I Became the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire

동방무역(1)

Clang!

As the lava-red molten iron poured out of the furnace, the workers raised their voices.

In the moment of an accident where molten iron might spill, one could vanish without a trace, leaving not even a bone fragment behind.

When the molten pig iron from the furnace was poured into the fixed containers, air was blown in through the bottom of the container, and the pig iron reacted violently, bursting forth.

Watching the geysers of flames erupting from the top hole of the steel-making process, Mehmet took a step forward.

“I think we could speed things up further.”

Wiping the sweat lightly, Mehmet looked around.

The heat here was so intense that those who visited called it the city of fire.

Through the open castle gates, carts loaded with coal and iron ore came and went without rest, while factories producing coke from coal and extracting iron sent heat and smoke billowing up into the air.

In this daily repeating scene, Mehmet spotted a familiar face.

“Have you arrived? Saadet Khan.”

“Haha, you seem to have grown a lot since the last time we met.”

“Flattery doesn’t suit you.”

Not everyone grows like Murad.

Brushing off Saadet’s idle talk, Mehmet glanced behind him.

“Where did you bring those people from this time?”

“They said the nomads were too fierce and difficult to use, so we brought them from the west.”

The crowd being dragged along was filled with fear.

Since the Crimean Khanate primarily engaged in slave hunting, it wasn’t a strange sight, but what was different this time was that an entire family had been kidnapped.

Typically, they would kill all the men and children and only bring back the women, which was distinctly different.

“It’s becoming increasingly difficult to hunt as time goes on. The soldiers’ movements have also become more active.”

“Once swept away, a whole village can be brought in, so it’s understandable they would react.”

This suggested a growing sense of crisis regarding the explosive increase in slave hunting in recent years.

Mehmet approached the trembling people and conveyed their message.

“You will live here from now on, learn our language, and work. As long as you don’t cause trouble, you can live with your family and won’t go hungry.”

“…Is that really true?”

“It’s certainly not a place where we’ll roast you to eat, like you rambled on about earlier.”

The thought they might have been listening to them paled their faces, and Mehmet gestured to his subordinate.

Now, they would blend into the labor force through simple training and in due course, could become subjects of this land.

Mehmet expressed his gratitude towards Saadet.

“Thank you as always for the help from the Crimean Khanate.”

The biggest problem in creating a new city is the people, and even with immigrants from Circassia and the Crimean Khanate, there were clear limits.

Slave hunting served the dual purpose of filling the population needs and weakening the power of other nations; hence, it was crucial work.

“The appropriate price has been received from the Padishah, so there’s no need to thank me for that. However, every time I visit here, it feels magnificent.”

Laborers with black soot smeared on their faces trudged along, and the air was thick with smoke.

The buildings were mostly bleak gray structures focused on practicality, with not a single magnificent mosque in sight.

There was nothing in sight that would elicit admiration, but the moment he saw the piled-up iron, that impression flipped upside down.

“There are still many lacking parts. The quality of the iron isn’t that good either.”

Although they could produce steel in large quantities, it wasn’t of the high quality necessary for springs.

Saadet laughed at Mehmet’s evaluation.

“Sometimes I think your evaluations are excessively harsh, Prince. What if the quality is a bit lower? Look at how much iron there is! Didn’t the Padishah say it’s the future of the Empire along with the canal?”

“The future is just that, the future. In the present, it isn’t. Hasan Pasha has requested iron for bridge construction, so it may soon become reality.”

He had heard the news of Hasan, known as the left arm of the Padishah, placing a bridge over the Bosphorus Strait, but the idea of including iron in that plan bewildered Saadet, as he realized the times were changing.

“When the bridge made with real iron is completed, the Prince will surely gain even more recognition.”

“To not fall behind Murad and the others, that must be the case.”

Not only Murad but even the youngest, Mustafa, each had their own spotlight, so there was no room for complacency.

In response to Mehmet’s words of keeping his brothers in check, Saadet smiled.

“I don’t know about the two younger princes, but don’t you think Prince Mehmet resembles the Padishah more than Prince Murad?”

Though he had only been in power for about ten years, Yusuf had already begun to hear evaluations suggesting that he had surpassed the accomplishments of Mehmet II.

That evaluation of resembling such a Padishah was a significant competitive advantage for the princes, but Mehmet just smirked.

