A New Era
Tabriz—a city Selim had been content to plunder, even after winning the war, because the military objected that if Ismail gathered his forces again and attacked, they would be surrounded.
The head of the man who seemed to have been in charge of the city’s defense hung upon a gate that barely retained its shape, and the collapsed walls seemed to proclaim the end of the old era of city walls.
With Ismail’s head set at the fore, the Ottoman army entered to the sound of a brisk marching tune, and the new subjects trembled in fear.
After all, the rags rolling across the dirt floor and the bloodstains smeared throughout the houses showed, in full, how harsh the days before had been.
“Still, it is intact enough, Grand Vizier.”
“As you commanded, we kept the plundering to a minimum.”
“Were there no complaints?”
“Few dared to disobey the Padishah’s command, and punishment was dealt accordingly.”
“Well done.”
In the original history, the situation had been completely different from when Selim conquered this place.
Selim, who had been forced to give this place back up, had plundered it harshly, taking both goods and people, but now that Ismail was dead, there would be no enemy capable of taking it away for some time.
‘Of course, one will appear before long.’
The Safavids had fallen, but there was no way the remaining lands would remain ownerless forever.
Given the Ottoman situation, they had no capacity to extend themselves all the way to the Iranian plateau, and that was exactly the sort of land where one’s belly would burst from indulging in useless greed.
The resources of Iran were said to be fairly abundant, but with the opening of new sea routes and the West expanding out into the world, for now it was not a land that offered great returns compared to the investment required.
As Yusuf assessed the state of the city with his own eyes and conversed with the Grand Vizier, they arrived at their destination.
“We greet the Padishah!”
The gates of the place used as a palace by the Aq Qoyunlu and the Safavids were flung wide open, and those standing strict guard offered their respects.
This place, too, was not greatly different from the rest of Tabriz.
One side of the palace had collapsed, as if struck by an errant cannonball, and on one side a great pile of goods had been stacked up.
“What is that?”
“It is the Padishah’s share. Aside from valuables, the bulkier items are being sorted outside.”
Since a sultan could not personally plunder without losing dignity, a portion of the spoils was offered up to him.
There would be many places for money to go in the future, so there was no reason to refuse.
Entering the inner courtyard, Yusuf pointed to one side with his hand.
“Are they the women of Ismail’s harem?”
“They are.”
Judging by numbers alone, the women included in the harem did not seem to fall far behind those in his own.
Unlike himself, who had inherited a harem that had long been managed, these were women Ismail had gathered himself over the eleven years since founding his country, so their number felt quite large.
Yusuf approached the women, who were offering their respects in neat attire, and lifted one woman’s chin.
“Most of you are Armenians.”
“Y-yes, Padishah.”
Yusuf let go of the woman’s chin as she answered shyly.
The way she suppressed her fear and acted as she had been taught made her look fairly strong-willed, but that was all.
There were plenty of women like that in his own harem as well.
Even within the same people it was difficult to define appearance as one single type, but though Armenians were usually classified as white, their features were similar to those of Indians.
It was quite a distinctive appearance, and just as the Ottoman dynasty favored blond European women, Persia had traditionally favored Armenians.
Thinking that Ismail’s harem had likely been influenced by that as well, Yusuf moved on, and then one woman caught his eye.
“Tajlu.”
“…Yes, Padishah.”
Had it been about five years since they had met as kidnapper and victim?
Quite a lot of time had passed, but aside from her body having grown gaunt, there was no great outward change.
“So you were alive and had not died.”
“The Shah treated mercifully a woman who, in the end, took the hand of one she should never have grasped out of greed. I was merely confined to a room, after all.”
“More merciful than I expected.”
He had imprisoned her, but the fact that he had not killed her in anger or thrown her to prisoners was an enormous mercy in itself.
Had it been Yusuf, he would not have let someone who had committed a crime that could shake a nation get off like that.
“Or perhaps he truly loved you.”
“It is all in the past now. It is meaningless.”
With black eyes, Tajlu watched the pole that had been carried throughout the city to announce the Shah’s death being lowered.
For a man who had seemed as if he would place the world beneath his feet, it was a shabby end.
“Tajlu, do you resent me? Am I not the one who stole your future?”
“Did the Padishah not always give me choices? I was the one who chose, so how could I resent you?”
It was easy enough to say rationally, but emotionally, it was an exceedingly difficult thing to say.
Yet in Tajlu, the emotion called resentment could not be felt even as a trait.
Of course, she might simply know how to hide her emotions as skillfully as Shemsi, but that was interesting in its own way.
Lifting her chin with his finger, Yusuf met her eyes.
“Tajlu, I shall give you a choice. It will be the last choice I give you.”
“The Padishah’s choices have always come with sweet temptation and poison together. Give it to me.”
“Either be sent as a gift to my subordinates, like the women here. Or become mine. Choose one of the two.”
In terms of status, becoming a consort would be better, but considering life in the ruthless harem, choosing the former might actually be wiser.
Tajlu gently placed her hand on Yusuf’s shoulder and clenched her fist.
At Tajlu, who dared to clutch the Padishah’s clothes, the guards’ faces grew furious, but she did not so much as blink before their dreadful killing intent.
“Will you not regret it? I will use everything I have to place my son upon the Padishah’s throne.”
“It is amusing to say such things about a son who does not even exist yet, but if you can do it, then try.”
Even if Tajlu’s family was a house with great influence in the Safavid lands he had just occupied, it would not be easy.
After all, her rivals were formidable.
With a smile on his lips, Yusuf said,
“And no matter how outstanding an emperor may be, matters concerning his children are never entirely within his control.”
“That is the story of a son who does not even exist yet.”
Tajlu, throwing Yusuf’s own words back at him, leaned into his embrace and let out a heated breath.
Winter was beginning to arrive in Tabriz.
∗ ∗ ∗
Babur, who had departed Kabul leading his troops, arrived in Isfahan and heard bewildering news.
“The Shah, the Shah is dead?!”
“He is!”
It was news he had never expected.
It was not only Ismail of the Safavids who had died. They said even the Mamluk sultan and his forces had been annihilated, and it felt like listening to a tale from another world.
Even if they had been defeated, it would have been all right as long as Ismail was alive, but the country called the Safavids, maintained by one man’s charisma, had lost its center and was falling apart.
Babur, left outside without even being invited into the city, was met by his subordinate, who spoke with a grave expression.
“This has become troublesome. If things go wrong, we may end up spending the winter outside.”
The weather was not what mattered.
