The Preparations Were Complete
Half a century had passed since Osman brought down Eastern Rome.
Even if it had declined to the level of a city-state, the fall of Eastern Rome had been an event that sent a great shock through Europe, and one that engraved the name Osman deep into its memory.
Even after Eastern Rome’s destruction, Osman continued its wars of conquest and clashed frequently with Europe.
There were countries, like England, that had only heard of Osman through rumors, while others had gone beyond mere friction and been completely occupied.
Among them, Venice was one of the nations that had clashed with Osman most often, and Giovanni Barbaro, who had come as its envoy, was overwhelmed by the sight before his eyes.
‘What an incredible number. If all those cannons are deployed in war, it won’t end with merely being troublesome.’
The cannons that filled the vast open ground made it difficult even to guess how many there were.
Cannons, being lumps of iron, were vulnerable to rust, and with thousands of men who appeared to be artillerymen tending to them, an enormous crowd had gathered to watch.
Of course, he was not naive enough to think he had happened to witness this scene by chance on the very day he arrived as an envoy.
“It is a display of power. The weather is fine, but there is no need to tend to cannons outside like this.”
“I think so as well.”
Giovanni agreed with the words of the retainer who had accompanied him as an escort.
Kostantiniyye was a place where drizzling rain fell at the drop of a hat, and if they left them out like that and they got rained on, it would be worse than not doing it at all.
It was certain that the Sultan, having already heard of their visit, had brought them out to show them.
‘It’s an obvious trick. But I can’t take it lightly.’
If that many cannons were operated, no matter how sturdy a fortress was, it would not hold out for long.
For Venice, which had fought a naval battle against Osman in the previous Sultan’s time and suffered only great losses, this threat felt all the more frightening.
The thought that they had to conclude a peace treaty with Osman only deepened, and Giovanni glanced at his own ship, now occupied by the Janissaries, and said,
“It seems this will not be an easy conversation.”
An ill omen tickled at his heart.
∗ ∗ ∗
When looking down at a world map that included Osman, one felt as though one were moving atop a giant chessboard.
Yusuf toyed with the model symbolizing Kemal Reis, placed in the Mediterranean.
He could see Rhodes, occupied by the Knights Hospitaller, and Crete, held by Venice, and across the Mediterranean lay the territory of the Mamluks.
‘It’s about time to have Kemal’s fleet return.’
After he had turned away the Mamluk envoy at the door, a letter of protest full of condemnation had flown in, but Yusuf merely snorted.
That was all that country could do at best.
It was a country that had earned enormous wealth through intermediary trade, yet did not even have the strength to drive away Osman’s fleet, which sat like a thorn caught in its throat.
Although there would have been no harm in maintaining the fleet that was plundering merchant ships a while longer, the reason Yusuf had summoned Venice was because war was not far off.
“Grand Vizier, there will be no problems with preparing the ships, correct?”
“Of course. We have prepared more than enough vessels to transport supplies.”
In the original history, when Osman went to war with the Mamluks, the fleet mobilized numbered as many as one hundred ships.
They had solved the most important issue in war—supplies—by mobilizing a vast fleet.
If he was prepared for war not only with the Safavids but also with the Mamluks, he needed to prepare as much of a fleet as possible, and Kemal’s fleet, which had been carrying out operations for a long time, also needed maintenance.
Since they would withdraw anyway, this could be seen as a measure to squeeze out a firm share before doing so.
—Padishah, the envoy of Venice has arrived.
It had already been a week since the envoy arrived.
That was the time he had spent assigned to a shabby lodging under strict surveillance.
During that time, he had persistently requested an audience and permission to meet Almoro Contarini, who had been taken prisoner, and Yusuf had behaved as though acting on whims.
Several times the envoy had been granted permission only to be sent back empty-handed with the words that the Sultan had changed his mind, and at last Yusuf gave his consent.
“Let him enter.”
Once Yusuf’s permission was given, the doors of the audience hall opened, and the envoy, unable to hide his exhausted complexion, carefully stepped inside.
The Sultan was known to be so savage that he had cut off the fingers of an envoy from the Mamluks, who shared the same Islamic faith, and since that Sultan had continued to act capriciously, the envoy could only have spent his days trembling in fear.
“It is an honor to meet you, Padishah. I am Giovanni Barbaro, come as the envoy of Venice.”
Yusuf nodded toward Giovanni, who greeted him politely in the European manner.
“Welcome. Since you came from afar, I gave you ample time to recover from your journey. Was it satisfactory?”
