down on the index finger of his right hand.
Perhaps the edge had been damaged when it cut the other finger earlier, for it was severed as if crushed, and only screams filled the audience hall.
“If one finger is enough to cause a problem, then it will be the same even if a few more are cut off.”
Meeting eyes that glittered like the emerald ring on the finger that had just been severed, Aziz’s body began to tremble.
No matter how brilliantly a jewel shone, its essence was a cold lump of stone, and he felt that chill in the other man’s eyes.
As the envoy’s face became stained with fear, Yusuf spoke as if nothing were amiss.
“People are truly foolish. The world is wide and its people varied, yet they think only according to their own standards. Aziz.”
“Y-yes! Padishah.”
“In your own way, you must have thought this: even an empire would find it difficult to make an enemy of a sultanate, so it would be all right to throw out provocative words.”
“No! It is a misunderstanding!”
“Or did you truly think the Empire a band of pirates? To treat me as a pirate chief—how amusing. Do you not agree?”
When Yusuf swept his gaze around and asked, the silahdars surrounding the audience hall glared at the envoy with furious eyes.
It felt as though their murderous gazes alone were slicing into his flesh, and the envoy sank into a distant terror.
“I-I apologize. I misspoke!”
“Raise him up.”
At the rough hands, Aziz was brought to his feet, and Yusuf smiled brightly.
“Then let us begin again from the start. You must have suffered much on the long road here.”
“Y-yes, yes!”
“But it seems you encountered pirates on your way here. You look dreadful.”
The clothes made of expensive fabric were smeared all over with bloodstains, and saliva that had drooled from the pain dripped from beneath his chin.
Yusuf’s attitude, asking so shamelessly as if none of this had happened, was bizarre, and with both hands trembling, their index fingers gone, Aziz barely managed to respond.
“I-I am fine. It is nothing at all.”
“Is that so? Since you yourself say it is nothing, there should be no problem. Is that not so?”
“…Of course.”
“Still, it is fortunate. That you lost only two fingers. Is that not better than being left with just one finger on each hand?”
When Yusuf laughed, saying that if only his little fingers had remained, he would not even be able to use a spoon on his own, Aziz hurriedly agreed.
Because he had realized that this was a man who would take the rest of his fingers as well if displeased.
“Now then, what brings you to the Empire?”
“T-the Venetians requested mediation from us, saying their commerce is being hindered by the Empire’s ships.”
“Hmm. Those creatures are always unable to tell where they should and should not interfere, and so they invite disaster upon themselves.”
“That is so.”
Having received Aziz’s agreement, Yusuf rose from his seat.
As the sultan drew closer and closer, Aziz backed away of his own accord, and Yusuf crushed the severed finger underfoot.
“But why did you do the same?”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I am asking why, like the Venetian bastards, you failed to tell where you should interfere and thrust yourselves between the Safavids and Venice.”
At Yusuf’s growling question, Aziz hurriedly waved his hands.
“That is not so!”
“Is that so? Bring him in.”
Silahdar Agha Alper Pasha, who received Yusuf’s order, left the audience hall for a moment, and shortly afterward dragged in a man.
As Aziz looked in confusion at the haggard man thrown down onto the floor, Yusuf explained.
“He is the envoy who traveled between Venice and the Safavids.”
“I know nothing of this!”
“You may not, but your country must have known.”
The Safavids were a country whose territory had not expanded as far as the Mediterranean, and Venetian ships could not enter the Black Sea, so the envoy had no choice but to set foot on Mamluk land.
It made no sense that the Mamluks would not know of something as significant as an envoy coming and going.
“You people must have heard and known as well, have you not? What that wretch Ismail did.”
If one had even the slightest interest in the political situation, it was impossible not to know of Ismail’s attack on Trabzon.
For by completely trampling Georgia and burning the western Safavid lands, the sultan had made known to all under heaven how immense his wrath was.
“And you helped them do that. Do you understand?”
As if his anger had still not subsided, his furious voice rang in Aziz’s ears like thunder.
Yusuf turned roughly and declared.
“Go back! Return and tell Ashraf this: whoever obstructs my rightful vengeance will not escape the blade of the Empire.”
Aziz, who had not only failed to achieve the results he had wanted as an envoy but had lost two fingers and even been threatened, staggered away.
As Yusuf leaned back obliquely in his chair, the chamberlain Hadim Ali Pasha, once the Grand Vizier, spoke worriedly.
“Padishah, is it truly all right to send the envoy back like this?”
“Are you worried that war may break out not only with the Safavids, but with the Mamluks as well?”
“I am.”