They had prepared warm clothing, since they would have to pass the winter anyway, but the greater problem was that they might have to return to Kabul empty-handed.
For Babur, whose base of support was not solid, it could become a fatal situation.
As Babur listened to his subordinate’s words and pondered something, he saw cavalrymen approaching in a cloud of dust.
Judging by their ragged clothes and the many men who appeared to be wounded soldiers, they seemed to be defeated troops, and Babur faced them.
“Who are you!”
“I am Zahir al-Din Muhammad Babur of Kabul. I came to aid you in your war, but…”
Unable to bring himself to say that they had already been defeated before he could help, Babur trailed off, and the man at the front spoke with a dark expression.
“I am Mohammad Khan Ustajlu. You have come a long way, and I am sorry to have made your efforts vain. We are in no state to receive guests right now, so please return.”
It was a courteous yet cold statement.
Because of Ismail’s death, restoring order to the Safavids had become another mission placed upon him.
‘O Shah, I shall surely take revenge.’
With that single resolve, he had gathered even the Qizilbash who had fallen behind and formed a force of two thousand.
With so many wounded soldiers among them, Babur’s troops were far too threatening, and at Ustajlu’s wary response, Babur drew back his forces.
“I apologize for blocking your way. Please pass.”
“Thank you. I will remember your intention in coming here to help us.”
Watching Ustajlu lead his troops slowly toward Isfahan, Babur said to his subordinate,
“Allah is aiding me.”
“Padishah?”
“Secretly inform the soldiers. The moment the city gates open to receive them, we will seize that city.”
The place before his eyes was a city conquered by his ancestor Timur, and a thick desire seeped from Babur’s gaze.
“Starting with that city, I will recreate the glory of Timur.”
When the gates of Isfahan opened, the greedy conqueror opened his maw.
∗ ∗ ∗
Unlike the dry summer, in Kostantiniyye, where rain fell more often as the days grew colder, a cool shower was coming down.
The boy who opened the door and stepped inside shook off the rainwater.
“People have far too many useless fixed ideas.”
At the boy Mehmed’s words, Suleyman, who had been scribbling on paper, offered his respects and replied.
“What is it this time?”
“Is it not inefficient to deliberately walk around getting soaked because carrying an umbrella is considered unmanly?”
Because the perception that avoiding rain was unmanly had been widespread since antiquity, umbrellas were the exclusive property of women.
For Mehmed, whose nature valued reason over emotion, it was behavior he simply could not understand.
Suleyman handed him something to dry himself with and smiled faintly.
“In the city, are men not lacking in chances to display their masculinity to women? I suppose that is how they show it.”
“Hmm, an interesting thought. Can it be seen as behavior for the sake of reproduction?”
It was not at all something a nine-year-old should say, so Suleyman put on an awkward smile and asked,
“By the way, what brings you here on such a rainy day?”
“I heard that a letter Father sent had arrived for you.”
With his face still slightly rounded with baby fat, Mehmed wore a sullen expression.
There were only two people in this world who could draw a variety of expressions from Mehmet, whose expression rarely changed.
Seeing Mehmet show such an uncommon expression, as it concerned Yusuf, Süleyman gave a bitter smile.
“I sent a letter asking after him when I heard the news of victory in the war, and a reply came back.”
“Yes, I sent one too, but it seems only you received an answer.”
Süleyman’s face, under that jealous gaze, did not look pleased at all.
“Would you like to see the letter I received?”
“Is that all right?”
“Of course. Once you read it, you will understand why he replied.”
Since it was a letter containing the padishah’s own handwriting, it had been carefully preserved, and the beginning of the letter was a light inquiry after his well-being.
That inquiry was very brief, and the long writing that followed was enough to make even Mehmet’s eyes tremble.
-At present, the language of our empire is used with elements of Persian and Arabic mixed in, so even those who speak our tongue find it difficult to learn the letters.
Ottoman was closer to a written language recorded in letters than a spoken vernacular.
Turkish was used as the court language, but when written down, it was recorded in Persian script based on Arabic letters.
Of course it was difficult.
-Furthermore, as the empire grows larger in the future, it is certain that various languages will mingle and create a chaotic situation, so the empire needs a new language.
Beneath that was written a set of letters called an alfabe, based on Latin.
It was the Latin alphabet altered to fit Turkish phonology, and it was astonishingly precise.
The problem was that creating letters and grammar was only the beginning of the work.
-Therefore, in accordance with these letters, you must create not only existing words but also expressions that do not exist in Turkish using the new script. I entrust this task to you. Speak to the grand vizier to obtain support.
Being intelligent, Mehmet had a rough sense of just how much time and effort this task would consume.
It was certainly necessary, but if he were told to do it himself, it was the sort of work that would make him take a step back.
Only then did Mehmet realize that what Süleyman had been scribbling on his desk were the letters written here.
“Shehzade Mehmet.”
“…Why do you call me?”
“Would you not do this work with me? I will speak to the grand vizier. If you join me in this task, there will be many occasions to exchange correspondence with the padishah.”
Meeting Süleyman’s hollow eyes, Mehmet took a step back.
Even with scholars helping, it would take at least five years, and he had no intention whatsoever of sinking into this swamp.
“I apologize for coming when you are busy. Do your best.”
Mehmet escaped as if fleeing, and not long after, a letter from Yusuf asking after him also arrived.
As if to explain why it had come later than Süleyman’s, the thick letter was filled with matters concerning the smelting of iron and coal.
At the very end of all that content were words he rarely heard.
-I love you, Mehmet.
“…Father.”
Even at those words, which made his chest tickle, Mehmet was not happy at all.
Yusuf’s love, which sought to make his son a king of steel, was far too heavy.
∗ ∗ ∗
In 1512, Europe had no attention to spare for checking the growth of the Ottomans.
As France expanded through the war that had begun with calls to attack Venice, the pope formed the Holy League to stop France, which had once been an ally.
The Holy League, composed of the Papal States, Spain, the Holy Roman Empire, Venice, and England, drove France out of Milan, the largest city in northern Italy.
The Medici family, who had been driven out of Florence, did well enough to recover their rule with the pope’s help after eighteen years, but.
“Damn it, are they truly treating us with such utter contempt?!”
The doge of Venice spat out his fury.
The ugly bare face concealed beneath the shell called the Holy League emerged in the postwar settlement.
Maximilian I, emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, stubbornly refused to give up the lands he had occupied during the war, and Venice, which had lost territory, was beside itself with anxiety.