Far from recovering from his journey, Giovanni had spent that time with his blood running dry, but at this shameless question, he put on a gentle smile.
“Thanks to Your Majesty’s consideration, I have been well.”
“Then that is fortunate. Now, did you receive the letter I sent?”
As Yusuf went straight to the main point without wasting time on trivial greetings, Giovanni considered it fortunate.
Although they had finally managed to speak, given the Sultan’s capricious behavior thus far, the talks could break down midway at any time.
“Of course. I do not know who the painter was, but his skill was truly remarkable.”
“He is someone I value. As time passes, the painting will become more expensive than the ransom of the person depicted, so be sure to keep it well.”
Though he was someone who had ruined an important matter, the prisoner was a member of the Contarini family, which held great influence in Venice.
That a painting with a cheap phrase demanding money for a noble’s ransom would become more valuable than the ransom itself could only be taken as a joke.
Thinking that the Sultan must truly cherish the painter, Giovanni let out a light laugh.
“Hahaha, I shall keep the painting very well.”
Yusuf also knew the other party had taken it as a joke, but he had no desire to persuade him otherwise.
As though this conversation was enough, Yusuf lightly waved his hand, and Giovanni, stopping his laughter, asked cautiously,
“Padishah, before we begin speaking in earnest, may I meet Almoro Contarini in person?”
“One ought to inspect the goods before paying the price. Bring him.”
Not long after Yusuf gave the order, treating a nobleman like an object, a man was dragged in.
He wore his hair in disheveled tangles and clothes like rags, and a filthy, overgrown beard covered his face, but not so much that he could not be recognized.
“Almoro Contarini?”
“L-Lord Giovanni Barbaro, is that you? Have you come to take me away?! God above!”
Watching Almoro crawl over and clutch at his trousers, Giovanni’s mouth felt dry and unpleasant.
What on earth had happened during all that time? There was not a trace of a nobleman left in him, only the appearance of a lowly slave.
Since Venice had fallen into its current predicament because Almoro had been abducted, he could have resented him, but the sight was so wretched that such feelings did not even arise.
“Calm yourself. I came here because of you.”
“Please, free me from this place. These people here are devils! Please do not leave me in this dreadful place any longer!”
His trembling words reached Yusuf’s ears in full through the interpreter, and Yusuf smiled faintly.
“Was it Giovanni?”
“Yes, Padishah.”
“Would you be interested in taking only half the goods? I will make it cheap. Do you prefer horizontal or vertical?”
At the words that he would cut him in half, Almoro nearly fainted, and Giovanni broke out in a cold sweat.
Because of the atmosphere, as if someone would bring a saw at once if only an order were given, it did not seem like an empty threat at all.
“P-please calm yourself. He must have been too frightened. I apologize on his behalf.”
“Hmm. Since you say so, I will be understanding. It has not been long since the smell of blood from what was cut recently faded, after all.”
Two rings clattered in Yusuf’s palm, and Giovanni, realizing where the rings had come from, expressed his thanks while breaking out in a cold sweat.
“Before we speak. How much authority have you come with?”
“I have been promised full authority.”
“Is that so? Then this will not be a waste of time. How much have you come prepared to offer?”
At words like those of the countless merchants in Venice, Giovanni swallowed and said,
“We will pay ten thousand ducats as the prisoner’s ransom.”
Ten thousand Venetian gold coins as ransom for a man who was of little use even if kept was not bad.
It was a ransom that could not be paid unless one were a noble, and from a fairly prominent noble family at that. Yusuf looked at Almoro, who was trembling violently.
“That is merely that man’s ransom. What of the price for destroying the peace treaty between us and Venice before even ten years had passed?”
Giovanni swallowed.
Recovering Almoro, the prisoner, might be important to the Contarini family, but for Venice as a whole, it was not a critical matter.
The truly important thing was that they had to conclude a peace treaty again.
“…How would paying fifteen thousand ducats every year be?”
At those words, Yusuf raised one corner of his mouth and sneered.
“And what makes you think I would trust you? How long did the contract to pay ten thousand ducats in tax after the last war last? And now it has merely risen by five thousand.”
“If you look at it from a long-term perspective, it will be acceptable. And this time will be different, so please trust us.”
Yusuf let out a light laugh.
In this era, there was no word as worthless as trust, but among the many untrustworthy bastards, the Venetians ranked near the top.
There were others he might trust, but he had no intention of trusting the Venetians.
