Eastern Trade
Rumble!
As molten iron, red as lava, gushed out of the blast furnace, the workers raised their voices.
If an accident occurred and even a moment of contact with the molten iron came, one could vanish without leaving so much as a fragment of bone.
Once the molten pig iron from the blast furnace poured into a fixed container, air was blown in through the bottom of the vessel, and the pig iron reacted violently, as though exploding.
Mehmet, who had been observing the ironmaking process as pillars of flame shot up through the holes above, moved on.
“It seems we could shorten the process even further.”
After lightly wiping away his sweat, Mehmet looked around.
The heat here was so intense that visitors had given it the nickname the City of Fire.
Carts loaded with coal and iron ore passed ceaselessly through the open gates, while heat and smoke billowed from the factories that baked coal into coke and those that extracted iron.
Amid the scenery that repeated itself day after day, Mehmet spotted a familiar face.
“You’ve come, Saadet Khan.”
“Haha, you seem to have grown quite a bit in the short time since I last saw you.”
“You’re good at flattery.”
Not every human being grew as rapidly as Murat.
Mehmet brushed aside Saadet’s idle remark and looked behind him.
“Where did you bring these people from this time?”
“You said the nomads were too wild to be useful, so I brought them from the west.”
Fear filled the crowd being dragged along in a line, bound together.
It was not an unusual sight, given that the Crimean Khanate’s primary business was hunting slaves, but there was one difference from before: this time, they had kidnapped entire families.
It was unmistakably different from the old practice of killing all the men and children and bringing back only the women.
“As time passes, hunting them becomes more difficult. The soldiers’ movements have also become more active.”
“If you sweep through a place and carry away an entire village, it’s only natural that they would react.”
He meant that they had begun to feel threatened by the explosive increase in slave raids over the past few years.
Mehmet approached the trembling captives and spoke to them in their own language.
“From now on, you will live here, learn our language, and work here. As long as you do not cause trouble, you may stay with your families, and you will not go hungry.”
“…Is that really true?”
“At least this is not a place where we roast and eat you, as you were muttering earlier.”
The people, who had not realized that he might have understood their language, turned pale, and Mehmet signaled to one of his subordinates.
With a little basic education, they would blend into the workforce here, and after a certain period, they would be able to become subjects of the realm.
Mehmet offered Saadet his thanks.
“We are grateful every time for the help of the Crimean Khanate.”
The greatest problem in creating a new city was people, and even with immigrants from Circassia and the Crimean Khanate, there were clear limits.
Slave raids were important because they both filled the shortage of population and weakened the national strength of other countries.
“You pay the Padishah an appropriate price, so there is no need to thank us. More than that, this place feels more impressive every time I visit.”
A place where laborers with black ash smeared across their faces trudged about, where the air was murky.
A city filled mostly with bleak gray buildings built for practicality, without a single magnificent mosque.
There was nothing here to inspire admiration at first glance, but the sight of iron piled high inevitably overturned that impression.
“There is still much lacking. And the iron is not of particularly good quality.”
They had become capable of mass-producing steel, but it was not high-quality iron like the kind needed for springs.
Saadet burst out laughing at Mehmet’s assessment.
“Sometimes I think Your Highness’s evaluations are too harsh. What does it matter if the quality is somewhat lacking? Look at how much iron there is. Did the Padishah not say that this, along with the canals, was the future of the empire?”
“The future is merely the future, and not the present. Though since Hasan Pasha has requested iron for use in the construction of a bridge, it may soon become the present.”
Saadet had heard that Hasan, known as the Padishah’s left arm, was going to build a bridge across the Bosporus Strait, but he had never imagined that iron would be used in it.
It was difficult for Saadet to picture, and he could feel that the times were changing.
“Once a bridge truly made with iron is completed, Your Highness will receive even more attention.”
“I must, if I am not to fall behind my brothers, including Murat.”
Not only Murat, but even the youngest, Mustafa, each possessed a light of his own, so Mehmet could not afford to let his guard down.
At Mehmet’s words about keeping his brothers in check, Saadet replied with a smile.
“I cannot say much about the two younger princes, but is Prince Mehmet not more like the Padishah than Prince Murat?”
Though Yusuf had been on the throne for only about ten years, he was already being praised as having surpassed the achievements of Mehmet II.
Being judged similar to such a Padishah was itself a great advantage for the princes, but Mehmet gave a bitter smile.
“In appearance, I do resemble the Padishah more than Murat.”
He had inherited the same refined features and green eyes, Yusuf’s most distinctive trait.
Besides, Yusuf had never been the type of bold general who charged to the front and slew enemies like Murat.
“But when we were in the capital, Murat received far more praise than I did for resembling the Padishah.”
“In what way?”
“Inwardly.”
Murat had caused so much trouble that he would even get into fights with street idlers, but he was also the one who tried to approach the subjects more intimately and help them.
He was often described as rough, yet possessing a concern for the subjects that was the spitting image of Yusuf’s.
Of course, Mehmet had also taken many actions out of concern for the subjects, just as Murat had.
