새로운 시대(1)

Tabriz, Selim had won the war, but the military was rebelling, stating they would be besieged if Ismail gathered his forces to attack again, so the city was content with looting.

The head of the one who seemed to be in charge of the city’s defense hung at the gate, barely holding its shape, and the collapsed walls signaled the end of an era.

The Ottoman army, leading Ismail’s head, marched in with a lively marching tune, and the subjects trembled in fear.

The ragged cloths lying on the dirt floor and the bloodstains smeared around the house showed the harshness of the past few days.

“Well, it’s not too bad, Grand Vizier.”

“As ordered, the looting has been minimized.”

“Were there any complaints?”

“There were few who openly disobeyed the Padishah’s command, and punishments were administered accordingly.”

“Good job.”

The situation now was completely different from when Selim conquered this place in history.

Selim had ruthlessly plundered everything, be it goods or people, but now that Ismail was dead, there would be no enemy to take this place for a while.

‘Of course, that will change soon enough.’

The Safavid had fallen, but the remaining lands could not stay vacant for long.

Given the Ottoman’s situation, they couldn’t extend as far as the Iranian plateau, and the lands on that side were ripe for reckless greed.

Though it was said that the Iranian lands were rich in resources, with the Age of Discovery unfolding and the West expanding into the world, it wasn’t a land yielding significant returns on investments at the moment.

As I took in the city’s situation, I arrived at my destination while conversing with the Grand Vizier.

“I greet the Padishah!”

The doors to the palace once used by the White Sheep Dynasty and the Safavid swung wide open, and those who had been standing guard took a respectful stance.

This place wasn’t much different from other parts of Tabriz.

One side of the palace had collapsed, possibly hit by a stray shell, while on the other side, goods were piled high.

“What is that?”

“Those are the Padishah’s share. Outside, we are organizing items that are larger than mere valuables.”

Since the Sultan couldn’t plunder directly without losing dignity, some of the loot was submitted as tribute.

With many expenses ahead, there was no reason to decline.

Yusuf entered the courtyard and pointed to one side.

“Are those members of Ismail’s harem?”

“Yes, indeed.”

In terms of numbers, the women in the harem didn’t seem far behind his own.

Unlike himself, who had inherited a well-maintained harem, these women were gathered by Ismail himself during the eleven years since he established his country, so the number felt quite large.

Approaching the neatly dressed women who were taking respectful stances, Yusuf tilted his chin upward.

“Most are Armenians.”

“Y-yes, Padishah.”

Yusuf placed his hand on the chin of one shy woman.

Suppressing her fear and acting according to what she had learned seemed quite resolute, but that was about it.

Even in his own harem, women like her were quite common.

Though it’s difficult to pin down a specific appearance for a single ethnicity, Armenians, typically classified as Caucasian, often bore traits similar to Indians.

They had a rather unique appearance, much like how the Ottoman Dynasty preferred blonde European women, Persians traditionally favored Armenians.

Yusuf’s gaze shifted as he pondered that Ismail’s harem might have been influenced as he walked.

“Tazlu.”

“…Yes, Padishah.”

Had it been about five years since meeting her as a kidnapper and victim?

Quite a bit of time had passed, yet there was no major change in her appearance other than looking a bit dried out.

“You managed to survive.”

“The one who held the hand of a woman not meant to be caught has treated her kindly, Padishah. I was merely locked in a room.”

“Surprisingly merciful then.”

Even though she was held captive, the fact that he hadn’t killed her in anger or thrown her to the dungeons was truly remarkable kindness.

He himself would not have let someone with such a crime go scot-free.

“Or perhaps he genuinely loved you.”

“Everything is in the past now. It is meaningless.”

Tazlu watched as the gibbeting post came down, announcing the death of the Shah, while gazing with her dark eyes.

A shabby end for a man who seemed as if he would have the world beneath him.

“Tazlu, do you blame me? Am I not the one who took your future from you?”

“Didn’t the Padishah always provide me with options? It was my choice, so how could I blame you?”

Rationally, that was easy to say, but emotionally, it was incredibly difficult.

However, Tazlu didn’t seem burdened by any sense of blame.

Of course, perhaps she was just adept at hiding her emotions like Shamsi, but that in itself was an interesting matter.

Lifting her chin with his finger, Yusuf locked eyes with Tazlu.

“Tazlu, I will give you a choice. This will be the last choice I give you.”

“The Padishah’s choices always come with sweet temptations and poison, right? Please, go ahead.”

“Choose between being sent as a gift to my subordinates like the women here or becoming mine. Pick one.”

In terms of status, becoming a concubine was better, but considering the perilous life in a fierce harem, choosing the former might actually be the best option.

Tazlu placed a hand softly on Yusuf’s shoulder and clenched her fist.

The guards had angry faces at her audacity to grip the Padishah’s clothing, but she didn’t flinch even at their murderous intent.

“Will you not regret it? I will use everything I have to put my son in the Padishah’s position.”

“Though it’s amusing to talk about a son that doesn’t even exist yet, if you can do it once, then go for it.”

Even if Tazlu’s family held significant sway over the Safavid land he had just conquered, it wouldn’t be easy.

Her competitors were formidable indeed.

Yusuf spoke with a smile on his lips.

“And no matter how excellent an emperor may be, they cannot fully control their children.”

“Still talking about a son that does not yet exist.”

Tazlu mimicked Yusuf’s words back at him as she melted into his embrace, panting with excitement.

Winter was beginning to settle in Tabriz.

*

Leading his troops, Babur arrived in Isfahan only to hear bewildering news.

“Shah, you mean to say the Shah has passed away?!”

“Yes!”

It was an unexpected turn of events.

