The Board of War is Set (2)
Leading a fleet laden with military supplies to the southern reaches of the Ramazan Principality, Kemal Reis stroked his beard at the sight before him.
He had spent long years as an Ottoman captain, but a spectacle like this was unquestionably a first.
‘Can one even call that a fleet?’
There were a few ships that looked sizable, but even those were few in number.
The majority were shabby fishing boats so dilapidated they would not have sufficed as ferryboats connecting the Balkan and Anatolian peninsulas.
They were vessels that would snap in two from a collision alone, before ever needing a cannonball, but stranger than anything else was...
“They truly cannot sail a ship. Even steering blindfolded would yield better results than that.”
He even saw ships panicking at a few cannon shots, rowing frantically, colliding with one another, and capsizing.
At such a farce, the Ottoman sailors could not even muster a laugh, watching with dumbfounded eyes.
“Well, I’ll be. They cannot even swim?”
“You could throw pigs into the sea and they’d swim better than that. What manner of fools are they?”
“Some of them look seasick, too? Look at that one vomiting over there.”
To the Ottoman troops, unaware that every last oarsman had been replaced with Dulkadir soldiers just to pack in one more man, it was a truly bizarre fleet.
“Lord Kemal Reis, what shall we do?”
“Fish out a few of the ones drifting over. Let us find out who they are.”
At the captain’s order, the soldiers rescued men who were on the verge of becoming fish food, and two prisoners were thrown before Kemal Reis.
Looking down at the two trembling as they were dragged onto the massive ship and faced with aimed muskets, Kemal Reis opened his mouth.
“Who are you?”
“#!@%!”
When the one in front spoke words he could not understand, Kemal tilted his head and spoke.
“Throw that one back into the sea. He is useless.”
At this order, the sailors dragged the struggling prisoner and hurled him back into the sea.
A great splash echoed alongside a distant scream, and Kemal turned his head again.
“You also cannot communicate?”
“I-I can!”
“Then there is no need to save you again. So, who are you?”
Though mixed with a dialect, it was not incomprehensible, and the captured prisoner answered Kemal’s question with a mixture of fear and absurdity.
“…You attacked without even knowing who we were?”
“You speak strange words. If it is not an Ottoman ship, there are only two kinds of vessels one meets at sea: those to sink, and those to plunder. That is all.”
After all, even the Mamluks, who could be called allies, had become enemies.
At Kemal’s statement, which would not be an exaggeration to call piratical, the prisoner moved his mouth a few times, then gave up and offered an answer.
“We are Dulkadir troops. Bozkurt Bey is aboard the flagship.”
“Bozkurt?”
Kemal, puzzling over why that man would be here, soon understood the situation and nodded.
“So it was the Padishah. You lot were fleeing.”
“Lord Kemal Reis, what would you have us do? Shall we capture them?”
“There is no need to harm our own. Put a hole in the flagship’s hull. If they wish to live, they will surrender.”
Shortly after, a single cannon fired, and Bozkurt was fished out, dripping wet.
∗ ∗ ∗
Adana, capital of the Ramazan Principality, was an ancient city that even appeared in the Epic of Gilgamesh, humanity’s first heroic epic.
With the Cilician Gates—the only mountain pass connecting Syria and Anatolia—nearby, it had served as a strategic chokepoint and transit hub since the time of the Roman Empire.
Though it enjoyed a Mediterranean climate, its location lay in the very center of a basin encircled by the Taurus and Nur mountain ranges.
Moreover, with the Seyhan River flowing from the north toward the Mediterranean Sea to the south, humidity remained high even in winter when rainfall was scarce.
Thanks to this, hot, damp air filled the nostrils of Yusuf, who sat upon the throne in Adana Castle.
With the unpleasant sensation of sticky skin, Yusuf looked down at those kneeling before him, his face brimming with irritation.
“Bozkurt, you ran well indeed. The sight of you fleeing so ably and slipping from harm’s way is truly like a rat.”
Due to the hot, humid air, even the carpet upon the floor was woven of cotton rather than wool, and Bozkurt, forced to his knees upon it, spat blood-tinged saliva onto the ground.
“What great Padishah! Black-hearted as Satan, you are—kuhuk!”