“One hundred thousand ducats. That is the sum you must hand over immediately.”
“Padishah?!”
Hearing such an enormous sum when they were already short on money because of the war, Giovanni was startled.
Yusuf spoke mockingly toward Giovanni, who had raised his voice.
“Is it not cheap? Compared to the money you handed to the Hungarians in the last war, asking them to keep the Empire in check.”
“B-but—”
“Giovanni Barbaro.”
Calling the envoy’s name in a low voice, Yusuf threw the two rings in his hand in front of Giovanni.
The sound of the rings striking the floor echoed through the audience hall, and Giovanni naturally lowered his head to look at them.
The black stains caught between the gold rings and the jewels made a chill run down his spine.
“Do not misunderstand. Do you think you can stop my empire no matter how much you interfere?”
Many of the things the envoy had seen in the capital flashed through his mind.
Even if the Safavids and the Mamluks joined hands, he simply could not bring himself to believe that they could block the path of that ruthless Sultan.
“Where you place your bet is a matter for your own judgment, but do not forget that you must also bear the cost of that choice.”
Venice’s revenue depended on Mediterranean trade connected to the Mamluks.
If the Ottomans, having conquered even the Mamluks, were to reject Venice, the damage that would swell from it was something he did not even want to imagine.
“C-could you please grant me just a little more time?”
“Very well. The fate of your nation hangs in the balance, so I shall grant you time. Return.”
It had been a brief meeting, but Giovanni returned with an utterly exhausted face, and in the audience chamber where everything had been settled, the Grand Vizier spoke to Yusuf.
“Would we not need to sign a peace treaty with the West in order to face the Safavids and the Mamluks? Have we not come on too strong?”
“Enough. They are men with as many enemies as the Empire. Having frightened them this much, they will want to sign a peace treaty, even if they haggle over the money.”
Even in normal times, the Italian peninsula had long been a frying pan, and with both the Papal States and Spain having taken a step back, Venice’s choice was already decided.
He also had more than enough ability to resolve matters even if things went slightly awry.
The Grand Vizier, who followed Yusuf’s judgment without reservation, hid his concern and changed the subject.
“That aside, is it truly alright that the book containing the Padishah’s story has fallen into the hands of the printer who came with the envoy?”
The Sultan’s seat was one from which he could see everything happening in the capital as clearly as the palm of his hand, and the movements of the printer Aldus Manutius had been known for some time.
“What, are you worried he will translate it without permission and sell it?”
“That is correct. Are they not men who fear nothing when faced with money?”
Even without copyright law in the Ottoman Empire, there was no one who would dare recklessly reproduce a book containing the Sultan’s story, but the West was different.
It was obvious they would sell it off without a second thought.
“I am leaving him be precisely for that reason. Even if we tried to stop it, as long as the book continues to be printed, it will inevitably make its way to the West.”
After all, exchange occurred frequently between Venice and the Empire’s western territories where imperial influence waned.
“Of course, if we demand compensation, we can extract it. They say Venice has laws preventing books from being reproduced at will.”
“But then why?”
At that question, Yusuf smirked.
“If they react that way, he might give up on printing altogether. It is an opportunity to plant my influence in the West—would it not be a waste to throw it away like this?”
It was said that interest in him was great in the West, so it was obvious that every copy printed would sell out, and this would establish itself in the West like a cultural invasion.
The wider it spread, the better.
Of course, that did not mean he would give up on monetary profit either.
“Besides, in a transaction both sides must agree on a price, but I can set the compensation however I like, can I not?”
It did not matter if the man refused to pay. They could simply extract that sum from Venice.
Thinking of showing them the terror of copyright law, Yusuf wore a mischievous smile.
∗ ∗ ∗
When the scorching summer had passed and the first snow fell on the Empire’s frontiers.
Messengers bearing mobilization orders scattered throughout the Empire.
The Empire, which had briefly paused to catch its breath, rose once more.
∗ ∗ ∗
As the camel shifted its heavy steps, the massive cart tethered behind it was dragged along.
When the cart arrived in front of the warehouse, laborers quickly hoisted the sacks loaded upon it.
“Carry them carefully! Do you know we’re finished if those burst!”
The laborers roughly nodded at the administrator’s words as if too bothered to reply, and went inside the warehouse.
Today alone, more than ten cartloads of sacks remained to be moved. If they dawdled, the sun could set before the work was finished.
