Four Years Passed
Mustafa’s record, after guessing correctly more than thirty times, failed to pass thirty-four.
Perhaps he had grown tired of the game. Lamenting his mistake, Mustafa slapped the two fists Tazlu held out to him and burst into tears.
Tazlu picked the child up, soothing his crying as she spoke anxiously.
“Your Majesty only witnessed it four times, but he truly did keep guessing correctly.”
Getting thirty-three answers right in a row and getting four right were matters on entirely different levels.
Yusuf raised the corners of his mouth at Tazlu, who had to draw attention for the sake of her child.
“You need not worry. I believe what you said. More importantly, this is interesting.”
If it was not mere coincidence, there were two possible explanations.
Either he had good intuition, or he was born lucky. Of course, there was a vague sense in which intuition and luck could not be viewed as completely separate things.
‘In any case, if it’s luck, it seems to work in a somewhat different context from mine.’
His Luck was 10, but he was not confident he could guess like Mustafa had. That seemed to be because his high luck mainly acted on survival and children.
Even in his showdown with Ismail, if he had not changed his clothes due to that ominous feeling, he could have died on the spot, so his luck regarding survival did seem to keep functioning.
As for luck with children, there was no need to even mention it. The trait called Excellent Bloodline had not originally been such an extraordinary trait.
“It is certainly intriguing.”
If the child’s luck acted in a different direction from his own, there would be many ways to make use of him in the future.
Of course, unlike the intelligent Mehmed or Murat, who had been born a tremendous specimen from the start, this was not a talent that showed itself intuitively, so he would have to continue observing him.
Of course, contrary to his expectations, it might also end as nothing more than coincidence.
Just as, unlike his older siblings, Kasim, now four years old, had yet to show any outstanding qualities.
‘It doesn’t matter if they don’t have tremendous talent. That is why education exists.’
Yusuf patted the head of Mustafa, who was still looking up at him with tear-filled eyes.
“Grow up strong and well. I have expectations of you.”
“…Uu, uaaaaah!”
Mustafa began crying again.
If nothing else, it did seem true that he had good intuition.
∗ ∗ ∗
The spring of 1514 passed into summer, and around the time the rains that had fallen ceaselessly began to dry up, the news they had been waiting for arrived.
“The al-Mughamis tribe, which ruled Basra, has declared its surrender.”
“Did they surrender without resistance?”
“They did, Your Majesty.”
Basra was fifty-five kilometers from the Persian Gulf, but because it had the waterway called the Shatt al-Arab, formed by the meeting of the Euphrates and Tigris Rivers, it also served as a port city.
Thanks to that, it was a prosperous city, and the Mughamis, an Arab nomadic tribe, were the tribe that controlled Basra and its vicinity.
“Since they surrendered without resistance, we should hand the administration of Basra over to them.”
“It is a sufficiently satisfactory result. We do not have the capacity to concern ourselves with that region as well, do we?”
“True enough. Every corner of the Empire is in a state of deep illness.”
The reason the Ottomans could endure while carrying out reforms and wars at the same time was largely thanks to the achievements of the previous ruler, Bayezid II.
He had avoided war as much as possible and devoted himself to domestic affairs, so the Empire had a great deal of fundamental reserves, including its finances.
Of course, even the leeway built up over nearly thirty years had fallen to a dangerous level because of the continuing wars and conquests.
Hadim Ali Pasha, who had risen to the position of grand vizier, spoke with a weary face.
“There are so many problems that the complaints of the officials about lacking colleagues to work with seem trivial by comparison.”
The Ottoman state was fundamentally a country suffering from a shortage of manpower.
There were many cases where administrative power did not reach small villages away from cities, which was also why a great deal of autonomy was entrusted to them.
Even for Georgia, saying it had stabilized should be understood less as its administration having normalized and more as it managing to function somehow.
This was a problem they would have to shoulder unless the number of officials increased through examinations.
“The most important problem is finances. At this rate, we will not even be able to properly pay the salaries of the new officials to come.”
“You exaggerate too much, Grand Vizier. It is not to that extent, is it?”
“I am saying there is a limit to filling the coffers with plunder. It is because the reforms are proceeding too quickly.”
“That is not because we abolished the jizya.”
The jizya was a property tax imposed on those of other religions, and since those of other religions had no military service obligation, it also served as a kind of protection tax.
Since they had no military service obligation, there were few in the military aside from Muslims, and this served to restrict the occupations of those of other religions.
That was the reason he had abolished the jizya, which discriminated between Muslims and non-Muslims, as one of his reforms.
Yusuf raised a hand to stop the grand vizier, who seemed about to say something.
“Of course, I know that visible revenue decreased with the abolition of the jizya. However, one must know who it was that paid all that jizya until now.”
The zakat paid by Muslims was a fixed proportion of annual income, but the jizya had to be paid in proportion to the working population.
For the poor, paying the jizya was more expensive than paying the zakat, but once one reached the middle and upper classes, paying the jizya was far better than paying the zakat.
In other words, those who received tax benefits from the abolition of the jizya were the poor, who struggled to make a living.
“On top of that, most of those who paid the jizya were farmers. How could they live while fearing the jizya that increased the more children they had?”
In a country already short of population, the jizya had also ended up serving as a birth control policy, like China’s one-child policy.