The problem was that even the pope was subtly taking the emperor’s side and turning the Venetians’ stomachs inside out.
“Since when have we fallen so low as to be treated with such disdain?”
The doge lamented, his gaze lowering to one side.
A carefully bound book lay on the armrest of a chair.
“With the state of the nation so stifling, it is no wonder such seditious books are becoming popular.”
“Doge, even so, we are in no position to designate it a banned book.”
“I know.”
At his retainer’s concern, the doge waved a hand.
This book, translated under the title The Tale of the Prince, contained the story of Yusuf, the infidel sultan, and was currently enjoying sensational popularity.
The doge had read it himself.
‘It deserves its popularity. Reality is stifling, so people would naturally enjoy such a refreshing story.’
Though every day brought fierce disputes over what was true.
The story of overcoming all kinds of crises with bold and meticulous plans, along with the sweet romance with a slave girl who had now become a concubine, was content that men and women of all ages would like.
If he designated as forbidden a book that served to soothe anxiety, it would be fatal for the doge, whose position was already poor.
The nation was in turmoil externally, while internally, stories about another country’s emperor were blooming.
No ruler would like such a sight, but there was no alternative measure.
The problem was that this situation did not seem likely to improve going forward.
-An envoy from the Ottomans has arrived.
“What was to come has come… Let him enter.”
With the doge’s permission, the doors opened heavily, and a middle-aged man wearing a turban walked in with dignity despite the stinging gazes.
The man, who did not even offer a simple courtesy, straightened his back and gave his greeting.
“I am Abdi Pasha, who has brought a personal letter from the great padishah.”
The doge, slightly frowning at his insolent appearance, responded.
“I am Leonardo Loredan, doge of Venice. Receive the letter.”
At this command, a retainer carefully accepted the letter the envoy held out and handed it to the doge, and as the doge read its contents, his arms trembled.
The doge scowled fiercely and glared at the envoy.
“This is not a threat, but a personal letter?”
“Does it not contain constructive discussion for the development of relations between our two countries?”
The part strictly forbidding the sale of weapons to the Mamluks was acceptable.
He did not know what in the world had happened this year, while they had been at war with France, but he had heard that the Safavids had fallen, and that, as if that were not enough, the Mamluk main army had been annihilated.
The fall of the Mamluks was a foregone conclusion, and for Venice, to whom Mediterranean trade was important, it was necessary to become closer to the Ottomans.
The problem was that the price Yusuf demanded for friendship was far too high.
“Why in the world must we return to you the spoils we brought from Constantinople three hundred years ago?!”
The Fourth Crusade, which took place from 1202 to 1204, had horribly plundered Constantinople, which belonged to the same religion, and the person who had led that plunder was Enrico Dandolo, the representative of the crusaders and doge of Venice.
After that plunder, Venice had completely revived, so it was only natural to be aghast at being told to return the spoils from that time.
Of course, even at the doge’s outburst, the envoy did not so much as blink.
“His Padishah is also the Caesar of Rum, so is it not only natural?”
“What nonsense…”
“Are you insulting the padishah?!”
It was merely one of his titles, but the envoy glared at the doge with a furious face.
When the doge could not readily open his mouth at the envoy’s sharp reaction, the envoy growled.
“Very well. Returning the plundered goods is not an urgent matter, so we shall set it aside for later for now. But keep this fact in mind.”
“…What fact?”
“A new age has opened. Those who submit will live, but those who do not will die.”
With those words, the envoy roughly turned and disappeared, and the room was engulfed in deep silence.
When no one dared to open their mouth, Giovanni Barbaro, who had gone to the Ottomans as an envoy, broke the silence.
“As expected, when it comes to envoys, it has to be the Ottomans.”
If, on the other hand, someone had done that in the Ottoman Empire, his head would have flown off at once.
After Giovanni’s single remark, following “going as an envoy to the Ottomans,” which had come to mean going to one’s death, another proverb was born.
“To behave like an Ottoman envoy.” It meant someone who had nothing to fear.
∗ ∗ ∗
When the sun rose on the year 1513 and the weather softened, the conqueror who had been resting in Tabriz began to move.
As nearly eighty thousand troops descended, Aleppo, Hama, Homs, and Damascus all declared their surrender one after another, and the Ottoman conquest was unstoppable.
But that did not mean the Mamluks were sitting idle.
Their main army had been annihilated, but the Mamluks were fundamentally a country with underlying strength.
By scraping together the troops of each city and even conscripting soldiers, the Mamluks gathered a force of nearly eighty thousand.
If there was one favorable factor, it was that the Ottoman force, which had marched south after leaving troops behind to stabilize occupied cities, had been reduced to around seventy thousand.
Of course, that hope could only crumble the moment they saw the cannons and gun barrels arrayed on the battlefield.
“Sultan! We cannot go on like this!”
“Forgive my words, but we must find a breakthrough!”
Tuman Bay, who had newly ascended as sultan in place of the previous sultan who had died in vain, looked around the council chamber with sunken eyes.
The council chamber, which had been full before the battle began, now showed many empty seats.
They had not fled; they were those who had gone to Allah, and Tuman Bay clenched his teeth.
‘Those pig-like merchant bastards. I will make them regret this.’
Venice, which had promised to sell them weapons, had suddenly changed its words before the battle.
At the beginning of this year, the pope had died suddenly, causing the Holy League to disintegrate, and Venice had joined hands with France, who had been its enemy only last year.
They had made the excuse that they had no capacity to help, but abruptly changing their words was clearly betrayal.
“How many casualties?”
“The dead and wounded already number nearly twenty thousand. In comparison, the enemy’s losses are minor.”
They did have cannons they had secured in their own way, and they had hurriedly made matchlocks and placed them in the soldiers’ hands, but setting aside proficiency with the weapons, they were clearly outmatched in sheer numbers.
“Those insane Ottoman bastards…”
Recalling the enemy armed with cannons and guns advancing upon them in an overwhelming mass, Tuman Bay spat out a curse.
Even if they were firing arrows like that instead of gunpowder, they would be floundering in financial ruin. I had no idea since when these bastards had been stockpiling gunpowder to use it so recklessly.
In the end, if the enemy was mad, he had to shoulder just as much danger himself.
“I will personally assassinate the enemy sultan. Gather the troops.”
“Your Majesty?!”
His subordinates were aghast, but Tuman Bey gripped his sword and rose from his seat.
Tuman meant ten thousand, and Bey meant supreme. In other words, Tuman Bey meant the commander of ten thousand soldiers.