‘Sincerity. It is truly difficult.’
His mind, sharper than other people’s, instantly calculated what results his actions would produce, so genuine feeling seemed difficult to him, separate from mere self-interest.
Yusuf had consoled him by saying that self-interest with results might be better than feelings that produced nothing, but Mehmet, who knew little of sincerity, found it difficult to agree.
“In any case, Murat is the one who resembles the Padishah in his concern for the subjects.”
That was Mehmet’s assessment.
∗ ∗ ∗
The naval battle that had erupted as suddenly as a duel triggered by locking eyes announced its beginning with cannon fire, but it was not enough to deliver a decisive blow.
It was surprising to encounter the Ottoman army while returning to his homeland, but Vasco was confident.
‘Even so, there are only three of them.’
The Ottoman navy, which appeared to have come out for reconnaissance, consisted of only three ships, while his own fleet had five.
The enemy ships were somewhat larger overall, but not enough to overturn their numerical superiority.
Both fleets, shrouded in acrid gray smoke from the cannon fire, became entangled with each other and entered into close combat.
“Throw them!”
The Portuguese soldiers threw grappling hooks onto the enemy ships, and the moment they hung from the ropes to cross over, gunshots rang out.
The Ottoman soldiers who showed their faces above the decks unleashed a storm of bloodshed, while bayonets rained mercilessly upon the Portuguese soldiers struggling to cling to the railings.
“Fire! Return fire!”
They fired their matchlocks at Vasco’s command, but the Ottoman forces, holding the higher position, suffered relatively little damage.
When the exchange of fire entered a lull, turbaned soldiers poured out of the Ottoman ships with swords in hand.
Clang! Clang!
Swords clashed noisily atop the rolling ships, and in an instant the decks became scenes of utter pandemonium.
On the chaotic deck, where it was difficult even to distinguish friend from foe, a loud landing rang out.
“Aaaaargh!”
“You’ve got quite a voice!”
Landing and driving his sword into an enemy at the same time, Murat answered the scream by forcing his blade even deeper into the deck.
The soldier pinned to the deck along with it struggled to pull out the sword, unaware that his hands were being cut, but the firmly embedded blade would not budge.
Murat drew another sword from his side and gave it a slight wave.
“What are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to attack?”
Murat showed a grim smile toward the soldiers who swallowed nervously and charged at him.
∗ ∗ ∗
‘He’s insane. Completely insane!’
Recalling the face of the monster who had overturned the evenly matched battle in an instant, Vasco hurried toward the stern.
There were too many soldiers slaughtered by that man’s hands to count on two hands, as he ran across the swaying deck as though it were level ground.
After fleeing to the stern, Vasco frantically searched with his eyes for a way to escape to another allied vessel.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
He could not understand the words, but he knew the voice.
Realizing that the monstrous man had finally come after him, Vasco hurriedly turned the muzzle of the gun he was holding.
Bang!
“Aaargh! My aaarm!”
Vasco rolled across the deck from the searing pain, while Murat inspected the gun in his hand.
The pistol, infinitely shorter than a musket, looked like a toy in Murat’s huge, pot-lid-sized hand.
‘I wondered why Father gave me such a toy. It’s quite useful.’
Putting the pistol back into his clothes, Murat stepped on Vasco, who was writhing in agony.
His fine clothing, clearly distinguishable from everyone else’s, was enough to show that he was an important person aboard the ship.
“Name. What is your name?”
Still unable to understand what he was saying, Vasco shouted in humiliation at being trampled by infidels.
“I am a nobleman! I am Count Vasco da Gama! Show me basic courtesy!”
“…Vasco?”
It was difficult to make sense of his shrill words, but that name was unmistakable.
Murat lifted the adult man as though he were a toy, bared his menacing teeth, and asked,
“Are you Vasco?”
“…I am Vasco da Gama.”
After receiving confirmation, Murat reached toward Vasco’s face as Vasco glared at him.
Vasco screamed and thrashed as his left eye was gouged out, while Murat wiped the fingers smeared with blood and viscous fluid on Vasco’s clothes and said,
“There’s no need to look so bewildered. I simply hate people like you.”
When Murat had first arrived at Moka Port and heard that an Arab nomad had abducted one of his subjects, he had personally wiped out the tribe. Now he spat out a thick wad of saliva.
Ever since childhood, Murat had been taught by Yusuf that the Arabian Peninsula and India must be brought into the embrace of the empire, and so Vasco’s atrocities felt to him as though they had been committed against the empire’s subjects.
“The clothes you wear, the ornaments adorning your body, even your reputation—all of it is nothing but disgusting to me.”
As yellow liquid dripped onto the floor, driven out by pain and terror, Murat dragged Vasco’s face toward him and muttered in a low voice.
“Consider yourself lucky. If I didn’t have to send you to the Padishah, I would have torn you apart and killed you right here.”
After tossing Vasco to his subordinate, Murat took up his sword and strode away.
He felt he would only be satisfied if he took out his irritation on someone else.
After all, Vasco and the Portuguese soldiers were all the same sort.