Furthermore, for the economy to become more active in the future, the poor needed to grow.
Just as Emperor Akbar of the Mughal Empire in the original history abolished the discriminatory jizya in order to integrate Hindus, if he wanted to embrace people into the Ottoman fold regardless of religion, the jizya had to be eliminated.
Yusuf looked around at his officials.
“I fully understand what you, who manage the finances, are worried about.”
The grand vizier, who had come from among the eunuchs and could be called his confidant, surely had not brought this up because he truly harbored doubts and dissatisfaction.
It was right to see it as him speaking on behalf of the dissatisfaction flowing among the officials.
“Change is painful by nature. But the moment we stop because it hurts, we will fall behind. Keep that in mind.”
“We shall keep it in mind, Your Majesty.”
The officials, including the grand vizier, all paid their respects at once, and Yusuf nodded.
“The difficult times will not be long. Once the revenue coming through Cairo begins to increase, we will certainly have room to breathe.”
They could endure that much time easily with the plunder gained from conquering the Safavids and Mamluks, with plenty to spare.
The complaint just now was closer to the common fuss made by those who held the purse strings while watching the balance fall.
Rising from his seat, Yusuf gave a look to the Silahdar Agha.
“Bring it.”
At that command, the silahdars moved, and after a short while, they brought in a neatly folded cloth and spread it wide.
It was the crescent-and-star flag, the future flag of Turkey, with a white crescent moon and five-pointed star drawn on a red background, and it was also the national flag of the Ottoman Empire to be proclaimed this time.
‘I did consider other forms of flags, but in the end, it was hard to imagine any other flag.’
Some people mistakenly thought that Turkey, an Islamic country, had put the crescent and star, symbols of Islam, on its national flag, but that had the order reversed.
Rather, many saw it as the symbol of the Ottomans, who rose to power in the Islamic world, expanding into a symbol of Islam as a whole.
Whether by coincidence or because the Ottomans had been influenced by it, when the present capital, Kostantiniyye, had been Byzantium, the crescent moon had also been a symbol of the city.
In other words, although this was not yet the era when the crescent-and-star flag had appeared, there was no reason to bring in and use some other symbol.
“From now on, this flag shall be the national flag of the Ottoman Empire, and this banner shall fly over every city belonging to the Empire.”
“Then what is the flag beside it?”
Beside the widely spread national flag, another flag was being newly unfurled.
“It is the flag that will symbolize me from now on.”
On a purple background, a precious dye, were a white crescent moon and star, and between them, Alpha and Omega (ΑΩ).
Alpha, the first letter of the Greek alphabet, and Omega, the last, both carried the meaning of all things, or eternity.
It was a flag signifying an immortal dynasty, and Yusuf, taking his eyes off the two unfurled flags, rose from his seat.
“I hereby proclaim that from this moment forth, the name of the Empire shall be Ottoman.”
It was the moment when the Empire’s identity as the realm of the Ottoman dynasty was firmly established.
∗ ∗ ∗
For those who spent most of their lives in the same village or city, the fact that the Empire had nearly doubled in size did not feel real.
However, what allowed them to sense it indirectly was the return of those who had participated in the war.
“I’m telling you, near Cairo, there’s a gigantic mountain of stone that people built with their own hands. It’s probably bigger than that little mountain over there.”
“What kind of people build a mountain! What a bluff!”
The people gathered around the building called the Padishah’s Resting Place, where Yusuf’s portrait was enshrined, snorted.
The man had lost his left hand during the war and returned, but thanks to the plunder he had brought back, he now lived like an idler.
At the accusation that he was bluffing, he shook his empty left arm and said,
“It’s true! How dare people who haven’t even gone there themselves try to make me out as a liar?! I’ll go ask a sipahi myself!”
“Hey now! We’ll believe you, all right? Come on, man! Just keep telling the next part.”
“Ahem, my throat seems a little sore.”
Seeing him subtly rub his throat, a man nearby abruptly held out his hand.
“I knew you’d be looking for barley tea again. Drink it and hurry up with the story!”
As the man leisurely drank the barley tea despite the impatient gazes fixed on him, soldiers came pouring in, gathering the city’s residents into the small square in front of the building.
While the people murmured, wondering what was going on, the sanjakbey who governed the city stood before the subjects.
“I shall read a personal letter sent by the Padishah. Everyone, pay your respects!”
At the sanjakbey’s booming cry, the subjects were startled and all paid their respects.
“I proclaim to my beloved subjects. Until now, the Empire has overcome countless crises and has been called a well-protected realm.”
The expression “a well-protected realm” was rather special. It meant they felt that foreign powers had been kept at bay that well.
Of course, much of that was probably because the Empire was closer to the side doing the striking than the side being struck.
“Over the past several years, we have punished the Safavids, who attacked the Empire, and occupied Egypt, which sided with them, but the enemies that threaten the Empire are still countless.”
Osman was, fundamentally, a nation destined to be isolated.
Europe had been suffering from a chronic fear ever since the fall of Eastern Rome, never knowing when it might be conquered by Osman.
As for fellow Islamic powers, they were all much of a muchness, with none worth taking as allies. Moreover, they were bound to look unfavorably upon Osman, which was eliminating discriminatory elements such as the jizya in order to resolve internal unrest.
It was fair to say they were surrounded by potential enemies.
