Ottoman Empire(1)

Clack

As the ornate box opened, a shabby cloak and a rough sword appeared.

Like most artifacts, the object itself wasn’t special. It was the person who had used it that was special.

“Al-Mutawakkil.”

“Yes, Your Caliphate.”

What must it feel like to call someone else by the title you just used for yourself?

I didn’t have to ask; even without the power of his title, I could sense the deprivation he was feeling.

“Don’t be sad. It’s not like everything good came from that extravagant title.”

Using the authority of religion as a method of governance is common, and it’s a history that Islam cannot escape.

The caliph ruling the Islamic society started as an elected position, but it turned hereditary, becoming a puppet with no real political power.

Even the Mamluks, who had been a slave dynasty, had kept a caliph around as a figurehead to bolster their legitimacy.

‘It’s not easy to discard a puppet’s role even if you have to.’

Now that he had lost the caliphal title and the external symbols of Muhammad’s relics, it was alright to have grievances.

“Prepare to return and head for Constantinople. It will be where your family resides in the future.”

“…Understood.”

In the heart of the empire, if he didn’t want to be embroiled in treason, he had to keep a low profile, and Al-Mutawakkil returned in a shabby state, resigned to his fate.

The modest gathering meant to formally bestow the caliphal title dispersed at Yusuf’s signal with respectful bows.

He had already been using the title of caliph before gaining any legitimacy, and for the dynasty, the title didn’t hold much meaning.

“With this, we’ve gathered most of the useful items to rule over the Muslims.”

In addition to the caliphal title and Muhammad’s sword, there were plenty of relics of Muhammad to bring to the capital.

Besides the sword and cloak, there were footprints left behind, as well as hair and teeth.

Considering the keys to the holy sites brought from Mecca, it was enough to appease the hearts of discontented Muslims.

“Now we just need to retrieve the spoils taken by Venice.”

“They won’t hand them over easily.”

“To them, the plunder has historical significance, so they won’t let it go without a fight.”

Even in modern times, it’s common for stolen cultural properties to be held on to under various pretenses, and now was no different.

Furthermore, it wasn’t just a couple of items stolen, including the four bronze horses, and even the marble slabs from St. Mark’s Basilica had been taken back then.

It was clear they’d be fighting tooth and nail not to return them.

“If they refuse to return them, couldn’t we hold them accountable for recklessly publishing my story in books? They say it sells quite well?”

Not just any book, but a book published directly under the dynasty’s management, containing the story of the current Padishah—such reckless publication would surely spark national disputes.

‘It was nice when they could copy freely and sell it.’

Once the circumstances matured and receipts were to be issued, they’d realize just how dangerous that game was.

Amidst the war, when every penny counted, the idea of riling up the Ottoman Empire, which had swallowed half the Mediterranean, weighed heavily.

Yusuf stood up and walked to the office with Şemsi.

“Once we retrieve the plunder, we should gain the support of the Rumins. It’s a painful history for them.”

No matter how cruel and cold he acted, he could never compare to the Fourth Crusade that looted Constantinople.

People of all ranks, genders, and ages were subjected to rape, abduction, violence, and murder; even noblewomen and nuns were not spared.

The tomb of the former emperor was desecrated, and not only were burial goods looted, but corpses were tossed into the streets.

Of course, given that it had been nearly 300 years ago, the pain of that time might have faded significantly.

‘It should be enough to spread awareness of the atrocities committed by the crusaders back then.’

There was an organization set up for just that purpose, and it seemed appropriate to use it at times like these.

“By the way, Şemsi Pasha, you don’t look too well.”

He usually didn’t look great due to excessive work, but today he looked particularly haggard.

At Yusuf’s question, Şemsi gave a slight resentful look.

“Isn’t it because of the drink the Padishah gave?”

“Though familiar, the flavor must have been richer. Were you satisfied?”

Having enjoyed barley coffee, Orzo, he drank it down without hesitation due to the familiar aroma and taste.

However, it was strange that he couldn’t sleep at all, causing him to focus on paperwork with heavy eyes.

The distinctly reduced piles of documents in the office showed the labor of the previous night.