∗ ∗ ∗
When one sits as the master of an empire, many precious gifts find their way to him.
Sometimes they were talented individuals such as Michelangelo or Machiavelli, handed over by pirates; at other times, they were treasures whose value was difficult to determine.
There were even occasions when beautiful women suitable for the harem were presented as tribute.
He had received so many things that even remembering them all was burdensome, but it was rare to receive a gift he would remember as clearly as this one.
“Vasco da Gama.”
It was difficult to imagine that the one-eyed man covered in wounds bursting with pus was someone whose name people in the future would have heard at least once.
“He is a man who would be at least a count in his own country, yet Murat certainly handled him roughly.”
“Padishah?”
When the grand vizier questioned him over the strange remark, Yusuf lightly shrugged.
“He may be a count, but he is an enemy and a man I dislike. What difference does it make?”
To be honest, Yusuf thought Vasco da Gama was a man who had benefited greatly from a world-history education centered on the West.
People learned that he was the first European to sail to India by way of the Atlantic and the southern coast of Africa, but not about atrocities such as curry made from human flesh.
‘Of course, if necessary, I could commit the same atrocities myself.’
It was fine even if one called it hatred of his own kind. The truth was that he was not a man Yusuf particularly liked.
“Vasco da Gama, do you want to live? There is only one thing you need to do.”
“…What is it?”
His voice came out rough and hoarse from the ordeal he had endured, and Yusuf gave him his answer.
“Write a single letter to Manuel, the king of Portugal.”
“…Just kill me instead.”
At Vasco da Gama’s resolute reply, Yusuf smiled broadly.
“I will help you until you feel like writing the letter. Of course, you need not worry about delivering it. I have the means to place the letter you write directly into Manuel’s hands.”
The Ottomans were a nation that even employed the deaf and the blind to protect the secrets of the palace. There was no way they lacked skilled experts in torture as well.
Watching Vasco being dragged away without even a chance to take his own life, Yusuf gave a cold smile.
∗ ∗ ∗
Manuel I, king of Portugal, stroked his beard as he read the letter Vasco da Gama had sent.
“So the rumors were nothing but empty noise. In the end, they are merely heathens.”
“What does it say that makes you think so?”
“It says that most of the Ottoman ships are galleys incapable of properly carrying cannons. Their cannons are poor enough, and their accuracy is even worse.”
At Manuel’s words, his subject asked in puzzlement.
“Wasn’t it confirmed that the Ottomans possess several large ships? It is strange to hear that most of them are galleys.”
“It seems the canal is not wide enough for large ships to pass through.”
The canal had only recently opened, so rumors abounded. One rumor spreading rapidly claimed that it was no more than a narrow river through which only rafts could pass.
If that rumor was true, Vasco’s letter made sense.
“In any case, the count says we need not worry.”
Having experienced a great victory at the Battle of Diu against the heathens, Manuel set his worries aside and began slicing meat lavishly sprinkled with spices.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Set sail!”
Nearly seventy ships unfurled their sails at the Port of Mocha, while the empire’s red flags fluttered in the wind.
It was the empire’s first serious move toward the eastern trade.
∗ ∗ ∗
The man who had been tilting back cup after cup of liquor to soothe the throbbing pain slammed his cup down roughly.
He had started drinking with the thought that all he needed to do was avoid getting drunk, but the number of cups kept increasing.
“Piggish Ottomans. Damn little upstart.”
The Tahirid dynasty that had ruled western Yemen had vanished.
The sultan’s head had been cut off long ago by the Ottoman army that had conquered the Mamluks and marched south, leaving only him—the governor of the port city of Aden—as a remnant of that fallen order.
Murjan, an amir meaning governor, placed a hand over the wound inflicted by the young prince.
The long gash in his side—some had said that merely surviving it proved Allah had watched over him—but the memory of being wounded by a prince who had not even reached puberty had remained deeper than the scar itself.
“Hah, I never should have trusted those useless Portuguese. They only let our discontent build, and we gained nothing.”
It had been less than ten years since he had barely managed to repel the invading Portuguese fleet, yet not only had he joined hands with them, he had even suffered a miserable defeat.
Already, the currents within the city were ominous.
Feeling both pain and suffocation, Murjan drew his sword with a slightly flushed face when the door burst open.
“What is it!”
“A-Amir?!”
His subordinate, startled that Murjan might actually point a sword at him, hastily bowed his head before the governor could swing it.
“Forgive me for my rudeness, Amir! But the Ottoman army has appeared at the harbor!”
At the word Ottoman, Murjan felt his drunkenness vanish, and only then did he hear the commotion outside.
Murjan hurried out of the room and moved to a place where he could see the entire city at a glance. He felt the strength abruptly leave his hand.
People were fleeing frantically with screams, trying to put even the slightest distance between themselves and the harbor that was their home.
When he raised his head a little higher, the Ottoman red flags occupying the broad sea dazzled his eyes.
“Oh, Allah.”
He wanted to believe that the sight of a gigantic fleet, too vast to count by hand, gliding past the harbor was merely a dream.