“However, there is nothing to fear. Whatever enemy attacks the empire, the Osman dynasty, master of the empire, shall not forgive them. And as a pledge of that, I intend to formally name this empire the Osman Empire.”
At the words declaring that the name Osman Empire, used when emphasizing the dynastic character of the state, would be officially confirmed, a small stir arose, and the Sanjakbey gestured with his hand.
When the eye-catching red national flag was unfurled, the murmuring subjects’ gazes gathered upon it.
“I solemnly declare here and now: the red flag that symbolizes the empire shall shine upon its subjects like the sun, and shall descend upon its enemies like red blood.”
Amid the cheers of the subjects gathered in the square, the red flag flew above the city’s citadel.
Red flags were raised throughout Osman, and the empire began to catch its breath.
And so, four years passed.
∗ ∗ ∗
“It took longer than I expected.”
“Is that not because the problem Father gave me was far from easy?”
At Mehmed’s words, which were close to whining, Yusuf let out a small laugh.
Mehmed was now fifteen, the age of a second-year middle schooler, so this much grumbling was understandable.
Of course, if he had failed to produce results, it would have been out of the question.
“Very well. Was it worth trying to make a furnace out of chini?”
“It was difficult, but I succeeded.”
Chini was the Ottoman word for porcelain.
Osman had been making porcelain since the thirteenth century, and because it was at the center where Eastern and Western civilizations exchanged, its attempts had come earlier than those of other European nations.
It had begun with imitations of Chinese porcelain, and at present it was mainly made as tiles to decorate mosque walls or as daily-use items for the middle class and nobles.
In other words, the basic skill to produce porcelain was already there. Of course, using it as a furnace was another matter entirely.
“Then it seems you, too, must soon go as a Sanjakbey. Compared to me, who became a Sanjakbey at eleven, you are far too late.”
The region Mehmed would rule was already seeing cities and facilities built with the help of the Crimean Khanate and Circassia.
All that remained was for Mehmed, who had been delayed because of his research, to go there.
Knowing that he could delay no longer, Mehmed nodded.
“I will do my utmost not to disappoint the Padishah.”
“Good. You must.”
Just as he was exchanging light conversation with Mehmed, a knock sounded, and a eunuch entered with a troubled expression.
“Padishah. A problem has arisen.”
“What is it?”
“Letters requesting betrothal to the princess are pouring in. It seems to be because of that statue. And…”
At the eunuch’s trailing words, Yusuf furrowed his brow.
“And what else?”
“Prince Murat is currently beating people down in front of the statue.”
…That damned puberty again.
Mehmed lightly clapped his hands, and Yusuf felt a headache coming on.
∗ ∗ ∗
Poverty did not help artistic activity, and the best way to resolve financial problems was to have a reliable patron.
Conversely, this also meant that an artist’s standing changed depending on what sort of patron he had.
In that sense, the most famous artist at present was a slave artist brought captive from the Italian Peninsula.
His status as a slave was not important. After all, the frightening Janissaries who went about with only mustaches, and most of the officials as well, were nominally slaves.
What mattered was that he received the Padishah’s favor and handled the dynasty’s work, such as painting portraits of the Padishah’s family.
In front of the statue that such an artist proudly called the greatest masterpiece of his life, a complete mess had unfolded.
When a man Murat had picked up and thrown landed near the statue, Michelangelo shouted, his crooked nose flushed red from agitation.
“You, you, you! Can’t you be careful?!”
“Ah, I know! Just wait a moment.”
Answering Michelangelo’s rebuke irritably, Murat stretched out his hand toward the men confronting him with tense faces, then dragged away the man who had fallen near the statue.
After throwing the man onto the pile of men who had already been knocked sprawling, Murat returned, dusted off his hands, and smiled brightly.
“No matter how much I dislike it, it’s my little sister’s face. I can’t let it get damaged, can I?”
At words that insulted the masterpiece into which he had poured his heart and soul, Michelangelo’s eyes went wide.
“What is it that displeases you so much that you are causing such chaos in front of someone else’s work?!”
“Everything displeases me.”
Murat stood crookedly and looked back at the statue.
The statue, titled The Girl Wearing a Hijab, was certainly beautiful.
Compared to the still-young Hasna, the age depicted was older, but the sight of a woman shyly about to put on a hijab, as though her future self had been brought into the present, was captivating.
It displeased him all the more because it had drawn crowds of men and women, young and old, to the Janissary Courtyard, the outermost part of Topkapi Palace.
“Who gave you permission to sculpt my little sister’s face?”
“The Padishah granted it!”
“You didn’t get permission from me, though?”
Of course he hadn’t, because there had been no need to.
Michelangelo looked dumbfounded at Murat’s petulance, and soon an immature voice could be heard snorting.
“Who is your little sister? You ill-mannered brat.”
At the familiar voice of Mehmed, Murat whipped his head around with his face twisting sharply, then took a respectful posture and scratched his head.
“I greet the Padishah.”
At Murat’s courtesy, the gathered crowd also hurriedly showed respect, and Yusuf swept his cold gaze over the surroundings.
Four men had been sprawled out and were now bowing, and three appeared to have been facing off against Murat.
Yusuf asked the Janissaries who had been controlling the situation in case of any unforeseen developments.
“Explain the situation.”
