Became The Sultan Of The Ottoman Empire [EN]: Chapter 149

Became the Sultan of Osman – Episode 149

Eastern Trade (1)

Kugugung!

As molten iron, as red as lava, poured from the furnace, the workers shouted over the din.

The slightest accident, a splash of molten iron, could mean instant obliteration, leaving not even bone fragments behind.

As the pig iron melted within the furnace was poured into a waiting container, air was blasted through the bottom, causing a violent, explosive reaction.

Mehmet, observing the steelmaking process with its fiery pillars reaching towards the roof, moved along the platform.

“It seems we can optimize the process even further,” he mused.

Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, Mehmet surveyed the scene.

The heat was so intense that visitors had nicknamed the place ‘City of Fire’.

Through the open gate, carts laden with coal and iron ore rumbled in and out, a constant stream feeding the factory that baked coal into coke and the factory that extracted iron from the ore.

Amidst this daily spectacle, Mehmet spotted a familiar face.

“You’ve arrived? Saadet Khan.”

“Haha, you seem to have grown taller in the short time since I last saw you.”

“You’re too kind with your flattery.”

Not everyone grew as quickly as Murat, he thought wryly.

Mehmet, dismissing Saadet’s exaggerated compliment, glanced behind him.

“Where did you gather these people this time?”

“The nomads proved too unruly, so I brought these from the west.”

The group being herded forward were visibly terrified.

Slave hunting was the Crimean Khanate’s primary trade, but this was different. They had captured entire families.

It was a departure from the usual practice of slaughtering the men and children, taking only the women.

“Hunting is becoming increasingly difficult. The Sultan’s soldiers are more active now.”

“When they conduct a sweep, they relocate entire villages, so resistance is inevitable.”

They were clearly feeling the pressure from the increased slave raids of recent years.

Mehmet approached the trembling captives and addressed them in their own language.

“From now on, you will live here, learn our language, and work. If you cause no trouble, you can live with your families and you will not starve.”

“…Really?”

“At least you won’t be roasted alive, as you seem to have been told.”

Those who understood paled, realizing their fears had been overheard. Mehmet gestured to a subordinate.

They would be integrated into the workforce through basic education, eventually becoming citizens.

Mehmet expressed his gratitude to Saadet.

“I am always grateful for the Crimean Khanate’s assistance.”

The biggest challenge in building a new city was manpower, and even with immigrants from Circassia and the Crimean Khanate, there were limitations.

Slave hunting served the dual purpose of addressing the population shortage and weakening rival nations.

“I receive ample compensation from the Padishah [Sultan], so there’s no need for thanks. Besides, this place is more impressive with each visit.”

Laborers, faces blackened with ash, toiled tirelessly, and the air hung thick with smoke.

The buildings were predominantly drab gray, focused on functionality, lacking any ornate mosques.

At first glance, it seemed unremarkable, but the sight of the vast piles of iron invariably changed that impression.

“There are still many shortcomings. And the iron isn’t of the highest quality.”

While mass production of steel was now possible, the quality wasn’t ideal for specialized applications like springs.

Saadet chuckled at Mehmet’s assessment.

“Sometimes I think your standards are too high. So what if the quality is a little low? There’s so much of it! Didn’t the Padishah say it’s the future of the empire, along with the canal?”

“The future is just that, the future, not the present. Hassan Pasha has requested iron for bridge construction, so it may soon become the present.”

He had heard that Hassan Pasha, the Sultan’s trusted advisor, was building a bridge across the Bosphorus Strait, and planned to incorporate iron into its construction.

Saadet struggled to visualize it, sensing the changing times.

“If a bridge made of real iron is completed, you will garner even more attention.”

“I have to, to keep pace with my brothers, including Murat.”

Not only Murat, but even the youngest Mustafa possessed unique talents, so he couldn’t afford to be complacent.

Saadet smiled at Mehmet’s competitive spirit.

“I don’t know about the two younger princes, but don’t you resemble the Padishah more than Murat does?”

In just a decade on the throne, Yusuf was already being hailed as surpassing Mehmet II’s achievements.

