I Became the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire

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Conclusion and Dramatization (2)

In Aristotle’s Poetics, it is stated that “tragedy imitates persons above the average, while comedy imitates persons below the average.” This means that protagonists of tragedies, like Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet, should be superior individuals like nobles, whereas comedies must feature characters who are inferior.

This astutely captures the human nature of experiencing catharsis through witnessing the misfortunes of others, and the events occurring in Georgia were a continuation of that nature.

“Not only revealing their base nature, they are now engaging in reckless actions.”

Yusuf twisted his lips upon receiving the intel.

The thrill of being able to drag down nobles that he had always looked up to sent him into a frenzy.

In the early rebellion, any captured noble was handed over to the Ottoman Army for execution, but now, he executed them himself.

In this era, just like going out to the theater, the whole city converged at the noble’s execution site to watch, brutally witnessing the executions, regardless of age or gender.

“Vassals would rather surrender to the Ottoman forces, believing it increases their chances of survival.”

Facing total annihilation of their lineage, surrendering to be a slave is better than seeing their families wiped out.

The majority of lower nobility had no major connection to betrayal, typically being relocated instead, hence their choices seemed reasonable.

Of course, if it had ended solely with the execution of nobles, Yusuf wouldn’t have cared much.

“These executions are real entertainment.”

After the French Revolution revamped hanging gallows to guillotines, there were instances where they requested to go back to hanging, due to poor visibility.

People took their children along, as if going to a sports match, to watch executions.

Noble executions didn’t need to be questioned, but the madness of the commoners had taken a different turn.

“32 died fighting over noble properties. Accused someone of hiding a noble due to a longstanding feud.”

Besides that, stories of killing refugees while accused of being nobles, and intentionally murdering nobles who were about to surrender to the Ottomans, all sorts of roguish tales reached his ears.

To put it coldly, he had anticipated such side effects, but what truly stirred Yusuf’s mood was something else entirely.

“They praise me while engaging in such nonsense. What do they even think?”

Looking around, Yusuf saw that those gathered here, including Şemsi and Arda, were all wearing furious expressions.

“How dare they tarnish the honor of the Padishah! They deserve to die!”

“The Empire must bring death to those who speak frivolously of their master!”

Amidst their fervid declarations, Şemsi, who had been silent, finally opened his mouth as he met Yusuf’s gaze.

“It seems they do not yet grasp that they now belong to the Empire.”

The master of the empire is the Sultan, and the Sultan’s honor is the Empire’s honor as well.

Toward these people who couldn’t even comprehend this simple fact, Yusuf imparted a firm command.

“Tell the Sipahis that I will temporarily grant them the authority to punish those causing turmoil in the Empire.”

“I will convey the Padishah’s intention.”

Normally, it would be the judges of various religions, including Islamic Qadis, who’d determine punishments, but it is impractical to summon judges during wartime.

Since the Sipahis typically acted as police in their own territory of timar, he granted them temporary authority to punish, considering the peculiarities of wartime.

This alone would effectively suppress confusion.

-Your Majesty, a new self-proclaimed King of Kakheti has arrived.

Given its distance and the significant Kingdom of Kartli as a buffer, Kakheti was uniquely untouched by the Ottoman forces.

That said, he was not unaware that they were able to reach Akhaltsikhe, and hearing that the awaited opponent had arrived, a deep smile spread across Yusuf’s face.

“The last prey has crawled right to me.”

Rising from the throne, Yusuf strolled leisurely.

He was about to face a foolish prey that had alleviated his burdens.

*

The fact that the Ottoman army was formidable was well known in Georgia, and Georgi had heard tales of it.

However, there was a stark difference between merely hearing rumors and facing the reality.

‘This is the Ottoman elite.’

Georgi swallowed hard as he observed the soldiers surrounding him.

Their peculiar appearance, with floppy hats and only bushy mustaches, was insignificant.

Standing ready for their master, the Janissaries displayed no disarray, yet an unmistakable thick smell of blood permeated the air.