“Yes, Padishah. At the words of the men looking at the statue, the prince grew angry, saying they had insulted the princess, and declared that if they defeated him, he would let the matter pass.”
“What was the content of this supposed insult?”
Since it was already known that the statue had been made with Princess Hasna’s face as its motif, there was no way they would have said anything severe enough to cost them their heads.
“They said she was beautiful, and that they wondered what sort of person she would marry.”
No matter how secret palace affairs were, there were more than one or two mouths, and many stories leaked out.
The same went for stories about Hasna, who was the most beloved within the palace, so it was only natural for such curiosity to emerge.
“That is not a statement worth making a great issue of. End this here, and if any are injured, see that they receive treatment.”
“Thank you, Padishah!”
At Yusuf’s decision, the men’s faces brightened, while Murat’s face crumpled at once.
When Yusuf returned to his room, dragging his two sons along, Murat burst out in indignation.
“Padishah! If talk of Hasna’s marriage is not an insult, then what is?! It is far too early for her.”
Beside him, Mehmed nodded as if in agreement, and Yusuf furrowed his brow.
“Hasna’s marriage is not something for you two to worry about. It is something that child will decide for herself.”
The dynasty’s position was firm enough that there was no particular reason to force Hasna into a political marriage, and there was no need to think about the still-young Hasna’s marriage now.
After all, all the marriage requests from the children of high officials had been put aside as well.
Mehmed tilted his head and asked.
“What if that child has no thoughts of betrothal at all?”
“Then she will not marry, and will instead work in affairs of state.”
To be honest, that would actually be more beneficial for Yusuf.
Of course, in this era it was difficult for women to step forward openly and work, but there were also tasks that only women could do.
‘For example, holding gatherings with the women of the retainers’ households, or entertaining noblewomen who come from Europe. There are many ways to make use of charm.’
Hasna’s charm was such that others would not even dare to feel jealous, and it was more than enough to draw women in.
There was also such a thing as pillow talk, so establishing a women’s circle centered on Hasna would certainly be useful.
Allowing Michelangelo to make a statue with Hasna’s face this time had been in that same context, and through the statue, Hasna’s reputation would spread even farther.
Yusuf clicked his tongue as he looked at the two brothers who doted on her.
“Tsk. With you scoundrels obstructing things like this, even if a man she truly likes appears, would she be able to marry him?”
“We cannot send her to just any man. If someone is to take Hasna, should he not at least be as clever as I am?”
“And stronger than me.”
Leaving aside Mehmed, whom even most scholars would defer to, a man also had to be stronger than Murat, who, despite being thirteen, was already larger than an adult?
Founding a country would be easier than marrying Hasna.
“Stop talking nonsense and withdraw.”
When the two took their leave after offering their respects, Yusuf shook his head.
“I need to send that Murat fellow off as a Sanjakbey soon, too.”
It had been the same with Mehmed, but Murat was also delaying becoming a Sanjakbey because of Hasna.
If he became a Sanjakbey, he would hardly be able to see his little sister, so Yusuf could understand it, but there was no reason to keep watching forever.
Yusuf tapped the desk and looked at the map.
“If I send him, then Yemen or southeastern Africa would be better.”
Needless to say, Africa was harsh, and the Arabian Peninsula, where Islam had begun, was also a rough neighborhood.
To begin with, the reason Islam had expanded out from the Arabian Peninsula was because, in a situation where the culture of plundering one another to avoid starving to death was widespread, its doctrine called for an end to such plunder.
Of course, things were not greatly different even now, and because of the fierce Arab nomadic Bedouin clans, the Arabian Peninsula was a land they did not even think of occupying.
No matter how much oil might be buried in the future lands of Saudi Arabia, attempting a half-baked occupation would be no different from poking a hornet’s nest, and governing the coastal regions as they did now was the best option.
“Of course, managing the coastal regions will not be easy either, but for Murat, such a rough place would suit him better.”
Yemen was also a region that produced coffee, which was tremendously popular in Osman, and it was a land that would grow more important the more eastern trade flourished.
Murat was the kind of fellow who looked like he would survive just fine even if thrown into the middle of a desert, so he would surely pull it off.
In a similar sense, sending him to the important southeastern region of Africa would not be bad either, but since it was land that had to be occupied first, it was too early for Murat.
As if settling the matter, Yusuf firmly pressed his finger down on the land of Yemen on the map.
“My beloved son, this father believes in you.”
The verdict fell upon the son who had caused trouble.
∗ ∗ ∗
Those who had come from Venice to Constantinople watched the cargo being unloaded from the ship with dark expressions.
They were spoils of war obtained during the Crusades, including four bronze horses brimming with vitality.
It was a painful outcome; people lamented that Venice seemed to have been emptied out.
“Let us go. The Padishah is waiting.”
Giovanni Barbaro, who had come as the head of the envoy delegation, led his party toward Topkapi Palace.
It was far from unfamiliar, as he had visited many times before, yet his heart was heavier than ever.
However, that heaviness had no choice but to fly away the moment he entered the Janissary Courtyard at the palace entrance.
“It’s insanely beautiful! Absolutely wondrous!”
Giovanni, gazing at the statue, exclaimed in admiration.
Having lived on the Italian Peninsula where all manner of beautiful artworks poured forth during the Renaissance, he had never before seen a statue quite like this one.