At Ali’s concern, Yusuf answered as though it were nothing.
“If it does, then it does. What is there to fear?”
“Padishah?!”
Seeing Ali’s eyes widen as if he were truly shocked, Yusuf chuckled.
It was no easy thing to see a man who had made his way through the ruthless political world, where one misstep could send his head flying, and risen to become Grand Vizier show such surprise.
Since the sight of his surprise had given him a laugh, Yusuf could at least resolve his questions in return.
“There was something interesting in the battle report Kemal Reis sent. It said that the Venetian merchant ships carried a large number of cannons.”
“Would that not be because of our fleet’s activities in the Mediterranean?”
“Do you think merchants, for whom carrying capacity is money itself, would do such a thing? It is not as though increasing the number of cannons by a bit could close the gap in fighting strength.”
A merchant was someone who tried to remove as many cannons as possible to load even one more item, and if they were truly afraid of the Empire, they would have given up trade rather than increase their cannons.
“It means they are carrying cannons as trade goods. In other words, they are importing cannons not through us, but through Venice.”
The Mamluks were a backward country when it came to gunpowder, and one that had received cannons and gunpowder from the Ottomans in order to fight Portugal.
If the cannons were needed because of Portugal, they would have requested them from the Ottomans, yet they were bringing them in through Venice.
“Cannons flowing to the Safavids, then.”
“Yes. The Mamluks are acting as the intermediary. It would not be excessive to say the two have joined hands.”
Of course, the present Mamluks were so passive about war that they had merely stood by and watched as Dulkadir, their protectorate, was invaded by Ismail.
There was no guarantee they would enter the war just because they aided the Safavids, but still.
“If we raise an army to deal with the Safavids, they will be sure to keep us in check.”
“Because they want the current situation to continue.”
The Mamluks were shaking from within, but recently, one hope had appeared for them.
“The canal. Those bastards are waiting only for the canal to be completed. They see it as the sole solution that can overturn all their problems in one stroke.”
The canal, begun at Venice’s request and with the Ottomans’ secret instigation, now had the fate of the Mamluks riding on it.
It was sucking up such enormous capital that even tightening their belts was not enough, to the point that their finances were staggering, but if only it were completed, they would be able to seize a vast amount of money.
If they could maintain the current balance of power for at least ten years or so, the Mamluks would be reborn anew.
The corners of Yusuf’s mouth lifted.
“Ali Pasha, were you worried that my actions were too extreme? They are crouching as low as they can. They only want to buy time, so would they declare war over this?”
“There is no way they would.”
“Then would they cut off trade with the Empire?”
“If trade with the Empire were disrupted, it would be a great blow to the Mamluks, whose finances are already unstable.”
“Then what do we have to lose from this?”
There was no immediate loss to be had, and by sending the envoy back empty-handed, Kemal would be able to remain active for a while longer.
Of course, because of this friction, the Mamluks might enter the war when the Safavid war began.
‘It doesn’t matter. Everything is already within the plan.’
If the Mamluks joined hands with the Safavids, then he could simply swallow up the Mamluks as well in the next war.
That was why he had set such a long period for war preparations.
Yusuf rose from his seat and picked up the two rings that had slipped off the severed fingers and were rolling about.
“And after receiving Kemal’s report, it seems piracy is rather profitable.”
Yusuf burst into hearty laughter.
It was a laugh that would not have seemed out of place from a pirate chief.
∗ ∗ ∗
Clang! Claang!
As the hammer struck the chisel, fragments of marble came tumbling down.
Since one slip would turn all his efforts thus far into nothing, the hand gripping the hammer moved with great delicacy.
It was marble he had found after three months of wandering, and mistakes could not be tolerated.
“An oarsman, is it.”
At the voice that suddenly came from behind him, Michelangelo hurriedly stopped the hammer he had been bringing down.
It was a dizzying crisis in which the statue’s nose might have vanished by a hair’s breadth, and Michelangelo, turning his head with an angry expression, immediately threw himself prostrate.
“I greet the Padishah.”
He had seen that face to the point of tedium in a hundred portraits, so there was no way he could fail to recognize it.
Yusuf smiled and accepted Michelangelo’s greeting.
“Fortunate, indeed. If I had been a few seconds later, you might have been dragged off as an oarsman again. Not by me, but by these men.”
Behind Yusuf were many people glaring with great displeasure at Michelangelo, who had been so absorbed in his work that he had not even noticed the Sultan’s arrival.
Michelangelo snorted at their gazes.
“You said I was the Padishah’s slave. How would they dare lay a hand on me?”
“That is not wrong.”