Being compared to such a Padishah was a significant advantage for the princes, but Mehmet offered a wry smile.

“Outwardly, I resemble the Padishah more than Murat.”

He had inherited Yusuf’s handsome features and striking green eyes.

From the start, Yusuf wasn’t the type of fierce warrior who led from the front like Murat.

“But when I was in the capital, Murat was often said to resemble the Padishah more than I was.”

“In what way?”

“The internal aspects.”

Murat, despite his penchant for trouble, even brawling with street thugs, was also the one who actively sought to connect with and help the people.

Though rough around the edges, he was seen as sharing Yusuf’s deep concern for the well-being of his subjects.

Of course, Mehmet also undertook initiatives to benefit the people, just like Murat.

‘Sincerity. It’s truly difficult.’

His sharper intellect quickly calculated the consequences of his actions, making genuine, uncalculated sincerity a challenge.

Yusuf had reassured him that calculated actions with positive outcomes were preferable to well-intentioned but ineffective gestures, but Mehmet, who struggled with sincerity, found it hard to agree.

“Anyway, Murat shares the Padishah’s concern for the people.”

That was Mehmet’s assessment.

***

The naval battle erupted suddenly, a clash of reconnaissance patrols turning into a full-blown engagement, but the initial shelling proved indecisive.

Vasco, though surprised to encounter the Ottoman fleet so far from their home waters, remained confident.

‘At most, they only have three ships.’

The Ottoman squadron, seemingly on patrol, consisted of only three vessels, while his own fleet numbered five.

The enemy ships were generally larger, but not enough to negate the numerical advantage.

The two fleets, shrouded in the acrid gray smoke of cannon fire, closed in for a boarding action.

“Throw them!”

The Portuguese soldiers hurled grappling hooks at the enemy ships, and as they prepared to swing across, gunshots rang out.

The Ottoman soldiers, appearing on deck, unleashed a deadly volley, and bayonets mercilessly stabbed at the Portuguese clinging to the railings.

“Fire! Return fire!”

He fired his matchlock at Vasco’s command, but the Ottoman soldiers, positioned on higher ground, sustained relatively little damage.

As the gunfire subsided, turbaned soldiers poured onto the decks of the Portuguese ships, swords drawn.

-Chaengchaeng!

The clash of steel echoed across the ships as the battle descended into a chaotic melee.

A loud thud reverberated on the deck, where friend and foe were indistinguishable.

“Kkyaaaak!”

“You have a good voice!”

Murat, having landed on the enemy ship, plunged his sword into a Portuguese soldier and, responding to the man’s scream, drove the blade deeper into the deck.

The soldier, pinned to the deck, thrashed wildly, his hand severed as he desperately tried to pull out the sword, but the blade was firmly lodged.

Murat, drawing a fresh sword from his belt, gestured with it.

“What are you waiting for? Are you not going to attack?”

Murat grinned savagely at the soldiers who hesitated, swallowing nervously before charging at him.

***

‘Crazy. He’s completely insane!’

Remembering the face of the madman who had single-handedly turned the tide of battle, Vasco scrambled towards the stern.

The number of soldiers slaughtered by that figure, who moved across the swaying ship as if it were solid ground, was impossible to count.

Vasco, reaching the stern, frantically searched for a way to escape to another ship.

“Where do you think you’re going in such a hurry?”

He didn’t understand the words, but he recognized the voice.

Vasco, realizing that the monstrous figure had finally caught up to him, spun around, raising his pistol.

-Tang!

“Ugh! My eye!”

Vasco writhed in agony, clutching his face. Murat examined the pistol in his hand.

The pistol, dwarfed by the musket, looked like a toy in Murat’s large hands.

‘I wondered why my father gave me this toy. It’s useful.’

Murat tucked the pistol back into his belt and stepped on Vasco, who was writhing in pain.

He could tell that this man was an important figure just by looking at his expensive clothes.

“Name. What is your name?”

He still didn’t understand the language, but Vasco, humiliated by being trampled by an infidel, shouted.