Aden had been confident it could stand against the Ottomans thanks to its experience defeating twenty Portuguese vessels, but now it was finally forced to face reality.
The reality delivered by the Ottoman fleet of seventy ships was merciless.
Standing aboard the flagship of the Ottoman fleet, Shemsi clasped his hands behind his back as he watched Aden recede into the distance.
“I respect the prince’s methods, but one must remain flexible depending on the opponent. Sometimes, you must instill overwhelming fear. People are reluctant to give up even a single grain of wheat in their hands.”
Murat’s way was to subdue warlike men, such as warriors, with overwhelming force, while winning over the weak through mercy and consideration. But that method did not always work.
There were countless people across the Arabian Peninsula who, like those holed up in Aden, watched for nothing but an opportunity to strike.
Rolling his stiff shoulders, Murat replied.
“If we are going to frighten them, shouldn’t we obtain their surrender while we have the chance?”
“Of course, obtaining their surrender—or occupying the city—would not be difficult.”
At a glance, it was a port that had been fortified fairly well, and it was easy to understand why Portugal had given up and withdrawn. But that too depended on the opponent.
The fleet was more than capable of reducing Aden to rubble merely by bombarding the harbor in turns, but there was always a reason for not doing something even when one could.
“We have not been given an abundance of time. Thanks to the prince, we not only captured Vasco, we also learned that Portugal and Spain were attempting to join hands.”
“He started confessing everything once we grabbed him.”
What good would it have done if Vasco had kept his mouth shut? His subordinates had begun spilling everything after being shown a little affection—even confessing to adultery.
In any case, what mattered was that the two nations had joined hands to check the Ottomans.
“The Padishah has bought us some time, but if enough time passes, the enemy may notice that something is wrong.”
This measure was only an improvisation. They could not be expected to remain foolishly deceived forever.
“If Spain had noticed what was happening, the admiral who was in the Mediterranean would not have been able to come this far south as he did today. Is that not so, Admiral?”
“Indeed. Keeping watch over them was my duty, after all.”
Kemal Reis stroked his white beard in agreement, and Shemsi smiled.
“You cannot imagine how reassuring it is to have an admiral of such experience with us.”
“The Padishah says he still requires the strength of this old man, so I have no choice.”
Kemal had intended to resign after the conquest of Rhodes, but Yusuf had forcibly kept him on, saying that one did not retire while still a vigorous young man in his sixties.
A voice suddenly rose from behind Kemal.
“Weren’t you debating until recently whether to send your letter of resignation to the Padishah, Uncle?”
Kemal’s face twisted horribly, and he glared at the middle-aged man who had spoken.
“You insolent brat, Piri. Did I not tell you not to go blabbing about such things? Go attend to your own work.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, Uncle.”
Watching Piri withdraw with a sly grin, Kemal sighed.
He had employed the man for more than twenty years now, but aside from mapmaking, there were many things about him that Kemal disliked.
As Shemsi let out a hearty laugh at Kemal’s embarrassed expression after Piri’s departure, he said,
“You have worked hard, so perhaps you would like to rest. Still, is it not better than those times when there is not even enough time to drink hot qahwa, forcing one to dip bread into it?”
Qahwa-soaked bread.
It was the most fitting expression for the bureaucrats of the capital.
Being able to soak bread in coffee was the fortunate case. The capital’s bureaucrats were so pressed for time that they sometimes made the bread itself using coffee.
Shemsi brought the conversation, which had briefly wandered off course, back around.
“We must press forward while they have not yet properly grasped the situation. We have no time to waste on a small city like that.”
Just as Shemsi finished speaking, the voice of a sentry rang out.
—Portuguese scout ship! I see an enemy scout ship!
Having heard the sentry’s report, Murat clenched and unclenched his hands in tension and excitement, and Shemsi laughed as he watched him.
“You need not trouble yourself so much. In any case, you will have no chance to step forward, Prince.”
Kemal and Shemsi had received only one order from Yusuf.
Overwhelming firepower.
To display such overwhelming might that the East would be unable to hold its head up before the empire.
This was the mission they had been entrusted with.
∗ ∗ ∗
Diogo Lopes de Sequeira, the governor of India, spent a restless time.
It had been a long while since Vasco had departed. Even if reinforcements were not coming, a reply about the outcome should have arrived long ago.
They themselves might be hard-pressed, but the homeland had the means to send news far more quickly through the Persian Gulf.
Had Vasco reached the homeland safely? Had he failed to persuade the king?
Or perhaps things had not gone well in his discussions with Charles V, the king of Spain. Since he had no way of knowing, his anxiety only deepened.
‘If we have to face the Ottomans without receiving any aid…’
He had nightmares whenever he fell asleep thinking about it.
Diogo, who wondered every day whether they should simply abandon the Persian Gulf and retreat to India, was approached by his panting adjutant.
“G-Governor! The Ottoman navy is advancing toward us!”
When he heard the news, Diogo thought that what had to come had finally arrived. He leaped to his feet and asked,
“How large is the enemy force? How large is it?!”