Not only had Ismail of the Safavid died, but the Sultan of the Mamluks and his forces had been annihilated. It felt as if he was hearing tales from another world.

Even if they had lost, it would have been acceptable if at least Ismail was still alive, but the Safavid, sustained by individual charisma, was crumbling without its core.

Babur, unable to even be invited inside the fort, faced his subordinate with a somber expression.

“It has become difficult. If we aren’t careful, we’ll be stuck outside all winter.”

The weather wasn’t the important part.

They were prepared for winter with warm clothing, but the greater worry was that he might return to Kabul empty-handed.

For Babur, whose foundations were not solid, this could be a critical situation.

As he listened to his subordinate’s words while pondering, cavalry appeared, kicking up dust.

Many appeared to be wounded or in ragged clothing, indicating they were likely the remnants of a defeated force, and Babur confronted them.

“Who goes there?”

“I am Zahirdin Muhammad Babur of Kabul. I came to assist your war, but…”

The man who stepped forward couldn’t bear to say they had been defeated before he could aid them.

“My name is Muhammad Khan Ustajlu. I’m sorry for your futile journey after coming such a long way. We are not in a position to host guests, so kindly return.”

It was a polite yet cold statement.

With Ismail’s death, stabilizing the Safavid began as another mission laid upon him.

‘O Shah, I will surely have my vengeance.’

With that single determination, he managed to gather the scattered Qizilbash and formed an army of two thousand.

Given the high number of injured soldiers, Babur’s forces were quite a formidable sight, and wary Ustajlu’s response indicated he was on guard against Babur’s army.

“Apologies for blocking your path. Please, go on ahead.”

“Thank you. I will remember your intentions of coming to assist.”

As Ustajlu led his forces slowly toward Isfahan, Babur addressed his subordinate.

“Allah is helping me.”

“Padishah?”

“Pass the word to the soldiers covertly. The moment the gates open to welcome them, we will seize that city.”

Before him loomed the city once conquered by his ancestor Timur, and a thick desire flowed from Babur’s eyes.

“Starting from that city, I shall recreate Timur’s glory.”

When the gates of Isfahan opened, the greedy conqueror’s mouth gaped.

*

Unlike the dry summer, the cool rain in Constantinople fell as the days grew colder.

The boy entered indoors, shaking off the rain.

“People hold onto too many useless stereotypes.”

As the boy, Mehmet, spoke, Suleiman, who was doodling on paper, replied politely.

“What has brought this about?”

“If walking under an umbrella makes one unmanly, isn’t it inefficient to purposely walk about getting wet?”

Since the act of avoiding rain has been seen as unmanly since ancient times, umbrellas were regarded as women’s belongings.

Given Mehmet’s rational personality, he found such behavior utterly unfathomable.

Suleiman chuckled softly, handing him a towel. “Is there a shortage of masculinity shown to women in the city? Perhaps that was their way of displaying it.”

“Hmm, an interesting thought. Could it be viewed as a behavior for reproduction?”

That wasn’t quite the kind of remark one would expect from a nine-year-old, prompting Suleiman to give a clumsy laugh and ask.

“But why have you come on such a rainy day?”

“I heard a letter from my father has arrived for you.”

Mehmet’s chubby face fell into a frown.

Only two people in the world could pull such a varied range of expressions from the typically bland-faced Mehmet.

Not a frequent occurrence, especially involving Yusuf, brought out unusual expressions from Mehmet as Suleiman smirked.

“I sent a letter informing of our victory in war, and I’ve received a reply.”

“Really, I also sent one, yet it seems I was the only one whose got lost.”

Receiving a somewhat jealous glance, Suleiman’s face held no joy.

“May I see the letter you received?”

“Is it alright for me to do so?”

“Of course. You will understand why he replied if you look.”

Since it was a handwritten letter from the Padishah, it was kept with great care, and its introduction featured light greetings.

Those greetings were quite brief, and what followed was information so impactful it could even unsettle Mehmet’s eyes.

– Currently, our empire’s language combines elements of Persian and Arabic, making it difficult for those speaking our tongue to learn the script.

The Ottoman language was closer to a literary language written in letters rather than a spoken language.

Although Turkish was used as the court language, it was written in Persian characters based on Arabic.

Naturally, it had to be complex.

– Additionally, as the empire expands and different languages intermingle, it will definitely create a confusing situation, so a new language is needed for the empire.

Beneath it was a script based on the Latin alphabet.

The modified Latin characters fitted the phonology of Turkish, astonishingly precise.

The problem was that creating the script and grammar was just the beginning of the work.

– Therefore, based on this script, all existing words will need to be modified, and new expressions will need to be created for expressions not found in Turkish. I delegate this task to you. Speak to the Grand Vizier to gain support.

Being keen-witted, Mehmet roughly grasped how much time and effort this task would take.

It was definitely necessary work, but being told to do it directly would require him to take a step back.

Only then did Mehmet realize that the script Suleiman had been doodling on his desk was the one written there.

“Prince Mehmet.”

“…Why do you call me?”

“Shall we do this together? I will speak to the Grand Vizier about it. If we work on this together, it will entail many communications with the Padishah.”

As Suleiman’s dull eyes met Mehmet’s, he took a step back.

Even alongside scholars, this would take a minimum of five years, and he had no desire to become mired in such a swamp.

“Sorry for dropping by while you’re busy. Do your best.”

Making haste to exit like he was running away, it wasn’t long before a letter from Yusuf arrived for Mehmet.

As if to explain why it was delayed compared to Suleiman’s, the thick letter was filled with information about iron smelting and coal.

At the end of all this content lay a phrase that was rarely heard.

– I love you, Mehmet.

“…Father.”

Though this chest-tightening remark brought him no joy, Mehmet felt the weight of Yusuf’s love pressing down hard on him.