홍해의 붉은 깃발(2)

A man with a brush stared blankly at a painting.

He was so captivated by the artwork that he hardly noticed the strong odor of mixed oil paint invading his senses.

The brilliant blond girl with sparkling green eyes smiling innocently was indeed a painting he created, yet it made his heart flutter.

How long had he gazed at his masterpiece from two years ago without creating anything new?

A sigh drifted to his ears.

“Tiziano.”

At the sound of his name, the man, Tiziano Vecellio, turned his head.

It was Giovanni Barbaro, with whom he had forged a friendship while participating in the Venetian envoy to the Ottoman Empire.

“How many times have I called you, and you’re still staring at that painting without even turning your head? You’ve pushed all your commissions aside, too.”

“It’s not just because of that painting.”

“Still, it must occupy the largest share of your thoughts.”

Giovanni Barbaro looked at Tiziano with pity.

Art blossoms where money flows, and in Italy, the art scenes of Florence and Venice are the twin pillars of Italian art.

Although still only 29 years old, Tiziano had become the most acclaimed figure in Venetian painting after Giovanni Bellini’s death—who was a master of the vibrant Venetian style.

It was truly regrettable that one who would lead Venetian art found himself in a slump.

“Isn’t it about time to start accepting commissions that are piling up? The nobility tends to hold grudges, especially those in high positions.”

“I suppose I must take on commissions eventually.”

As Giovanni pointed out, Tiziano could not ignore requests from the nobility and the palace forever.

Despite his response, Tiziano placed the brush down and continued to fixate on his painting, prompting Giovanni to say helplessly.

“Then how about we go to the Ottomans together this time?”

“To the Ottomans, you say?”

Though physically close, the Ottomans felt psychologically distant.

Many, including Tiziano, found it hard to visit a place they romanticized.

“They say the canal is finally completed. I plan to meet the Padishah for permission to use it. Wouldn’t it be better to go together than to stay here?”

Tiziano faintly brightened at the thought of seeing that statue again, but his expression soon hardened.

“Didn’t I sell the paintings of the Ottoman princess to the nobility? Wouldn’t that lead to serious trouble if I went in now…?”

The paintings he kept for himself were the best among many, and the others had been sold to nobles who heard rumors about them.

He had been tempted by the pressure from the nobles and their enormous sums of money to sell, and now that was what was constraining Tiziano.

Noticing his concern, Giovanni patted Tiziano on the shoulder.

“You didn’t exactly trade with the nobility without a plan. Surely the Emperor won’t know of this; he has too much work managing such a vast empire.”

“Then I’d like to go if it’s alright.”

“Good. I’ll arrange for you to meet Michelangelo Buonarroti should we get the chance.”

At the name Michelangelo, Tiziano clenched his fist.

He was an artist who had been kidnapped by pirates and reduced to slavery. Interestingly, after becoming a slave, his fame spread even further.

The title of being the favorite artist of the Ottoman Emperor was quite powerful.

“Is that really possible?”

“It’s not uncommon for artists to exchange ideas and inspire one another, is it? And even if he is nominally a slave, he doesn’t live in oppression, so it should be feasible.”

“Well, then I will join you.”

Tiziano answered brightly.

Recently, Charles V, who had just been crowned Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, and King Francis I of France had received commissions from various parts of Europe. He was a leading Renaissance painter.

In the distant future, he might be overshadowed by the fame of Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo Buonarroti, and Raphael, but at that time, he was the most acclaimed painter in Europe.

With a story of Charles V personally picking up the brush and stating that Tiziano deserved to serve the Emperor, he boarded the ship bound for the Ottomans again.

*

A canal connecting the Mediterranean and the Red Sea has been completed. The shock and value of this fact weren’t simple.

Of course, it was already well known in Europe that the Ottomans were digging a canal following the Mamluks.

Such a large-scale project couldn’t be hidden from sight or ear.

However, despite hearing the news, most remained skeptical, and many skeptics firmly declared it would never happen.

‘This is nothing more than a meaningless past tale now, and Portugal must be feeling the pressure.’