As the administrator watched with a look of regret while flour seeping through the gaps in the sacks mixed with dust rising from beneath the cart and scattered, a man approached leading guards.
The administrator immediately bowed upon seeing the man’s face.
“Greetings, Beylerbey!”
“Good. Is the work proceeding without delay?”
“It is proceeding smoothly. You need not worry.”
Dukaginzade Ahmed Pasha nodded at that answer and entered the warehouse.
Inside the vast granary, sacks filled with flour were piled high, and the administrator who followed behind spoke carefully.
“This lowly one has never before seen so much flour amassed in one place.”
“It may look like a lot, but once a hundred thousand soldiers begin to eat, it is an utterly insufficient amount. It is no accident that additional granaries have been built across the nation.”
Granaries like this one had been erected throughout the nation, and massive quantities of food had been purchased and stored in time for the harvest season.
The Ottomans were a state where the tax system had shifted from payment in kind to monetary payment, and all supplies, including food, were purchased from the populace to meet demand.
Normally, stockpiling food on such a large scale required caution because it would raise prices, but this time was an exception.
Dukaginzade tapped the sack of flour as he spoke.
“From last year, bumper harvests have been recorded throughout the Empire, more so than in previous years. Is that not so?”
“I have heard it is thanks to the Padishah changing the farming methods across the nation.”
“Correct. So much grain was released that prices fell, but that is not necessarily a good thing.”
The four-field crop rotation system had been introduced in even more regions than last year, and as the number of places that achieved bumper harvests increased, grain prices had dropped.
Even though turnips and clover had increased the number of livestock that could be raised, livestock numbers could not increase in the short term; grain, however, produced results immediately.
For the subjects who had to sell grain to buy necessary goods and pay taxes, there was nothing good about grain prices falling so low.
“It is fortunate that thanks to the war, grain prices have been able to maintain a proper level.”
“The merchants also said they breathed a sigh of relief thanks to the war.”
“Hmph, what else would you expect from traders who only think of their own profit. I should be thankful if they don’t gouge us during the war.”
Dukaginzade, who had spoken the word “war” himself, clenched his fist tightly.
It was a large-scale war in which the Sultan himself would lead the campaign, and the participation of not only the Grand Vizier but also the Beylerbeys of Anatolia and Rumelia had been confirmed.
Whether he would be able to rise to the position of Grand Vizier or not would be determined by what kind of merit he established in this war.
Suppressing his boiling ambition, Dukaginzade warned the administrator once more.
“War is upon us. Even a small mistake can result in severe punishment, so it would be best not to act recklessly.”
Mobilization orders had already been issued throughout the nation centered on the capital, and it had become known far and wide that war was imminent.
From the Sultan who sought to expand territory, to the bureaucrats who sought to increase their power through merit, and even the soldiers who sought to fill their pockets through plunder.
If problems arose before a war where all manner of desires intertwined, one could incur the Sultan’s wrath.
It was when Dukaginzade had warned the administrator again and was leaving the warehouse.
KWA-BOOM!
“Wh-what is going on!”
In an instant, an explosion loud enough to hurt his ears rang out and the ground shook; instinctively, Dukaginzade covered his ringing ears and closed his eyes.
When a heavy wind that seemed to strike his body and the sound of something embedding itself nearby occurred, he opened his eyes and slumped to the ground.
“A w-windmill?”
A windmill blade was embedded before his eyes, and seeing that the windmill in the distance had vanished without a trace, Dukaginzade blinked.
He had nearly crossed into the embrace of Allah before the war even began.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Tch, and that is why I told them to ventilate it periodically.”
Yusuf replied irritably to the news that a windmill had flown away entirely in a massive explosion.
Dust explosions occurring in windmills that ground flour, causing the entire structure to fly away, were things that had happened since long ago.
“Is Dukaginzade Ahmed Pasha unharmed?”
“Thanks to Allah’s protection, he is said to be in good health.”
“Whether he was lucky to survive or unlucky to have nearly died, who knows. It is good that he is unharmed.”
If a man counted among the Empire’s foremost powers were to die pointlessly while preparing for war, strange rumors could begin to circulate.
People, whether regarding the future or the present, tended to assign meaning to things that happened by chance.
“And see to it that those who ignored my warnings and were negligent in the management of the windmill are punished severely.”
“Understood, Padishah.”
Yusuf tapped his chair after giving orders to the official.
Once war began, all sorts of unexpected accidents occurred to the point where a windmill explosion killing several people was not even worth joking about.
