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Waking Up (1)

There’s nothing less plausible than life itself, and nothing more nonsensical than reality.

This was especially true for Yusuf, who, being at the highest point of the Empire, heard all sorts of news.

Yusuf had grown so accustomed to his surroundings that he barely blinked at common occurrences, but this particular matter intrigued him.

“Michelangelo, doesn’t this feel like a scene from a memory?”

“It’s not a tale worth romanticizing, as it’s not that far in the past.”

While he found satisfaction in the fact that he could now focus solely on his sculpture without much interruption, he couldn’t say he loved the process leading up to it.

The memory of being captured by pirates and forced into labor caused Michelangelo to wrinkle his crooked nose.

“And it’s hardly the kind of slave to compare against me, is it? He’s not someone of great renown.”

Though Michelangelo had suffered greatly as a captured slave, he was still famous enough to be working on commissions for the Pope.

The news of Michelangelo being captured by the Ottomans had even led to requests from the Papal States and Florence for his release.

In response to Michelangelo’s disgruntled pride, Yusuf set down the book he was holding and glanced down at Machiavelli, who was peeking in fear.

“That’s right. He isn’t someone of great renown.”

The “Prince” he wrote was a politically significant classic, but it was still unpublished.

Rumor had it that he was called a house mite by his wife, as he had no special profession and could hardly function as a man, so he was at that level now.

With the most valuable text, “The Prince,” in Yusuf’s hands, he raised one corner of his mouth.

“By your own words, he is indeed useless. Bringing him along would require too much effort.”

Art may be a universal language, but administration isn’t, is it?

To make use of him as a minister, one would need to teach him everything from basic language to Ottoman administrative procedures, customs, laws, and more.

These weren’t matters that could be resolved in just one or two years; he wondered if it was worth that investment of effort.

Machiavelli, having heard that he could end up as a mute slave through interpretation, hastily spoke up.

“P-padishah! Surely I will be of great help to you! I have served as a diplomat in Florence for a long time and built connections with many figures throughout Europe. How about using me as a diplomat?!”

“Who would use someone so untrustworthy as a diplomat?”

“Even if not as a diplomat, the knowledge in my head will surely be beneficial to you, Padishah!”

Machiavelli, shouting this, swallowed hard while looking into Yusuf’s dreary green eyes.

It wasn’t just because of who held his fate in their hands. It was because he had seen a side of Yusuf colder than any man he had encountered during his years of diplomatic service.

“Nicolò Machiavelli, let me ask you one thing. You said your ship was captured by pirates and that you had a translated Persian book with you. This means you intended to come to the Empire, correct?”

“…Yes.”

“Why did you wish to come?”

“Th-that is…”

Machiavelli, who was good with words and sociable, couldn’t dare say something as reckless as he came to study you.

As Machiavelli hesitated, Yusuf nodded.

Three long seconds passed as he waited.

“Throw this guy into the slave quarters. It seems he’s overthinking things, having arrived so comfortably.”

“P-padishah…?!”

Machiavelli, with his mouth shut tight, was dragged away, and Michelangelo’s expression darkened at the resurfacing of bad memories.

A sinister inspiration surged within him, as if he could create a new series of works centered around slave labor right away.

That’s why, unlike usual, Michelangelo interjected.

“Are you really going to discard him as a slave?”

“I plan to kill off his deception. As long as he doesn’t die, he should write a play filled with humor and satire.”

“A play?”

Though Machiavelli became famous posthumously for “The Prince,” he was renowned in his lifetime for his plays.

He was famous for writing comedies, particularly the “Mandragon,” which was the most notable comedy in 16th-century Italy.

Thus, Yusuf intended to have him create a comedy.

“He will need to write a play satirizing the corrupt clergy for the Empire’s sake.”

The clergy’s corruption during this era was far from ordinary, regardless of their position as a cardinal or pope.

Even the Pope having illegitimate children was common, and “Mandragon” contained themes regarding clerical corruption.