“…According to the scouts’ report, they say it is twice the size of our fleet.”
“What kind of ships are they?!”
In a naval battle, the size of the ships making up a fleet mattered more than the number of ships.
Diogo clung to a sliver of hope, but the answer he received was despairing.
“They say most of them are carracks.”
Even among carracks, displacement varied enormously, but even if every enemy vessel were a small carrack, they were still overwhelmingly outmatched.
Diogo immediately rushed out of the room, and the commanders directing the soldiers as they busily prepared for war gathered around him.
“Governor! What should we do?!”
“Would it not be better to make our stand here?!”
“If things go wrong, we’ll be trapped here and slaughtered! It may be a good place to defend, but how long do you think we can hold out?!”
Diogo raised a hand toward the commanders shouting over one another.
“Enough! Prepare to set sail!”
Surrounded by rocky islands and rocky mountain ranges, Muscat was a strategic position well suited to defense, but they could easily end up like rats trapped in a jar.
They could never forget that this place lay deep in enemy territory, far from the homeland.
At Diogo’s judgment, the commanders scattered to prepare for departure. Diogo returned to his quarters and clenched his fists.
“In the worst case…”
As Diogo steeled himself, his eyes grew cold.
∗ ∗ ∗
Where the Persian Gulf met the Arabian Sea.
The two fleets faced each other in the Gulf of Oman, and the Ottoman and Portuguese fleets spread their wings wide, like birds establishing their rank.
“They’re making quite an effort.”
Kemal sneered.
No matter how desperately they struggled to avoid being surrounded, the struggle was meaningless the moment the two sides differed in size by more than twofold.
As the Ottoman fleet, stretched out like wings, began to envelop them, the Portuguese fleet hurriedly turned sideways.
The Portuguese fleet exposed its broadside, lined with cannons, opened its gunports, and fired.
Bang! Boom!
“Admiral! They say the lower-deck guns are ready to fire.”
“Not yet. Wait a little longer.”
Enemy cannonballs that missed struck the sea and sent up sprays of water, but Kemal did not so much as blink.
An order was soon passed down not to bring out the lower-deck cannons, while the enemy hurriedly bombarded the Ottomans as they drew closer.
Crack!
When an enemy cannonball that had flown across a great distance smashed the railing, the flagman, catching Kemal’s eye, waved his flag high.
With a creaking groan, the ship listed and turned, revealing the densely packed gunports along its side, now facing the enemy.
“Fire!”
Along with the faintly audible command, the cannons fired, and thick gray smoke billowed upward.
The cannonballs fired by nearly seventy ships amid the acrid smoke were a calamity.
Even excluding the duds, well over a thousand cannonballs rained down upon the Portuguese fleet.
“Aaaagh!”
The ship lurched violently from the impact of the cannonballs, and one soldier flailed as he fell into the sea, but there was no time to spare any thought for him.
Bang!
“F-Fire! There’s a fire!”
Not only had the cannonballs punched holes all over the deck, one struck a cannon just as it was about to fire, causing it to explode.
Engulfed in black smoke, the ship listed and slowly sank, while soldiers who did not wish to share its fate threw themselves into the sea.
Even as their hands trembled at the sight of comrades reduced to bloody lumps by cannon fire, the Portuguese soldiers carried out their assigned duties.
Crack!
It was a brutal exchange of fire.
The mainmast, struck by a Portuguese cannonball, split with a deafening crack and crashed into the sea. The waters were littered with wooden wreckage, corpses, and drifting soldiers.
Both sides engaged in the bombardment without regard for their lives, but the advantage rapidly tilted toward the Ottomans.
Bang!
The cannon, sliding backward at the instant it fired, suddenly jerked to a stop when its rope caught, and the soldiers sprang into action.
“Reload quickly! Reload!”
They hurriedly cleared the debris from the muzzle with a rammer, then shoved powder and a cannonball into the barrel.
It was only one added rope, but the difference was enormous: instead of a cannon rolling back three or four meters, it moved only forty or fifty centimeters.
Reloading was completed at least half again as quickly. Already outnumbered, the Portuguese fleet also fell behind in reloading speed, and rapidly began to collapse.
Rumble, rumble!
“Aaaaaagh!”
As yet another ship, a hole torn through its lower hull, was dragged beneath the waves, Diogo slammed his fist down on the railing.
“Damn it! What kind of sorcery is this?!”
As Diogo growled at the enemy’s impossibly fast reloading speed, his adjutant shouted,
“Governor! At this rate, we’ll all die! We have to retreat!”
Of the fleet that had numbered nearly thirty ships, six had already sunk, and more than nine had been badly damaged.
By contrast, the Ottoman fleet had lost only a single ship.
Diogo glared at the enemy with bloodshot eyes and issued an order.
“Wave the yellow and blue flags together.”
“Governor! Are you truly planning to abandon our men?!”
It was a retreat order issued only to the five rear ships, including the flagship. Diogo seized his protesting adjutant by the collar.
“Someone has to be sacrificed if we’re going to shake off the enemy! Will you do it?!”
