Trap and Trap
A high mountain region 1,790 meters above sea level.
Kabul would one day become the capital of Afghanistan, a vast city where millions gathered to live, but for now it was a small city of not even forty thousand people.
Atop the mountain range that had come to be called the Hindu Kush, meaning the land where Hindus died, eternal snow lay piled thick.
It was a sight he had seen again and again, yet he still felt overwhelmed by the greatness of nature. As the man stared at it blankly, a rough voice sounded from behind him.
“Padishah. Do you truly intend to head for the lands of the Safavids?”
Had it been heard in another country, the title Padishah—emperor—would have drawn laughter, so small was his domain.
But to the man who turned his head, Babur, descendant of Genghis Khan and Timur, who had built great empires, it was a title he naturally had to claim.
“Faruq, I find this city truly to my liking. The land is rugged, and its people speak in a muddle of twelve languages so that even conversation does not pass properly between them, but even so, it is the land that has become my new refuge.”
To recreate the glory of Timur, he had sought to seize Samarkand, which along with Chang’an and Kostantiniyye had been a center of the Silk Road.
But he had suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of Shaybani Khan of the Uzbeks, lost even his homeland, and fled to Kabul.
Even in Kabul, where he had fled, there had been countless trials, including being driven out by rebellion, yet Babur’s dream had not been broken.
“But I have no intention of being satisfied with this place! I have a mission to reclaim the glory of my ancestor Timur. To do that, I must take Samarkand with the aid of the Safavids.”
“Padishah. But they refused our request for aid. Would a country at war have the leeway to help us?”
“Look at the world broadly. The Safavids’ crisis may not be a bad thing for us.”
What Babur had realized after experiencing and surviving all manner of crises was that one must not be trapped only in the near future.
“In the past, had we reached out our hand, we would have had no choice but to become a vassal state. But if we make use of this opportunity, we may begin from an equal relationship. In the long run, it will be the better result.”
“If we prepare and set out now, we may not reach the western front, which has become a battlefield, until next year. Will the Safavids be able to hold out until then?”
At his worried retainer’s words, Babur clicked his tongue.
“Foolish talk. The Safavids and the Mamluk Sultanate have joined hands. Do you think they will be defeated so easily?”
“The might of the Ottomans is not to be underestimated, if even those two must combine their strength. Moreover, they say the Padishah leading them is so capable that even the Shah has been defeated by him time and again.”
At that rebuttal, Babur shook his head.
“The Shah’s defeats were ill fortune. He is the man who made a wine cup of that dreadful Shaybani Khan’s skull. He will certainly overcome this, and until we arrive, the Safavids will stand firm.”
Babur, the first emperor of the great Mughal Empire, was certain of it.
∗ ∗ ∗
Rrrumble! Boom!
“Th-the wall is collapsing!”
A portion of the wall that had been struck by cannon fire several times came crashing down with a thunderous roar.
The soldiers atop the wall did not even manage to scream properly before being buried along with the collapsing masonry.
As the stones that had formed the wall poured down the slope, the hands of the artillerymen firing the cannon grew even busier.
Who was it that said life was a comedy when seen from afar, and a tragedy when seen up close?
Likewise, the sight of cannons lined up in rows sliding backward with bursts of flame was magnificent from a distance, but to the artillerymen nearby, it was a terrible reality.
“Push, damn you! If you don’t plan on firing for another half a day, push faster, you bastards!”
Returning a cannon that had been kicked backward by its own shot to its original position was hard labor that made the muscles scream.
And even after pushing forward the heavy cannon that camels had dragged in, sweating buckets all the while, the work was still not over.
“You son of a bitch! Are you not going to run over here?! Are you fetching rainwater?!”
The young soldier who had accidentally knocked over a water bucket amid the chaotic bombardment came running back in a fluster, carrying a bucket filled with water.
There was no helping it, since they could not fire without the water bucket.
A waiting soldier plunged the wool-wrapped bore sponge into the bucket, and when the gunner covered the touch hole with a thumb protected by a thumbstall, he shoved the sponge down into the barrel.
Hissssss.
The heat inside the barrel was so fierce that the sound of water evaporating could be heard.
Once the powder residue left in the muzzle had been wiped away and the barrel had cooled to some degree, they hurried to reload, pushing in the measured powder wrapped in cloth with the rammer.
“Th-the enemy! The enemy is coming out!”
Startled by the shout, the artillerymen raised their heads and saw it.
The battered gate was flung open, and cavalrymen gripping swords poured out.
“For the Shah!”
“Allah is with us!”
They were cavalrymen who had been given the mission of stopping the bombardment at all costs.
Having already resolved themselves to death, the momentum of the cavalry spilling out was so fierce it did not match the disadvantageous tide of battle.