Unable to abide such insolent words, a Janissary smashed Bozkurt’s head into the spot where he had spat as if grinding it down, and a scream rang out.
Even Mahmud Bey, whose country had been seized overnight because of Bozkurt, trembled at the sight.
At this excessive display of loyalty, Yusuf flicked his hand.
“Enough. Do not act before I command it.”
“My apologies, Your Padishah.”
When the Janissary grabbed his hair and jerked his face up, Bozkurt raised his head, one side of his face bruised purple as if his cheekbone had been crushed.
The officials of Ramazan, long unaccustomed to war, frowned with fear, but the Ottoman officials, Yusuf included, did not bat an eye.
“Bozkurt, why did you attack our army?”
“…It was not my order. I do not know why we attacked.”
At that answer, the corners of Yusuf’s mouth turned up.
“You were not acting on Mamluk orders? I already know that intimate conversations took place among the Mamluks.”
Intimate conversations had indeed taken place. But those had been about plundering supplies, not about leading the charge into war.
Bozkurt cried out with an utterly aggrieved face.
“There was no such agreement! I swear to Allah, I am innocent!”
“Is that so?”
At those words, Yusuf descended from the throne, walked up to him, and leaned down.
The hand gripping his hair and the force pressing down on his body grew stronger to prevent any rash movements, and a soft voice reached Bozkurt’s ear as he gritted his teeth in pain.
“I know. This matter was not your doing.”
“Th-then!”
“However, did you not promise to stab me in the back? Did you think I would be defeated merely because a few supplies were raided?”
At these words, Bozkurt’s face was dyed with shock.
That Yusuf knew a fact known only to the closest few caused the rumor of him being a prophet—a rumor he had once scoffed at—to flash through his mind.
Facing green irises flickering as if to devour him, Bozkurt finally realized with certainty just what kind of monster he had made an enemy of.
Turning coldly from the soul-drained man, Yusuf seated himself upon the throne and spoke.
“Take him away. Extract two confessions: one, that he attacked the Ottoman army first; and two, that the Mamluks are involved in this affair.”
“Yes, Your Padishah!”
The Mamluks would surely nitpick and challenge this attack on Dulkadir and Ramazan.
After all, the very reason they had declared the two states protectorates was to prevent them from falling into Ottoman hands.
‘With a confession, I will solidify the justification that we were victims of a preemptive strike.’
The confession regarding Mamluk involvement was merely insurance. Even if he revealed it immediately, it would amount to nothing more than saying, “Let us fight at once.”
There was no need to grab them by the collar and drag them into the ring while the situation favored him the longer the Mamluks delayed their entry.
However, if the Mamluks hesitated until Ismail was killed...
‘Then this shall become the justification to attack the Mamluks.’
Bozkurt was fortunate. Under normal circumstances, he and his sons would have their heads hung from poles, but his life was extended due to the need for justification.
Of course, it would not last even two years at most.
“Mahmud Bey.”
“Y-yes! Your Padishah.”
Though they had become enemies, seeing Bozkurt’s end as he was dragged away half-mad brought Mahmud more fear than satisfaction.
Mahmud Bey’s voice trembled endlessly, and Yusuf continued speaking as though this were merely the proper reverence due to him.
“You, too, must publicly declare that you aided Bozkurt in attempting to attack my empire.”
“Your Padishah?!”
“Is that difficult?”
Though Mahmud had never in his life thought to make an enemy of the Ottomans, under Yusuf’s cold gaze, he lowered his head.
Because there were no choices left.
“I shall obey.”
Now the subjects of Ramazan would believe that the Ottoman attack was the result of their leader’s wrong choice.
Looking at the officials of Ramazan clenching their fists in devastation, Yusuf rose from his seat.
“You must have grievances. You may appeal to Allah that this is unjust. You may even attempt to betray the Empire. However, remember this one fact.”
“…What is that?”
“Allah commanded that you forgive your enemies. But know that I do not.”
Had he not refrained from grinding their troops under cannonfire and even met them in person to urge their surrender?
It had been a coercive offer, but by now it was gentlemanly enough.
However, should they betray him, they would feel to the bone why the Ottomans were regarded as the Demon King of Europe.