Still in his late thirties, Tuman Bey was not someone who would easily be pushed back in martial prowess, and his eyes opened with a fierce gleam.
“Gather the brave soldiers who will come with me to cut off the enemy commander’s head. We will raid their command directly.”
At the declaration that none other than the sultan himself would go to assassinate Yusuf, men who possessed both skill and courage volunteered.
On a night when darkness had settled and clouds in the sky did not even permit the light of the moon or stars, Tuman Bey’s soldiers ran toward the enemy camp.
Clang! Clang!
“E-enemy attack! The enemy… Keugh!”
Rather than using the weapon in his hand, the guard who rang the alarm and announced the enemy attack collapsed, coughing blood beneath a flashing blade.
Thanks to his having placed his duty as a guard above his own life, the sound warning of the attack spread, and Tuman Bey’s soldiers threw themselves against the enemies surging toward them.
The torches that had lit the camp toppled, friend and foe became tangled together without distinction, and soon all sides were filled with blood, shouts, and screams.
Whether because the fallen torches had begun to set the tents ablaze, acrid smoke and bright firelight could be felt at their backs.
“It seems to be over there!”
The place his subordinate pointed to was clearly larger than the others at a glance, and troops were gathering there to block the raid.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
“Gueugh?!”
As if they were prepared to hit their own allies as well, the guns were fired, and the men running at the front collapsed with holes punched all over their bodies.
Dozens died at once, but the Ottoman troops had no time to reload, and their bayonets clashed with the Mamluks’ blades.
“Go quickly!”
“Kheut, you must succeed!”
“Stop them! I said stop them!”
Thanks to those who threw themselves forward and opened a path, Tuman Bey was able to reach the front of the enormous tent.
‘At last!’
Thinking only that he needed to kill the enemy Padishah, he entered the lit tent, and there he saw not a person, but a single coffin.
Inside the wide-open coffin, there was no corpse, only a yellow Mamluk banner laid within.
“…A trap?”
As Tuman Bey looked at the coffin, made as if it were the place where he himself would lie, and gave a hollow smile, a thunderous roar rang out.
As he fell beneath the bullets pouring through the tent, Tuman Bey laid his hand upon the banner in the coffin.
The sight of the yellow banner being stained red seemed to announce the end of the Mamluks.
∗ ∗ ∗
The year 1513, a scorching summer.
The city called al-Qāhirah in Arabic, and Cairo in English.
It was the city where the Nile Delta, home to most of Egypt’s population, began, and it was famed as the largest city in the Arab world.
At the firmly shut gates of Cairo arrived an army enraged by an attempted assassination.
‘Things went smoothly according to plan.’
He had judged the odds of Tuman Bey attempting an assassination to be fifty-fifty.
In the original history, he had attempted an assassination with his followers, but he entered not Selim’s tent, but the Grand Vizier’s, and failed.
After killing the Grand Vizier and fleeing, Tuman Bey had carried out guerrilla operations, so Yusuf had set a trap in reverse just in case. Fortunately, he had been able to kill him easily.
“Padishah.”
Now that the sultan was dead, there was no one left to lead the resistance. All that remained was to persuade the amirs inside, who were similar to Ottoman pashas, and urge them to surrender.
He spoke to the envoy departing to urge their surrender.
“Tell them this. If their surrender is delayed, the number of cannons aimed at the city gates will increase, and I will kill as many of them as there are cannons.”
“I shall convey it so.”
About an hour after the envoy entered Cairo, Yusuf summoned the Janissary Agha.
“Aim ten cannons at Cairo.”
He had never said he would add them one at a time.
∗ ∗ ∗
Yusuf, who had not only killed an envoy but even personally killed a sultan, had a fearsome reputation.
The amirs, knowing that surrender or not, he truly was capable of killing them, opened Cairo’s gates, and the Ottoman army entered with red and yellow banners flying openly at their front.
Whether those were banners of amnesty, proclaiming that crimes would be forgiven, or not, Cairo held its breath in terror, for they marched while displaying the heads of Tuman Bey and the others who had attempted the assassination.
As Yusuf marched into the wide-open citadel of Cairo, he said,
“This is not the end, but we have passed one critical hurdle.”
To the south, they still had to take Mecca, and they had yet to seize Baghdad and the regions around the Persian Gulf.
It would take until next year to completely subjugate the remaining territories, but there were no longer any major forces of resistance.
“From now on, the empire must prepare to look upon a wider world. For a while, we will have to hold our breath.”
“The empire’s lands have nearly doubled all at once, so it cannot be helped.”
To strike down the remaining resistance forces and solidify their rule, they would need at least five years, even by a conservative estimate.
Just as a snake that had swallowed large prey needed a long time to digest, the Ottomans too needed time to digest their territory.
“In exchange, we must begin preparing now to advance into that wider world. There are two things we must pay attention to.”
“What are they?”
“First, the canal.”
They would have to assess the situation, but if they completed the canal the Mamluks had been constructing, the Mediterranean and the Red Sea would be connected, bringing them tremendous profit.
The Grand Vizier, who had been nodding in agreement at the mention of the canal, tilted his head.
“What is the other?”
“A drink said to be spreading from Mecca, called kafa, or qahwa. It is the drink that will guide you into a new age.”
From now on, day and night would disappear from the Ottoman Empire.
The Grand Vizier felt a sudden chill.
The name of the Mamluks had been erased from the world, and it heralded the beginning of a new age.
∗ ∗ ∗
Yusuf looked down over Cairo from the palace within the citadel.
Built by order of Saladin, who had reclaimed Jerusalem after it was taken by the Crusaders, this magnificent structure raised atop a hill allowed one to see the ocher-colored city of Cairo at a glance.
“Grand Vizier, what do you think of Salah ad-Din Yusuf?”
“Do you mean the founder of the Ayyubid dynasty? I believe he was not a bad ruler.”
“He was a king who bore the same name as I, yet your assessment is rather harsh. Do you have some grievance against me?”
“Padishah?!”
If one gathered everyone named Yusuf, it would be enough to wrap around a castle once; Yusuf, meaning Joseph, was an extremely common name.
There would have been more than one king whose real name was Yusuf, and when Yusuf seized on that to nitpick, the Grand Vizier wore an aggrieved expression.
“It was a joke. Am I not telling you just how important the work you are about to do will be?”
He had tossed out the joke lightly, but he had not asked for no reason.
Jerusalem was not only a holy city of Christianity, but also one of Islam’s three great holy cities, along with Mecca and Medina.