The scholar who had been adjusting the gun’s elevation, taking into account the ground gouged out by the cannon’s recoil, grew restless.
“Sh-shouldn’t we run?! At this rate we will all die!”
“You’re distracting me, so shut your mouth! Either raise the angle properly, or keep scribbling your formulas or whatever on the ground!”
At the growling words of the gunner, the scholar hunched his neck.
As the enemy, racing quickly down the slope, drew closer, a fierce roll of drums sounded.
Clack!
“Out of the way!”
The scholar, shoved aside by a rough hand and sent rolling across the ground, raised his head half in bewilderment and half in anger, then immediately lowered it again.
For the eyes of the Janissary wearing a long cap drooping down to his neck and carrying a gun on his shoulder were gleaming with killing intent.
Worthy of the title of the Ottoman Empire’s finest soldiers, the Janissaries formed ranks in an instant and aimed their muzzles at the enemy.
The cavalry, having come perilously down the slope strewn with earth gouged out by stray cannonballs and debris from the wall, was now right before them.
By the time the face of a cavalryman crouched low with sword drawn, and even the stones kicked up by the horses’ hooves, could be seen clearly, a booming voice rang out.
“First rank, fire!”
Rat-tat-tat-tang!
Neeeigh!
At the signal, bullets rushed forth, and the cavalrymen, riddled like honeycombs, slammed into the ground.
The bodies that had fallen from their saddles bounced over ten meters, and the sight of massive horses tumbling with their necks broken seemed almost unreal.
The vanguard had vanished, but the cavalrymen following behind clenched their teeth and increased their speed further.
God might have been moved by that resolve and granted them a chance, but the second rank that stepped to the front after the first withdrew was not merciful.
Under the continued crossfire, only a handful of cavalrymen survived, and what those who barely survived faced were cold blue bayonets.
Those who had watched from close at hand as the frightening enemy force turned into bloodied water stood dazed, and soon a shout burst out to awaken their senses.
“What are you staring at?! Move, now!”
“You lunatic, are you trying to get us all killed?! Why are you loading a second charge?!”
At the shouts of the gunner, rich in experience of war, the bombardment continued, and the wall that had split open like a small crack collapsed like dominoes.
Watching the scene from his chair, Yusuf asked the Janissary Agha.
“What is the state of the cannons?”
“Among the cannons made of iron, quite a few have cracked and will have to be discarded. Most of the cannons made of bronze should be fine if cooled.”
“That much is a relief. How much gunpowder have we used?”
“It seems we have used more than half of our stock.”
They had battered the wall with cannon fire for three days.
There was even a joke that they had brought more gunpowder than food, so when they heard that less than half remained, the surrounding retainers’ faces went pale.
The Janissary Agha commanding the army spoke cautiously.
“The consumption of gunpowder was too great. Had we committed the troops earlier, we could have reduced the amount of powder spent.”
If they had accepted sacrifices, they could have crossed the wall sooner, but Yusuf waved his hand.
“Enough. The time it takes to raise men is longer than the time it takes to make gunpowder. And this is sufficient.”
They had put on more than enough grand fireworks.
No matter how good cannon fire was, in the end it was men who planted the flag.
“Bring me Diyarbakir.”
“Yes, Padishah!”
Soon, together with the sound of drums, the shouts of soldiers gripping their weapons rang out.
It was the sound announcing the finale.
∗ ∗ ∗
“It is not too late even now! You must flee!”
Arrows fell toward the enemy army surging in and dyeing the hill, but it was only the last struggle of men who had lost their final stronghold.
Despite his subordinate’s cry, Nur Ali slowly looked over the inside of the city.
Near the wall, not a single building remained standing intact, and even the mosque that had praised Allah had its roof collapsed.
As Nur Ali looked down at the city that had crumbled as though eaten away by insects, flames rising together with black smoke entered his eyes.
It was the storehouse where food and weapons had been gathered, and it was the final mission he had received.
“I am done. At least you must flee. I vowed to Allah that I would meet my end in this place.”
“…We will die with you.”
“Nonsense. This is a moment when even one more man is needed to aid the Shah’s great cause. Go!”
At Nur Ali’s command, the subordinates who had clenched their teeth offered a respectful salute and ran off.
Left alone in that space, Nur Ali spoke bitterly.
“If you can survive, then survive at all costs.”
The Ottoman army, which had by now reached the collapsed wall, became a wave and swept over the Safavid troops.
Swords were driven into the backs of fleeing soldiers, and the sharp screams of women rang out.
It was the signal announcing pillage, and as Nur Ali looked down at the scenery turning into hell, angry footsteps sounded behind him.
“Nur Ali Khalifa! You had the nerve not to run!”
They were not Ottoman soldiers.
They were Kurds, whose food had burned and who were fated to be plundered.
Facing those who gripped nicked swords taken from soldiers, Nur Ali said,
“Take me to the Ottoman Padishah.”
