The Ruthless Ones (4)

The seeds of African slaves had dried up.

For Portugal, this was not something to simply overlook.

With the Eastern trade route blocked by Yusuf, Portugal hastily began to pioneer Brazil faster than in actual history, and African slaves were indispensable in this endeavor.

Both the enormous labor needed for sugarcane plantations and the fact that Portugal had a small population meant that they filled vacant labor positions with African slaves as sailors.

The disappearance of African slaves was like the vanishing of Portugal’s driving force; it was a grave matter.

However, these weren’t the only ones in chaos before Portugal itself.

“Are you saying we should go back like this? Absolutely not!”

“We have to make something and go!”

Portuguese merchants were fiercely protesting the current situation.

They had navigated treacherous storms and the threat of Barbary pirates, and they couldn’t return empty-handed.

The merchants, who had brought guns and gunpowder as trading items, entered the African continent and realized the situation was more serious than they had imagined.

“They say they’ll give us much more than usual!”

The chief they normally dealt with pointed at the pile of guns.

“Not needed. It’s shabby.”

The merchant’s face crumpled in despair at those stuttered words.

The Ottomans were the first to utilize firearms, and the production quality and sophistication of their guns were on a different level entirely.

So much so that even commanders from Spain and Portugal preferred Ottoman-made guns.

Even just comparing the quality of the manufacturing rights for firearms, they couldn’t stand a chance, especially with swords and guns sold together.

‘Ottomans, those lunatics.’

Despite their painful journey, all they understood was why the Africans had gone mad and sold off every last slave.

The merchants who returned empty-handed had it a bit easier.

“S-sudden attack! Attack!”

In the dark of night, sparks flew through the thick bushes.

Birds startled by the gunfire took to the skies, and with a barrage of bullets falling on them, people died without even a decent fight.

The merchant, who barely survived by crawling flat on the ground, wore a grim expression as he saw the surrounding Africans.

While they might be desperate for weapons, those who had gained strength had no reason to engage in trade.

The Portuguese merchants, suffering immense losses, flocked to the capital of the Kingdom of Congo, Mbanza-Kongo.

“Mani Kongo! Our merchants have suffered greatly. Please, take measures!”

Mani Kongo refers to the title of the king of Congo, and Afonso I, who had brought Portuguese culture, clothing, and religion to form the present Kingdom of Congo, sighed deeply.

“Then why did you become so greedy for slaves in the first place?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Your excessive greed for slaves is what attracted the monsters from the North here, isn’t it?”

Portugal’s desire for slaves was excessive.

They were not satisfied with prisoners or captives; they financed thieves and abducted not just commoners but even nobles to drag them off into slavery.

When they sent protest letters about this, they received replies stating that since Congo was large and populous, it wouldn’t matter much if a few became slaves.

Of course, they later sent inspectors to the trading posts to prevent their kingdom’s subjects from being sold as slaves as much as possible, but the sentiment from that time lingered still.

“Are you saying the Ottomans came here because of us?”

“What does a large nation like the Ottomans have to covet from us? It makes more sense that they intervened to disrupt your dealings.”

The Portuguese, who despised both commoners and royalty alike, were now red with rage.

Normally, they wouldn’t have spoken openly in a way that could provoke the Portuguese, but Afonso was out of options.

“Right now, we are in a serious situation as well. Enemies armed with weapons are targeting our kingdom.”

To prevent his subjects from being sold into slavery, Afonso had attacked nearby tribes to procure more slaves, which had turned into a full-blown boomerang.

Battles were already breaking out in the border regions, and the signs of trouble were all too clear.

“…I will report to the king.”

“Take this letter I’ve written along, and please handle it well. I believe you understand how hard our kingdom has tried.”

After all, opening a slave trading post in the Kingdom of Congo wasn’t a mere coincidence. No other state in Africa sought to align all its culture with Portugal, and Portugal couldn’t afford to lose such a valuable partner.