It was not uncommon for a fleet that had set sail to encounter unexpected storms and suffer near-total annihilation without ever seeing battle.
Fickle weather, outbreaks of unexpected plagues—war was something in which one could suffer a futile defeat from any number of such causes.
‘Who would have thought a dust explosion would make me feel the importance of luck again just before war.’
He did not wish for fortune such as Ismail suddenly falling from his horse and dying.
He believed that as long as things proceeded according to plan, luck would sufficiently play its part.
“Ali Pasha, what is the subjects’ reaction to the war?”
There was no particular need to gauge public sentiment when waging war.
Because no matter how much they might not want war, they had no ability to stop it.
‘Still, since this war is highly likely to continue for many years, it is less burdensome if public sentiment is favorable.’
The period during which war could be waged in a year was usually between April and October.
The vastness of the territory that needed to be occupied made the prolongation of war inevitable, and if they were to conquer even the Mamluks, they had to think in terms of at least three years.
Of course, this too was on the assumption that no other sudden variables emerged.
To Yusuf’s question, Ali the chamberlain replied with a smiling face.
“Thanks to the measures you took earlier, the hearts of the subjects toward the Padishah are firmer than ever. You need not worry. Rather, it is more work to stop the azaps who wish to participate in the war.”
“So many as that?”
Azap was a term meaning young men, infantry who enlisted only during wartime and received wages.
They could be seen as a kind of mercenary; usually they were archers, and even after gunpowder weapons developed, they served as soldiers responsible for supply routes.
He would accept them readily enough under ordinary circumstances, but to hear it was a troublesome number made him curious.
“Even if we only select those who have requested from across the Empire, they will number approximately sixty thousand.”
“That’s an incredible number.”
It was said that at its zenith, the maximum number of Azabs that could be mobilized was forty thousand, but to have that many when it was not even the golden age—truly a tremendous figure.
“Of course, a great many of them are likely rabble. Volunteers who let foolish dreams go to their heads after hearing the Padishah’s tale.”
“Still, it’s better than having their wives and daughters dream of becoming slaves in the harem.”
Yusuf let out a short laugh.
When books that only a small number of the powerful had possessed through bidding were first distributed throughout the nation, the subjects had clutched them with dazed faces.
For black was script, and yellowed was the paper.
The books were rice cakes set before their eyes, so the subjects sought out those who knew letters and begged them to read aloud, and now the contents of the books were spreading throughout the empire via the mouths of storytellers born from such requests.
It was hardly strange that people were rushing to enlist, their heads full of foolish dreams after hearing the tales of Yusuf and Aisha’s tumultuous lives.
“Tell them to accept whoever can be accepted, save for those whose deaths would cause hardship for their families, like the head of a household.”
“Do you mean those who cannot even draw a bow?”
Yusuf nodded at the question from Ali, who seemed puzzled.
“Are the matchlocks we have prepared not plentiful? Give them those, and they will earn their keep.”
Flintlock guns, which needed only to be fired without tending a burning match, could not be mass-produced because of the costly flint.
Since flint was a consumable that had to be replaced after repeated firing, even the central army had struggled to maintain sufficient supply.
Instead, the matchlocks prepared as reserves were plentiful; with just two weeks of basic training, they could be sent straight to the battlefield.
‘Every preparation that could be done immediately is complete.’
Thanks to the four-field crop rotation, securing military grain had become easier, and there was no shortage of weapons or soldiers.
Thanks to the book containing stories from his childhood, the people’s loyalty had grown deeper.
Even the most restless frontier regions of the Balkans, including Albania, had been stabilized through the abolition of the jizya, the heavier tax imposed upon non-Muslims.
‘Venice had coughed up 110,000 ducats, captives included, so there is financial leeway as well. A peace treaty with the West has also been concluded.’
Of course, with the Kemal fleet’s return, trade had normalized, and it was obvious the Venetians were eagerly hawking cannons to the Mamluks.
The Venetians were a lot who would do anything, heedless of consequences, so long as there was profit to be made; mere threats would never make them listen.
If he later conquered the Mamluks and even opened a canal, he intended to wring every last ducat from them with interest.
Yusuf rose from his seat and said,
“Make ready. I am going to the harem.”
Nigar, the first woman he had chosen after becoming Sultan, was nearing childbirth.
He was curious to see what kind of child would be born, and since he would soon be too busy to even see her face, he had to make time while he still could.
‘Soon, an envoy will arrive from the enemy who has learned of the empire’s mobilization order.’