“What trick are you playing?!”
At the abrupt words, the leader of the group shouted in fury, and Nur Ali spoke calmly, as though death were not imminent.
“I merely wish to see, at the last, the man who has blocked the Shah’s path time and again. This will be better for you than taking my head.”
At these words, the man drew his sword and swung it at Nur Ali.
∗ ∗ ∗
The madness of war had descended upon Diyarbakir.
The fear of not knowing when one might die erupted wretchedly during the three days allotted for plunder.
For the losers stripped of all rights through defeat in the siege, it was an endlessly cruel time, and those whose rage toward this boiled over writhed upon the ground.
“You wished to see me? Nur Ali Khalifa.”
The mere fact that he was alive was a miracle.
Nur Ali, whose tendons seemed to have been completely severed throughout his body to the point where he could not sit, let alone stand, lifted only his head to look at Yusuf.
“Kuhuk, I merely… before going, wished to see the Shah’s greatest… obstacle.”
“A foolish man. Was seeing my face just once so important that you did not flee, Grand Vizier.”
“Yes, Your Padishah.”
“I should have sent a portrait along with the envoy’s severed head.”
“That would be excessive consideration for those about to ascend to Allah.”
After exchanging such pointless banter, Nur Ali sneered.
“Those are bold words from a man who I presume has already slaughtered my fleeing subordinates.”
Yusuf smiled faintly.
“You know me well.”
With those words, Nur Ali clenched his teeth as he saw the head that had rolled to a stop before him.
He had known that meticulous enemy would leave no hole to escape through, but seeing it become reality was nothing short of devastating.
“So, are you satisfied to see the one who will cast your master into Allah’s embrace?”
“…The final victor shall be the Shah.”
“The delusion of a defeated cur. Go on ahead. I shall send your master to join you shortly.”
At Yusuf’s gesture, the soldiers roughly seized Nur Ali and dragged him away.
As Nur Ali—who would be torn apart by the enraged Kurds without so much as a corpse left intact—disappeared, the Grand Vizier warned:
“We must not take his words too lightly. Did we not receive word that roughly forty thousand Mamluk troops gathered at Aleppo from Ayntab have moved?”
“I know. They will make their final struggle. But one must take risks to catch great prey.”
Yusuf turned toward Tabriz, which would become a trap.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Your Shah. Diyarbakir has fallen, and the Ottoman army has begun marching on Tabriz.”
“…Nur Ali. What became of Nur Ali?”
At Ismail’s question, Ustajlu bowed his head deeply.
“It is said that in Diyarbakir, he completed all the missions given by the Shah and was executed.”
“Is that so.”
At the news that a trusted subordinate who had long been by his side had died, Ismail gripped the reins tightly.
“I shall pray for my brother’s soul before Yusuf’s severed head.”
“We shall obey!”
The twenty thousand Qizilbash following Ismail marched south to cut Yusuf’s supply lines.
∗ ∗ ∗
A large population is certainly a great advantage.
There are various benefits, such as a domestic market, labor force, and the number of troops that can be mobilized in wartime. But more important than that is the economic power of the populace.
Population growth without economic backing leads to unemployment and poverty, and people who cannot sustain themselves become nothing but a burden to the state.
This is also the reason China implemented birth restriction policies like the one-child policy, and why Europe shows reluctance toward refugees.
The situation in Diyarbakir, where the food warehouses had burned down, was similar.
‘Still, it’s better than the earlier examples. They only need to hold out until the next harvest.’
Diyarbakir is a region abundant in water resources, to the extent that it traded with Baghdad, 600km away, by floating rafts and small boats down the Tigris River.
If they overcame this crisis well, it was land that would return to normal without issue.
But the problem lay not with Diyarbakir, but with the Ottoman army on the march.
“Grand Vizier, how much food do we have to spare?”
Before his eyes was Lake Urmia, the third largest saltwater lake in the world, and as it was the dry summer season, the surroundings were covered with white salt crystals like marble.
A sharp salty tang stung his nose, and he could faintly see the scene of curious soldiers putting the salt crystals in their mouths and shuddering.
It was a light deviation to refresh their moods while they were growing exhausted from the heat and dryness, so the commanders did not appear to restrain them greatly.
“We have about two weeks’ worth of food remaining.”
“Even if we conserve as much as possible, it will last about a month.”
This was because they had left food in the previously occupied territories to sustain them until reinforcements arrived in Diyarbakir.
Of course, conserving food had to remain the last resort. It was something that could break the soldiers’ morale and allow resentment to fester.
“We have this much leeway thanks to the cities that surrendered without much resistance.”
“The surrenders are thanks to Hasan, whose face is even well-known.”
Hasan quickly feigned humility at Yusuf’s words.
