I Became the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire

What Is Religion? (1)

Becoming a sanjakbey for Ottoman princes is like intense early education.

When a prince governs a vast territory as a sanjakbey at a young age, it’s akin to a conglomerate CEO placing his elementary school-aged son as the president of a subsidiary.

Throughout human history, it’s hard to find a country that provides early education like the Ottomans, and this training allowed them to perform excellently even when they ascended to the throne unexpectedly at a young age.

Take my grandfather, Mehmet II, for example—he ascended the throne at age 19 and annihilated Eastern Rome by age 21.

It’s an audacious and brilliant educational method, but one unfortunate aspect is that the prince has no opportunity to learn from his father, the Sultan.

‘But I guess there’s no helping it. To the Sultan, his son is just a rival eyeing his position.’

When thinking like that, being a sanjakbey is an education as well as a method of restraint.

Like how a lion drives away its grown cubs, and that wandering male waits for a chance to take over.

Anyway, it’s strictly forbidden for princes to even come to the capital until they come of age, so there’s no chance for something like regency or co-rule like in other countries.

Only after their father’s death does the prince receive an indirect handover from the Grand Vizier and other officials, and no matter how much he dislikes certain officials, they’ll be kept around during the early days in power.

Of course, they would be purged within a year or two.

Importantly, Yusuf found himself in a similar situation, needing to learn the Sultan’s duties, but with the ongoing earthquake recovery and expeditions, he became even busier.

Meeting Urji amid the frantic busyness was nearly like taking a breath of fresh air.

“Those two beggars are supposed to be the Venetian envoy and Michelangelo, huh?”

Yusuf pointed at the envoy among the two who seemed suspiciously like impostors.

The ragged clothing was faded but showed traces of having been expensive at one point. It was their pitiful state that undermined their credibility.

“If that guy is indeed the envoy who went to the Safavids, he wouldn’t just casually reveal it, would he?”

“It was hard to catch him, and he only kept repeating that he wanted to be released for a ransom without revealing his identity. So, I threw him into the slave market.”

“He was quite vocal about it.”

Under normal circumstances, the penalties would be death, torture, or enslavement, and the latter was indeed hard and miserable.

Being a slave meant experiencing muscle tears or beatings regularly, and if one barely eats bread soaked in urine, they tend to loosen their lips eventually.

If he truly is a genuine envoy, it would make sense to understand the discord between the West and Safavids.

“Alper Pasha.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The Silahtar tasked with protecting him, Ain Alper Pasha, straightened up and pointed to the envoy, who was fidgeting and trembling as he looked around nervously.

“Take him away and carry out the verification process.”

It’s not that he didn’t trust Urji; it’s that the value of this prisoner necessitated a verification process.

Not being stabbed didn’t erase the guilt of wielding a sword in front of him; he had to pay for revealing this to the Ottomans.

The reason the fleet led by Kemal Reis was capturing Venetian merchant ships in the Mediterranean was that capturing the envoy could also pressure the Mamluks.

‘For the envoys of both countries to move about, they must pass through Mamluk lands.’

The Mamluks wouldn’t be ignorant of the clandestine dealings between the Venetians and the Safavids.

Once the envoy was captured and evidence secured, the Mamluks couldn’t completely evade responsibility, and numerous ideas for how to use the envoy flooded into Yusuf’s mind.

This would be a matter to consult with officials once the identity became clear, and Yusuf turned back to look at the last remaining person.

“Is this guy truly Michelangelo?”

“He claimed so. The slaves captured at the harbor recognized the name, so we brought him here. Do you know it?”

How could I not know?

Europe was in the Renaissance, overflowing with brilliant talents, and among artists, three names emerged most prominently: Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo Buonarroti, and Raphael Sanzio.

All three were incredible artists, but if I had to choose the most coveted one, it would clearly be Michelangelo.

The reason is simple.

‘He can be utilized longer.’

Old and nearing the end of his life, da Vinci had less than ten years left, while Raphael, handsome yet notoriously womanizing, passed away at the age of 37.

Michelangelo was unattractive, arrogant, cranky, and never shied away from vitriol, yet he led a life of chastity and longevity, making him quite desirable, and I never expected him to end up in my hands like this.

Of course, it required the precondition that he wasn’t an impostor.

“I’ve heard bits and pieces. However, if he is indeed who he says he is, then what a mess he’s in.”

As famous as Michelangelo was for wearing rags, this was pushing it.

It was clothing so shabby that even a passing beggar would hesitate to wear it.

Upon Yusuf’s comment, Urji scratched his head.

“Actually, he claims to be quite a decent artist, but his paintings were so abnormal that I tossed him in as a slave for about two months.”

“Abnormal paintings?”

He thought of himself as a sculptor and hadn’t formally studied painting, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t paint.

If he couldn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to create masterpieces like the Sistine Chapel ceiling or The Last Judgment.

Yusuf turned his gaze critically towards the apparent impostor, while Michelangelo fumed and shouted.

Naturally, Yusuf didn’t understand the words, so he looked at the official who was in charge of interpreting, the translator sweating profusely and said.

“He said he lacks the insight to properly see his own paintings.”

“Say that exactly as is.”

At Yusuf’s command, the translator shivered, uncertain whose order it was.

Closing his eyes tightly, he fully repeated what Michelangelo had said.

“Who’s painting is strange when yours look worse than a blind dog’s? All you Muslims always draw weird stuff, so it makes sense.”

“Is that so?”

Islamic paintings, including those of the Ottomans, are characterized by miniature styles.