He felt he would gladly exchange all the spoils tearfully returned by the Ottomans for this single statue.
“Lord Giovanni Barbaro.”
Giovanni nodded at the anxious faces of his party members looking at him.
It was only natural that this man, who possessed outstanding talent in art, could not hide his desire to draw a painting upon seeing that statue.
“You may stay here and draw.”
“Thank you!”
Just as the man broke into a bright smile at Giovanni’s permission, a ruthless voice rang out.
“How dare you speak of drawing as you please, without permission.”
The Janissary in charge of the escort spoke coldly, and the envoy delegation, including Giovanni, wore bewildered expressions.
For it was merely the act of sketching a statue, yet the atmosphere was so menacing that it seemed he might draw his blade at any moment.
It was the first time since his very first visit as an envoy that he had encountered such a ruthless atmosphere, and Giovanni asked in a voice that strove for calm.
“What is the matter? Is it not merely the act of drawing a statue?”
“That statue captures the face of Princess Hasna. You should count yourself blessed merely to look upon her face, yet you dare speak of drawing it?”
“...Do you mean she is a real person?”
The envoys were shocked yet doubtful at the mention of a face truly like a sculpture, and the Janissary snorted.
“It is a statue that fails to fully capture her likeness. Even its maker said so. In any case, because of this, do not entertain thoughts of drawing her face.”
At the Janissary’s warning, Giovanni patted the shoulders of his disappointed party members.
They had come to forge friendly relations, even offering up war spoils; they could not cause problems over something trivial.
“...If that is the case, then at least permit us to remain here and look upon it.”
“Very well. Would that be acceptable?”
“That much is fine.”
Leaving the man expressing his gratitude behind, Giovanni entered Topkapi Palace and was admitted to the familiar audience chamber.
The door closed with the soft sound of flowing water, and the envoy delegation, including Giovanni, assumed formal postures.
“We greet the Padishah.”
“It has been a while, Giovanni Barbaro.”
Yusuf welcomed him benevolently, and Giovanni bowed his head even lower.
Rumors abounded that the Sultan had become benevolent since the Mamluk campaign, but Giovanni knew all too well what kind of ferocious monster lay within.
When he was being kind, one had to make the most of it.
“I hear you have brought all the plunder taken from my city. Truly a joyous day.”
“We have returned the spoils of war for the sake of friendship with the Empire. We hope that through this matter, the friendship between our two nations grows deeper.”
Plunder and spoils of war.
They were expressions that clearly showed the difference in views held by the two nations, but that did not matter.
What mattered was that they had been returned, one way or another.
Yusuf smiled pleasantly.
“Yes, by the way, how is that publisher faring?”
There was no need to ask who he meant. It would be the one who had published a book containing Yusuf’s story without authorization.
He was the one who had played a part in returning the plundered goods.
“He has been completely ruined over this matter. He also had to pay the compensation owed to the Padishah, so it was unavoidable.”
“What a regrettable affair. All he had to do was buy the publishing rights properly.”
Of course, permission would not have been granted, but at least he would not have been ruined by greed.
“But more importantly, Your Padishah. When do you expect the canal to be opened?”
In truth, the greatest reason for returning the plundered goods was the news that the canal would soon be opened.
With fifty thousand prisoners of war, not to mention considerable profits from Egypt including coffee, they were hiring laborers and pressing ahead with canal construction.
“The canal. I expect it will be completed within two years.”
Though the timeframe had stretched longer than planned, it could not be helped due to the many problems, such as epidemics spreading from unsanitary working conditions.
For it was an unavoidable problem in large-scale construction or military campaigns of this era.
“Then how will passage through the canal be handled?”
“If licensed vessels pay an appropriate sum, it should be possible. Come to think of it, France has also sent word wishing to dispatch envoys.”
The French envoy was somewhat unexpected.
The Sixth Italian War, in which France had allied with the Ottoman infidels and delivered a great shock to Europe, was eighteen years away.
Of course, history had already changed so much that it was uncertain whether that war would occur or not, but France’s interest had come sooner than in the original history.
‘Francis I has indeed ascended the throne and allied with the Ottomans, but his hatred for Charles V should not be deep yet.’
For Charles V, who stood to receive an enormous inheritance, had not yet inherited the Holy Roman Empire.
Hearing that even France had approached them, Giovanni asked with a slightly flushed face.
“Would Venice be permitted to use the canal?”
“I said permission would be granted if the plundered goods were returned, so it shall be permitted. Of course, canal usage fees must be paid.”
“That is only natural. Thank you, Your Padishah.”
For Venice, even if the usage fees were high, being able to trade directly with India would be a gain.
Of course, Arab merchants would suffer losses accordingly.
‘I can make Venice and Portugal fight directly, so there’s no harm in that.’
Since using the canal would allow goods to be sold cheaper than Portugal, which had to sail around the African continent, the two could not help but clash.
Moreover, since he held the leash called the canal, Venice had no choice but to be led by the Ottomans even more.
The subsequent conversation was closer to light pleasantries, and having obtained what he sought, Giovanni withdrew with the proper courtesies.
Gazing at the firmly closed door, Yusuf rose from his seat with a relaxed motion and called for Silahdar Agha, who had long served him.
“Alper Pasha.”
“Yes, Your Padishah.”