Just as Georgia had.
∗ ∗ ∗
Bewilderment and shock.
These were the emotions of the Mamluks upon receiving word that the Ottomans had attacked Ramazan beyond Dulkadir.
It began with Sipahi units appearing around Aintab.
They had guarded southern Dulkadir so tightly that deploying even a single scouting party was difficult, and by the time they belatedly received word, Yusuf’s army had already crossed the Nur Mountains.
“Find out what has happened immediately!”
Withdrawing the Marash ambassador out of fear that the Ottomans might suspect Dulkadir’s betrayal had been a mistake.
If an ambassador, whom the Ottomans could not rashly obstruct, had been present, information could have been gathered without great difficulty.
It was meaningless to regret what was already done, and by the time accurate facts reached Aleppo, everything was already over.
“Dulkadir attacked the Ottomans first?! That Bozkurt would never do such a thing unless he were mad!”
“But it is a certain fact that battle took place. There are many witnesses that several Sipahis died, and the tale is already widespread throughout Dulkadir.”
The Mamluk Sultan gritted his teeth.
“…To think I was outdone by a wicked brat!”
To think the boy had used the blood of his soldiers as justification to devour Dulkadir and Ramazan first.
It was the moment his carefully laid plans shattered into pieces.
“An envoy—send an envoy and issue a stern warning! This matter absolutely cannot be tolerated!”
At the Mamluk sultan’s declaration, an envoy bound for the Ottomans—a mission with a lower survival rate than Russian roulette—departed for Adana.
Arriving in Adana by ship without delay, what the envoy saw was the Ottoman army completing its preparations to advance on the Safavids.
If he had been just a little later, he would have had to chase after the rear of an army already on the march.
‘So this is the Ottoman army.’
Opportunities to spy on an enemy army so openly were rare, and as the envoy surveyed the Ottoman forces with his own eyes, he found himself growing intimidated instead.
The cannons loaded in the form of battle wagons were so numerous they were difficult to count by sight.
And soldiers cleaning their guns, lighting fires, and casting lead bullets by hand filled one side of the plain.
At this point, it was enough to make one suspect they were deliberately showing off their strength to frighten him.
The envoy forced down his fear and entered Adana Castle, where Yusuf personally came out to greet him.
“You must have had a hard journey. I hope you will forgive the disorder, as we are about to depart.”
A smiling face, a gentle gesture.
It was an appearance that did not match the notorious claim that one had a better chance of surviving a trip into a lion’s den than serving as an envoy to the Ottomans.
If not for the poles lined up beside the castle gate where he had come to meet him.
“…Are you trying to pressure me with this?”
The blood streaming down beneath the poles on which heads were impaled showed that they had not been dead for long.
At the envoy’s question, Yusuf shrugged.
“The timing simply happened to coincide with the executions. Hm, though you may have heard their names, at least.”
Yusuf pointed to the poles one by one as he spoke.
“Shahrukh, Ahmed, Suleiman. Hm, was this one Turka?”
“He is a man named Turak.”
They were names the envoy knew as well. They were Bozkurt’s sons.
“Where is Bozkurt?”
“That man has not yet departed for Allah’s embrace. Sadly, he sent his children ahead of him, so he is resting in grief.”
For now, it was a relief that at least Bozkurt was alive, and the envoy spoke with a hardened expression.
“This is a personal letter from the sultan. He demands that you apologize for occupying the two protectorates and withdraw your army.”
“He wrote quite a lot of nonsense.”
Yusuf passed the letter aside as if uninterested and said with a sneer,
“I have already obtained confessions that Dulkadir and Ramazan were hostile to the Ottomans. You should at least be able to recognize their handwriting, no? Take them with you.”
Unlike the clean confession from Mahmud Bey, the confession from Bozkurt was stained with blood, and the envoy’s face turned gravely stiff as he received it.
“…My country will not stand by and overlook this matter.”
“Good. I will be sure to remember that insolent face of yours as well.”
At those chilling words, the envoy left as though fleeing, and Yusuf watched his departing back with sunken eyes.
∗ ∗ ∗
Establishing buffer states is an extremely strategic act.
After all, it means judging that the benefits gained from not sharing a border are greater than those gained by occupying a weak buffer state.