At Diogo’s growled words, the adjutant lowered his head helplessly, and soon two flags began to flutter.
It was a heartless betrayal, abandoning their allies as bait.
∗ ∗ ∗
“They’re still moving as foully as ever.”
Murat gazed irritably out at the sea.
When part of the enemy force, including the flagship, retreated, the remaining ships could clearly be seen milling about in confusion.
That meant it was not a coordinated maneuver, at least.
“What can they accomplish with only five ships? Even if they escape, all they can do is prolong their lives a little.”
In any case, with the empire blocking the west, they would be unable to return to the homeland.
“What comes next is more important than those remnants.”
As the thunder of cannon fire slowly subsided, Şemsi spread out a map.
“From this point on, it’s a race against time. Now that Portugal has pulled out, unclaimed land belongs to whoever picks it up first.”
The Ottomans had to absorb the lands occupied by Portugal, including Muscat, Bahrain, Goa, and Malacca.
Only then could they use them as footholds for eastern trade.
Of course, their former owners would clamor to have them returned.
‘If they didn’t like that, they shouldn’t have let Portugal take them in the first place.’
If they did not want to be slapped in the face by cannons, they should have kept quiet and stayed put.
They had driven out a fox, only for a lion to arrive.
∗ ∗ ∗
The first thing Portugal did after setting foot in India was establish strongholds along the coastline.
They seized land with muskets and cannons at the forefront, even building fortresses themselves when necessary. They had no other choice.
On a long voyage, the most important thing was not food, but drinking water.
Without watertight containers to keep out insects, they had to conserve and drink even water teeming with bugs. But they could not simply land whenever their water ran low and scoop up any water they found.
One mistake in consuming contaminated water could wipe out an entire crew.
Ultimately, that meant it was vital to have strongholds where drinking water could be secured safely.
‘The same goes for us Ottomans.’
Kemal Reis recalled what Yusuf had told him.
Even though the Ottomans were closer to India than Portugal was, following the coastline meant traveling thousands of kilometers.
They needed ports where food and drinking water could be safely replenished. It was an especially important matter for the Venetian merchants who would use the canals.
“It all comes down to money.”
“What are you talking about all of a sudden?”
At Murat’s question, Kemal answered with a smile.
“I was reminded of something the Padishah said. He said that for Venetian merchants to conduct their trade safely, they would have no choice but to use the lands occupied by the empire.”
“Given what Portugal has done, that makes sense.”
When Vasco da Gama first arrived in Calicut, known as the city of spices, the hostility was so intense that Muslim merchants spat on the ground and cursed Portugal.
They had already been fiercely hostile, and Portugal had gone around stirring things up with cannons on top of that. At the mere mention of Christians, they would have been more than willing to draw axes instead of merchandise.
“He said that once the Venetian merchants gathered, they would all be money. It would be even better if we could collect canal tolls, port usage fees, and taxes as well.”
“…That sounds just like Father.”
He said it while listening to Murat, and Şemsi’s face broke into a smile.
“Prince, look around you.”
In the naval battle, the Ottoman losses amounted to one ship sunk and three badly damaged, while eight enemy ships had surrendered.
Ten ships had been detached to tow the damaged and surrendered vessels to the Red Sea, while six ships had been detached to seize Muscat and Bahrain.
Even after so many ships had been detached, nearly fifty were still heading for India. The sight of the fleet cleaving cleanly through the waves stirred something in the heart.
“Even the sailors adjusting the masts over there, and the movement of this ship here, all require money. A country can only run smoothly when it is basically flush with funds.”
Watching Shemsi go on and on about money, Murat felt a strange sense of incongruity, and Kemal whispered in his ear.
“Please understand, Prince. He changed like that because he was under such severe financial pressure while opening the canal.”
“I see. I felt somewhat uncomfortable because he was different from the Pasha I saw when I was young.”
Seven years spent digging the canal had been more than enough to impress the importance of money upon his mind.
Hearing their whispers, Shemsi gave a small cough.
“I may look like a miser, but it means that money is just that important when running a nation. It is also Your Highness’s weakness.”
“I can’t help but fall behind compared to my elder brother Mehmet.”
Thinking of his brother, whose calculations were faster than those of most merchants, Murat gave a bitter smile.
He felt that all he had to put forward was his strength, while his brother possessed far too much.
“There is no need to think so negatively. Even the Padishah falls behind Prince Mehmet in many respects. However, he possesses the foresight to govern the nation well.”
“Foresight.”
“That is right. Such foresight can be gained through experience.”
Yusuf had possessed such foresight from a young age, when he had hardly any experience at all, but Shemsi had long since given up on judging Yusuf by common sense.
“The Padishah ordered Your Highness to travel all the way to this distant place for the sake of giving you such experience.”
“That means my father has expectations of me?”
“Of course.”
Shemsi did not bother to voice the truth that, even before any succession, the Padishah was counting on him as a source of labor.
If he started talking about that, he might even mention how the Padishah had grown irritated at not having a child he could order about.
“In any case, you should take this opportunity to see and experience it properly.”
