Became The Sultan Of The Ottoman Empire [EN]: Chapter 121

Justification? (2)

The Mamluk cavalry, clad in ornate helmets that covered even their cheeks, shifted direction at their commander’s signal, expertly twisting to fire arrows backward.

The fact that the arrows flew straight and true, without a single one faltering, demonstrated the cavalry’s exceptional training. However, the Mamluk Sultan’s mouth was set in a tight line, betraying his unease.

His Royal Mamluk, who was following closely, cautiously inquired,

“Sultan, what troubles you? You seem uneasy.”

The position of Mamluk Sultan wasn’t hereditary; it was earned through selection from among the Mamluks based in the Cairo Citadel. [The Cairo Citadel was the seat of power for the Mamluk Sultanate.]

Assassination was a common path to becoming Sultan, and few who rose to that position were either kind or competent.

Even those enthroned as Sultan rarely lasted more than seven years before meeting a violent end. The current Sultan, having held power for over a decade, was undeniably capable.

The Sultan, whose beard had turned completely white from its original black since ascending the throne at the age of sixty, fixed his opponent with a fierce glare.

“Do not presume to delve into my thoughts.”

“My apologies, Sultan.”

The Sultan coldly brushed past the Mamluk who sought forgiveness.

Mamluks were both potential rivals, capable of turning into enemies at any moment, and essential figures for maintaining power.

‘That’s why I can’t confide in them.’

The reason they couldn’t adopt matchlock guns, already embraced by the Ottomans and Safavids, was the Mamluk cavalry.

To the Mamluks, who maintained power through martial prowess, the matchlock gun units—which could become formidable forces with minimal training—represented a direct threat to their authority.

Introducing matchlock gun units would likely result in his death within six months at their hands.

The Sultan glanced back at the Mamluks training.

Beneath the ornate animal skin coverings lay chainmail, and the horses wore expensive armor.

The sight, usually reassuring during wartime, felt woefully inadequate today, especially when a subordinate rushed towards him.

“Sultan! Urgent news!”

The Sultan, sensing the gravity of the situation, asked,

“…Have they finally moved?”

“Yes! The Ottoman army has begun its advance. They appear to be heading towards Diyarbakir!”

It was the signal for the start of the war.

***

Warm spring arrived, melting the frozen ground and painting the fields green.

The time for planting crops had come. A farmer, carrying a sack of seeds, paused, tilting his head and pressing his ear to the ground.

The faint sound became clearer through the earth, and the man looked up in surprise.

“What… what’s happening?!”

The startled farmer scanned the horizon and, in the distance, spotted a rising cloud of dust.

As if the village had already seen the approaching threat, a dull bell began to toll. The man hurriedly grabbed his sack and ran towards the village.

Reaching the village, perched on slightly higher ground, he could see the approaching phenomenon clearly.

“Allah.”

The man quietly invoked God.

As the sun began to set, the vast prairie was gradually being swallowed by a massive force, like dusk descending.

The man, who had lived his entire life in a small village of about a hundred people, had never witnessed such a multitude.

The cavalry riding at the front moved like a solid, advancing wall.

The infantry and camel trains that followed stretched out in a line, resembling a city he had only imagined.

The man, briefly overwhelmed by the sheer numbers, said in a trembling voice.

“S-shouldn’t we flee?”

“Where to?!”

It was an army that seemed capable of leaving only ruins in its wake, and fear spread rapidly through the village.

Though they had never encountered such a force, they knew that armies could be more terrifying than bandit gangs.

As if answering the villagers’ silent prayers, the army passed by in the distance, leaving the village untouched.

The force was so immense that it took nearly an hour for it to completely disappear, and the villagers finally breathed a collective sigh of relief.

However, half a day later, the villagers, witnessing an even larger main force approaching, were plunged back into fear.

Those who had only heard rumors of war were now beginning to experience its grim reality.

Yusuf, the man responsible for plunging southeastern Anatolia into terror, stroked the mane of his horse.

“Marching is always arduous.”