“Before considering the flavor, it was enough to make me fear drinking it again. What on earth was that?”

“Qahwa? It’s a drink famous in Mecca for keeping sleep at bay.”

The coffee beans from the Ethiopian highlands had only recently settled in Mecca after crossing the Red Sea.

“That’s a drink imams would likely dislike.”

“They are quite conservative. I’ve heard it was even banned for a while in Mecca.”

Yusuf sat at his desk and inhaled the aroma of the coffee beans.

Compared to the diverse and advanced coffee of modern times, it had many rough aspects, but the familiar scent strangely delighted his heart.

He recalled the days when he had made barley coffee, unable to forget his modern life, and it had been nearly ten years since then, making time seem to fly by.

Looking down at the dwindled coffee, Şemsi asked with a slightly sour expression.

“Are you thinking of sharing this with your subordinates?”

“Didn’t you see the effects firsthand? It will be a great help to subordinates who always complain about having no time.”

“…That’s not what I meant when I said there’s no time, is it?”

At the very least, it didn’t mean he wished to work night and day.

At this point, it seemed easier to suffer in Cairo than to work in the capital where the Padishah resides.

At least when complaining about having no time, he wouldn’t have to see someone offering Qahwa like a generous gesture.

Feeling the suspicious gaze from Şemsi, Yusuf rolled the beans in his hand.

“I didn’t prepare this just to torment you. I plan to make this the empire’s flagship product going forward.”

“Will it really succeed? As mentioned, isn’t it a drink that conservatives would dislike?”

“It will succeed.”

While Şemsi’s concerns were not entirely unfounded.

The coffee opposition faction, being conservative, had assaulted places akin to cafes in modern times, condemning coffee as having effects on the mind similar to alcohol.

In Europe, it was labeled the drink of infidels and was repressed as the beverage of Satan.

Yet despite all the obstacles, coffee had ultimately become an indispensable beverage for modern people, so there was no need to worry about success.

“And besides, isn’t there a favorable opportunity to sell Qahwa?”

“Are you talking about the national exam being opened up across the country?”

“Exactly that.”

The news about selecting subordinates through examinations had already begun to spread, and nobles, merchants, and those with means were preparing their children for positions.

Reports were coming in about what would be tested in the palace.

This was particularly true for Christians and Jews who had to be content as merchants as they desperately desired public office.

‘Initial tests will undoubtedly favor those with economic means.’

This was similar to the limitations of the past examination system in Joseon.

While a third of those passing the exams were commoners, most were wealthy enough to focus solely on studying without working.

In times when most were impoverished and there was no public education, it was unavoidable.

“There will be plenty willing to buy Qahwa for their children’s studies.”

“Even if the conservatives try to dissuade them, they won’t listen since it’s for their children.”

Caffeine was indeed an inseparable friend for students.

He didn’t feel guilty about accelerating that timeline hundreds of years earlier.

After contemplating for a moment, Şemsi nodded.

“For now, we need to assess the environment for growth, but the harvest needs to be increased.”

“And we must manage it thoroughly to prevent it from leaking abroad. If necessary, we may even need to seize the highlands where they were first discovered.”

The coffee’s potential as a commodity was so excellent it warranted the need to seize Ethiopia in East Africa, its place of origin.

While it was impossible to block it forever, they had to avoid losing the pie they worked so hard to cultivate.

Upon hearing Yusuf’s words, Şemsi frowned slightly.

“It seems the situation is growing increasingly complex.”

“It would be good land to seize in order to keep an eye on Portugal, so think of it as killing two birds with one stone. As trade grows in the East, it will become a more necessary product.”

The ugly Opium War instigated by Britain could be traced back to trade imbalances with the Qing Dynasty.

They imported a plethora of goods from the Qing, including tea, silk, porcelain, and medicinal herbs, but only wool was the merchandise that sold poorly from Britain.

As silver flowed into the Qing to appease trade deficits, Britain began selling the opium they had to prevent that.

While it couldn’t be called a good deed, it was a significant issue for Britain to wage war in order to sell opium.

‘If we want to avoid such a plight, we must begin with coffee and prepare various export goods.’