“How could it be my merit? It is all thanks to the Padishah.”
“Indeed, I who am Satan himself am more notorious than you who are but a tongue.”
“That is not what I meant, Your Padishah!”
“It is a joke. A joke.”
It was a joke that would have sent a chill down Hasan’s spine.
Wiping away the smile that had played at his lips while teasing Hasan, Yusuf’s eyes gleamed ferociously.
“The enemy capital, Tabriz, is right before us. We shall see it soon.”
He meant the trap that had been laid to ensnare his neck.
∗ ∗ ∗
Marco Polo, famous for The Travels of Marco Polo, passed through Tabriz in 1275.
He described it as: ‘A great city surrounded by beautiful and pleasant gardens, with such a good location that Latin merchants, including those from Genoa, come here to buy goods.’
It was a city that had flourished as the center of the Silk Road, and even now that the Silk Road’s influence had waned, traces of that prosperity remained intact.
A large stream flowing from north to south and a smaller one flowing from east to west passed through the high, sturdy walls and crossed within the city.
Splendid mosques and palaces indirectly showed Tabriz’s prosperity.
It was a city that even Selim of the original history had ended with plunder rather than occupation.
Standing before Tabriz, Yusuf curled the corners of his lips.
“You’ve crawled all the way here like rats.”
The reason the soldiers who had marched to Tabriz were stirred up was not because cannons they had never seen before were mounted upon the walls.
It was because of the massive army lined up on one side of Tabriz’s walls.
Yellow banners with white crescent moons painted on them fluttered in the hot wind.
They were the flags symbolizing the Mamluks.
“What should we do, Your Padishah?”
Watching the Mamluks armed in chain mail and barding, Yusuf replied to the Grand Vizier’s question nonchalantly.
“Send an envoy to the Mamluk Sultan. Tell him we’ve both come a long way, so let us see each other’s faces.”
“Understood.”
At Yusuf’s command, a Janissary bearing a white flag rode toward the Mamluk encampment, and shortly after, a parley between the two opened at the center where the armies faced each other.
The Sultan, waiting while leading an equal number of Royal Mamluks, welcomed Yusuf, who had arrived leading twenty Silahtars as his escort.
“As-salamu alaykum. It is an honor to meet you, Padishah.”
“Peace be upon you. That is a greeting ill-suited to this situation. I am not at all pleased to meet you here, Sultan.”
“You are still young and vigorous. Still, since this is a place prepared by Allah, should we not have a conversation that would please Him?”
“Then I shall speak for peace between our nations. Withdraw your army at once.”
“How can peace apply only to two nations? Should not peace dwell in all nations under Allah’s protection?”
Since this was no different from telling him to cease the Safavid attack and withdraw, Yusuf sneered.
Yusuf soothed his horse, which stamped its hooves irritably as if representing his mood.
“Do you hold the foolish thought that your army can defeat mine?”
“I cannot win, but I believe we can obstruct you sufficiently.”
If they laid siege, the Mamluks would attack; if they attacked the Mamluks first, troops would sally from the city and strike their flank.
Naturally, they would not be defeated, but they would suffer heavy casualties, making it difficult to call it a victory.
It was a difficult situation, but Yusuf spoke with confidence.
“Have you not considered that I need only take time to tighten the noose around your necks? I wonder if you will remain unbothered with shells raining down upon your heads.”
The Mamluks would have cannons to respond with, but the very number of cannons they possessed was different.
Overwhelming firepower.
To Yusuf’s question of whether they could endure that, the Sultan smiled leisurely.
“Padishah. You are not in such a comfortable situation, are you? If you spend all your gunpowder on us, how do you intend to overcome Tabriz? If you plan to climb that cannon-defended wall with brute force alone, I will not stop you.”
“The gunpowder will come with supplies, so do not worry. The homeland has enough gunpowder to burn even your country to the ground.”
“Supplies, you say. Supplies! Do you truly think they will come?”
At the Sultan’s attitude bordering on certainty, Yusuf’s face hardened coldly.
“As expected, that Ismail is moving to cut my supply lines.”
“You are young, so your head turns quickly. Before you starve from lack of food, it is not too late even now. Withdraw your army. Time is not on your side.”
“Is that so.”
If supplies were completely cut off, they would have to retreat, relinquishing the cities they had occupied on their march here.
They would have to fall back to at least Diyarbakir, and since it was already August, by then this year would effectively pass by in vain.
The war would drag on, and that burden would grow exponentially, so if supplies were cut off, it would be dangerous.
If the supplies were cut off.
Yusuf burst into laughter, and the Sultan’s face stiffened at the strangeness.
“…What is so funny?”
“Sultan, is it not amusing? The spectacle of someone foolishly believing that supplies would come through Dulkadir and Ramazan merely because they have been occupied.”