Perhaps he was a sculptor down to his very bones, for after he began sculpting, his original self had started to revive.
The eyes that had lost their spark now seemed to blaze with strong passion, and when he carved a statue, his face looked the happiest in the world.
He was difficult to see as a slave at all.
“So, have you been managing well?”
“Thanks to the Padishah, I have been living well.”
Though he had fallen to the status of a slave, Michelangelo did not find his present circumstances all that bad.
There were no damned family members clinging to him like leeches demanding money, and if anything, he had more than enough to eat and live on.
Aside from occasionally being forcibly washed and made to change clothes, it was all right.
“More importantly, that is remarkable skill. It is dynamic, and the suffering of an oarsman is well portrayed.”
“That is because it contains the powerful inspiration of experience.”
Of course, he did not wish to become an oarsman again in order to receive inspiration.
Yusuf nodded and looked at the Janissary kneeling to one side. He was a young man in his twenties, and Michelangelo’s guard.
‘Mimar Sinan.’
Mimar was a title given to an architect, and he was a man who would become one of the Ottomans’ representative architects.
His fame needed no further mention, to the point that he had once been used as the figure on Turkey’s ten-thousand-lira banknote.
Of course, for now he was only a single Janissary belonging to the corps of engineers, but once he gained more experience, he would grow into a fine talent.
‘Michelangelo also left a great mark on architecture, so the two of them should influence each other well.’
Considering that both were talents he could make use of for more than fifty years to come, his expectations were very high.
In that instant, Michelangelo and Sinan felt an inexplicable chill.
“Padishah, why have you gone to the trouble of coming all the way here in person?”
“I have something for you to do. You must draw a portrait.”
Michelangelo’s expression darkened as the nightmare of a hundred portraits came to mind, and Yusuf, realizing the misunderstanding, waved his hand.
“Do not worry. It is only a single piece, and it does not matter if you draw it roughly. The person receiving the portrait need only recognize the face.”
At the incomprehensible request, Michelangelo braved rudeness and asked.
“Who is it, and what do you intend to use it for?”
To this question, Yusuf answered calmly.
“It is the fellow who was Venice’s envoy. A portrait to be included in a letter of threat.”
If one was going to play pirate, then shouldn’t one also put on a hostage drama?
∗ ∗ ∗
Venice (Venezia) was the capital of the Republic of Venice, a vast city on the water where countless islands were connected by bridges.
The Romans who had fled to the islands to escape foreign powers drove countless wooden piles into the wetlands where stone buildings could not be built, and laid stone slabs over them as flooring.
It was the moment land on which buildings could be constructed was born in Venice, and after a thousand years passed, this city of water became the capital of one of Europe’s foremost wealthy nations and the home of more than a hundred thousand people.
However, this city of glory had also begun to shake.
“Doge, this cannot continue.”
Leonardo Loredan, who had been gazing at the colorful gondolas passing between the canals, turned with a sigh.
He saw the dark complexion of his eldest son, Lorenzo Loredan.
“Pressure is coming in, with the Contarini family at the forefront.”
“Tch. At a time like this, we should be united as one.”
It was one of Venice’s founding families, and the family with the largest number of seats in the Great Council, which elected the Doge and the Council of Ten, who could enact laws.
The Loredan family to which the Doge belonged was also powerful enough to have produced a Doge, but the problem was their repeated mistakes.
“There is widespread resentment asking why we fought a battle with the infidel empire when the Republic’s safety was in danger.”
“They agreed to it as well. What could we do when those were the peace terms we made with the Papal States?”
“They must know that too, but does it not mean the damage is that great? The losses to our family are no small matter either.”
Where had things begun to go wrong?
In the naval battle against the Ottomans, they had been able to withdraw without losing any ships, a blessing amid misfortune, but things became difficult when the Ottomans began attacking merchant ships in the Mediterranean.
At a time when enormous sums of money were already being poured into the war, disruptions to commerce caused their money supply to dry up.
The Papal States, who had actually pushed the matter forward, had suffered no particular damage since the pirate attacks, leaving them alone to take the blame.
The Doge threw the cane in his hand to the floor.
“Is this not all because the envoy sent by the Contarini family has not returned! If only that man had come back on time, everything would have been resolved smoothly!”
If they had properly coordinated with the Safavids, there would have been no need to tremble before the Ottomans.
He had entrusted it to them because they were the family that had produced an ambassador to the Sultan when Uzun Hasan of Persia was still alive, yet they had ruined everything.
As the Doge struggled to suppress his anger, a loud voice reached his ears.
—Doge! An Ottoman ship has appeared!