From that point, the true war would begin.
∗ ∗ ∗
Ismail regarded a woman with a cold expression.
Hair that had once flowed with luster had become dry and brittle, and skin that had been soft had turned coarse.
Toward the woman who stared only at the window without a word despite his presence, Ismail spoke in a growl.
“Tazlu, the time has come to settle the score with the wretch who latched onto you.”
A mobilization order had been issued in the Ottoman Empire, and the paper containing intelligence that war would erupt next year was ruthlessly crumpled in his hand.
Ismail approached Tazlu, who remained silent and stared out the window despite his words, and grabbed her hair.
She should have felt extreme agony from the brutal grip that threatened to tear her hair out by the roots, yet not even the smallest scream escaped Tazlu’s lips.
“Say something, Tazlu.”
At that, Tazlu opened her mouth.
“What words do you wish for? Shall I pray that all goes well for you? That the Shah shall be victorious, as always?”
“…Are you mocking me?”
“How could I possibly mock the Shah?”
He had emerged victorious from countless difficult battles where victory could not be assured, yet against Yusuf alone, Ismail had always suffered defeat.
Feeling those words as mockery, Ismail roughly released his grip on her hair.
“Watch well from here! I shall show you plainly how gravely mistaken your choice was.”
With those words, Ismail turned sharply and ordered the soldiers guarding the room to keep strict watch, then commanded Ustazlu, who followed him.
“I must send envoys.”
“To where, my lord?”
“To the Mamluks and the Ottomans. Both.”
He had already received a firm commitment from the Mamluks for a joint response against the Ottoman Empire, but with war looming, tighter coordination was necessary.
The envoy to the Ottomans was motivated by his desire to delay the war as long as possible.
‘We must fight someday, but the later, the better.’
He was enraged, yet he had not lost his cool.
The best course was to buy time while building national strength, and Ismail employed his literary talents to their fullest, drafting a letter of flowing prose.
The envoy who had received the letter—which opened with praise for Yusuf, cleared up accumulated misunderstandings, and proposed that both nations grow toward a better future—departed for the Ottoman Empire.
About a month after the envoy’s departure, he returned.
Only his head remained, crumpling the letter Ismail had sent in its mouth.
It was Yusuf’s reply: don’t give me your bullshit.
∗ ∗ ∗
If one’s memories become intertwined with another’s, can the person before and after truly be called the same?
Two sets of human memories, rendered vivid as if the very ability to forget had vanished, had mixed together, and Yusuf became someone who was neither a modern man nor an Ottoman.
He had analyzed matters like a modern man and conducted himself like an Ottoman prince, until now even he could not define himself as wholly one or the other.
As such, moments like this—when what surfaced was not the modern man’s knowledge but a memory—felt rather special.
‘Four of them. As a modern man, he had never imagined he would end up with four children.’
It was a thought Yusuf had as he looked at his son, Şehzade Kasim, swaddled in Nigar’s arms.
A memory had flashed by: when a friend had asked how many children he wanted someday, he had answered, “At most two.”
Not that he missed it. He had vowed to discard all lingering attachment to the modern world.
It was merely a newfound sentiment.
“Papa, Papa.”
Yusuf seated Hasna on his lap as she clung to him fussing, and patted the child’s head several times.
As the blonde hair she had inherited from her mother was gently mussed by his touch, Hasna giggled.
At the thought that he might have taken pictures like an overeager fool if this were the modern era, Yusuf glanced around.
Fatima, wearing a benevolent smile as she watched Yusuf with Hasna on his lap.
Aisha conversing quietly beside Mehmet, who was absorbed in a thick book.
Hatice watching Murat with a stern gaze as he swung his legs restlessly, unable to sit still.
And Nigar, gazing at Kasim with a mix of love and worry as he smacked his lips.
Though there were several more women in his embrace, including Gülfem, everyone who could be called family was gathered here.
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea to commission a family portrait later.”
The thought came to him suddenly; given that Islam avoided portraiture for fear it might lead to idolatry, it was a radical notion.
Even Fatima, who had weathered every storm, wore a flustered expression at his words.
“When would that be, my lord?”
“After the war ends would be ideal.”
For the moment, there was no leisure to sit for portraits, and those gathered here knew it well.
They knew full well that the Safavid envoy who had visited recently had lost his head.
It was an act little different from a declaration of war, and remembering this, Aisha asked carefully.
“Padishah, forgive me, but may I ask a rude question as a woman?”
“What is it?”