The Sultan was shocked, and Yusuf stopped laughing.
“It was a pleasure meeting you like this… However, I see that age has made you quite bold. Have you not heard of my notoriety?”
Before the Sultan could even retort, Yusuf picked up the gun slung on his horse and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
“Kuhk!”
The Sultan collapsed with a gaping hole in his chest, and a shocked Mamluk drew his sword for revenge, but—
Tadadadang! Bang!
The steppe was dyed red in an instant by the Silahtars’ gunfire, and a Silahtar agha beheaded the Sultan.
Yusuf flicked away the blood that had splattered on his face as he glanced at the Sultan’s head, which hadn’t even been able to close its eyes properly.
“In your next life, do not come out recklessly just because a bad man calls for you. Ah, and give my regards to your father as well.”
Yusuf turned away coldly and returned to camp. Before the Ottoman camp, a pole was erected.
From atop the pole, upon which the Sultan’s head hung, blood-soaked hair fluttered like a flag.
∗ ∗ ∗
Dust billowed up thickly.
Camels silently pulled large wagons whose wheels creaked, and the roughly two thousand soldiers transporting supplies held up torches even though dawn had broken.
The soldiers, armed with matchlock muskets that used a matchcord rather than flint, needed torches.
To the soldiers moving toward Tabriz—where the main force lay—beyond Diyarbakır, a scream-like cry rang out.
“It’s the enemy! Enemy raid!”
A cavalryman who had gone ahead to scout crossed a low hill and shouted like a madman, and behind him, an enormous cloud of dust rose.
It was a raid by twenty thousand Qizilbash.
“E-enemy raid!”
Rousing drumbeats rang out, and the soldiers hurriedly lit their matchcords with torches.
The scout was swept away by the Qizilbash wave and disappeared without a trace, and the bow-wielding Qizilbash arrived right before their noses in an instant.
“Fire! Shoot!”
The Azabs who had volunteered during the war began firing as trained, even as the reeking stench of death wafted toward them.
The hail of bullets mowed down the Qizilbash, but overcoming the overwhelming difference in numbers was no easy feat.
A rain of arrows fell upon the soldiers who raised their bayonets with trembling hands, and fierce blades stabbed into those who panicked and faltered.
“Kill them all! They are the enemies who trampled the Shah’s land!”
“No need for prisoners! Kill them all!”
It took less than an hour for the Qizilbash, rushing in like furious waves, to send the two thousand Ottoman soldiers into the embrace of Allah.
Of course, the damage to the Qizilbash was also severe, with casualties reaching four thousand thanks to bullets that pierced two or three men at once.
The wet slap of blood soaked the earth damply, and Ustajlu knelt before Ismail, who arrived afterward, with a dark expression.
“Your Majesty the Shah, this is grave.”
Unable to even form his words properly, as though devastated, Ismail urgently peeled back the cloth covering the wagons.
What filled the wagons was merely piles of hay.
“Here too, it’s hay!”
“Here as well!”
What lay before their eyes was merely horse feed.
Without food for tens of thousands to eat, without the gunpowder and cannonballs essential for firing firearms—there was only horse feed.
Ismail grabbed the scruff of an Ottoman soldier who was still wriggling, not yet dead, and shouted with a contorted face.
“The other supplies! Where are the real supplies! Speak at once!”
“Keheh, w-well search carefully. Kulk, isn’t it somewhere in this vast steppe?”
“You damned cur!”
Crack!
Ismail punched the soldier’s head with his fist hard enough to crush it, then threw aside the corpse with its broken neck dangling and roared.
“Find them at once! We must find the real supplies!”
“Yes, Your Majesty!”
Watching the soldiers scatter in all directions, Ismail ground his teeth.
“Yusuf, where have you hidden them!”
∗ ∗ ∗
“You must have had a hard time traveling such a long way.”
“Is it not natural to come when the Padishah calls?”
Somsi, Yusuf’s closest aide, welcomed Saadet, the Khan of the Crimean Khanate, with a bright face.
It was Saadet, who had departed from the Crimean Khanate, passed through Circassian lands, and arrived in Georgia.
There was no reason not to welcome one who had arrived after passing through treacherous terrain by Yusuf’s command.
Somsi exclaimed in admiration upon seeing the fifteen thousand troops Saadet had led.
“They are splendid soldiers who inspire confidence just by looking at them.”
“They are the pride of our Crimean Khanate.”
The cavalry of the Crimean Khanate—which, as a vassal state, supplied more troops rather than paying taxes—were elites hardened by plunder and war.
Even after the harsh march, their eyes shone fiercely, and a sharp, cutting momentum flowed from them.
“You have worked hard to come here, but I’m afraid there will be no time to properly recover from travel fatigue.”
“Moving together with the supplies is rest itself, so there is no need for concern.”