For a hero who had led a holy war and recaptured such a sacred place, the assessment was harsh, and this was the general view of him in the Islamic world of this era.
Rather, it was his enemies in Europe who valued Saladin far more highly, and there was one reason for that.
“He was too generous.”
“Rather than generous, he was weak.”
“One could see it that way as well.”
His affectionate and generous nature was excellent in a human sense, but it was a fitting example of how such qualities were not particularly good in a ruler.
After all, even knowing they would return as Crusaders, he had released prisoners, and had even granted the request of a man who broke his promise not to oppose him and became an enemy commander.
Generosity that caused casualties among one’s own allies was nothing but an atrocity, and that was why he was poorly regarded in Islam.
Though he bore the same name of Yusuf, Yusuf had no intention of showing meaningless mercy like Saladin.
“Grand Vizier, has the disarmament of the Mamluks been carried out thoroughly?”
“As you ordered, they have been disarmed and placed under strict surveillance.”
“If they show the slightest sign of defiance, shoot them at once. From now on, I intend to send the Mamluks into the back pages of history.”
The Mamluks, a slave guard corps, had continued their existence under Ottoman rule in the original history.
No, rather, they had grown even larger.
Previously, for the descendants of Mamluks to become Mamluks themselves, they had to enlist as slaves, but after the Ottoman occupation, they could simply enlist.
‘It must have been a conciliatory policy to embrace the Mamluks, an armed group, but it was not a good choice.’
The Mamluks, who had transformed into something like an aristocratic class, had raised rebellions and gnawed away at this place.
At Yusuf’s judgment, the Grand Vizier asked with concern.
“Will it be all right? Even among those who surrendered and were allowed to preserve their positions, there will be many who voice dissatisfaction with such a decision.”
A clear example was the amirs who had been governors of the cities that surrendered on the way to Cairo.
Many of them were of Mamluk origin, and they might feel uneasy, thinking that their base of support was being destroyed.
Yusuf ran his hand over his well-worn gun and spoke coldly.
“Change is always accompanied by growing pains. If we hesitate out of fear of that pain, we will only miss the proper moment.”
“Are you saying even rebellion would be acceptable?”
“Is there any need to fear one or two rebellions? For now, all major external threats have been eliminated.”
The news that Babur, the first emperor of the Mughals, was occupying the remaining Safavid lands was unexpected, but it was not an immediate threat.
As for the West, they were dancing on the blazing griddle that was the Italian Peninsula, so they had no leisure to turn their eyes elsewhere.
The greatest problem would be Portugal, which was licking its lips over India, but it was a small country that had only just begun tasting money, so it was not something to worry about yet.
So even if rebellions broke out and several cities were overturned, there was more than enough leeway to beat them down.
“If a rebellion breaks out and gives us justification for a purge, that is hardly a bad thing. Native forces that have not assimilated into the empire are nothing but risks.”
There were such people near Baghdad as well, which he would take next year.
Those kinds of people who would stab him in the back whenever they had the chance.
“Hasan.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
“That is why your role is important. Do you see the faces of the subjects here?”
It was not as if this place, this era alone was like that. No matter how well a country fared, its common subjects were only poor and struggling.
Conversely, if the country struggled, it was the common subjects who were the first to be driven to ruin.
From the sight of people lined up to receive watery gruel, one could indirectly tell how poor the state of the Mamluks had been.
“We must become hope for them, and liberators rather than invaders. Does that feel difficult?”
“It does not.”
This was not unfounded confidence, but the result of closely examining the Mamluk situation under Yusuf’s orders.
The Mamluk power struggles sucked the lifeblood of the common subjects to such an extent that one might think it would be better for princes to simply fight death matches and incite civil war.
Their atrocities were extreme, from indulging in tremendous luxury to levying excessive taxes and forcibly seizing land.
To Hasan, who had learned the true taste of negative campaigning through experience, this was simply fine fodder.
“I have already sent people out to widely publicize the atrocities of the former Mamluk dynasty. In contrast, I am informing the people of the tax reductions and other measures ordered by the Padişah.”
“You have learned well.”
Yusuf nodded in satisfaction.
To suppress the indigenous powers, the subjects needed to grow prosperous, which was similar to the situation in Europe where citizens acquired wealth, feudalism weakened, and absolute monarchy was established.
Of course, once those citizens grew strong, they would eventually drag down even the king and put an end to absolute monarchy themselves.
It was a future that would take a good two or three hundred years, and as he had thought before, a wise king would not lose his head to the guillotine.
But should the excellent bloodline fail to continue and an incompetent descendant become the Padişah, it would be unavoidable.
Then he would have to die.
For what good would it do to have an incompetent man sit upon the throne? He would only pour filth upon his own name and country.
“Hasan, I entrust you with planting the Empire in the hearts of the subjects here.”
“I shall do my utmost so as not to disappoint you.”
Behind Yusuf, who nodded, Silahtar Agha knelt and spoke.
“The guard for the canal is fully prepared, Your Majesty.”
More than the changing of the Ottoman Sultan.
More than Ismail’s death and the disappearance of the Safavids.
The construction of the canal would become an inflection point in history beyond compare.
“Let us go. To where the Empire’s future lies.”
∗ ∗ ∗
On a Sumerian clay tablet written around 1700 BC, there was content scolding a son to study hard and come to his senses.
In ancient Greece, ancient Rome, the medieval era, the Odu of Han Feizi, and even the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty, there were writings lamenting that the youth of today were a problem.
It was an example showing that no matter how much time passed, human thought remained much the same, and the idea regarding the Suez Canal was similar.
“If only the Mediterranean and the Red Sea could be connected.”
This thought had persisted since the 19th century BC, and after repeated failures, a canal was first completed by Darius I in the 5th century BC.
For a thousand years thereafter, it served as a major transportation route for Egyptian agricultural goods to Arabia, but was later blocked in the process of suppressing a rebellion.
After a long time, the Mamluks, supported by Venice, were the ones who boldly pushed for canal construction again.
“No wonder they were ruined.”
Because they were the Mamluks, it felt as though they had barely avoided financial collapse.
Perhaps because construction had halted due to war, quite a lot of earth had filled back in over time, but even so, the scale was enormous.
The long, semicircular trench, where one would surely die if they fell in, evoked a dizzying sensation from merely looking down.
“Grand Vizier, if I had said I was going to dig up the earth like this, what do you think you would have done?”
“I would not dare refuse the Padişah’s command, but I believe I would have tried to dissuade you.”