“Outwardly, I would say I take after the Padishah more than Murad.”

He had inherited the exquisitely handsome appearance and the striking green eyes, the most notable features of Yusuf.

After all, Yusuf wasn’t the type to charge ahead and slay enemies like Murad.

“But, when we were in the capital, Murad received more praise for resembling the Padishah than I did.”

“In what way?”

“In an internal sense.”

Although Murad often caused trouble, even fighting with commoners on the street, he was also the one who tried to get closer to the subjects and help them.

Rough around the edges, but the sincerity he had for the subjects was often likened to Yusuf’s heart.

Of course, Mehmet had undertaken actions thinking of the subjects, just like Murad.

‘It’s sincere, yet it feels so difficult.’

Having a sharper mind than others, he calculated the consequences of his actions almost instantaneously, making total sincerity feel hard to grasp.

Yusuf offered consolation, suggesting that result-based calculations might be better than hearts without results, but it was tough for Mehmet, who struggled to comprehend sincerity.

“In any case, Murad is the one who thinks of the subjects like the Padishah.”

Mehmet assessed thus.

*

When eye contact was made, it felt like a battle was about to begin; the naval battle was heralded by cannon fire but was insufficient to deliver a decisive blow.

Encountering the Ottoman army while returning to the homeland was surprising, yet Vasco was confident.

‘It’s only three ships at most.’

The Osman Naval Forces, which had come out for reconnaissance, were only three ships but his fleet consisted of five.

Though the enemy ships were generally larger, it wasn’t enough to overturn the numerical advantage.

The two fleets, shrouded in thick gray smoke from cannon fire, intertwined and plunged into hand-to-hand combat.

“Throw!”

The Portuguese soldiers hurled grappling hooks at the enemy ships, and just as they hung on the ropes to cross over, gunfire rang out.

The gunfire from the Ottoman soldiers peeking out from the deck generated a storm of blood, and merciless bayonets rained down on the Portuguese soldiers who were barely clinging to the railings.

“Open fire! Return fire!”

Vasco ordered the flintlocks to fire, but the Ottoman soldiers, holding the superior position, suffered relatively little damage.

As gunfire subsided, soldiers wearing turbans poured out of the Ottoman ship wielding swords.

-Clang!

On the rocking ship, swords clashed noisily, transforming the place into a scene of utter chaos in an instant.

Amidst the confounding deck where distinguishing friend from foe became difficult, there was a raucous landing sound.

“Ughhh!”

“Great voice you have there!”

Immediately sinking his sword into the enemy, Murad responded to the shrieks by driving his blade deeper into the deck.

The soldier who was pinned alongside him struggled without realizing his hand was getting cut while trying to pull the sword out, as it was firmly lodged in place.

With a new sword drawn from his side, Murad brandished it.

“What are you doing? Not charging in?”

Swallowing his spit, Murad grinned at the soldiers rushing toward him.

*

‘Insane. Absolutely insane!’

Recalling the monstrous face that flipped the tide of battle in an instant, Vasco hurriedly moved toward the stern.

The number of soldiers slaughtered by that monstrous figure, who leapt across the rocky ship as if it was solid ground, could not be counted on two hands.

Escaping to the stern, Vasco anxiously scanned for a way to flee to another allied ship.

“Where are you rushing off to so busily?”

Though he couldn’t comprehend the intent, he recognized the voice.

Realizing that the monstrous figure was indeed pursuing him, Vasco hastily turned the barrel of his gun.

-Bang!

“Ahhh! My hand!”

The fiery pain made Vasco tumble, and Murad looked at the pistol in his hand.

The pistol, infinitely shorter than the musket, appeared like a toy in Murad’s hands that were as large as a pot lid.

‘What did my father give me this toy for? But it’s actually quite useful.’

With the pistol tucked back into his chest, Murad stepped on the writhing Vasco.

The luxurious clothing that distinctly stood out from others indicated he was a significant figure on this ship.

“What’s your name? What’s your name?”

Not fully comprehending the words yet understanding the humiliation of being trampled by these infidels, Vasco shouted.

“I am a noble! I am Vasco da Gama, Count! You should show some basic courtesy!”

“…Vasco?”

While he couldn’t grasp the whole of the babbling words, he did catch the name clearly.