Despite participating in countless wars, Yusuf never found marching easy.

Even with a personal chef in tow, the food was nothing compared to the delicacies he enjoyed at Topkapi Palace. [Topkapi Palace was the principal residence of the Ottoman Sultans.]

If this were the capital, the chef would have lost his head a hundred times over.

And if clean water was scarce during the march, it was often better to drink wine.

Food and drink weren’t the only issues.

The marching unit included not only soldiers but also horses, camels, and even sheep being herded along as provisions.

Consequently, the areas where the troops passed resembled manure fields, and the unwashed soldiers emanated an unpleasant odor.

There were frequent moments when he wished he could shut off his sense of smell.

As Yusuf grumbled, the Grand Vizier [The Grand Vizier was the prime minister of the Ottoman Empire] next to him smiled softly.

“I have seen many battlefields over the years, but it is never an easy undertaking. However, isn’t it the presence of Padisha [Padisha is a title of Persian origin, denoting a great king or emperor.] that gives the soldiers strength?”

When the Sultan personally led a campaign, it allowed for the mobilization of more troops, and morale was naturally higher.

As Yusuf, who already enjoyed immense popularity among the Ottoman people, personally led the campaign, morale was soaring.

“It is good that morale is high, but maintaining it is even more crucial.”

There is no romance in war.

During World War I, Europeans who went to war with romantic notions were confronted with the horrors of a brutal conflict.

This experience profoundly shaped European culture, leading to widespread pessimism and cynicism.

Even in this era, where the values of human rights and life are relatively low, the fear of death remains constant.

“Isn’t the best way to maintain morale to secure victory?”

At these words, Yusuf smirked.

“And there are no easier opponents to grant them that victory than Dulkadir and Ramazan.”

The Safavids were gathering troops around Diyarbakir and Tabriz, while the Mamluks were concentrating in Aleppo, their northernmost city.

Aleppo means “milk” in Arabic, and it is said to be the place where the Apostle Abraham offered sheep’s milk to the hungry. [This is a reference to a local legend about the city’s name.]

In any case, the Mamluk forces gathered here, known as Aleppo in the West, were estimated to number around 50,000.

Neither the Mamluks nor the Safavids were easy opponents, and victory was far from guaranteed.

“Occupying Aintab in Dulkadir and checking the Mamluks will make it much easier to occupy the Safavids.”

Aintab, now known as Gaziantep, earned the title of Gazi (meaning “Guardian”) in the 20th century when 300 militiamen bravely defended it against 5,000 enemy soldiers for 11 months.

It was a strategically sound location to keep an eye on the Mamluks.

“Everything will be fine, as long as it goes according to plan.”

Hasan, meeting Yusuf’s intense gaze, bowed deeply.

“You have nothing to worry about.”

“It had better be.”

Hasan, feeling the weight of Yusuf’s sharp look, nodded stiffly.

The preparation was meticulous; there seemed to be nothing left to chance.

***

When the main force, led by Yusuf, arrived near Elbistan, a town already scarred by conflict, the Sipahis [Ottoman cavalrymen] who had advanced ahead were nearing Malatya.

Including the logistics unit managing supplies and reserve horses, it was a considerable army, numbering nearly 40,000.

Most were unaware of Bozkurt’s treachery against Osman, but the influential figures of Dulkadir were closely observing their movements.

Like a caged lion, fearsome even in captivity, Yusuf inspired dread, even knowing he wouldn’t attack directly.

Moreover, Yusuf was the one who had devastated the western territories of the feared Safavids, amplifying their apprehension.

Adding to the tension, the Ottoman army intentionally stoked anxiety.

“I need to check the condition of the livestock. Step aside!”

The Sanjakbey [district governor], while purchasing food from Dulkadir merchants to use as provisions and renting camels for transport, sneered.

“What trust can I place in the Dulkadir people?”

“What? How can you say such a thing…?”

As the merchant’s eyes darted about nervously, the Sanjakbey spat dismissively.