The Ottoman way.
∗ ∗ ∗
The atmosphere in Goa, the port city downstream on the Mandovi River, was in a state of confusion.
This was because of the Portuguese fleet that had arrived not long ago.
One might wonder what difference it made for Portuguese ships to appear when Goa had already been occupied by Portugal for more than ten years.
But it was another matter when the so-called viceroy of India had come, looted the city, and departed.
“W-What in the world is going on?”
It was not as though the looting had gone on for long.
The Portuguese fleet had swiftly gathered money and goods within a few hours before departing as though fleeing, leaving the victims utterly bewildered.
The quick-witted Arab merchants realized that something capable of frightening those fearsome Portuguese soldiers was on its way, and this became reality in less than half a day.
“Capture the Portuguese criminals! Move!”
When more than forty ships approached the harbor, the harbor garrison did not even dare fire its cannons.
The soldiers who entered Goa without bloodshed poured out with guns at the fore, swiftly occupying the important facilities, including the walls.
Several Portuguese who had been left behind without hearing the news were dragged away, and the soldiers shouted at the top of their lungs.
“From this moment on, we proclaim that this Portuguese territory has become the land of the great Ottoman Empire!”
“From this moment on, this place is the land of the Ottoman Empire, which has liberated it from Portuguese oppression!”
The people of Goa, hearing the soldiers’ words through those who spoke Arabic, stared in bewilderment at the name Ottoman.
As residents of a trading port, they had at least heard the name, but they had never expected the Ottomans to suddenly appear out of nowhere.
However, when the Portuguese flag hanging high upon the fortress was lowered and a red flag began to flutter, they realized the gravity of the situation.
“The Ottomans? Aren’t we in serious trouble?”
“They seem like they’ll be better than those Portuguese bastards.”
The merchants hurriedly hid their goods and lowered their voices.
They had no idea when the grim-faced Ottoman troops roaming about might begin looting.
Additional cannons brought by the Ottoman army were installed along the harbor walls, and the existing soldiers were disarmed.
The people spent the night awake with fear, but when day came, they felt slightly relieved.
“Hmm, how much does this pepper cost?”
“For this amount, one Venetian gold coin should be sufficient.”
“Pasha Shemsi, isn’t that rather cheap?”
At Murat’s question, Shemsi stroked his white beard and nodded.
“It is not a bad price. Once we return to the homeland, it will fetch more than ten times that amount.”
“Then we should buy some on our way back.”
The sight of the Ottoman prince and the Egyptian beylerbey leading the army moving about as though they had come to browse the market washed away the people’s worries.
The soldiers showed no signs of coercion, either.
The soldiers had been given permission to purchase spices equivalent to a single sack instead of pillaging, and the market became so crowded with soldiers buying spices that it bustled with activity.
Just as the fear was being dispelled by the stark contrast with Portugal, a messenger came running to Murat.
“Prince, an envoy has arrived from the Sultanate of Bijapur.”
“He came quickly, just as expected, Pasha.”
“Would that not mean they are all worked up?”
It was only natural that they would be flustered, with a red flag planted where the Portuguese had withdrawn.
When they returned to the fortress, the envoy respectfully paid his respects.
“Have you come from the Adil Shahi dynasty?”
“That is correct. Ismail Adil Shah, who rules Bijapur, sent me.”
“Very well. What brings you to our territory?”
The envoy, hearing Shemsi’s words through the interpreter, bowed his head and said,
“As the Empire knows, this place originally belonged to our Bijapur. We are grateful that you defeated the wicked Portuguese, but we would now like to receive it back.”
“When I arrived, the Portuguese flag was flying here.”
“It has been barely a dozen years since it fell into Portuguese hands. We can still call it our land.”
Shemsi’s face immediately contorted at those words.
“If we argue that way, then Egypt has not even been occupied by the Empire for ten years, so does that mean it is not the Empire’s land?! Is it written in the Quran how long a place must be occupied before its owner changes?!”
“No, that is not what I meant—”
When the Egyptian beylerbey himself, of all people, suddenly roared at him, the envoy broke into a cold sweat.
He had already been defeated by Portugal. There was no way he could stand against the Ottomans, who had crushed Portugal there.
Swallowing his fear, the envoy hurriedly continued.
“I only mean that we need a somewhat more intimate discussion.”
“Regrettably, we must soon move on to capture the remnants of Portugal.”
Shemsi stroked his white beard and spoke as though he had thought of an excellent solution.
“To strengthen the friendship between our two nations, why not pay a visit to the Caliph?”
“The Caliph…?”
“Surely you mean the Padishah, who officially inherited the position of Caliph. Would a sultanate such as yours dare use that title without receiving the Caliph’s permission?”
At this, the envoy’s eyes rolled from side to side, and Shemsi frowned.
“Come to think of it, are you Shia?”
“W-Well, yes, but…”
“Tsk. Then why not come and make a pilgrimage to the holy sites? Does it make sense for a Muslim not to make even one pilgrimage? Be sure to recommend it to the Shah as well.”
“No, how could the Shah travel such a great distance?”