As expected of the people who had built those great pyramids, Yusuf thought—they had managed to dig this out in an era without heavy equipment.
“Now I see why the Mamluks, who had supposedly accumulated tremendous wealth, were said to be poor.”
Not only the Sultan’s assets and the state treasury, but even the Amirs, the ruling class, did not possess as much wealth as one might have expected.
Of course, the level of what they did have was still enormous, but compared to the rumors, it was certainly lacking.
“I have heard that they received support on the pretext that the profits would be distributed.”
It was not a canal dug in a straight line like the modern Suez Canal.
It was a canal connecting the lower Nile and the Great Bitter Lake, and this lake in particular had long been regarded as a waypoint to reduce costs, to the extent that it was connected even in the modern Suez.
Anyway, though the distance may have been shorter than the Suez Canal, it was a project requiring enormous costs, so obtaining investment had been a smart choice.
“If we say we are connecting the canal, the Amirs will come forward demanding a share of the profits, will they not?”
“Such talk had already emerged when word spread that the Padişah was going to inspect the canal.”
“I showed them mercy, yet they still have not come to their senses. Perhaps I truly should have made an example of them and beheaded ten men back then.”
Trying to stick their straws in everywhere.
He had opened things up faster than expected and spared them, but they seemed to have lost their fear.
“Keep a close eye on those raising objections. They will be the first to lose their heads when a justification arises.”
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
They were acting docile out of fear, but it was obvious that once they returned to the capital, they would revert to their old ways and commit outrages.
Yusuf slowly rode his horse along the canal.
The conversation he had impulsively when he first became Yusuf and met Bayezid II had, after a long time, become reality; the emotion was new.
“Grand Vizier, if we reinforce and build the canal wide enough for two large ships to pass each other, how much more time do you think it would take?”
“Would that not depend on the manpower invested?”
“If we used prisoners of war as the main workforce, that is.”
There were an enormous number of prisoners captured from the continuous wars.
In particular, because Tuman Bey had died after his assassination attempt failed, they had been able to capture most of the remaining enemy forces, and the prisoners who could be immediately put to work on the canal numbered as many as fifty thousand.
“Would it not take a good five years?”
“Five years…”
“If we do not use large ships as the standard, we can reduce the duration further.”
“That is something I cannot concede.”
Once the canal was connected and water flowed in, widening it would be difficult; in the long run, suffering now would be a hundred times better.
At Yusuf’s words, the Grand Vizier shook his head slightly.
“I do not know to whom you will entrust this place, but it will be an immense ordeal.”
He would have to check the existing indigenous forces of the Mamluks and the Amirs while reviving the devastated Mamluk lands, and connect the canal as well.
The workload would be insanely heavy, and if things went wrong, his very life could be in danger.
At the Grand Vizier’s concern, Yusuf smiled.
“You need not worry. There is a suitable man for the task.”
∗ ∗ ∗
“Therefore, following existing Rumelia and Anatolia, we appoint Şemsi Pasha as the Beylerbey of the newly established Egypt.”
“…It is an honor, Your Majesty. I shall do my utmost so that the Padişah’s will may reach this place.”
“Truly dependable.”
Yusuf smiled brightly and patted Şemsi on the shoulder, who showed no glorious expression, not even a smile.
Ignoring Şemsi’s subtly contorting face, Yusuf looked around at the nearby officials and asked.
“Şemsi Pasha demonstrated his ability while stabilizing the Georgia region. He is a man talented enough to take charge of Cairo, which will become the Empire’s second city. Does anyone object?”
“None, Your Majesty!”
Unlike the other officials, Şemsi, who wanted to raise an objection, spoke in a low voice that those nearby could not hear.
“Could this be revenge for when we were young?”
Şemsi, who had once told Yusuf that he seemed smart yet foolish, spoke in a sulky voice, but Yusuf grinned slyly.
“Revenge for our youth? I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean. I am simply putting the right man in the right place.”
He had his suspicions, but no proof.
“…Then please assign Hasan to me this time as well.”
“Unfortunately, that is impossible. Has Nene not given birth?”
Though it was a late childbirth, word had come that Nene had safely delivered a son.
Hasan had devoted himself wholeheartedly to Nene, who had been gnashing her teeth saying she would kill him; had she died, he might have become a ruined man.
Anyway, though she had given birth safely, her body had weakened, and she needed ample recuperation.
“He asked for time to be with her, saying he would name the son Al-Hasan.”
In Arabic, Al- and its variants are definite articles equivalent to “the,” meaning he was naming the child “the Hasan,” so to speak.
At the news that Hasan had, in a sense, sold his child to be with his wife, Şemsi bowed his head.
“Then may I bring one person from the capital?”
“If he is a useful talent, certainly. You are permitted to bring as many as you need.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Süleyman engaged in heated debate with the assembled men, his face gaunt.
“I do not see the problem with adopting words used by the Rum simply because ours is a nomadic people’s tongue!”
The Turks had been nomads, so there were no terms related to the sea or names for fish in Turkish, and lacking words were adopted from Greek.
Besides that, many expressions not found in Turkish were taken from Greek, Persian, Arabic, and so on.
“Since we are establishing something new, creating new terms is not a bad idea either!”
“That is precisely why I do not understand why we must go to such trouble to make new ones! There is nothing inconvenient about the current ones!”
Both sides had a point, so the debate grew fierce, and Süleyman, who had been listening quietly, slammed the desk.
“Silence!”
A former prince and a Pasha, Süleyman was the highest authority and the person in charge of this matter, so everyone fell silent and looked at him.
“The important thing is not a few words. Aya.”
“Yes, Pasha.”
To Aya, his milk-brother, Süleyman pointed out the most important issue.
“You must remember the letter from the Padişah. We do not have much time.”
Recalling Yusuf’s letter that had arrived not long ago, the corners of Süleyman’s eyes trembled slightly.
—We intend to hold a nationwide examination to select officials within the next four years.
Yusuf’s plan to select talent through examinations was something that had been progressing since his accession as Padişah.
As the territory expanded, the need for talent had increased; so far, this had not been a problem, but…
“I intend to include the newly created script in that examination. Of course, if preparations are lacking, it cannot be helped, but I think it would be a great shame.”
He said it would be a shame, but it was tremendous pressure.
They had to compile the organized language into a book, distribute it, and even give people time to study, so the fire had truly been lit under their feet.
In other words, this was no time to be haggling over a few words.
When only the scratching sound of quills could be heard again, a man entered with a knock.