“Is it an attack?”
Startled by the thought that perhaps attacking merchant ships in the Mediterranean had not been enough and they had come to attack directly, the Doge was alarmed. A soldier who had received permission entered and paid his respects.
“No! They left only a letter addressed to you, Doge, and departed again!”
“A letter? Bring it at once.”
Whatever its contents might be, the Doge’s expression brightened.
The envoys he had sent had continued to be turned away at the door, leaving him only to fret, so even a one-sided letter was welcome now.
After an anxious stretch of time in which one minute felt like an hour, what the Doge held in his hand was a paper too thick to be called a letter.
When the Doge unrolled the neatly rolled paper, the first thing that entered his eyes was the face of a gaunt man.
“Almoro Contarini?”
His once imposing appearance was gone, and his face was now all skin and bones, but the painter’s skill was excellent enough that he was not unrecognizable.
Realizing that the envoy who had disappeared had been captured by the Ottomans, the Doge’s thoughts grew complicated.
Just how long had he been held captive? Fear surged up within him that perhaps from the very beginning, he had been dancing in the hands of the still-young Sultan.
Lowering his gaze beneath the portrait, the Doge found words written in a bold hand.
—If you want this fellow back, come to Kostantiniyye with the ransom.
The Doge turned the paper over.
There was nothing.
“This is the end?”
At the letter that ended in a single sentence, the Doge wore a blank expression.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Padishah, will it truly be all right to send it with only that much written?”
The contents were so crude that it was hard to believe they had been written beneath a drawing by Michelangelo.
At the Grand Vizier’s concern, Yusuf waved his hand with a smile.
“That much is enough. Why waste ink writing anything more? No matter what is written, they will come here all the same.”
The ones burning with impatience were not the Ottomans, but Venice.
As long as they knew a channel for dialogue had opened, it was obvious they would come running in a panic.
“Considering the dignity of the Padishah, would it not still be better to send it with a little more formality?”
“What do you mean by showing such formality? Sending a portrait instead of the captured envoy’s head was already treating them more than generously.”
Yusuf replied nonchalantly, surveying the lined-up cannons.
“Tahir.”
“Yes, Your Padishah.”
Tahir, who had developed the cannon-boring machine together with Suleiman, paid his respects at the Sultan’s call.
“How many cannons can we currently mobilize?”
“I believe it is roughly eight hundred pieces.”
“Eight hundred pieces, eh.”
In the original history, it was known that roughly five hundred cannons had been mobilized in the war against the Safavids.
Yusuf ran his hand over a cannon.
‘Even if the Safavids are in the process of introducing cannons, we are overwhelmingly superior.’
He did not know how impressive the cannons Venice used were, but cannons bored with the machine were the finest cannons of this era.
Not only was the cannon performance outstanding, but the gunners’ skill was a given, and the number of cannons they could operate was greater as well.
This meant there was no need to fear Ismail.
“Increase the number of operable cannons to fifteen hundred.”
“That many, Your Majesty?”
“Yes.”
He did not know how the Mamluks would act once war broke out, but they might have to divide their armies in two.
Thus, the more cannons, the better.
Tahir, surprised by the massive number of cannons, bowed his head.
“I shall follow the Padishah’s will.”
“You’ve worked hard. I am counting on you alone.”
The cannon-boring machine had to be kept strictly secret, and if any problem occurred with the machine, Tahir would have to step in personally.
It was not even development; Suleiman could not be of much help with repairs either, so Tahir’s burden was heavy.
Yusuf lightly patted Tahir’s shoulder, returned to the palace, and Mehmet, who had arrived upon receiving orders, bowed his head.
“Your Padishah, have you returned?”
“No need for such formalities. If you wish, you can hug me tightly like Murat does.”
At Yusuf’s words, Mehmet hesitated slightly, then carefully embraced him.
It was an embrace that would not have felt this awkward even if it were his first time in a woman’s arms.
Yusuf seated Mehmet—who had turned bright red up to his ears, released the clumsy embrace, and was fidgeting with his hands—beside him, and formed a mischievous smile.
“You may stay in my arms as long as you wish.”
“I-I am fine. That is enough. But, why did you call for me alone?”
Though both sons had moved their residence to the Harem with their mother, it was not as if they never met.
However, since Murat was usually called together as well, being summoned alone this time must have piqued his curiosity.
Yusuf slowly examined Mehmet.
Thanks to inheriting the looks of Yusuf and Ayşe, he had quite a handsome face, but his body was on the frail side.
Compared to Murat, whose physique was outstanding for his age, this might have seemed even more the case.