“It puts my mind at ease to hear you say so. Hasan!”
When Somsi called, Hasan, steeped in fatigue, nodded.
“Preparations to depart are complete.”
Wagons crammed full of grain transported via the Black Sea and gunpowder produced using niter beds prepared in Georgia filled the steppe.
At the sight, a world away from when moving loaded with plunder, Saadet spoke with slight admiration.
“The Padishah is truly remarkable. The enemy must never have imagined that supplies would be moved from Georgia to Tabriz.”
“He is a fearsome man.”
Somsi nodded heavily.
He had deliberately let those who had reached out to the Ottomans get caught by Ismail, thereby solidifying Safavid influence in Armenia.
The enemy in Georgia was a sacrificial lamb meant to reassure Ismail that there was no way to transport supplies through the northern Safavid lands, which had completely become enemy territory by military strength.
Moreover, to blind Ismail’s eyes, the Padishah had forcefully subjugated all the way to Ramazan.
All so that anyone would mistakenly think the territory had been occupied for the sake of transporting supplies.
Naturally, the thought that they would transport supplies through the Black Sea and Georgia would have vanished from their minds.
It was an operation that could never have succeeded if Circassia and Georgia had not been absorbed beforehand.
Had the reinforcements from the Crimean Khanate come through Constantinople, they would surely have been discovered.
It was enough to make one fearful of Yusuf, who had devised this plan.
“Ismail, who thought he had laid a trap, will soon realize.”
That within the trap he had set, a trap for his own death had been laid.
∗ ∗ ∗
Dawn broke.
The chilly air that had persisted through the early morning scattered as if fleeing, and the bloodstained hair, turned brown, fluttered briefly.
The old man who had dominated an era had withered rather than rotted, and Yusuf, gazing up at him, ran his hand over the right side of his neck.
When his hand felt the long, scabbed wound along with a stinging pain, a bitter voice was heard.
“I worry it will leave a scar.”
“What problem is such a wound?”
Yusuf replied dismissively to the Grand Vizier’s worried words.
“In the first place, there is no one with the courage to wound the Padishah’s body, so it is a self-inflicted wound. A meaningless worry.”
“Your Majesty the Padishah, even if you create such a wound, all who matter will know the truth.”
“The Sultan lacked the motive to harm me while taking such a risk, so that would be so.”
From the Mamluk perspective, how absurd and enraged they must have been that the Sultan who went to negotiate died on the spot.
To the envoy who came to protest with a face full of fury, Yusuf showed the wound and claimed that the Sultan had attacked first, and the entire Ottoman army was informed as such.
A flimsy cover-up, but in any case, the only ones who saw the situation at the time were the dead and the loyal Silahtars.
“I have muddied an unprovable truth. That alone made it worth putting a blade to my own body.”
“Even so, this matter will remain as infamy for you. If only you had left it to this old subject….”
Killing the Mamluk Sultan at the negotiation site had not been an impulsive act, but something planned from the start.
Yusuf spoke coldly to the Grand Vizier, who had raised this again—something he had alluded to even before the plan.
“Do not be mistaken, Grand Vizier. Do you think your reputation is such that you could face the Sultan?”
It was not as if the Grand Vizier was going as an envoy; would the Mamluk Sultan meet for negotiations in the center with only minimal guards?
It was preposterous. There was such a thing as rank.
The Sultan, never imagining that the Padishah who had come to negotiate in person would take his own head, had let his guard down.
Yusuf sneered.
“Infamy? Yes, this matter will remain as infamy. But the situation will not change.”
There would be no immediate problem.
The reason one must observe basic diplomatic decency between nations is that it can serve as justification for invasion, or lead to isolation.
But not to mention Europe, which regarded the Ottomans as a demon king appearing in the mortal world, even Safavid and Mamluk, fellow Islamic states, were merely enemy nations.
There would be no great change even if more infamy or ill fame were piled on here.
“But Your Majesty the Padishah. Infamy will be passed down to distant posterity. Was it necessary to endure this?”
“Grand Vizier, I have no intention of becoming a fine and honorable foe who can increase the sacrifices of my subjects. If I can save even one more person and draw closer to victory, then I am fine with being called Satan.”
It was the resolve he had made anew when he was reborn in Trabzon.
As if moved, the Grand Vizier knelt and spoke quietly.
“Your Majesty the Padishah. I too shall walk the thorny path together with you.”
At the Grand Vizier’s declaration, Yusuf firmly shook his head.
“It is unnecessary.”
“Your Majesty?”
Yusuf put on a playful smile toward the bewildered Grand Vizier, who had not expected such an answer.
“You must retire from the post of Grand Vizier and attend to the task I have assigned you, must you not?”
“…I would rather walk the thorny path.”
“You cannot. There is no suitable candidate besides you.”