“From my limited understanding, I have heard that even in war, the safety of envoys is generally guaranteed. Yet why did you act as you did?”
She was not wrong. Even during war, minimal channels of communication were typically kept open.
Whether urging surrender or negotiating a truce, one had to be able to speak with the enemy.
“There is a reason. In the case of the Mamluks, it was to pressure Venice.”
Venice must have watched the Sultan’s act of severing an envoy’s fingers with dread. One only needed to hear the tale to know he was a madman.
What else could one call a man who so boldly severed the fingers of an envoy from a fellow Islamic state merely for giving offense, if not a madman?
Of course, the Mamluks would have been displeased, but their displeasure was inevitable once the Ottomans attacked the Safavids anyway.
Which meant there was no reason to act while tiptoeing around their feelings.
“Then what was the reason for beheading the Safavid envoy this time?”
Naturally, severing a finger and severing a head were matters of entirely different magnitude.
At this, Yusuf smiled.
“I did it to piss that bastard Ismail off.”
“…My Padishah?”
Aisha, never having expected such an answer, wore a bewildered expression, and Yusuf burst into laughter.
“If he’s furious, wouldn’t he charge out of his stronghold rather than cower inside?”
In the original history, Ismail had fought a pitched battle against Selim while prattling about chivalry, only to be crushed utterly, but against Yusuf, it was obvious he would act thoroughly defensively.
If Ismail rushed out unable to endure the outrage, it would be most welcome for Yusuf.
‘Of course, he is not so foolish as to charge out merely because a single envoy was killed.’
To be honest, he had done it with a “would be nice if it works, but no matter if it doesn’t” attitude.
In any case, even if he could not seize much Safavid territory in this war, he absolutely had to claim Ismail’s life.
Ismail had learned cunning through repeated defeat, and if left alone, there was no telling what kind of monster he might become.
Therefore, he had to cut the bud before it bloomed; going forward, there would be no more envoys coming and going.
“Do not worry. I handle envoys according to the situation. Did not the one from Venice return with all four limbs intact?”
Of course, he had returned looking appalled, as though he had been through a dreadful ordeal, but Yusuf had not lied.
His body had been intact, after all.
“More than that, winter is slowly coming to an end.”
Though it was the depths of winter, with snow still falling across the empire, the arrival of spring was but a moment away.
A war upon which the fate of three nations depended was drawing near.
∗ ∗ ∗
It seemed cutting off the Mamluk envoy’s fingers had become a bigger topic in Mamluk than expected.
There was not a single ring on the hand of the newly arrived envoy, nor could any common ornament be seen on his body.
He was trying hard to appear composed, but the way he clenched his hands as if to hide his fingers made it painfully obvious how frightened he was.
“So it is not the fellow from last time, but a new man who has come as envoy.”
“That is correct. Aziz Yarbai has stepped down from all his posts.”
“A pity. He still had six fingers left for me to cut off.”
At Yusuf’s words, which did not sound like empty talk in the least, the envoy forced a smile and got to the point.
“Sultan Ashraf Qansuh Ghawri has said that those who follow the will of Muhammad should set aside past grievances and seek a path of coexistence. For the peace of Islam.”
“Coexistence and peace? What laughable nonsense.”
Yusuf gave a derisive smile.
Coexistence and peace—fine words, but in an age where allied armies could become enemies overnight, they were nothing more than pretty-sounding empty talk.
Yusuf rose from his seat and walked up to the envoy.
“Do not spout nonsense. When the Safavid bastards invaded Dulkadir, what were you lot doing?”
“…We were at war with the Portuguese, and so had no room to spare.”
“Then when the Safavid bastards attacked Trabzon, did you so much as utter a single word? Did you even pretend to stop them?”
Of course they had not. Given how much the Mamluks feared the Ottomans, they might well have been clapping their hands in delight on the inside.
At Yusuf’s words, which were close to condemnation, the envoy bit his lip hard and spoke in an icy voice.
“This is the decision the Padishah has made. Will you not regret it?”
“It is you who will regret it. Go back and tell him. He may do as he pleases.”
The envoy glared at Yusuf for a moment, then turned away.
In the end, the Mamluks had become enemies, but this was something he had already foreseen, so he was not afraid.
After watching the envoy safely leave the palace, the Grand Vizier spoke with a smile, as if to lighten the mood.
“I am relieved you sent the envoy away unharmed this time.”
“It is not as though I am always violent. I merely act according to the situation.”