That was why the Mamluks, who had gathered their army at Aleppo, had taken a relatively unhurried wait-and-see stance.
If things went according to plan, Dulkadir, which would strike the Ottomans in the back as they attacked the Safavids, would be attacked before the Mamluks.
However, as if knowing this very fact, the Ottomans swallowed the two buffer states before the Safavids, resulting in a direct border with the Mamluks.
It was like having a fire dropped at their feet.
“Did the Ottoman sultan truly say that?”
Inside the inner citadel of Aleppo, all the powerful figures who had gone to war had gathered.
Salima, kneeling before the Mamluk sultan, bowed his head even deeper under the sharp gazes of the governors ruling each city and the high-ranking Mamluks.
“That is what he said. He held out the papers containing the confessions and even ignored my statement that my country would not let this matter pass.”
To be precise, it had come with a threat that he would remember his face clearly, but that detail was not important.
Considering the murderous atmosphere, it was fortunate it had ended with only a threat.
Ashraf Qansuh Ghuri, the sultan of the Mamluks, stared down at the two sheets of paper in his hand.
There was no need to go through the trouble of verifying the handwriting.
Needless to say for Mahmud Bey of Ramazan, who had turned traitor, and even the bloodstained one from Bozkurt was obviously written by the man himself.
“All of you, give me your opinions. What should we do?”
At the sultan’s question, voices of denunciation immediately burst out.
“Naturally, we must retaliate! This is an act that utterly disregards us!”
“He is greedy like a pig, to the point that one would never think he carried the blood of the former sultan. We must not stand by and watch this continue.”
Now that they shared a border with the Ottomans, a sense of crisis distinctly different from before came rushing in.
Until then, they had inwardly hoped that Ottoman greed might stop at the Safavids, with whom they had continually clashed, but this matter made them abandon that hope entirely.
If they were willing to force a pretext into being, then the end of that greed would surely reach the Mamluks.
But there were not only those who supported an attack.
“I agree that we should be angry! However, Your Majesty. By occupying the two countries, they have secured a defensive line that is difficult to covet. An attack would be difficult.”
“Not only can we not cross the Nur Mountains to attack Ramazan territory, but the defensive line at Ayntab is also in a state that will not be easy to pass. Please reconsider!”
When opposing opinions emerged, those who had argued for an attack immediately protested.
“Are you saying that we, who possess the mighty Mamluk cavalry, would be defeated by them?!”
“I am saying we should think realistically! With such a difference in troop numbers, how can you spout such ignorant talk about attacking?”
“Ignorant?!”
“Yes! Even if we win, our own losses will be severe, so for whose benefit are we to wage such a battle?!”
As shouts flew back and forth because opinions were split in two, the sultan, whose face twisted sharply, roared.
“All of you, be silent!”
Silence descended at the thunderous voice, and the frowning sultan came to a decision.
“We will not face the Ottoman army before the Safavids do. However, we cannot simply watch as the Safavids are struck down.”
There was no need to force their way over the already fortified defensive line at Ayntab.
If they crossed the 2,680-kilometer-long Euphrates River, which flowed from the eastern Anatolian plateau through Ayntab and Baghdad all the way to the Persian Gulf, they could join up with the Safavids.
“We will also establish a defensive line at Aleppo and lead reinforcements east. Prepare the necessary supplies.”
“We obey your command!”
It would become an expeditionary force, but the one fortunate point was that they would be passing through the territory of their ally, the Safavids, so they could purchase the necessary provisions locally as they moved.
Perhaps thinking it a reasonable decision, the retainers accepted the order, and the sultan gestured to Salima, who had returned from serving as envoy.
“I have something to say to you. Wait a moment.”
The retainers left, leaving only Salima, who had been singled out, and the sultan asked him,
“How was the strength of the Ottoman army? Speak honestly.”
“…There was an overwhelming difference compared to our forces. In particular, they had many firearms.”
“As expected.”
As the sultan nodded heavily, Salima hesitated for a moment, then steeled himself and spoke.
“It is not too late even now. We must introduce matchlock guns. It is the only way we can win!”
“Enough!”
The sultan shouted and spoke as if growling.