Laughing while exchanging words half in jest, half in earnest, Yusuf gazed at the Mamluk camp.
The Mamluks, who had seemed poised to attack at any moment after the bloody negotiations, were still immobile.
But to Yusuf’s eyes, it was clearly visible.
“The rabble that has lost its center seems about to collapse like a sand castle. Prepare for it.”
“I shall follow your command.”
After the Grand Vizier who received the order departed, Yusuf looked at the Mamluk Sultan’s head, whose empty pupils seemed to gaze upon his own army.
He wondered what thoughts it would have if it were watching their conduct.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Not only did he treacherously murder the Sultan during negotiations, but now he mocks us so! Even Satan would not commit such arrogant and terrible acts!”
In the Mamluk conference hall, shouts burst forth.
A man with a flushed red face spewing fiery rhetoric glared at the faces gathered in the hall with a murderous gaze.
“Should we not naturally avenge the Sultan who died unjustly?! How many days have you been dragging this out already?!”
More than ten days had already passed since the Sultan died.
Those who had cried out for vengeance together when the incident occurred were now merely engaging in filthy stalling tactics.
If it were up to him, he would rather cut the throats of the men before his eyes than the Ottoman tyrant.
“Calm yourself. We do not fail to understand that we must also take revenge. But that does not mean we can blindly attack the Ottoman army, can we?”
“Even if we can win, the damage will be great, so this is a time to think rationally. How could a governor of a city act on emotion?”
At the admonishing words, the sound of grinding teeth rang out.
His hands trembled violently, but they were not wrong.
The Ottoman army displaying the Sultan’s severed head to provoke them was itself an expression of confidence that they were welcome to attack at any time.
“What of that one guarding Tabriz? Is Durmish Khan Shamlu in the same state?!”
“He remains the same. He said that the orders he received from the Shah were to defend Tabriz, and thus it is difficult to assist us.”
“Pigs like them! This is why we should never have aided those Shi’a heretics. Because of whom did the Sultan pass away!”
Just as he was venting his anger toward the Safavids, who had ended their involvement merely by offering condolences for the Sultan, words defending the Safavids’ conduct sprang forth.
“It is not unreasonable. We too came not to attack the Ottoman army, but to obstruct them.”
“Ahem, I feel that might be a statement that cares too much for the heretics. In any case, without Safavid aid, I am opposed to the attack.”
With these words, silence descended upon the conference hall, and the gathered Mamluks and Emir governors quickly shifted their eyes.
Those who cried for the Sultan’s vengeance, those who opposed vengeance, and those who argued to draw in the Safavids.
The inner thoughts each held were identical.
‘The one who seizes military authority now will become the next Sultan.’
‘To push down the Tuman remaining in Cairo, the current military forces are needed.’
The Sultan of the Mamluks was not succeeded by bloodline.
Once the Sultan, elected by the Emir governors and Mamluks, rode a horse draped with a saddlecloth bearing the Sultanate’s emblem and marched upon Cairo, he would officially become the Sultan.
If he could secure the support of those gathered here, he could become Sultan in place of the Tuman remaining in the capital, having received full authority from the dead Sultan.
It was natural for greed to arise, and a voice broke the uncomfortable silence.
“What need is there to rush vengeance? Time is on our side. They will soon collapse, so it will not be too late to take revenge then.”
Ismail would have cut their supply lines; if they attacked the starving, fleeing Ottoman army, they could easily cut off the tyrant’s head.
This was a fact known to all.
It was merely that they raised their voices beforehand to seize military authority and obtain the fame of having avenged the Sultan.
As fierce and secretive glances were exchanged once more, the entrance to the conference hall opened and a soldier rushed in urgently.
“An—an army! A new army has appeared from the north!”
“An army from the north?”
“Is there an army that could appear from there? What is its size?”
As the gazes of those possessing immeasurably high status focused on him, the soldier swallowed dryly and continued.
“Th—there seemed to be well over ten thousand cavalry alone. And they are bringing an enormous amount of supplies.”
“Could it not be Ismail? It seems the Qizilbash he leads are coming back having plundered the enemy’s supplies!”
So many cavalry would not have dropped from the sky, so it was the most plausible deduction.
There were a few questions, such as why they were coming here with plunder or why they appeared from the north, but nothing else came to mind.
The conference tent opened again and another soldier entered.
“Th—the Ottoman army has begun to move!”
“They seem to be moving to seize the plunder! We must stop them!”
There was no more time to think. If the plunder was recovered, everything would be over.
Matching the northward advance of the Ottoman army, the Mamluk forces moved in step.
∗ ∗ ∗
It was an enormous scale.
The supplies protected by cavalry with bared blades felt like a small city on the move.
As tens of thousands of camels moved, the ground seemed to shake as if an earthquake were occurring.
“It is the Qizilbash!”