“Is it true that there are still people from the envoy delegation in front of the statue?”
“That is correct, Your Padishah.”
“Then they have taken the bait.”
It was human nature to want to do something more when told not to, and this was based on the psychology of valuing scarcity.
In a sense, one could see it in how Romeo and Juliet’s love, torn apart by their families, burned all the more fiercely.
In any case, just as his own books, banned from publication, were spreading through Europe more secretly and rapidly, paintings of Hasna would spread all the faster.
“Turquerie.”
It was the term for the phenomenon of Ottoman and Middle Eastern culture becoming fashionable in Europe.
One could call it an Orientalist fandom; Mozart’s Turkish March and his opera The Abduction from the Seraglio, set against an Ottoman backdrop, were examples of this.
Similar were European men’s fantasies about the harem, and to the extent that in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, it had been fashionable for European nobles to wear Turkish-style clothing and turbans.
Yusuf intended to advance this trend as much as possible.
“It might be fun to start with cultural invasion.”
Yusuf twisted his lips into a smirk.
∗ ∗ ∗
The man removed his work clothes covered in mud and filth and let out a long sigh.
The nauseating stench of manure and sweat assaulted his nose, and his body cried out in pain from the grueling farm work.
Physical labor was difficult for a man born an upper-class citizen who had served as a diplomat, but he was grateful to at least have a small plot of land with which to feed his family.
As he organized the theoretical contents he had pondered while working in his mind, he spotted a man getting down from a carriage.
“Cosimo Rucellai, to what do I owe the honor of your coming all the way here? The day of the gathering is not far off.”
“Hahaha, I have come because there is something to discuss.”
The Rucellai family was one of Florence’s distinguished houses, together with the Medici and Strozzi, so it was exceedingly rare for them to come looking for someone at a foul-smelling farm.
The man, having roughly hung up his removed work clothes, guided Cosimo to a seat, and Cosimo slowly surveyed the inside of the house.
As expected of a farmhouse, it was shabby and squalid.
He was a man who, entangled in a plot to assassinate the Medici family, had suffered severe torture and had most of his property confiscated, leaving only a small farm and enormous debts.
Thanks to his renown as a writer, he had paid off his debts quickly, but one could say his future remained bleak.
“May I ask what brings you here? Is it perhaps something not to be spoken of at the Rucellai Garden gathering?”
“You worry too much. I have not come to speak of something so difficult, so there is no need for concern.”
The Rucellai Garden gathering was a venerable scholarly meeting hosted by the Rucellai family, and its current host was the Cosimo Rucellai before his eyes.
It was thanks to Cosimo that he, who had fallen out of favor with the Medici family, had been able to attend this gathering two years ago.
“I have come because there is something to say about the Ottoman Empire.”
“The Ottoman...”
It was a nation that had grown explosively since a monster-like Sultan ascended the throne.
Its rapid growth had been such that the nations busy tearing apart the Italian Peninsula sensed the crisis and quickly entered a state of détente.
‘Many people dismiss the writings containing that man’s biography as mere novels, but it is not something to be viewed so simply.’
Though it was called a biography, it was only the story of his days as a prince, and apart from its popularity, it contained so many absurd tales that many dismissed it as a novel.
Even so, if only half of it was true, he was by no means an easy opponent.
“Why bring up the Ottomans all of a sudden?”
“As I examined the Ottoman emperor’s deeds, I thought of you. More precisely, Machiavelli, I thought of The Prince, which you dedicated to the Medici family.”
At those words, the man, Niccolò Machiavelli, let out a deep breath.
The work he had dedicated in order to drive the barbarians from the Italian Peninsula, and to return to politics, had not even been glanced at by Duke Lorenzo de’ Medici.
“Do not be too disappointed that the duke paid it no heed. Was it not thanks to my seeing that manuscript that you were able to attend our gathering?”
“For that, I am always grateful.”
Machiavelli expressed his thanks politely.
For a place where he could exchange opinions with young noblemen was that precious to him.
“Enough. I did not say it to receive your thanks. In any case, looking at the emperor’s actions, it seems as though he is following The Prince you wrote to the letter.”
Machiavelli looked intrigued.
“As is known, the man is extreme, and has committed acts bordering on wickedness time and again. Killing the Sultan of Egypt at the site of negotiations is the prime example.”
“He claimed he was attacked first, but whether true or false, it was an astonishing affair.”
To try to kill, and then actually kill, the opposing monarch at a meeting? When that fact became known, many pointed fingers at him, saying that he was an infidel after all.
Of course, most of it was condemnation in words alone.
“What matters is that, thanks to what he did despite inviting condemnation, he was able to bring the war to a swift end, and his nation was able to grow that much more quickly.”
The Prince was not a justification of sinister schemes and stratagems.
It merely stated that, in order to prevent a national crisis, even dirty political means must be used.
If stratagems caused a nation to be divided, then that would be an action contrary to The Prince, and the preceding example accorded with it quite well.
“Beyond that, the countless excessive and cruel actions he has displayed were all founded on the revival of the empire.”
“It is interesting, but why are you telling me this?”
“Would you consider going to the Ottomans and studying the emperor? So that we may predict what sort of man he is, and what actions he will take in the future. Of course, I will provide the funds.”