‘Thinking about how the Papacy had “Mandragon” produced to entertain the Pope, they might not have seen it as criticism of the clergy.’

Even within the same comedy, how you frame it can create different perceptions.

“If he’s to write a comedy, I suppose we should bring in a widow for assistance.”

There are tales of comedies penned after falling in love with a neighborhood widow.

It wouldn’t be hard to abduct a widow.

Yusuf thought nothing of kidnapping.

*

With a swish

The scent of wine filled the air, and Yusuf took a sip of the wine.

As he savored the aroma filling his mouth, a gentle voice reached his ear.

“What brings you here? You usually keep your distance from alcohol.”

“Just some days you feel like drinking.”

No law stood above the Sultan, and the same went for the Muslim prohibition on alcohol.

Yusuf wrapped an arm around the shoulders of the two women leaning against him.

“Aishe, Hatice. Do you resent me?”

“How could we ever resent the Padishah?”

Yusuf gently caressed the heads of the two women.

Hatun, the consort, was the most noble woman in the Empire aside from Valide Hatun, but her life wasn’t all happiness.

The biggest reason was that she shared her life with a prince.

“While you wouldn’t resent me, you could certainly feel sadness at leaving this place with your children.”

The Ottoman system thoroughly eliminated any threats to power.

Sending a prince to the Sanjak was a form of education, but it was also a means of expelling a prince, who could threaten power, from the capital.

The fact that a prince who had passed puberty could not carelessly return to the capital showed this kind of control.

‘Similarly, a consort leaving with the prince also has its implications.’

While it played a role in helping the young prince become independent, it was also a way to remove power from the harem.

Since women bearing the Sultan’s children could face oppression from the consorts, many issues could arise.

Yusuf observed the two women who remained silent, not denying anything.

“How beautiful you are. Even more so than when I first met you.”

While their youthful innocence had faded, the maturity they’d cultivated inside and out made them even more attractive.

They seemed more alluring than the beautiful women one could easily find in the harem.

Perhaps it was because of the memories that couldn’t be filled by anything else.

‘I can understand why Suleiman broke tradition in his feelings.’

I could sense why he commanded his harem not to leave the capital with the prince but to stay with him for life.

Having known such cases, Yusuf found himself wishing to command that way too.

“It wouldn’t be hard to keep you by my side just for my selfish desires. But I will not do that, for I know it would harm the Empire.”

“Padishah…”

It may not pose a problem during his reign, but as time passed, it would be inevitable that foolish descendants would arise, swayed by skirts.

He couldn’t leave such a possibility open, even if it meant being harsh.

Feeling even coldness in Yusuf’s words, Aishe clasped her hands, and Hatice snuggled closer into his embrace.

“We will follow your wishes, Padishah. Please don’t fret too much.”

“Just don’t forget us.”

“No matter how many years pass, how could I ever forget you?”

Yusuf gently patted the two women, who were anxiously requesting his attention.

“And this upcoming farewell isn’t eternal. The gates of the capital will reopen, not just for you but for the princes as well.”

Yusuf, firmly grasping power like no other, had no need to severe control over the princes, and he planned to call them back periodically.

‘As time passes, people change, and I should see for myself.’

He might pass his position down not to the princes but to grandsons, but evaluations must continuously happen.

Due to their unique characteristics, the most accurate evaluations could only be made upon meeting face to face.

“The place you’re heading to will be much harder than the splendid harem or even Trabzon, where you previously lived.”

The area Mehmet was going to was a newly built city that would need to be laid down almost from scratch, and there was the threat of the Astra Khanate and the Duchy of Moscow.

Aishe would mainly reside in the safe Cape, but even so, it wouldn’t suffice.

The region Murad was going to was dangerous, rife with Arabic nomads, the Bedouins, on land, and threats from the Portuguese at sea.

It was akin to stepping into a battlefield, a highly perilous area. A mistake could cost lives.

“One last thing I must stress. Stay healthy until we meet again.”

Yusuf hugged the two women.