A Mamluk with good eyesight shouted loudly.
The red band wrapped around the white turban was the symbol of the Qizilbash.
“Thank goodness! As expected, it is Ismail! To think he plundered so many supplies.”
The commander shouted in joy.
The Ottoman army also seemed to have moved urgently, with some thirty thousand Sipahi comparable to their own numbers having sortied.
If only the Qizilbash joined them, they could protect the supplies and return to Tabriz.
Just as he led his army with that conviction, attempting to join the Qizilbash, an unbelievable scene appeared before the commander’s eyes.
“Th—the Qizilbash are heading toward the Ottoman camp!”
“Flags! Raise our flags higher!”
Wondering if they had perhaps mistaken the camp, the yellow Mamluk flags fluttered splendidly, yet the Qizilbash’s movement did not change.
The two armies mingled together naturally, like streams of water meeting.
It was a terrible nightmare.
∗ ∗ ∗
“An amusing idea. Whose scheme is this?”
“It is this humble one, Your Padishah.”
Arda, the Sanjak-bey of Trabzon, paid his respects.
He had left Arda behind to serve as a guide for the Crimean Khanate, who would not know the surrounding geography, yet had not expected him to devise such a stratagem.
Sa’adet, who had led the forces, praised Arda with a bright face.
“The Sanjak-bey’s wit was truly astounding. They are so terrified of the Qizilbash that almost no one blocked them, even when they found it suspicious.”
“Well done, Arda.”
“For this insignificant subject to have been of help to the Padishah is an honor!”
Much time seemed to have passed.
The youth he had been had become a young man, and the face of Arda, once full of vigor, now showed deeply etched wrinkles.
“So, how fare Şemsi and Hasan?”
“Şemsi Pasha remains in good health, but I have heard Hasan is greatly distressed because his wife is pregnant.”
“Nene?”
Yusuf made a grave face.
Since the age difference with his mother, Fatima, was not great, it was a late pregnancy, and in this era, late pregnancy was extremely dangerous.
“That is so. Hasan opposed it, but I understand his wife strongly desired it, saying that a child who could be of help to the Padishah was needed.”
“I see.”
Nene’s status was that of a maid, but she was a woman who would gladly lay down her life for Fatima and himself.
Yusuf spoke with a bitter smile.
“If something goes wrong, Mother will grieve.”
“Allah will watch over her.”
“I hope so.”
Having finished brief greetings with Arda, Yusuf looked at Sa’adet, who had suffered greatly traveling the long road.
“You have worked hard coming such a rough road. The merit you have established is very great.”
“I am one who has received the Padishah’s grace. I have merely done what was natural.”
“No matter what, merit is merit. I shall remember this matter.”
Even though Sa’adet’s lifeline was held fast, there was no need to treat him poorly.
Just seeing the Mamluk army, which had been vigorously waving yellow flags, fleeing in utter panic was enough to know his merit was no small thing, and Yusuf could well afford to reward him with wealth.
Yusuf slung over his shoulder the gun that had taken the Mamluk Sultan’s life and bared his teeth.
“Let’s see how those Mamluk bastards come out.”
∗ ∗ ∗
“Your Padishah. Against the West that suppresses Muhammad’s will, our country and the Ottomans have maintained a long friendship.”
“So we had.”
Yusuf looked at the Mamluk envoy indifferently, and sweat poured down the envoy’s face.
Looking into the green eyes of the tyrant who had cut off envoys’ heads, not to mention the Sultan’s, a maddening chill ran down his spine.
He was already a figure who had gained such notoriety and fear among the Mamluks that rumors circulated Satan had green eyes.
“This matter seems to have arisen from an unfortunate misunderstanding between the two nations. We wish to withdraw now to hold the Sultan’s funeral.”
“The Sultan’s funeral, you say.”
“Yes, Your Padishah! We humbly ask you to remember that when your predecessor passed away, funeral prayers were held in Cairo.”
“There was such a time. A funeral. Very well!”
The envoy’s face brightened at Yusuf’s answer, but unexpected words followed.
“For the friendship between our two nations, this time I shall repay that favor by holding the Sultan’s funeral in your country. See that you participate in the funeral directly.”
“Y—Your Padishah?!”
At the kind words of the very culprit who had killed him, offering to personally hold the funeral, horror flooded the envoy’s face.
“Go back and deliver this message. If you do not wish to accompany him to the funeral, then I shall hold your funeral alongside his.”
Forcing them to choose between being captured or dying, Yusuf laughed ominously, and at the words of the envoy who had fortunately survived and returned, the Mamluk formation fell into chaos.
Unable to give a proper answer, as the day passed and dawn broke, the Mamluks had no choice but to see over five hundred cannons aimed at them.
They realized one more thing about the tyrant with green eyes.
The tyrant, mad for firepower, had no patience.