“Who told you to offer your opinion? I have no intention of bringing in additional matchlocks!”
“B-but, Your Majesty!”
“I said enough. Go back now!”
Salima, who had offered his opinion because he believed it necessary, pressed his lips tightly together at the cold response and withdrew outside.
Returning to his assigned quarters, Salima lay on his bed and, losing track of time, sorted through his tangled thoughts.
No matter how he thought about it, introducing matchlocks was necessary, and thinking that he would raise the matter again even the next day, he forced his eyes shut.
Knock, knock, knock!
—Open the door. I have something to say about your trip as envoy.
It was already dark outside, and wondering who had come looking for him at this late hour, Salima opened the door.
What he saw through the open door was the gleam of a sword in the moonlight.
With a burning pain, he felt the sword pierce his body, and Salima struggled to grasp the hand holding the sword as his mouth worked.
“Wh… why?”
“…Why did you have to say something unnecessary to the sultan?”
Forcing his mind, which no longer worked properly because of the bleeding, to turn, Salima realized what “something unnecessary” meant, and he felt the strength drain out of him.
It was a visit from a Mamluk whose position would be threatened by the introduction of matchlocks.
As the blade slid out, Salima collapsed to the floor and stared blankly at the door that was coldly shut in his face.
And in his mind arose the image of the monstrous Ottoman sultan, who had displayed his forces as if showing them off.
‘So that was why he seemed unworried. He knew the Mamluks, the vested interests, would block the introduction of firearms.’
Even as his vision grew distant, that monstrous judgment sent a chill down his spine.
The Mamluk sultan, who had shouted earlier and fiercely opposed the introduction of matchlocks, had probably known that this would happen to him.
‘No, perhaps even the Ottoman sultan knew.’
Recalling, at the very end, those green eyes that had remained cold until the last, Salima breathed his last.
∗ ∗ ∗
With the occupation of Ramazan, the supply lines had become noticeably shorter.
That went without saying if they used the road that passed through the Nur Mountains and led to Marash.
Even assuming supplies were transported to Kayseri through the Cilician Gates in preparation for a Mamluk attack, the overland distance would be at least 200 kilometers shorter than the existing route.
They had wasted about a month, but the result was well worth the time.
Before advancing on Diyarbakir, which was Safavid territory, there was movement between Yusuf’s main force and the troops at Ayntab.
This was because there was no need to leave many sipahi cavalry at Ayntab, where the main role would be defensive.
“Beylerbey.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
Yusuf encouraged Dukaginzade Ahmed Pasha, the Beylerbey of Anatolia.
“Your foremost objective is to protect the area around Ayntab and stabilize the supply route. The outcome of the war depends on it, so there is no need to be disappointed that your chance to win merit has flown away.”
“How could I dare harbor such thoughts?”
He spoke as much, yet it was not without regret.
To seize the seat of Grand Vizier, he had to establish merit through this war.
As though he knew exactly what was on his mind, Yusuf patted his shoulder.
“This war will not end overnight, so do not be impatient. Ample opportunity will come to you as well.”
“I shall bear it in mind.”
“And you need not necessarily act on the defensive. It is highly likely that Mamluk forces will move to aid the Safavids.”
If the Safavids perished, the Mamluks were next.
Unless they wished to be defeated in detail, they would undoubtedly move.
“If it seems you can break through the defenses of Aleppo, you may move at your discretion. However!”
Strength entered the hand resting upon Dukaginzade’s shoulder.
“If your ambition causes a needless waste of troops, you will have to bear the responsibility for it.”
“…I shall certainly bear it in mind.”
The retainers knew all too well that Yusuf was a man who would behead even the Grand Vizier if he ruined the game with actions worse than doing nothing.
The great Padishah was never merciful to his retainers. To the point that, at some point, he became more lenient toward his subjects.
Passing by Dukaginzade, Yusuf mounted his horse, and the main army began its march toward Diyarbakir.
The tedious march began once more, and Yusuf spoke to the Grand Vizier riding alongside him.
“Grand Vizier, speak of whatever you wish, even if it is rude.”
Permission to be rude was an enormous privilege.
It was a privilege he enjoyed both as the Grand Vizier and, privately, as the father-in-law; he was also one of the few who could seize the opportunity to offer candid advice.