Shortly after the merchants returned to Portugal, Western Africa was engulfed in war.

*

The war entangling the Kingdom of Congo and various tribes led to a swift civil war over succession right after Mani Kongo Afonso was assassinated.

Half a year had passed since the war began, but there were no signs of a resolution.

Portugal, which disliked Afonso’s actions of sending inspectors to the trading posts, had been watching, but they urgently sent support.

However, this support could only be blocked near the Sahara Sea.

The envoy who boarded the deck under the fluttering red flag symbolizing the Ottomans gripped his shaking hands tightly.

The Ottoman fleet, exceeding fifteen ships, stood between him and the Portuguese fleet, and the woman before him was notoriously infamous among sailors.

“Saida al-Fuhra…”

Born in a prestigious family in the Kingdom of Granada, she had been chased away during the Reconquista and had become the pirate queen ruling Tetouan in the Strait of Gibraltar after succeeding her husband.

Having begun as a refugee, she proved her talents from her early teenage years and earned the title al-Fuhra, meaning queen—a figure with tremendous notoriety against Spain and Portugal.

“What brings you here?”

Typically, she wouldn’t be on a ship, as she governed Tetouan.

Confronted by the flustered envoy, Saida spoke coldly.

“It is the command of the Padishah.”

It wasn’t a direct order to board; there was no reason to push a fifty-year-old woman excessively, and she had demonstrated her abilities to the extent of being acknowledged as al-Fuhra.

This was merely an expression of loyalty.

A loyalty owed to the benefactor who had restored the land of Granada, which she thought she would never return to, and a shared sentiment among countless expelled Moors and Jews.

“If you know my name, the conversation will be simple. Leave. From now on, no more remains allowed.”

“But!”

“Be grateful for being let go. If it weren’t for the Padishah’s grace, this place would have become your grave.”

As the envoy hesitated, Saida leveled her sword at him.

“Of course, should you ignore this warning and attempt to flee, you shall bear the consequences.”

With a warning that didn’t feel like an idle threat, the Portuguese fleet had to change course.

*

“Saida al-Fuhra. I haven’t seen her in person, but what a fiery woman she is, to even board a ship herself.”

“Isn’t that why she’s risen to such heights?”

Shamsi was right.

No matter how noble her birth or how she succeeded her husband, it wasn’t an easy feat for a woman to become the governor of a region.

While Barbarossa reigned in the Eastern Mediterranean, Saida al-Fuhra was the undisputed leader of Western Mediterranean pirates, so her abilities were unquestionable.

“With this, we’ve blocked Portuguese interference. Murad, I wonder if that guy will be grateful.”

“Will he not be grateful?”

“That guy doesn’t have such decency, but he values his subordinates, so I suppose he’ll be thankful.”

Now he was the shameless type to request the recognition tags meant for Janissaries first for his slave army after they’d finished with their fill.

With one corner of his mouth lifting, Yusuf lifted a letter.

“It’s said that the Ming Dynasty has sent two ships to the New World. I suppose the Emperor is quite excited.”

This information had come from trade ships traveling between Ming and hinted at a quicker response than expected.

Had it been a typical emperor, he might have approached with more caution, but the Hongwu Emperor was moving quickly.

“Didn’t he say he sought immortality? I suppose that’s why he’s in such a hurry.”

“That young fool under thirty is awfully impatient. Well, it would be great if they could find it. If the Ming Emperor finds it, I’ll be sure to get it for you as well.”

Receiving the elixir of immortality in exchange for himself left Shamsi not joyous but with a rather sour expression.

“How much longer do you plan to work me, an old man with less than eight years to retirement?”

“Isn’t it good if a great talent can benefit our descendants?”

At Yusuf’s smile, reminiscent of facing Satan, Shamsi retorted softly.

“It’s just a joke. Where would there be an elixir of immortality in this world? All fantasies born from attachment.”