Not only for Mediterranean trade, but also because the Ottomans were a nation that might move militarily at any time, understanding the emperor who moved that country was an extremely important matter.
Since it was not a fellow Christian country, and he would have to stay among the Ottomans, Machiavelli could not readily answer. Cosimo then subtly broached the matter.
“It will be a good opportunity for you as well. If you can include the fact that the emperor revived the empire by following The Prince, would the duke not show interest?”
“The duke...”
Though Machiavelli was an ardent republican, he believed that a charismatic monarch was necessary to overcome a crisis.
As he hoped the duke would step forward to liberate the Italian Peninsula from the hands of barbarians such as France and Spain, his expression grew interested.
“All of that is well and good, but to learn about the emperor, I would at least need to hear news from the palace. What do you think should be done?”
“Why not translate The Prince and dedicate it to the emperor as well? It is a book that can explain the emperor’s deeds, so even if not the emperor himself, someone in office may take an interest in it.”
“It seems a method worth attempting.”
With the support of Rucellia, Machiavelli boarded a ship.
∗ ∗ ∗
As the empire grew, the first place to develop visibly was the capital.
A wide variety of people visited Kostantiniyye, from merchants arriving with merchant ships to travelers who came to see the relics of Muhammad the Prophet.
However, among those arriving in the capital of late, there were some unusual individuals.
“Young master, we have arrived in the capital.”
“I know. There will be plenty of time to look around the capital later, so be quiet.”
They were people who did not let go of their books even as they walked down the street.
Whenever their eyes happened to meet, they glared fiercely at one another before passing by, and they became a new source of interest in the capital.
Yusuf took a leisurely sip of coffee.
“Good.”
The coffee, which had tasted terrible at first, had gained the finest flavor thanks to countless experiments.
Of course, those experiments had been built on the sacrifices of his retainers.
“Within the palace, the Padishah may be the only person who simply enjoys that.”
“It is an expensive drink, so one ought to know how to enjoy it.”
Since the supply was not yet abundant, coffee was among the exceedingly expensive items.
To the point that people said the cost of the coffee they drank exceeded the salaries of the retainers.
Since he was exploiting them through labor to just that extent, Yusuf did not think it a loss at all.
“More importantly, have all the examinees entered the capital?”
“Yes. They are those who achieved the highest marks in each city. They will know how great this opportunity is, so there is no need for concern.”
The city examination, which corresponded to the first stage of the bureaucratic examination, had already been held, and most of those who passed were scheduled to become lower-ranking officials in their local areas.
However, those who achieved the very highest marks would take the second examination in the capital and receive posts in the capital corresponding to their scores.
The second examination in the capital was an important test on which depended whether they could quickly become high officials, or would have to climb up from the bottom.
“How are the other retainers reacting? I cannot tolerate them throwing their weight around as old hands.”
Territorialism and abusive seniority customs could easily arise wherever people gathered.
Even in Joseon, there had been a custom called myeonsillye, in which new officials were subjected to harsh initiation rites, and there had even been several cases of death.
At Yusuf’s concern, the grand vizier smiled gently.
“That, of all things, is something you need not worry about. Everyone is in a position of welcoming them, saying that at last there will be people with whom to share the work.”
“Tell them to go easy at first, so the newcomers do not run away halfway through.”
“I will instruct them so.”
By the time those who received their pass medallions grew accustomed to their work, they would feel in their bones why coffee was endlessly refilled in the capital.
The amount of work flying in from across the vast Ottoman Empire was murderous.
Yusuf turned the pages of the book in which Suleiman had compiled the completed Ottoman script.
“There is still much that must be supplemented, but is this not usable enough? Still, for the busy retainers, it will be a new burden.”
“There are many who complain that they need time to learn it, but the pain that arises during a transitional period cannot be helped.”
Since the administrative language was being replaced by the newly created Ottoman language, they had no choice but to learn it, however reluctantly.
Once the administrative language changed around the capital, the other cities beneath it would naturally be forced to change as well.
Yusuf rose from his seat and looked around at the large map.
“Language is only the beginning. In order to become one empire, we must make human exchange between cities even more active than it is now.”
The Ottoman Empire was in a situation where many peoples and cultures were mixed together.
It was not yet an era in which ethnic issues would stand out, but regional conflict was unavoidable.
‘In the modern era, regional conflicts even break out at the level of apartment complexes.’
In order to alleviate that even somewhat, travel between different regions needed to become more active.
Of course, with most subjects being farmers and herders, such travel would not be easy, so there was no choice but to rotate officials through different posts.
“If the subjects find it difficult to encounter various cultures, then at least the officials should do so. Just as stagnant water rots, it should also be enough to help prevent corruption.”
“I shall make the Padishah’s will known to the retainers.”
Whether religion, race, or culture, once people lived together, it was nothing special. It was simply how people lived.
If those above showed such an example, that atmosphere would naturally flow downward as well, and this was about as much as could be done for now.
Yusuf glanced at the sun.
“The examination should be starting soon. Tell the retainers not to worry.”
“About what?”
To the puzzled grand vizier, Yusuf lightly shook his coffee cup.
“That no matter how many newcomers increase, there is enough qahwa to drink. The aroma of the beans brought in this time is quite good.”
The grand vizier, Hadim Ali Pasha, made a vow.
He had to resign quickly and return to being a eunuch.