Any other man, even if given the floor, would be unable to get a word out, fearing a pike would be planted where his neck should be.
Perhaps because he had something to say, the Grand Vizier opened his mouth.
“I believe all of Your Majesty’s actions bear fitting meaning, yet I wonder if your dignity would not be elevated were you to greet envoys with appropriate courtesy.”
“Courtesy, is it?”
Having gone beyond rudeness to the point of sending an envoy to Allah, he had expected this topic to come up sooner or later.
“I have heard this story. When asked to teach courtesy, the answer was to treat an elder brother as a father, a younger brother as a son, and a friend as a brother.”
He did not know if it still existed, but it was one of Arabia’s proverbs.
Yusuf continued in a playful voice.
“Thus, I am treating the envoy with the dignity of a friend.”
What sort of house was the Ottoman dynasty?
To claim the throne of Sultan, one could poison even one’s father; to survive, one had to kill all one’s brothers; it encouraged a succession in which only one son remained.
“I treated him like a brother, so is it not fortunate enough that I did not kill them all?”
“Your Majesty….”
Seeing the Grand Vizier sigh as though in anguish, Yusuf burst into light laughter.
“It is a jest. I will match my counterpart accordingly, so do not worry overmuch. And would not the envoys to come surely know to accommodate themselves to me?”
If they do not wish to die, that is.
Since even a Grand Vizier could only recommend, not compel, Yusuf let the matter drop and changed the subject; the Grand Vizier simply acquiesced.
“If you permit the Beylerbey to attack the Mamluks, would it not be better to deal with the Mamluks before the Safavids?”
“No. Ismail must be killed before the Mamluks.”
“If I may speak out of turn, this subject simply cannot comprehend why Your Majesty is so wary of that man.”
It was only natural that such doubt would arise.
The Ismail of the present was completely different from the Ismail of the original history, who had been victorious in battle after battle and expanded the influence of the Shi’a to the point that the Ottomans felt threatened.
By his record against Yusuf, he had never won, and with the west ablaze, his power base was also precarious.
It was bound to seem strange that Ismail was regarded as more dangerous than the Mamluks.
“I know Ismail best. The present Ismail is more dangerous than the Mamluk army, which is no better than a scarecrow.”
The Ismail of the present, who had learned defeat, was more threatening than the Ismail of the original history, who had known no defeat.
Yusuf fiddled with the gun tethered to his horse.
“Even at the cost of losses, Ismail must be killed unconditionally in this opportunity.”
If he were allowed to escape, he would return as an even greater monster.
The success or failure of this expedition hung upon Ismail’s neck.
∗ ∗ ∗
A small city where Armenians and Persians who claimed to be descendants of Noah coexisted.
The thick, fishy stench of blood was scattered across Yerevan.
“Sh-Shah! Your Majesty! Why in the world are you doing this?!”
Around the man who shouted desperately, trembling, his family and servants lay dead in a ghastly manner.
His wife and daughters had long since been dragged away by the Qizilbash, and blood dripped heavily from the blade in Ismail’s hand.
“You ask my reason?”
“Y-yes, I do.”
“You thought I would not know that you colluded with an Ottoman spy?”
Ismail pressed his blade to the nape of the horrified man’s neck and commanded his subordinate.
“Drag him away. Take him and carve his flesh until he dies, as an example.”
“Yes, Your Majesty!”
“S-spare me! I was wrong!”
As the man was dragged away like a beast to the slaughterhouse and vanished, Ismail wiped the blood from his blade with a cloth.
“The hidden rats have truly been busy scurrying about. To the point of disgust.”
Though he spoke as though he had found them easily, capturing those who had fallen into the spy’s clutches was no simple matter.
Even the one dragged away moments ago would not have been caught had he not moved rashly out of impatience.
“Though I have only caught those with obvious trails, the blood never dries. I cannot fathom how many remain hidden.”
“However, a warning has surely been sent with those killed thus far; it is enough. They will not act rashly.”
At the words of his retainer Ustajlu, Ismail sheathed his blade, its pale edge still bare.
“Now, all that remains is Yusuf—nothing but offering that man’s neck to Allah.”