In today’s world, Asia, including China, is absolutely not lagging behind the West.

Yusuf smiled mischievously and handed a bag of coffee to Şemsi.

“This is a gift. It would be more useful to you than to me.”

“…What an honor. I tremble in appreciation of the Padishah’s grace.”

With trembling hands, Şemsi accepted the Qahwa.

Despite a desire to refuse, he felt its necessity and carefully tucked the bag away.

“You will be returning to the capital soon.”

“Yes, this place has stabilized, and the remaining areas to conquer are lands I don’t need to personally lead the charge. While it’s quicker than planned, I suppose I must return.”

Had he not killed the Sultan at the meeting, he might have still been bogged down by the Mamluks.

If he could destroy just the Mamluks, there would be no reason to fear the Islamic factions.

It was a bold move that wouldn’t have been attempted had the Otomans not grown infamous enough in the West to step over such boundaries.

Having saved both time and resources, he didn’t regret that choice.

‘Still, it’s about time to dilute this notoriety.’

A person once perceived as a villain can seem far greater when they behave a little altruistically.

He was more than willing to greet the envoys to come with laughter instead of swords and guns.

“If you return to the capital, what do you plan to do?”

“Well, perhaps I should start creating items to replace those expensive candles?”

What good would coffee do if it kept people awake but everything was so dark you couldn’t even read?

“Your Padishah?!”

“It’s a joke. Even for me, it would be difficult at the moment.”

To replace those with something cheaper would involve extracting oil and refining it into kerosene, which wouldn’t happen overnight.

Though he had gained many oil-rich areas, including Romania, everything from drilling to refining was not an easy task.

“When I return, I should formally announce the name of the empire.”

“Finally, that moment has come.”

Until now, the empire had been referred to variously as a well-protected nation, an Islamic kingdom, and a Roman kingdom, but it was time to unify under one name.

“Indeed, the name of the empire will officially be the Ottoman Empire.”

It was named after Osman I, the founder; it wasn’t a strange designation as the official documents referred to subjects as Ottoman people.

This name emphasized that the empire was the land of the Ottoman dynasty.

Additionally, simultaneously with the announcement of the Ottoman name, the flag symbolizing the Ottoman would be flying throughout the empire.

It would be a moment where the state would be reborn, and it would be an extremely significant national event.

“While the preceding events were of national importance, on a personal level, I would like to create a family portrait.”

“A family portrait?”

Şemsi looked surprised, and Yusuf slowly walked over to gaze out the window.

The city, dyed in a crimson sunset, was signaling the end of another day.

“Indeed, it may not be eternal, but wouldn’t it be nice to have at least a picture to reminisce about that time?”

“Now that you mention it, it sounds like a good idea.”

With Şemsi’s agreement, Yusuf raised his eyebrows lightly.

“However, there’s a problem: the one to paint the portrait must be a man.”

In Islamic culture, where it is a significant issue to force a hijab on women to prevent them from showing their faces to other men.

Yusuf, lost in thought, took out a piece of stationery.

*

Tang!

Marble chips fell and the dynamic form of a male body became clearer.

As Michelangelo swung his hammer, deep in concentration, a thick voice interrupted.

“Michelangelo, a letter from the Padishah has arrived.”

“I don’t know what’s going on, but leave it there.”

The concentrated Michelangelo snapped back irritably, but soon a cold voice followed.

“Even if the Padishah favors you, rudeness will not be tolerated.”

“Haah.”

As the guard Sinan radiated a menacing aura, Michelangelo sighed and set down his hammer.

He might have dared to oppose the Pope, but in the palace overflowing with zealous followers of the Padishah, it was another matter entirely.

Receiving the letter politely, Michelangelo carefully read its contents.

While he was reading praises for his skills as a sculptor and light inquiries, he chuckled at the line that mentioned he needed to create a portrait.

He used to get paid to paint before being captured, so finding it funny that someone was now hesitant to call him a sculptor.

However, as he read on, cold sweat began to trickle down his face.

-I would like to request a family portrait, but there’s the issue that you’re a man. I’ve heard rumors that you avoid women; would you consider castration?

Michelangelo dropped the letter he was reading.