Became The Sultan Of The Ottoman Empire [EN]: Chapter 116

Venice is the capital of the Republic of Venice, a sprawling city of canals where numerous islands are connected by bridges.

Romans fleeing foreign invaders sought refuge on these islands, driving countless wooden stakes into the marshy ground to create a foundation for stone buildings, and then laying flagstones on top.

Over a thousand years, this once-uninhabitable land was transformed into Venice, the capital of one of Europe’s wealthiest powers and home to over a hundred thousand people.

However, this glorious city was beginning to show signs of strain.

“Doge, this cannot continue,” a voice declared.

Leonardo Loredan, gazing at the colorful gondolas gliding through the canals, turned with a sigh.

His eldest son, Lorenzo Loredan, stood before him, his expression grim.

“Pressure is mounting, particularly from the Contarini family.”

“Tsk, we need to be more united than ever in times like these.”
The Contarini family was one of Venice’s founding families and held the most seats in the Great Council, which elected the Doge, and the Council of Ten, which could enact laws.

The Loredan family, to which the Doge belonged, was also a powerful family, as evidenced by his election, but their recent missteps were causing concern.

“There are complaints about why we engaged in a war with the infidel empire [referring to the Ottoman Empire] when the safety of the republic was at risk.”

“They agreed to it as well. What could we do when the terms of the armistice with the Papal States were structured that way?”

“They may understand the reasons, but doesn’t that highlight the extent of the damage? The damage to our family’s reputation is also significant.”

Where had things gone wrong?

In the naval battle with the Ottomans, they had managed to retreat without significant damage to their ships, which was fortunate. However, the situation deteriorated as the Ottomans began targeting Venetian merchant ships in the Mediterranean.

With so much money poured into the war effort, the money supply was dwindling as trade routes were disrupted.

The Papal States, which had initially pushed for the conflict, had suffered no particular damage since the pirate attack, yet they were escaping blame.

The Doge slammed the cane he was holding against the floor.

“Isn’t this all because the envoy sent by the Contarini family hasn’t returned! If that man had returned in time, everything would have gone smoothly!”

If they had properly coordinated with the Safavids [a Persian dynasty], they wouldn’t have had to worry about the Ottomans.

He had entrusted the mission to the family that had produced the Sultan’s ambassador during the reign of Uzun Hasan of Persia, but they had ruined everything.

A loud voice broke through the Doge’s frustrated thoughts.

“Doge! Ottoman ships have appeared!”

“Is it an attack!” the Doge exclaimed, wondering if they were launching a direct assault, not just targeting merchant ships. A soldier, having received permission, entered and bowed respectfully.

“No! They left only a letter for you, Doge, and then departed!”

“A letter? Bring it to me immediately.”

The Doge’s face brightened, unsure of its contents. His envoys had been consistently turned away, fueling his frustration, so even a one-sided letter was a welcome sign.

After an agonizing wait, the Doge held a thick piece of paper that was more than just a letter.

The first thing that caught his eye when he unfolded the neatly rolled paper was the portrait of a haggard man.

“Almorò Contarini?”

His once-stately appearance was gone, his face gaunt, but the painter’s skill was evident, making him still recognizable.

The Doge’s mind raced as he realized the missing envoy had been captured by the Ottomans.

How long had he been held captive? The fear crept in that he had been manipulated by the young Sultan from the start.

The Doge lowered his gaze below the portrait and found a message written in bold handwriting.

“If you want him back, come to Kostantiniyye [Constantinople, modern-day Istanbul] with a ransom.”

The Doge turned the paper over.

It was blank.

“Is that all?”

The Doge stared blankly at the single-sentence letter.

***

“Padishah [Ottoman Sultan], is it wise to send so little?”

The message seemed so insignificant that it was hard to believe it had been written beneath Michelangelo’s painting.

Yusuf waved his hand with a smile, dismissing the Grand Vizier’s concern.

“That’s sufficient. Why waste ink writing more? Regardless of what we write, they will come anyway.”

“That’s true.”

It was Venice, not the Ottomans, that was in a desperate situation.

Knowing that a dialogue channel had opened, they would rush to seize the opportunity.

“Considering the Padishah’s dignity, wouldn’t it be better to send a more formal message?”

“Why should I be so formal with such a pitiful opponent? Sending a portrait instead of the head of the captured envoy is already a generous gesture.”

Yusuf, answering nonchalantly, glanced at the lined-up cannons.

“Tahir.”

“Yes, Padishah.”

Tahir, the engineer who had created the boring machine for carving cannons during Suleiman’s reign, bowed respectfully at the Sultan’s summons.

“What is the current number of cannons that can be mobilized?”

“I believe it’s approximately eight hundred.”

“Eight hundred.”

In historical accounts, around 500 cannons were mobilized during the war with the Safavids.

Yusuf stroked a cannon with his hand.

‘Even if the Safavids are in the process of acquiring cannons, we hold an overwhelming advantage.’

He was unsure of the quality of the cannons used by Venice, but the cannons carved with the boring machine were the best of their time.

The cannon’s performance was exceptional, the gunners’ skills were honed, and the number of cannons that could be deployed was substantial.

This meant there was no reason to fear Ismail [Shah Ismail I, founder of the Safavid dynasty].

“Increase the number of cannons ready for deployment to 1,500.”

“That many?”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t predict how the Mamluks would react if war broke out, so they might have to divide their forces.

Therefore, the more cannons, the better.

Tahir, surprised by the sheer number, bowed his head.

“I will follow the Padishah’s will.”

“Work diligently. I’m counting on you.”

The boring machine for carving cannons had to be kept strictly secret, and Tahir had to personally intervene if any issues arose.

Suleiman had offered little assistance in its development or repair, placing a heavy burden on Tahir.