Going around Africa to reach India was no ordinary task.

The mere fact that the southern tip of Africa was named Cape of Good Hope hints at the horrendous arduousness of the roughly 10,000 kilometers of sailing along Africa’s western shores.

‘The risks of the voyage are enormous too.’

It was considered a tremendous success if half of the dispatched ships returned, and they would have to thank the gods for it.

Yet, they still continued sailing because even a few returns meant profit.

Even Magellan’s fleet, which crossed the Atlantic and the Pacific, saw only 1 out of 5 ships return, yet they still covered all the expenses with trade profits; maritime trade was not to be underestimated.

Nevertheless, a new risk now added to the mix would be the Ottoman Navy, which must have driven Portugal to madness.

“Portugal must be desperate since their livelihood’s at stake.”

“Is that why they’re sending a fleet to the Red Sea?”

“Even that won’t be enough to eliminate Portugal’s options.”

Yusuf replied firmly to the words of the newly appointed Grand Vizier, Dukakincizade.

A nation that had been working for a hundred years to open a new eastern route as a substitute for the Mediterranean was Portugal.

Now, just as they were about to taste the sweetness, someone took it away, and they were bound to resist with their national fortune at stake.

“The enemies will not only be Portugal. With the opening of the canal, Egypt’s value has increased dramatically compared to before, so they may attempt a crusade again.”

“If they dare confront the Empire, I will set all of Europe ablaze.”

Yusuf clicked his tongue at the absurdity of hastening global warming with such foolish talk.

“The Grand Vizier still hasn’t had enough Qahwa. Do you not see the resentful glares over there?”

If a war were to be waged against all of Europe, the Ottomans would have to risk everything.

That meant the amount of work would skyrocket, and the ministers glared at Dukakincizade as if they were about to drown him in coffee.

Their resentment was echoed by the ministers.

“Grand Vizier, while your loyalty to the Padishah is commendable, it’s barely been a year since you started going home before sunset.”

“…That was a slip of the tongue.”

Though many officials were appointed annually through examinations, there were regions in the Ottoman Empire where even tax collection had been abandoned.

To fill that gap, no matter how many talented individuals were chosen, they vanished like black holes, having barely begun to lead decent lives.

No wonder that after Yusuf ascended the throne, the birth rates of his ministers had plummeted.

“It would be best to avoid war with the West if possible. Our immediate focus should be on the East.”

As trade expanded, reaching beyond Southeast Asia to regions including China, the priority was India.

‘Spices are important, but the cornerstone is essential.’

How long could they keep using dung as a base for gunpowder?

The number one goal was to acquire India, where they could dig and produce the foundation, and it would be better to avoid war with Europe before that.

Yusuf turned his head the other way.

“To buy time, we’ll need to sow discord among the Western nations. That’s where your role is crucial, Hasan.”

“I will fulfill my duty.”

Hasan, known for the legend of Satan’s tongue, bowed his head.

Yusuf, who looked at the talented individual specialized in incitement, fabrication, and discord with satisfaction, left the meeting room.

Yusuf climbed to the citadel where the Bosporus Strait was clearly visible.

Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, Yusuf gazed at the strait flowing like a raging river and spoke.

“Hassan Pasha.”

“Yes, my Padishah.”

He spoke in a rough, dry voice.

It wasn’t because the once thick, black hair had become completely sparse.

“Did you send Nene off well?”

“Thanks to the care of the Padishah and Valide Hatun, she peacefully embraced Allah.”

“Glad to hear that.”

To speak frankly, though she was merely a maid, Nene was not a woman to be judged by status.

She was one of the rare individuals he trusted, apart from his mother Fatima, when Yusuf had just ascended.

‘If she hadn’t been of advanced age, she wouldn’t have been this kind of woman.’

Having safely given birth to her son Al-Hassan, her healthy body had started to weaken.

Among the many deaths Yusuf had witnessed, Nene’s passing was anything but trivial, especially for Hasan.

“Have your feelings settled a bit?”

“Thanks to the time you granted me, I was able to be with her in her final moments. She told me to serve you well with my son. She didn’t worry about me being left behind.”