–The Padishah is entering! Everyone, take your positions!

At the Janissary’s command, they all responded in unison without a hint of error, and Georgi hurriedly followed suit.

As Yusuf entered the reception room, he looked down at those who were bowing.

“Raise your heads.”

As Georgi carefully lifted his gaze, Yusuf was reminded of the first time he laid eyes on Mzechabuk.

He bore a resemblance to a man from that time, an ordinary middle-aged face deeply stained with sticky power lust.

Of course, even being reminiscent of that past fragment wouldn’t change the already predetermined ending.

“So, why have you come all this way to find me?”

Georgi clenched his fists at Yusuf’s unexpectedly cold attitude.

While he wasn’t expecting a warm welcome, he didn’t anticipate such a frigid response.

An ominous feeling welled up within him, but turning back was no longer an option, so Georgi bowed his head.

“I have come to swear allegiance to the great Padishah.”

“Allegiance… Whose words are these?”

Georgi’s eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected statement, momentarily choking on his breath at the vicious glare.

He could feel his body trembling without realizing how pathetic it was.

“Did you think everything would end when the foolish King of Kakheti died? Don’t make me laugh. You too cannot escape responsibility.”

Struck by what felt like a death sentence, Georgi shouted urgently.

“Your Majesty! Please reconsider! Kakheti and I can accomplish anything for you!”

“Do you think someone like you has the right to say such things?”

Yusuf sneered.

To secure power, he forced his father to his death and blinded his brother. While this may seem cruel, such things were common in this era.

Even the Ottomans considered killing their blood relatives a ritualistic act.

However, generations to come would speak poorly of him, labeling him as malevolent, insane, and wicked.

‘The real problem isn’t morality; it’s incompetence.’

He was aggressively belligerent but utterly inept. A perfect candidate to ruin a nation.

Historically, he attacked the Kingdom of Kartli and, after being captured, ruined the country just three years into his reign.

Critiques on morality were essentially taunts about his incompetence.

“There is no place for someone as incompetent as you to stand by my side.”

Yusuf’s curt evaluation ignited fury within Georgi.

Images of his father favoring his younger sibling over himself flooded his mind, and forgetting his fear, he shouted heatedly.

“Who says I’m incompetent…! Argh!”

“How dare you speak recklessly before me!”

There was no mercy from those who had already decided Georgi’s fate before he even entered the room, and Yusuf coolly looked down at Georgi, whose face was thrust roughly against the floor.

“Crawling without even knowing where you’re meant to die is sheer incompetence. And it seems this has begun now.”

—Bang! Bang!

The sound was that of Georgi’s 3,000 Kakheti soldiers being subdued in front of Akhaltsikhe.

Realizing he had come to find his grave, Georgi laughed in disbelief, while Yusuf turned away, leaving the foolish Georgi behind.

“Şemsi Pasha.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Now that we have taken Kakheti, the conquest of Georgia is complete.”

Though there were still cities that had yet to surrender, they would inevitably lower their heads on their own soon.

“While the conquest is complete, we can’t say it has entered the Empire fully. The administrative void is currently left unfilled due to the executions of all the nobles.”

If he didn’t intend to leave Georgia as lawless territory, he would have to appoint administrators quickly, and he knew it would take a significant amount of time to stabilize administration.

He had shattered the indigenous forces, so this was inevitable.

“Then you will have to bear some hardships.”

“…Your Majesty?”

Questioning the Sultan’s orders was uncouth, but Şemsi found it inappropriate to discuss etiquette.

It felt like he had just heard the most absurd demand.

“I intend to establish the newly conquered land as the Georgian Eyalet. Therefore, you must temporarily serve as the Beylerbey of this place.”

Currently, the Ottomans had only the Rumelia of the Balkans and the Anatolia of the eastern peninsula, and if one were to create one in Georgia, it would mark the third Eyalet.

This meant Şemsi was required to reshape the administrative foundations of Georgia.