“Humph, when you were attacked by those Safavid bastards, how did you treat those of us who came to help? You stood by and watched instead of offering assistance.”

Among the reasons Yusuf publicly cited for attacking the Safavids was the death of his brother at the hands of the Qizilbash [Safavid soldiers distinguished by their red headwear].

A member of noble lineage had died while aiding Dulkadir, yet their failure to even assist in seeking revenge was viewed unfavorably.

Fortunately, the transaction proceeded without further incident, but the merchant, having endured the fierce glares of the Sipahis, returned and spread the tale.

As an ominous atmosphere permeated Dulkadir, the Sipahis responsible for reconnaissance encountered a group.

“Are those them?”

“Yes, Sobasi [police chief].”

In peacetime, the Sipahi’s Sobasi, functioning as a police chief assisting the Sanjakbey in major cities, commanded hundreds of troops in wartime.

Anil, receiving confirmation, scrutinized the opposing group.

Though words were unnecessary, the stern expressions of these men, resembling nomadic warriors, were unmistakable.

“Everyone is clear on our mission, correct?”

A Sipahi, a sly grin on his face, responded to Anil’s question.

“We’ll get hurt just enough. Don’t worry.”

“Let’s finish this well and feast on plenty of lamb. There’s nothing better than meat to heal wounds, right?”

“I’ll ensure you eat your fill.”

Anil, offering a faint smile to his cheering subordinates, clenched his tense hands.

The task assigned to them was not overly dangerous.

It wasn’t about risking their lives, but merely sustaining wounds to simulate damage.

No Sipahis worth their salt feared a bit of pain, so they approached the task with a smile.

‘This is something the Padishah [Ottoman Sultan] is watching. We must succeed, no matter what.’

Failure, and the subsequent disappointment of Yusuf, was an outcome he dared not contemplate.

The roughly two hundred enemies also seemed resolute, slowly picking up speed while leading their horses, and Anil drew his sword.

“Let’s go!”

The Sipahis, aware that several witnesses were nearby, increased their speed, and the widely dispersed troops on both sides collided swiftly.

-Clang!

As the two swords met, a groan escaped his lips, accompanied by the force of the impact.

Anil resisted the recoil and slammed his shoulder into his opponent, causing him to lose balance and stumble.

As he thrust his sword into the opening created, a searing pain and the salty tang of blood filled the air.

“Damn it!”

Feeling blood trickle down his forearm, Anil slashed at the opponent’s side as he struggled to regain his footing.

The Sipahis, having engaged in a brief skirmish and passed by, wheeled their horses around and clashed with the enemy once more.

They avoided potentially fatal attacks, but it wasn’t long before the leather armor they wore was stained with blood.

And then, the unforeseen occurred, amidst the heat of battle and the rush of adrenaline.

“Keuh?! Why, why…?”

The excited horse collided with the opponent’s mount during a maneuver, and the sword, momentarily misdirected, pierced the Sipahi’s chest.

The man, who had worn a sly smile moments before, floundered with a look of surprise, collapsing to the ground as the penetrating sword emerged.

“%@#!”

As the Sipahi convulsed and died, the warrior holding the blood-stained sword waved his hand in apparent embarrassment.

However, the Sipahis who witnessed their comrade fall were consumed by rage.

“Kill them all!”

***

“17 friendly casualties and 50 enemies dead. You fought well. Don’t you think?”

Hasan’s body trembled at Yusuf’s cold inquiry.

“Considering your past service, I will spare your life. Bring them all to me.”

It was unnecessary to specify whom he meant.

The Grand Vizier [chief minister] spoke to Yusuf, who was turning his gaze away from Hasan, who was hurrying to leave.

“Wasn’t the original plan to accept some friendly casualties? Considering the justification, this outcome is even more favorable.”

“I know. I’m simply in a foul mood, Grand Vizier.”

“Yes, Padishah.”

“Tell Bozkurt that his declaration of war was well received.”

***

“What the hell is this?!”

Bozkurt clutched his head in dismay.