Yusuf lowered the letter and drummed his fingers on it.

‘What are the odds of reaching the New World?’

The route connecting the Philippines and Mexico hadn’t taken long to be discovered and utilized even in actual history.

Moving from Manila to Mexico, and without the Panama Canal, the main trade route went overland through Central America to Spain.

Even with current navigation technology, they should be able to traverse it well enough, although there was still the issue of Ming lacking experience with the open sea.

One would have to be quite lucky to arrive.

‘It would be good if they arrive for planning, but if not, I’d have to devise new plans.’

As Yusuf reviewed variables and plans in his head, Shamsi suddenly asked.

“Your Highness, is there no further support for Prince Murad?”

He had already given a considerable amount.

No matter how much the Ottomans sent, they couldn’t entirely afford the weapons poured into Africa, and moving a fleet in preparation for war would have been a massive help.

However, Africa wouldn’t be easily resolved with this level of support.

“If I desired, there are many ways to provide support. Just occupying the salt mines of the Songhai Empire in West Africa would lead to a swift decline.”

Songhai, a kingdom akin to modern Mali, was a wealthy state in West Africa that amassed immense wealth through gold mines.

The trouble was that the salt mines were very far from the capital, making salt extremely precious, yet they could be seized via Morocco if they desired.

“There are many other ways to help, but I can’t keep supporting indefinitely.”

Whether he became the Padishah or not, it was time for the princes to emerge from the gigantic shadow he had cast.

Yusuf rested his chin on his hand and said calmly.

“Failure is possible, and if luck isn’t on your side, you could die. However, it’s better for a prince who hasn’t proven his abilities to die.”

Not just Murad, but other princes were also risking their lives similarly.

Kasim, frequently moving between the enemy stronghold of Vienna, could die any moment if things were to fall apart, and Mustafa, who was courting the Australian aborigines, shared the same fate.

Mehmed? At this time, the population of the Duchy of Moscow was estimated to be around six million. It may be called a duchy, but in terms of population alone, it surpassed England by more than double.

‘Even for Mehmed, it’s not gonna be easy, and as always in war, one can die if luck isn’t on their side.’

There wasn’t a successor prince who didn’t stake his life.

“Fearing losses and meddling here and there will only make one look like a fool. It’s better to die and at least receive some sympathy than to expose oneself to such ridicule.”

The parties involved might think differently, but at least Yusuf thought so.

It wasn’t that he lacked affection for his sons; rather, he prioritized something else.

After expressing a cold evaluation, Yusuf suddenly smiled.

“Though I say this, I won’t disappoint.”

The princes had grown up according to their talents.

*

“Prince Murad, preparations for departure are complete.”

At Yagiz’s call, Murad rose his large frame and said.

“I’m afraid.”

“Is there something that frightens Your Highness?”

Even having spent a long time with Murad, he had never seen him in fear.

He was Murad, who would leap onto enemy ships and behead their captains or wield his sword against galloping nomads.

That Murad, who had faced danger numerous times without showing fear, uttered words that felt unbelievable.

Murad slammed down his massive sword, which was like his symbol.

“The blood that has flowed until now and the blood that will spill in the future become meaningless if I fail. How could I not feel afraid?”

Feeling the heavy burden of responsibility, Murad spoke with a firm voice.

“Therefore, I cannot afford to fail.”

Stepping out of the tent, Murad passed by those saluting him and climbed onto the platform.

Even from the high platform, the sea of people gathered was vast enough that its far edge was barely visible, and Murad called out loudly.

“A future where your families and neighbors are sold into slavery! A future where you fear invasions from other tribes! A future where you are despised like beasts! Just know, on the land you stand on, such futures do not exist!”

Murad, having declared resolutely, shattered the platform with his sword.

“Let’s go! We are the future of Africa!”

The roar of eighty thousand troops shook the sky.

A black storm swept across Africa.