“Lord Ilhan, a letter has arrived from the master.”
“From Father?”
Though it was a letter from his father, with whom he exchanged barely one letter every few years, the expressionless man opened it.
—My beloved son, I need your help.
It was a loving letter written on Yusuf’s advice.
∗ ∗ ∗
At the news that the Mamluks had been conquered, the capital was in high spirits.
The reaction could not help but be different from when the Safavids, a state founded only eleven years earlier, had fallen.
The merchants were busy calculating the profits that would come from taking Cairo, the hub of Mediterranean trade, and what moves would follow.
Christians looked forward to pilgrimage to the holy sites of Jerusalem, while Muslims looked forward to pilgrimage to Mecca.
Of course, for ordinary subjects, a pilgrimage to the holy places was difficult even to dream of, but the people were satisfied enough that there was now a little more hope.
While the overall mood was excited, Fatima spread her arms with a composed expression.
“How are the children?”
“As Valide Hatun commanded, they seem to have calmed down somewhat.”
The kalfa who answered so swept a comb through her hair, and the other women quickly changed Fatima’s clothes.
Amid the splendid golden hair, the white waves that flowed through it held age and elegance.
With help, Fatima even put on her dress and stepped lightly forward.
“Of course they must. A gap in the heart always invites mistakes. Even if we cannot be of help to the Padishah, we must not become a hindrance.”
Having spoken coldly, Fatima headed for the largest room, which had been prepared with Yusuf’s permission.
When Fatima entered, those inside offered their respects politely.
“You have come, Valide Hatun.”
“Yes, you were all gathered.”
Beginning with Ayşe, who greeted her on behalf of the others, Fatima looked over each of the faces assembled there.
For Fatima, whose entire family had died and who had been sold as a slave, leaving Yusuf as the only real family she had, the fact that she now had so much family stirred new feelings in her.
Her gaze, sweeping over her grandchildren and the Hatuns, came to rest on one woman.
“Tajlu, are you finding life here bearable?”
“Thanks to your care, I am living in comfort.”
When she answered haltingly in Turkic, Fatima looked satisfied.
There was hardly anyone here who did not know Persian, the language of refinement, but since Tajlu had come to the palace, she had to learn Turkic.
“You must take good care of yourself. The Padishah’s child is growing inside your body.”
At those words, Tajlu instinctively placed a hand on her stomach.
It was the result of spending the past winter with Yusuf, something she could never have imagined when she had lived imprisoned by Ismail.
“I will keep it in mind.”
“If you came all the way here while carrying a child, then both the child and you will endure well enough.”
She was a woman who had come from Tabriz to the capital while pregnant, despite those around her trying to dissuade her, saying she could not be a burden as she had been during the attack on Trabzon.
Having endured and arrived after a journey difficult even for a healthy body, it was no strange thing for Fatima to say this.
‘We do not even know yet whether it is a son or a daughter, and yet I can see wariness already.’
Ayşe and Hatice wore relaxed smiles, but anxiety flickered across the face of Nigar, who was holding the still-young Kasim.
Among the four women gathered, she had the weakest base of support, so it was understandable. Clicking her tongue inwardly, Fatima sat in the seat of honor.
“Valide Hatun!”
When she lowered her head at the hands tugging insistently on her skirt, Yusuf’s only daughter, Hasna, spread both arms with a bright face.
“Hold me!”
“Hasna!”
Even at Ayşe’s stern scolding, Hasna kept her arms spread and stamped her feet, and Fatima lifted Hasna up and seated her on her lap.
She felt it every time, but it was truly remarkable.
Hasna had a talent for loosening people’s hearts, to the point that when she smiled so innocently, one could almost fall under the illusion that the surroundings had grown brighter.
“Are you so pleased?”
“Yes! I’m so happy we’re all together!”
“If you are happy, that is fortunate. We should gather more often.”
Smiling softly, Fatima patted Hasna on the head.
She had created these regular gatherings after hearing that the young Yusuf had nearly been poisoned.
‘Even if fighting later is unavoidable, I must at least prevent flowers from withering before they can even bloom.’
Until the day she drew her last breath, Fatima wished to prevent such things as much as possible, and this desire was reflected in her attempt to encourage lively exchanges through these meetings.
While tickling Hasna’s plump cheeks, Fatima asked Mehmed, who was staring intently through a sheet of paper.
“Mehmed, are you doing well with the assignment the Padishah gave you?”
“It is not easy. I continue to speak with Tahir, the craftsman favored by the Padishah, but I believe we will need more time to make it a reality.”
“And there is sufficient possibility?”
“Of course. We have succeeded in making a small amount of iron.”
The principle itself was not difficult.
At its core, it was a matter of replacing charcoal with a newly learned substance called coke.
However, they still had to research facilities for mass production and inspect the mines in the region Yusuf had mentioned.
This required more than simply using one’s head; it required many rounds of trial and error, and therefore a great deal of time.
“The Padishah is truly an unusual person.”
“What do you mean?”
“Each piece of knowledge he tosses out so lightly is never light at all.”
Not only matters related to ironmaking, but also the writing system that had made Suleiman clutch his head was not something that could be achieved in a short period of time.
‘As if he were a man who had prepared for hundreds of years.’
Even Mehmed, whose intellect was acknowledged by both himself and others, could not even conceive of surpassing Yusuf.
“The Padishah has always had that side to him. But if it benefits the empire, is there any need to worry over it?”
“That is true.”
If an ordinary individual, rather than the Padishah, had possessed such knowledge, it would not have been passed over so lightly as it was now.
After all, this was information so important that, if necessary, they would have willingly tortured the person for it.
Having spoken enough with Mehmed, Fatima turned her head toward the one who was yawning at length.
“Murad.”
“Hwaa… huh? Yesh?! Balide Hadun.”
“Kyaa, that’s funny! Say it again!”
At Murad’s pronunciation, affected by his missing front teeth, Hasna stamped her feet and laughed, and Murad, who was a head taller than Mehmed, scratched his head.
“Balide Hadun?”
As Hasna seemed about to fall backward from sheer delight, Fatima quickly supported her back.
Seeing Hasna, who did not even know she had been in danger, snuggled in her arms and spilling ticklish laughter, Fatima smiled lightly as if there was no helping it and asked.
“I have heard that your martial skill is outstanding. But are you reading any books?”
“I-I am reading diligently?”
When Murad left the end of his sentence as a question and rolled his eyes, Mehmed lowered slightly the paper he had been looking at.
“Murad, even if you study nothing else, make sure you build up military knowledge.”