Lifting the adult man as if he were a toy, Murad revealed his sharp teeth and asked.

“Are you Vasco?”

“…I am Vasco da Gama.”

Receiving confirmation, Murad reached out to Vasco’s glaring face.

Vasco, with one eye dug out and covered in a pus-filled wound, screamed in struggle, and Murad wiped his blood-and-mucus-soaked fingers on Vasco’s clothes as he spoke.

“There’s no need to look surprised. I just really hate guys like you.”

When Murad first arrived at Mocha Harbor and heard that one of his subjects had been abducted by Arab nomads, he personally wiped out that tribe, spitting a thick ball of saliva.

Having been educated by Yusuf from a young age that the Arabian Peninsula and India should be embraced within the Empire, Vasco’s misdeeds felt as if they had been committed against the Empire’s subjects.

“The clothes you’re wearing, the jewelry you’re adorned with, and your reputation, all of it disgusts me.”

As yellow liquid dripped from pain and fear onto the floor, Murad dragged Vasco’s face closer and whispered softly.

“Lucky for you, you should thank your stars. Otherwise, I would’ve torn you apart on the spot.”

Casting Vasco aside to his subordinates, Murad gripped his sword and swiftly turned away.

Somehow, it seemed satisfying to vent this irritation on the other fools.

After all, whether Vasco or the Portuguese soldiers, they were all the same.

*

Sitting as the head of the Empire brings many precious gifts.

Sometimes people like Michelangelo or Machiavelli are given to me by pirates, and these become treasures that are hard to quantify.

Or occasionally, an exceptionally beautiful woman who could enter the harem is presented.

Having received so many things to the point that remembering them is laborious, it was rare to receive a gift that struck a chord like this one.

“Vasco da Gama.”

It’s hard to imagine that someone covered in a weeping, sore, one-eyed scar could be a figure one would likely have heard of in the future.

“He’s a figure of someone who’s at least a Count in a nation, yet Murad’s handled him quite roughly.”

“Padishah?”

When the Grand Vizier asked back at something strange, Yusuf shrugged lightly.

“Well, he’s a Count, but he’s of the enemy nation and is a person I don’t like, so what does it matter?”

To be honest, I think Vasco da Gama benefited greatly from Western-centric world history education.

He learned that he was the first European to navigate the Atlantic and South African coasts to India, but didn’t learn about atrocities like cannibal curry, did he?

‘Of course, if needed, I could commit similar atrocities too.’

You could say it’s ethnocentric aversion. It’s true that he’s not particularly pleasant in my eyes.

“Vasco da Gama, do you want to live? Just do one thing.”

“…What must I do?”

His rough and coarse voice came out due to his past suffering, and Yusuf answered him.

“All you have to do is write a letter to the King of Portugal, Manuel.”

“…Then just kill me.”

At Vasco da Gama’s determined words, Yusuf smiled broadly.

“I’ll make you want to write that letter, of course, and you don’t need to worry about sending it. I have the ability to deliver the letter you write to Manuel.”

In the Ottoman Empire, which keeps secrets even from the deaf and blind, there surely wouldn’t be a lack of excellent torture experts.

Watching Vasco being dragged away without a chance for self-determination, Yusuf’s smile turned cold.

*

King Manuel I of Portugal stroked his beard as he read the letter sent by Vasco da Gama.

“It’s just as rumored, but he’s nothing but an infidel.”

“What does it say that makes you think that?”

“It says that the ships of the Ottomans are mostly galleys that can’t even properly carry cannons. Their cannons are lacking, and their accuracy is even worse.”

The minister asked in surprise, “Didn’t several large ships belonging to the Ottomans get confirmed? It’s strange to say that they are mostly galleys.”

“It seems the canal isn’t wide enough for large ships to move.”

The canal had just opened, and rumors were spreading wildly, with tales of it being a narrow river where only rafts could pass quickly growing.

If that rumor were true, it would explain Vasco’s letter.

“Anyway, it seems the Count can afford to worry less.”

Having experienced a great victory in the naval battle at Diu against the infidels, Manuel let go of his concerns and sliced into the spice-laden meat.

*

“Set sail!”

At the Mocha Harbor, nearly seventy ships unfurled their sails, and the Empire’s red flags fluttered in the wind.

This marked the Empire’s serious endeavor toward Eastern trade.