At first glance, they look like caricatures, but they avoided perspective, three-dimensionality, and liveliness to escape the dangers of idolatry.

Not understanding this background could easily lead to misinterpretation.

Yusuf stared blankly at the man with a nose that was crooked enough to be noticeable, then nodded.

‘With him speaking arrogantly in front of me, it’s likely he is indeed Michelangelo.’

Being who he was can equate to being Michelangelo, but tolerating arrogance is another matter.

“Alper Pasha.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Toss him into the navy’s slave quarters. Make it as hard as possible without harming him.”

“Leave it to me.”

Alper fixated on the arrogant figure before the Sultan, his face shining brightly as he received orders.

Two Silahtars, following Alper’s gesture, grabbed Michelangelo by the arms.

Not expecting to be taken away just like that, Michelangelo shouted, but soon had his mouth clamped shut while being dragged along.

In such a pitiful state, for one of the greatest figures of the Renaissance, Yusuf didn’t find it a big deal.

“I’ll need to see how much he struggles as a slave.”

He would surely soften up over time, and when that happened, rewards could be given.

Having neatly finalized Michelangelo’s fate, Yusuf smiled broadly at Urji.

“Urji, you’ve brought back quite the useful gift. You’ve also contributed to the looting of the Papal States, haven’t you?”

“Everything has been thanks to Your Majesty’s support.”

“Even so, the efforts of you and the others shouldn’t go unnoticed. I’ll ensure that you’re generously rewarded.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!”

Now that he had proven his worth, there was no need to be stingy with rewards.

Once they conquered the Mamluks, the next targets would be Mediterranean islands like Rhodes, Crete, and Malta.

This would directly lead to conflicts with the West and open opportunities for the Barbary Pirates to thrive.

Yusuf patted Urji on the shoulder.

“Just keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

It would also be nice to capture Raphael next time.

*

It was a dark night.

After having briefly sat in the position of the next owner of the Topkapi Palace, Suleiman entered the audience chamber on cautious footsteps.

The deaf servant turned on the faucet, and as the sound of water trickled, Suleiman knelt immediately.

“Great Padishah, I greet you.”

“Raise your head.”

With permission granted, Suleiman raised his head and was taken aback.

It had only been a few months since he had last seen this face, so the features hadn’t really changed.

However, the atmosphere around this person was undeniably different.

‘The tales circulating among officials these days were no empty words after all.’

The son of Selim who brought disaster, the heir deprived of the title of Shazada.

Such rumors had even reached Suleiman, who could not mingle closely with officials.

It was said that the Sultan returned from his expedition as even more of a monster.

Witnessing the reality of the rumors sent shivers down Suleiman’s spine, but he calmly gathered his thoughts and asked.

“Did you call for me, Your Majesty?”

“Have you been well? I’ve heard that the work with Tahir has seen success.”

“It’s merely a replication of the design you gave, Your Majesty.”

“Such a task is not to be taken lightly.”

Using a water wheel as a power source to carve cannons was a technique that wouldn’t emerge for another two hundred years.

It was an epiphany of thinking to create cannons by carving the cannon tube, rather than merely making molds.

The innovation spawned by this shift in thinking had brought about monumental change.

‘Safer, lighter, and more powerful shells. That’s what the Ottomans now possess.’

Of course, such technological advantage wouldn’t last forever.

Once other nations realize that Ottoman cannons are superior, they too will start researching, eventually reaching conclusions.

However, what mattered was the time gained in the meantime, and there was no need to fear Venice’s support to the Mamluks and Safavids.

Yusuf praised Suleiman with a benevolent expression.

“What you have accomplished deserves commendation, and there’s no need to diminish your contributions. Both you and Tahir will receive fitting rewards.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Of course, the reason for summoning Suleiman at such a late hour wasn’t just to praise him.

“Suleiman, I’ve heard that you spent a lot of time with Mehmet while I was away. Is that true?”

“Yes, he frequently visited the working space.”

“Indeed. Having observed him, how does he appear to you?”

After momentarily contemplating the question, Suleiman answered decisively.

“He’s a monster.”

“More so than you?”

Suleiman, who had a reputation for intelligence from a young age, shook his head.

“He’s on a whole different level. He could operate as an official right now without a hitch.”

Typically, when a prince turns twelve, he is appointed as a sanjakbey, yet until reaching adulthood, he’s nothing but a mere figurehead.

The ones in charge of education manage the territory, and the prince learns the practical work from the sidelines.

But for an eight-year-old to be said to be capable of handling practical duties was the highest compliment.

“It seems you rather like Mehmet?”

“I’m both excited and fearful thinking about how he’ll grow. Only Allah knows how he will develop.”

Seeing a talented person go astray is among the scariest things imaginable.

Suleiman, straightforward in his response, cautiously asked, “But why do you ask?”

“Well, I was contemplating sending him off as a sanjakbey quickly, but it seems he’s already caught on. It’s as if he’s pretending to be an incapable child. I wonder who he takes after with such cleverness, tsk.”

No matter how brilliant, both the one wanting to send an eight-year-old as a sanjakbey and the eight-year-old who cottons on to that and rebels are anything but ordinary, and Suleiman made a slightly shocked expression.

*

After the expedition and before returning to the capital, Yusuf made a resolution.

He would not hesitate any further if it would benefit the empire in the long run.

Before conquering the Safavids and Mamluks, there were matters to settle.

The Muslim population was increasing, and there was work that needed addressing before acquiring the title of Caliph, the Pope of Islam.

“Summon Şeyh al-Islam Zembilli Ali Effendi.”

First, he needed to sort out religion.