“Do not worry. The Empire’s fleet will faithfully look after the Shah’s safety.”
Though it was phrased as a pilgrimage to the holy sites, the envoy felt cold sweat trickling down his back at a proposal that sounded exactly like an abduction.
He was afraid of the enemy army and could not forcefully object to such an absurd proposal. Yet he also felt that if he stayed like this, he would continue to be pushed around, so the envoy spoke in a calm voice.
“I appreciate the proposal, but I believe I must discuss it closely with the Shah.”
“Then it cannot be helped. Come to think of it, I hear that there are many Sufis in your country as well. I have brought the book most beloved by the Empire’s Sufis, so take it with you on your way back.”
The Sufis were mystics, and among them, the Empire’s Sufis were those who strongly believed that Yusuf was a prophet.
The books they had written contained claims on the level of saying that Yusuf would follow Allah’s call, tread upon the clouds, and ascend to heaven.
Not knowing that what he had received was practically a vicious poison, the envoy found himself leaving Goa with an armful of books.
After courteously seeing the envoy off, Shemsi asked Murat politely,
“Prince, did you see that?”
“I saw it clearly. When necessary, you use anything at all—threats, the Caliph, whatever works.”
It was not that the envoy was stupid.
As the representative of a weak country, he had no choice but to watch his opponent’s mood. Having been struck with such weighty matters, he could do nothing but return without even saying what he had intended to say.
Murat gave his brief impression.
“Wouldn’t it have been simpler just to point a cannon at him?”
∗ ∗ ∗
“Goa has been completely occupied, and we will seize the Portuguese fortresses scattered throughout the region before taking Malacca as well, is that it?”
Yusuf looked at the map presented by Piri, the nephew of Kemal Reis.
Admiral Piri’s map was famous even in the modern era.
Because it depicted Antarctica and South America more accurately than maps made a hundred years later, it was regarded as a map of an ancient super-civilization or even an OOPArt.
It’s nothing special when you see it in person.
As an Ottoman state well informed about affairs beyond its borders, the Empire had received various maps, and this was a map stitched together from them.
To Yusuf, it was simply a map worth looking at. Nothing more.
In any case, Yusuf traced with his finger the territories that had been in Portuguese hands, beginning with Muscat, where the naval battle had taken place.
“They certainly took a substantial bite, didn’t they, Ali Pasha?”
At Yusuf’s question, Hadım Ali Pasha, who had returned from Grand Vizier to chief eunuch, bowed his head.
“Is that not a good thing for the Empire?”
“It is.”
Thanks to Portugal, they had firmly secured a bridgehead for infiltrating India.
Eastern trade favors the Ottomans more than Europe.
Islam had spread beyond India, reaching as far as the region of the Philippines.
The Ottomans possessed not only the position of Caliph, the pope of Islam, but also Mecca, the holy site, and even relics of Muhammad. They were naturally in the best position to operate there.
“Things are going to become interesting.”
Portugal had occupied Aden and the Horn of Africa, the region jutting out like a rhinoceros’s horn, in an attempt to blockade the Red Sea. It had also occupied Bahrain and Muscat to seal off the Persian Gulf.
It was a scheme to slowly strangle the Ottoman Empire, its rival.
In the original history, this process proceeded smoothly, and the Ottomans had no choice but to wear this stifling collar.
“The collar has been broken, and from now on, the empire will become the center of trade.”
Yusuf declared.
∗ ∗ ∗
After capturing Malacca, the Ottoman army hurriedly seized a ship upon hearing rumors that it was carrying Westerners.
Piri, who thought they had finally caught the governor of India who had been fleeing like a rat, furrowed his brow.
“What the hell? Who are these beggars?”
They might have fled all the way here from India, but they were in absolutely dreadful condition.
Anyone would have thought they had been at sea for one or two years.
That was not the only strange thing.
“Captain! The ship is loaded with an enormous amount of cloves! We’ll sink if we’re not careful.”
They were supposedly fleeing, yet they had loaded the ship with a huge quantity of cloves, a type of spice? No matter how he looked at it, it made no sense.
Piri held a sword to the trembling sailor’s neck and demanded,
“What the hell are you people?!”
The sailor trembled and prostrated himself.
“W-We’re Spanish sailors who came here with Lord Ferdinand Magellan by way of the New World! Please, spare our lives!”
It was the moment when the destination of the first circumnavigation of the world changed.
∗ ∗ ∗
“Governor! Are you really certain this is all right?”
“This is the only way to return to the homeland!”
They could make the perilous voyage across the Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean, but judging by the fact that the Ottomans had arrived before the reinforcements, southern Africa might also have fallen into Ottoman hands.
‘If we encounter that monstrous Ottoman army again….’
Thinking of their fleet being sunk with ease, Diogo clenched his fists tightly.
As he recalled the scene that returned like a nightmare every night, Diogo became convinced that his judgment was correct.
“Didn’t you say that a man named Magellan set out to reach India?! If we continue heading east, we should be able to reach the homeland as well!”
Diogo declared that they would circumnavigate the world.