That was classic Nene.

Hasan chuckled ironically as though it were absurd, but within that laugh was a deep yearning, prompting Yusuf to give him time to organize his emotions.

As a gentle breeze swept across Hasan’s heart, Yusuf opened his mouth.

“If Nene said that, then it’s time to assign work.”

“Command me.”

Yusuf pointed towards the Bosporus Strait.

“I intend to build a bridge across this strait.”

“A bridge across the strait?”

The narrowest point of the strait separating Europe and Asia is about 700 meters, similar to the Han River.

Even so, building a bridge that length in that era was a significant challenge, especially given the swift currents that might not hold the pillars well.

Yusuf, feeling the weight of the situation, noticed Hasan’s doubtful gaze as if wondering whether Yusuf truly intended to assign him this task.

“Grief can be forgotten through labor. This is all to show my regard for you.”

“…I will follow your orders.”

Resigned to Yusuf’s cowardly excuses, Hasan agreed without vigor.

Having been caught in the spiderweb of labor, there was no escape.

Yusuf, forcefully assigning work to Hasan, looked out at the bustling strait with ships coming and going.

Soon, envoys from Venice and France would arrive.

‘Even if we monopolize the canal, it will only sow resentment and create a reason for unity, so we must share some profit.’

Given the deepening ties between Charles V and Francis due to the latter growing enmity over the Holy Roman Empire’s throne, he was someone the Ottomans could push forward.

Just then, someone rushed in urgently to Yusuf, who was contemplating alliances with France.

“What is the matter?”

“Our fleet and Portugal’s fleet have clashed near Mocha!”

A port that had become the largest coffee trading post in the world, earning its name from Café Mocha, it was also the capital of the Ottoman-controlled Yemen.

In other words, it was the city where Murad was.

*

A man wielding a sword much larger than the average blade wiped the blood splattered on his face with his hand.

The man on horseback plunged his sword into the pile of corpses before shouting.

“Is there nothing left to send to the embrace of Allah?”

His voice reverberated across the battlefield, causing the enemy charging in to slowly withdraw.

Murad, who had made a long scar on his cheek a symbol of terror, spat as the enemy receded.

“Annoying pests.”

Murad casually pulled the sword from the corpse and listened intently to the faint sounds of gunfire.

Compared to a few hours ago, the sound of gunfire had definitely diminished.

As Murad wiped the blood and human fat smeared on his sword with the cloth he had in his arms, his advisor, Pasha Yagiz, let out a sigh.

“Prince, why push yourself so hard? The Padishah will scold you for this.”

“They’re fierce; I must show strength to suppress them.”

The Bedouins, the Arab nomads he encountered, were like beasts.

Not in a barbaric sense, but in that they were uncontrollable and would bare their fangs at the slightest opportunity.

Murad smiled as he sheathed his sword after hastily cleaning it.

“And isn’t this a bit of fun to be here?”

Yagiz shook his head lightly.

Given that many of the Bedouin warriors surrendered in awe of Murad’s might, it was not easy to deal with them.

After the Tahir dynasty lost the western regions of Yemen to the Ottomans and had most of their forces retreat to Aden, Murad asked.

“How goes the naval battle?”

“They’ve only fired from a distance and then retreated. They’re probably assessing our strength.”

“It seems this place will become the main focal point for the Empire’s future battles.”

Chuckling lightly, Murad stepped over the corpses as he made his way back to Mocha Harbor.

*

Michelangelo halted his sculpting hands.

It was unusual for him to break his concentration, but there was a reason.

“Did you just say someone painted a picture after seeing my statue of the princess?”

What nonsense was this brave soul spouting?

Hastily scanning the vicinity, Michelangelo grabbed Tiziano by the collar and whispered.

“Run away immediately if you don’t want to lose your head.”

At the glance following Michelangelo’s gaze, Tiziano’s complexion turned pale as he seemed to hear the faint footsteps of Janissaries approaching.

It was a day when meetings with envoys were delayed due to battles with Portugal.