The moment when the two princes were to depart for the Sanjak was approaching.

*

“Those goods shouldn’t be put on that ship; they should go to that one instead.”

“Ugh! Didn’t you just say it was this one?! Do you even know how heavy that is? Reorder all this again?!”

“Is it so hard to give clear orders about moving cargo?!”

The scowling sailor dropped the box roughly and spat, making the newly appointed official break out in a cold sweat.

Having believed that a brilliant tomorrow awaited him after coming to the capital and taking an exam, he had clearly been deluded.

‘I’m about to die from sleepiness.’

He should have realized this from the apathetic looks of the welcoming seniors.

As he grew more accustomed to the work, instead of lessening, the tasks only seemed to increase, and he made mistakes due to fatigue and the unfamiliar duties.

As the faces of the increasingly grim-faced sailors twisted with anger, the paper he was holding was suddenly snatched away.

“Hmm, it wouldn’t hurt to move it anyway. Since that should be the same cargo type down there. Just be careful not to load more.”

When the advice was uttered, the official, who was about to express gratitude toward the presumed senior, widened his eyes.

“Thank you… I-I see the prince!”

“Before heading to sea, crewmen can be sharp, so be cautious.”

Even the calm Black Sea could sink if one was unlucky.

To sailors, the sea was both a space for living and a reaper who could whisk them away at any moment.

Patting the official on the shoulder, Mehmet surveyed the ships that were in the final stages of departure preparations.

“Finally departing, huh?”

It wasn’t his first time leaving the capital, nor was it his first time on a ship, but Mehmet’s eyes fluttered at the sight of the vessel.

The moment he boarded the ship and set sail marked the beginning of his life as a true prince.

As Mehmet took a step forward, a gruff voice called out to him.

“What are you acting so superior for?”

Frowning at Murad’s voice, Mehmet turned his head and promptly performed a bow.

“I greet the Padishah.”

Everyone crowded in the harbor bowed low to the master of the Empire.

“Get up, and do your job.”

The gathered crowd quickly set about finishing their tasks, as it was the Padishah’s command.

With his hands clasped behind his back, Yusuf regarded the ships hurriedly preparing for departure and spoke up.

“Mehmet, Murad.”

“Yes, Padishah.”

“When I left the capital, I was 11 years old. Younger than the two of you. My elder brothers had sons close to my age.”

I wasn’t trying to say it was tougher in my time.

“When I first left the capital, I vowed to return to this place and claim the highest position.”

That resolve from the moment he had watched the capital fade into the distance had lingered for years.

“However, it was Trabzon that served as the springboard to rebirth for me, as I became the master of the Empire without grasping anything.”

“Is that so?”

Though the book detailing Yusuf’s life had reached the story of Tazlu, who bore Mustafa, it was the first he was hearing of this.

Recalling that he had vowed to create an Empire for the citizens of Trabzon, who were bowing silently, Yusuf patted his two sons’ shoulders.

“Cherish the Sanjak you’ll be heading to. It will have a far greater impact on your lives than the splendid capital.”

“We will keep that in mind.”

Both the composed Mehmet and the impetuous Murad mulled over the advice.

Yusuf drew his two sons into an embrace.

Though they hadn’t hugged since they entered adolescence, he couldn’t let this opportunity slip away, so he acted on instinct.

“I believe you will manage well.”

That day, the ship carrying the two princes and the two hatun departed the capital.

*

Beneath the brightly shining candlelight, Yusuf flipped through “The Prince.”

He was doing so to smooth out the shortcomings, misunderstandings, and parts that didn’t align with the realities of the Ottomans.

Only the sound of rustling paper echoed through the palace when a loud voice rang out.

“P-padishah! There’s a serious matter!”

“Open the door.”

The errand boy, who bowed hurriedly, shouted loudly.

“The ship carrying Prince Murad to Cairo has been attacked by knights.”

Yusuf’s emerald eyes opened wide in menace.

The monster known as the Empire had awakened.