If necessary, he could cut off the Mamluk envoy’s head right here, but conversely, if it was unnecessary, he could overlook a certain degree of rudeness.
Unlike the Safavids, the Mamluks were fellow Sunnis, and as they had long maintained relations, there was nothing to gain by cutting off an envoy’s head.
“Besides, with men like that, one must dispose of them out of sight. If a single ship disappeared in the Mediterranean, who would go searching so desperately for it? They would think it vanished in a storm.”
“…Padishah?!”
Shock appeared in the Grand Vizier’s eyes, and Yusuf gave a sly smile.
“A joke, a joke. I have no intention of going out of my way to have him killed.”
“Please do not unsettle this old man’s heart.”
“You still seem too hale to call yourself an old man. What exaggeration.”
After tossing out that light joke, Yusuf wiped the smile from his lips and spoke.
“Grand Vizier, even the Mamluks have turned against us now. How many troops do you estimate they will have?”
“I have heard that the Mamluks have already begun mustering their forces. I expect they will mobilize around sixty thousand. Of those, roughly five thousand will be Mamluks.”
Mamluk originally referred to slave soldiers who had converted to Islam, but as their power grew, a Mamluk commander deposed the sultan and founded the Mamluk dynasty.
After that, the word Mamluk came to refer to the elite cavalry of the Egyptian Mamluk dynasty.
Only those who had perfectly mastered horsemanship, spear arts, swordsmanship, and archery could become Mamluks, and it would not be an exaggeration to call them the strongest military group of the medieval age.
‘But that was before firearms appeared.’
Now that they were armed with firearms, there was no need to fear cavalry.
“Aside from the five thousand Mamluks, the rest will be Bedouin nomads.”
“That is correct. You may assume that most of the enemy’s strength consists of cavalry.”
If the Safavids mobilized roughly forty thousand or more soldiers, then this would be a massive war in which over two hundred thousand soldiers clashed between both sides.
It was larger in scale than any war he had experienced so far.
“Grand Vizier, the future of our empire depends on this war. Would you not agree?”
“I would.”
If they were defeated in this war, they would not even be able to dream of expanding beyond the Anatolian Peninsula.
It was no different from a great gamble that could shake the strong support he currently received from his subjects down to its very roots.
“We have finished all the preparations we can make. We could not be any more perfectly prepared than this.”
The preparations that could be made within the Ottoman Empire were so perfect that Selim of the original history would have envied them.
Then only one thing remained.
‘To be the one who takes the stakes in this gamble.’
All that remained was to seize victory.
∗ ∗ ∗
The bitter cold of winter had passed.
The streams that had been frozen solid began to flow beneath thin sheets of ice, and the fields were dyed green.
It was a scene befitting spring, the season when all things came back to life, but to humans filled with desire, it was merely a good season for taking the lives of others.
Hiiiiiing!
Horses carrying cavalrymen armed in chain mail began to move, and Janissaries gripping guns hurried along breathlessly.
“You fools! Push it up properly!”
The cannons loaded onto carts were placed one after another onto ships moored in the harbor, and the ships filled with cannons began sailing toward a location near the gathering point.
The vast city of Kostantiniyye moved with suffocating bustle, and the subjects of the capital held their breath before the stern momentum of the soldiers.
For they, too, knew well how important this moment was.
Bwooooo!
Along with the repeated blare of horns, the music of the military band rang out.
To the lively music, the sultan’s banner that had been flying over Topkapi Palace was lowered.
It meant that, for a while, the place where the sultan stayed would no longer be Topkapi Palace, and the sultan’s banner fluttered above a massive carrack capable of carrying a thousand people.
“And yet it is a sight I have always seen.”
Standing on the deck of the carrack, Yusuf looked over the capital.
The cheers of his subjects praying for victory pierced through the sound of the military band, and countless crowds surged around the harbor to see the departing ship.
In the eyes of those gathered there, there was not the slightest worry that he might be defeated.
They were filled only with the air of people praying for a victory they took for granted, and looking forward to what achievements the sultan would return with.
It was an emotion so clear that an ordinary man might have felt burdened by it.
“Burden is something felt only by those who consider defeat.”
Since he was certain of victory, there was no need to feel any burden.
He merely had to live up to their expectations.
Yusuf gave an order to Kemal Reis.
“Set sail.”
“Set sail! Set sail!”
The repeated cry announcing the order echoed through the ship, and the heavy carrack began to leave the harbor.
It was the beginning of the true war.