“Your Majesty, would it be permissible just this once to act uncivilly?”

With eyes burning like fire, Yusuf smiled and firmly responded.

“No.”

Lightly patting Şemsi’s shoulder, who trembled like a thug, Yusuf offered him encouragement.

“You’ll only have to endure for a year and a half. That’s the duration you need to get through. You will, after all, be accompanying me on the campaign against the Safavid.”

“Can I resign from my position?”

“Of course not.”

Groaning out loud, Şemsi quickly started to think about what needed to be done immediately, causing Yusuf to grin softly.

‘It’s just a year and a half until I make a hole in Ismail’s head.’

This was the period required for preparing supplies essential for war, equipping troops with better weapons.

He needed to prepare thoroughly as they might have to confront not just the Safavid but also the Mamluks, who traditionally opposed the Ottomans.

Of course, if time allowed, the Safavid would also prepare for an attack.

“Thus, I need to eliminate any chances of such leeway.”

Yusuf’s smile deepened.

*

Watching the slowly setting red sun, the trudging man appeared rather shabby.

Wearing ragged clothing that suggested he hadn’t changed for quite some time, his face was just as unkempt.

With a face that wasn’t even average when tidy, he bore a noticeably crooked nose, making it clear to anyone that he was quite the unattractive fellow.

“Damn this world. Those bloody bastards! They should just hang themselves.”

The Italian peninsula was engulfed in the flames of war, and people tightened their belts, looking to save wherever they could.

The art sector was hit the hardest, and the man moving his feet was one of its victims.

The papacy that once requested his work hadn’t paid him properly for a year, and all his assistants had fled to Florence.

If that was all, it could be manageable. As his appearance suggested, he was a man of abstinence.

But the letters that arrived yesterday turned his gut upside down.

“More money?! What nonsense is this from someone who opposed my work?!”

The memory of being beaten by his father and uncle when he expressed his intention to be an artist was still fresh, and now they were pestering him for money.

Grinding his teeth at the thought of his reckless father and brother, the man cursed the papacy—

“Why the hell are they fighting with the Ottomans while failing to even pay properly?”

With annoyance brewing against the Pope, who seemed intent on worsening their finances by creating enemies, he resolved to breach the Aurelian Walls protecting Rome.

Contracts and everything else aside, returning to Florence to commence new work seemed the better option.

As the man walked toward the harbor to take a ship to Florence, he immediately sensed something was off in the port of Ostia.

Black smoke was rising, and screams and roars echoed faintly in the distance.

Realizing something was amiss, he quickly began to turn his body away, but a group of riders suddenly charged toward him.

“What’s this beggar doing?!”

Surrounded by people who had turbans on their heads, stained swords, and had looks different from Europeans, the man trembled in fright.

Regardless of his quaking, those who had raided Ostia frowned at him.

“Came here to catch the fleeing rich and ended up with some beggar.”

“Just kill him and move on! He looks useless anyway.”

He didn’t understand the exchanged words, but upon witnessing the pointed blades aimed at him, the man hastily shouted.

“P-Please spare me! Is there anyone who can understand me?! I’m a great artist!”

Fortunately, someone who could understand him was present, and relayed his words to the leader with a red beard.

“Hazir, this one claims to be a great artist. What shall we do?”

“An artist? Maybe he’s just a beggar.”

After a moment’s contemplation, the man replied.

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“He asks for your name.”

At this, the man shouted out his name.

“Michelangelo Buonarroti! It’s Michelangelo!”

“I don’t recognize that name. Should we just kill him?”

Hazir smacked the back of his subordinate’s head in irritation.

“What do we care if we hear the name of an artist? Let’s take him to my brother. If he’s useless, we’ll just make him a slave like that Venetian we caught.”

“Yes, Hazir!”

While rubbing his sore head, Michelangelo was bound tightly with ropes as he shouted.

“We’re heading back. To Barbarossa!”

Shortly thereafter, news of the pirate raid at the harbor sent shockwaves through the Papal States.