∗ ∗ ∗
“What’s this about, calling people separately like this?”
“Do you have no intention of correcting that insolent manner of speech?”
“Hmph, why don’t you fix that old-fashioned way of talking first and then say that? It’s not like you’re some decrepit high official.”
At Murat’s words, spoken with a snort, Mehmed closed the book he had been reading and turned his head toward the child humming to himself.
“Kasim.”
“Yes, elder brother. Why did you call me?”
Kasim, now eight years old, looked at Mehmed with innocent eyes.
Of the four brothers, Kasim resembled Yusuf the most in appearance, and Mehmed frowned at him.
“There is no need to act in front of us. We know full well what you are like inside.”
At Mehmed’s pointed remark, Kasim narrowed the eyes that had been shining brightly.
“Strange. Elder sister falls for it completely. It doesn’t work on my brothers.”
Murat roughly chewed on a snack and beckoned with his hand.
“Where do you think you’re putting on airs? Want to get hit?”
“And then you will be scolded by Valide Hatun again, won’t you? If you are going to hit me, would you hit somewhere that hurts less but shows more?”
A prince’s education was, as a rule, handled by a Hatun, but the one who managed that Hatun was the Valide Hatun.
She was one of the few people who could scold a prince, and Murat irritably turned his head away.
Ignoring Murat, whose body was that of an adult but whose mind was that of a child, Mehmed asked,
“Kasim, how is it learning from Michelangelo?”
“It’s fun. Learning painting is fun, and learning instruments from the musicians is fun too. People like it as well.”
Since he was the sort who loved receiving attention from people, it was an exceedingly suitable hobby for Kasim.
“Was it a hobby the Padishah strongly encouraged?”
“It was.”
When Yusuf had given such instructions for Kasim’s education, Mehmed had found it puzzling. He had been so young that no one knew he had talent in the arts.
However, even after learning that he had talent, Mehmed still found it somewhat puzzling.
For the father he knew was not someone who would be satisfied with raising his son into an outstanding artist.
This question had been answered not long ago.
“I hear you’ve been learning not only the empire’s etiquette these days, but that of other countries as well?”
“You have no idea how hard it is. It isn’t even fun, but since the Padishah commanded it, I can’t very well refuse.”
Qasim, known as a clever little brat, spoke as though deliberately gloomy, and Mehmed nodded.
“Father may end up using you as a diplomat.”
“A diplomat?”
There was no precedent for using a prince as a diplomat rather than a sanjakbey, but Yusuf was more than capable of doing just that.
Without answering the puzzled Qasim, Mehmed took a sip of coffee.
After all, it was still only an inference.
“Enough of this. Why did you call us here?”
“I thought we needed to gather once before the two of us leave as sanjakbeys.”
At the word sanjakbey, Murat’s face crumpled at once.
The fate he had postponed and postponed had suddenly come upon him.
“Once we scatter as sanjakbeys, there will not be many chances for us to meet again.”
Cold as Mehmed was, there was a small measure of regret in one corner of his heart.
Looking back on the history of the dynasty, even if they bickered, the fact that they had at least remained within the boundary called brothers was something quite special.
‘Hasna played a large role in that.’
The great affection he and Murat had for Hasna was not simply because she was their lovable younger sister.
It was because Hasna had served as the intermediary that made them feel they were one family.
The more affection they showed her, the more they cherished her as their younger sister, the more indirectly they could feel that they were brothers.
But the time when they could live like children ignorant of the ways of the world had come to an end.
“Murat, from now on, we are rivals.”
“I know that without you having to tell me.”
“It seems you still don’t understand. What would you do if the sweets you’re eating had been poisoned? I don’t know how you can eat them so casually.”
Murat spat out the snack he had been chewing and looked uneasily at the half-chewed morsel.
There was no way it had truly been poisoned, but he could clearly feel what sort of life a prince would have to live from now on.
Rising from his seat, Mehmed placed a hand on Murat’s head.
It was a head he had never touched, except when they were very young.
“Listen well, for I say this as your brother.”
Do not die a meaningless death.
With those words, Mehmed left the room.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Brother!”
“What is it?”
Oruç, Barbarossa, frowned at his younger brother’s call.
The two brothers had assassinated Amir Salim of Algiers, who wagged his tail at Spain, and seized Algiers, the North African port city.
They had driven off the Spanish fleet that attacked to retake Algiers two years ago, but as though Spain was once again aiming for its recovery, the movements of the Spanish fleet had lately been ominous.
Because of that, Oruç’s nerves were on edge. He turned his head irritably and saw his younger brother approaching with a beggar in tow.
“What is it this time? What strange thing have you dragged in now?!”
“This fellow says he’s handled a pen in Florence.”
“What, a painter?”
Oruç, who had handed over Michelangelo and received generous backing for it, had his eyes light up, but his younger brother Hayreddin shook his head.
“He says he’s a writer. He was apparently taking a book to present to the Padishah.”
“To the Padishah?”
Oruç, whose face was already fierce enough, scowled hard and drew a sharp blade, holding it to the man’s neck.
“If that is nonsense, I will cut out your tongue and work you as an oarsman for the rest of your life, so bear that in mind.”
Machiavelli, who did not know Arabic, simply nodded frantically for the time being.
He had been forced aboard the express bound for the Padishah.