Yusuf lightly patted Tahir on the shoulder and returned to the castle, where Mehmet, summoned at his command, bowed his head.

“Padishah, you have returned?”

“There’s no need to be so formal. You can hug me like Murat if you wish.”

At Yusuf’s words, Mehmet hesitated slightly before cautiously embracing him.

It was a hug that felt more awkward than embracing a woman for the first time.

Yusuf, sitting next to Mehmet, who was blushing and fidgeting after the clumsy hug, smiled mischievously.

“You can continue hugging me if you like.”

“No, it’s alright. That’s enough. But why did you summon only me?”

His two sons had moved to the harem with their mother, but that didn’t mean they were estranged.

However, he usually summoned Murat with him, so he was curious as to why he had been called alone this time.

Yusuf slowly studied Mehmet.

Having inherited Yusuf and Aisha’s features, he possessed a handsome face, but his physique was rather slight.

This was even more apparent when compared to Murat, who was more physically developed for his age.

Unlike Murat, who had never been ill, he occasionally suffered from mild colds when the seasons changed.

“Mehmet, you know that you will eventually become a Sanjakbey [governor of a district] someday.”

It was an unavoidable fate for a prince.

Yusuf had no intention of changing the practice of appointing princes as Sanjakbeys for their education, even if he didn’t adhere to the law of fratricide [the practice of killing one’s brothers upon ascending to the throne].

When the topic of Sanjakbey arose, Mehmet nodded firmly, displaying a maturity beyond his years.

“I am well aware of that.”

“There are two paths you can choose. A stable, secure position, or a position where success is not guaranteed, but the potential rewards are immense. Which would you choose?”

“I would prefer a stable position.”

It was a somewhat disappointing answer, but Yusuf, who had anticipated this response, smirked.

“Mehmet, look at me.”

Yusuf fixed Mehmet with a stern gaze, and Mehmet carefully raised his head to meet his eyes.

“Do you take me for a fool? To the point where you would choose a life of quiet obscurity?”

“How could I?!”

“Do you think I will be intimidated by your talent like others!”

Mehmet flinched at Yusuf’s outburst.

Mehmet displayed exceptional abilities even at the palace school, Enderun [a prestigious Ottoman school], which gathered the most intelligent individuals from across the empire.

To the point where those around him felt uneasy and intimidated.

‘I was concerned about how others perceived me. I feared that even my father would see me in that light.’

Yusuf reached out, lifted Mehmet’s chin, and locked eyes with him.

“People are afraid of you? That’s natural. A person who cannot inspire fear in others is unfit for leadership.”

What could be more absurd than a Sultan who couldn’t command respect and fear?

“No matter how talented you are, I am the Padishah. I have no reason to fear you, even if you are intimidating. I have the power to end your life, but you cannot end mine.”

“Father….”

Mehmet’s eyes widened as he looked at Yusuf, who spoke with unwavering conviction.

It was a harsh declaration, implying he could kill his son at any moment, but the realization that his anxieties were unfounded was deeply touching.

“Go back and reflect. It is a grave offense to underestimate your father, the master of this empire.”

“…I understand!”

“Tsk, what’s so gratifying about being reprimanded?”

Mehmet, smiling slightly despite the disapproving words, bowed respectfully and departed. Yusuf tapped the armrest of his chair.

‘He is undeniably intelligent. Other Sultans might have been intimidated.’

He possessed the potential to surpass even his father. Murat’s talent was comparable, although directed differently.

Of course, Yusuf, who aspired to build a vast empire beyond the conquest of the Mamluks, wasn’t concerned about his sons’ talents.

Instead, he saw it as a positive sign, knowing there would be ample opportunities to utilize their abilities in the future.

“Mehmet should be sent to Kefe [modern-day Feodosia, Crimea]. He should oversee the development of the mines in the Donets Basin there.”

Mehmet, who could easily enlist their support due to the proximity of Kefe and Cherkess, was the ideal candidate.

With the assistance of the compliant Crimean Khanate, he would be able to develop the region effectively.

It was an area rich in bituminous coal, essential for producing coke for ironmaking. If developed, it could yield abundant iron, propelling the empire to new heights.

Yusuf rose from his seat and addressed the eunuch.

“I must visit the harem.”

More children were needed to further his ambitions.

The Sultan’s night was long.

***

A ship that had set sail from Venice arrived in Kostantiniyye.

The envoy once again set foot in the city where he had been previously expelled by Ottoman soldiers, without even a proper audience with the Sultan or his officials.

Fortunately, there was no threat of expulsion this time, but he still faced a daunting task.

‘We must prevent the Ottoman fleet from attacking our merchant ships.’

It was presented as a ransom for Almorò Contarini, but in reality, it was the price for antagonizing the Ottomans.

He had no idea how many ducats [Venetian currency] he would have to pay, but he had to make it happen.

The envoy, burdened by this heavy responsibility, glared at a man who had accompanied him.

“Aldus Manutius, did you really have to come?”

It was no exaggeration to say that Venice was the printing capital of Europe.

Over 400 printers resided in Venice, selling vast quantities of books throughout Europe each year.

The most renowned publisher among them was Aldine Publishing, founded by Aldus Manutius, famous for printing Aristotle’s works.

He was a man of considerable influence in Venice, but the envoy’s tone was laced with annoyance.

“Didn’t you hear the story of the Sultan severing the fingers of the envoy from the Mamluks last time? He’s a volatile man who could easily have your head if you offend him.”

Aldus responded with a sly smile to the envoy’s warning.

“You needn’t worry. I’m simply here to purchase a book.”

It was a book that had begun publication after the promised three months had passed.

The man had come to witness the miracle of one book becoming tens of thousands.