“I am a nobleman! I am Count Vasco da Gama! Show some basic courtesy!”

“…Vasco?”

He could barely understand the garbled words, but he clearly heard the name.

Murat, lifting the adult male as if he were a doll, asked through gritted teeth.

“Are you Vasco?”

“…I am Vasco da Gama.”

Murat, having received confirmation, reached for Vasco’s face, who glared at him.

Vasco screamed as Murat gouged out his left eye. Murat wiped the blood and mucus from his fingers on Vasco’s clothes and said.

“Don’t look at me like that. I just hate guys like you so much.”

Murat, having heard the news that an Arab nomad had kidnapped one of his people when he first arrived at Mocha Port and had personally wiped out the tribe, spat a thick wad of saliva.

Since childhood, Murat had been taught by Yusuf that the Arabian Peninsula and India should be integrated into the empire, and he viewed Vasco’s atrocities as attacks on the empire’s people.

“The clothes you’re wearing, the jewelry you’re wearing, and that reputation are all disgusting to me.”

As yellow liquid trickled onto the deck due to pain and fear, Murat grabbed Vasco’s face and murmured.

“You should consider yourself lucky. If I didn’t need to send you to the Padishah, I would have torn you apart and killed you on the spot.”

Murat threw Vasco to his subordinates and turned away, sword in hand.

He felt like he would feel better if he vented his anger on the other Portuguese soldiers.

Anyway, Vasco and the Portuguese soldiers were all the same.

***

As the ruler of the empire, Yusuf received many valuable gifts.

They could be talented individuals like Michelangelo or Machiavelli, delivered by pirates, or priceless treasures.

Sometimes, they were beautiful women worthy of joining the harem.

He had received so many gifts that it was difficult to remember them all, but this one stood out.

“Vasco da Gama.”

It was hard to believe that this man, covered in festering wounds and missing an eye, was someone whose name would be known for centuries.

“He’s a count from a foreign land, but Murat certainly handled him roughly.”

“Padishah?”

When the Grand Vizier questioned his statement, Yusuf shrugged.

“He’s a count, but he’s from an enemy country and someone I dislike, so what does it matter?”

To be honest, he thought Vasco da Gama had benefited greatly from a Western-centric view of history.

He was celebrated as the first European to sail to India via the Atlantic Ocean and the South African coast, but his cannibalistic and brutal actions were often overlooked.

‘Of course, I can commit the same atrocities if necessary.’

Perhaps it was self-loathing. He simply didn’t like the man.

“Vasco da Gama, do you want to live? You only have to do one thing.”

“…What are you talking about?”

A rough, strained voice croaked from the prisoner. Yusuf replied.

“Just write a letter to Manuel, the King of Portugal.”

“…I’d rather die.”

Yusuf smiled brightly at Vasco da Gama’s defiant words.

“I will help you feel like writing a letter. And don’t worry about sending it. I have the means to deliver your letter to Manuel’s hands.”

The Ottoman Empire used deaf and blind individuals for palace secrets. Surely they possessed skilled torturers.

Watching Vasco being dragged away, unable to even attempt suicide, Yusuf smiled coldly.

***

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

“As I suspected, it was just rumors. They are nothing but infidels.”

“What does the letter say that makes you say that?”

“He says that most Ottoman ships are galleys that can’t even mount cannons properly. The cannons are poor, and their accuracy is even worse.”

The minister looked puzzled.

“Hasn’t it been confirmed that the Ottomans have several large ships? It’s strange that most are galleys.”

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

The canal had only recently opened, and rumors abounded, including the claim that it was a narrow river passable only by rafts.

If that rumor was true, Vasco’s letter made sense.

“In any case, the Count assures us that we can rest easy.”

Manuel, emboldened by his victory in the Battle of Diu against the infidels, dismissed his concerns and sliced into a piece of meat liberally seasoned with spices.

***

“Set sail!”

Nearly 70 ships departed from Mocha Port, the empire’s red flag fluttering proudly.

It was the empire’s full-scale entry into Eastern trade.