“Huh?”
At the sudden words, Murad opened his eyes wide, and Mehmed completely lowered the paper he was holding.
“I am saying that in the future, you are more likely to go to the battlefield than I am.”
He had not yet been appointed a sanjakbey, but the moment Mehmed received the letter regarding ironmaking, he had understood where the region of his future activity would be.
Between the Crimean Khanate and Circassia, in that region where even a half-decent village was hard to find, developing the area would be the work entrusted to him from now on.
If he developed that region, where iron ore and the coal needed to make coke existed together, then any military action he took would plainly be focused on a defensive role.
But Murad was different.
“The only thing you are confident in is using your strength, is it not? If you are not going to haul cargo at the harbor, where else would you have to go but the battlefield?”
“Is that so? But why are you suddenly telling me this?”
Thanks to the parents and Fatima who held them steady, they did not hate one another enough to kill each other like Ottoman princes might.
But neither were they close like ordinary brothers, so this advice was unexpected.
At Murad’s question, Mehmed, who had begun looking at the paper again, said as if it were nothing.
“It means I already have plenty to do, so don’t go dying for no reason and adding to my workload. Father will force work onto you anyway, even if you say you do not want it.”
∗ ∗ ∗
“I wonder when my sons will hurry up and grow.”
Looking through the documents, Yusuf wore an irritated expression.
It was fine that Ilhan, Şemsi’s son, had come over to Cairo, but the problem was that a mountain of documents had come along with him.
Most matters were being handled through the Divan council, but documents involving important decisions or the financial situation had to be checked personally.
‘I could push all these documents onto others too, but if I did, the bastards who would gladly gnaw away at the country would crawl out.’
Honestly, it was difficult to completely stop corruption, but there was always a matter of degree.
He had to at least take action that showed he was watching them so they would mind themselves, and since the country was so large, even that was no easy task.
Beside him, Şemsi, who was looking over documents related to Cairo, furrowed his brow slightly.
“Is it not little compared to the work I must handle?”
“I am not so clever, unlike someone said.”
“I cannot imagine who would say such absurd nonsense to the wise Padishah.”
Şemsi, who had already been caught by those words several times, lied without even wetting his lips.
Yusuf briefly took his eyes off the documents and asked the Janissary Agha, who was waiting quietly.
“Is there no particular movement from the Spanish in Tripoli?”
“They seem to be preparing against a possible attack, but there are no special movements.”
Northern Africa was a tangled mess of Islamic forces that supported pirates and Spanish-held lands occupied for the sake of catching them.
The closest city to the territory they had expanded into westward this time was a pirate stronghold Spain had occupied three years ago—a port city known in English as Tripoli.
“If there are no major movements yet, we can wait and see. In any case, the Barbarossa brothers will deal with them.”
After all, Barbarossa’s true fame began with the capture of Algiers, which had submitted to Spain.
Kidnapping Michelangelo had been a kind of side income; the real reason he had intended to foster them was to keep Spain in check.
Using pirates as an outsourced contractor had the great advantage of being free of burden.
“Are the merchants coming in properly?”
“The number of merchants who halted their trade to avoid the war is gradually increasing. The bigger problem, they say, is that the goods coming in from the East are lacking.”
“I suppose that would happen when there is a fool stirring things up without fear.”
Yusuf lightly drummed his fingers on the desk.
In the future, the world would turn its gaze to the sea, and the importance of timber would rise as something far more vital than it was now.
A seventeenth-century book on shipbuilding stated that constructing one large ship required enough timber to fill 1,800 carts drawn by two horses, enough to wipe out an entire forest.
‘In the end, if we are to break free from the timber problem to some extent, connecting the canal must take priority.’
At present, the main shipyards were in the capital and in Alexandria near Cairo, which had newly been occupied, while the timber would mainly have to be purchased from East Africa and India.
Europe would never sell vital timber to a country that, to them, was like a demon king that might set them ablaze at any moment.
That meant there was more riding on the canal’s construction than expected.
“…Why are you looking at me like that, Padishah?”
“Because I have very high expectations of you.”
He hoped the canal would be opened a little sooner, even if it meant employing not only prisoners but also starving subjects, like a New Deal policy.
Realizing the urging hidden beneath those words, Şemsi twitched an eyebrow.
“Have I not told you before? To do things quickly is the work of Satan, and Allah delights in what is done slowly.”
“Then we need only do it so quickly that even Satan is startled. If we do that, surely Allah will be greatly pleased as well.”
“In that case, Padishah, you should also review your documents so quickly that Satan is startled.”
Clicking his tongue, Yusuf turned his gaze back to the documents.
If a Westerner had been present, he might have fainted from shock.
For a sultan who had earned a reputation even more fearsome than Mehmed II, who had brought terror by bringing down Eastern Rome and conquering many lands, he was remarkably unpretentious.
How much time had passed? Beyond the window, the red sunset began to sink, and candles made from expensive whale oil were lit.
-Padishah. A messenger has arrived.
“Let him in.”
With Yusuf’s permission, the door opened, and the messenger quickly paid his respects.
“What is it?”
“It is a report that Mecca, Mecca has been captured! As a sign of submission, the Sharif who governs Mecca says he will send his son and the keys to the holy sites.”
Mecca was an exceedingly important city in Islam.
Among the five duties of a Muslim were praying five times a day in the direction of Mecca and making a pilgrimage to Mecca once in one’s lifetime.
It was a city whose importance needed no further explanation, and the face of the messenger making the report was flushed with excitement.
“Janissary Agha.”
“Yes, Padishah.”
“Bring Al-Mutawakkil here.”
“I shall carry out your command.”
Al-Mutawakkil was the current caliph, and once the Janissary Agha left, Şemsi asked,
“Do you finally intend to formally obtain the position of caliph?”
“There is no harm in having it, is there?”
It would merely add one more to the countless titles used to describe him, but there was no reason to refuse the position of caliph, a post akin to the pope of the Islamic world.
Having calmly uttered words that would have appalled a devout Muslim, Yusuf beckoned to the messenger with a flick of his hand.
“If Mecca has been captured, there should be something to bring me.”
“It is here, Padishah.”
Receiving a pouch made of expensive cloth, Yusuf checked its contents and smiled in satisfaction.
Seeing him look far happier than he had about obtaining the position of caliph, Şemsi asked,
“What is that?”
“This? Something very good.”
Coffee beans pattered down from Yusuf’s hand.
The devil’s drink had fallen into the hands of the most dangerous man.