Unlike Murat, who had never been sickly, Mehmet would suffer from light colds whenever the seasons changed.
“Mehmet, you surely know that you too must someday become a Sanjak-bey.”
It was the fate of a prince that could not be avoided.
Even if he ignored the Law of Fratricide, Yusuf had no intention of changing the practice of appointing princes as Sanjak-beys for their education.
When the subject of Sanjak-bey was brought up, Mehmet nodded heavily, beyond his years.
“I know that well.”
“There are two places you may choose. A stable place, and a place where success cannot be guaranteed but great rewards will return. If it were you, where would you go?”
“I would like to go to the stable place.”
It was a rather disappointing answer, but Yusuf, who had anticipated this response, tugged up one corner of his mouth.
“Mehmet, look at this father of yours.”
Yusuf glared at Mehmet, who carefully raised his face to meet his eyes.
“Do you find this father laughable? To the point you would choose to live hiding in the shadows?”
“How could I?!”
“Do you think I fear you because of your talent, like the others do!”
Mehmet flinched at Yusuf’s roar.
Mehmet had shown overwhelming prowess even in the Enderun Palace School, which gathered only the brightest minds from across the Ottoman realm.
To the extent that those around him felt discomfort and fear.
‘He must have been worried after seeing how others reacted. Thinking that even his father might look at him that way.’
Yusuf reached out and raised Mehmet’s chin, speaking while meeting his eyes.
“People around you fear you? That is only natural. One who cannot inspire fear in others cannot ascend to this position.”
What could be more laughable than a Sultan who cannot inspire fear?
“No matter how outstanding you are, the Padishah is me. Others may fear you, perhaps, but there is no reason for me to fear you. Because even if I were to kill you, you could never kill me.”
“Father….”
Mehmet’s eyes wavered as he looked at Yusuf declaring so resolutely.
Though it was a heartless statement that he could kill his own son at any time, the fact that his worries were meaningless resonated more deeply in his heart.
“Go back and reflect. It is the crime of taking your father, the master of the empire, lightly.”
“…I understand!”
“Tsk, what’s so good about being scolded.”
Mehmet smiled slightly despite the clicking tongue, paid his respects, and departed; Yusuf tapped the armrest of his chair with his hand.
‘He certainly is too clever. Another Sultan might have been frightened.’
It was a talent that could devour even his own father. Murat too was at a similar level of talent, if in a different direction.
Of course, for Yusuf, who sought to build a great empire beyond the conquest of the Mamluks, he did not worry about his sons’ talents.
Rather, there would be many places to make use of them in the future, so he merely thought it was a good thing.
“I shall send Mehmet to Kefe. He must oversee the development of the mines in the Donets Basin from there.”
Since Kefe was close to Circassia, Mehmet, who could easily receive their aid, was the right man for the job.
If they received the help of the now-docile Crimean Khanate, they would be able to develop it sufficiently.
It was a region rich in bituminous coal used to make coke for steelmaking; if only it were developed, they could pump out iron endlessly, and the empire would leap forward once more.
Yusuf rose from his seat and spoke to the chamberlain.
“I must go to the Harem.”
He needed more children to put to work.
The Sultan’s night was long.
∗ ∗ ∗
A single ship that had departed from Venice arrived in Constantinople.
The envoy set foot again in the city where he had been unable to properly meet even bureaucrats, let alone the Sultan, and had been driven out as if chased by Ottoman soldiers.
Fortunately, there was no chance of being chased out like last time, but he faced a difficult battle ahead.
‘I must absolutely prevent the Ottoman fleet from raiding merchant vessels.’
It was called the ransom for Almorò Contarini, but in truth it meant paying the price for having fallen out with the Ottomans.
He had no idea how many ducats they would have to pay, but he absolutely had to make it succeed.
The envoy, bearing a heavy responsibility, glared at a man who had stubbornly followed him and spoke.
“Aldus Manutius, did you really have to come?”
It would not be an exaggeration to call Venice the printing capital of Europe.
Over four hundred printers lived in Venice, selling enormous quantities of books throughout Europe each year.
The most famous among them was the Aldine Press founded by Aldus Manutius, renowned for printing the works of Aristotle.
He was a figure of some influence in Venice, but the envoy spoke with irritation.
“Did you not hear that the Sultan cut off the fingers of the envoy who arrived from the Mamluks? He is a savage man who could take your head if you offend him.”
Aldus replied slyly to the envoy’s warning.
“You need not worry. I have merely come to buy a single book.”
It was a book that had begun to be released in quantity after the promised three months had passed.
The man had come here to create the miracle of one book becoming tens of thousands.