(POV 3rd person, Bayezid II)
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fifth Month (July 1495).
Topkapi Palace, Constantinople, Ottoman Empire.
The July sun fell implacable upon the domes of Constantinople, shimmering on the blue of the Bosphorus as if the sea itself were a sheet of molten sapphire. However, within the thick walls of the palace, the air carried an unusual freshness, heavy with the scent of incense, noble woods, and the subtle perfume of success.
Bayezid II observed from one of the marble lattices as life teemed in the palace's first courtyard. The atmosphere in the capital had changed drastically in the last few days.
And with good reason; the news of the death of his brother, Cem Sultan, in western lands, had arrived like a blessed balm. For many, mourning an Ottoman prince was protocol, but for the Sultan and his inner circle, Cem's death was the end of a thirteen-year nightmare.
As long as Cem lived under the custody of the popes and the Knights Hospitaller, the Ottoman Empire had been a hostage to its own lineage.
Bayezid had been forced to pay a fortune in gold annually, a 'pension' that was in reality a ransom for inaction, and to curb any significant advance toward Christendom to prevent his brother from being used as a banner of rebellion. But now, with the pretender in the ground, the chains had been broken.
Bayezid sighed, feeling the weight of the crown rest lighter upon his temples.
Those years of 'forced peace' had not been in vain; he had used them to consolidate the conquests of his father, the Conqueror, and to strengthen the administration. But the Ottoman lion no longer needed to sleep.
He adjusted his heavy silk kaftan, adorned with silver threads, and prepared to face his Divan. The fate of the empire no longer depended on the blackmail of Rome, but on his own will.
When the heavy doors of the Divan hall opened, silence fell like a slab of granite.
The viziers, the pashas, the ulemas, and the generals stood in a synchronized movement, a tide of white turbans and colorful robes. A group of musicians in the upper gallery maintained a harmonious and discreet melody, a signal of the majesty entering the hall.
Bayezid walked with a slow and steady pace to the throne. Once seated, he made a soft gesture with his hand.
"You may take your seats. May the peace of Allah guide our tongues this day."
"May the Sultan live a thousand years!" thundered the choral response of those present before settling into their respective places.
The Shaykh ul-Islam stood up, his white beard flowing over his chest. He raised his hands in a prayer that everyone followed with devotion.
He thanked Allah for the firmness of the empire, for the health of the sovereign and, with a voice heavy with intent, mentioned that the sons of Islam who had passed away in distant lands, a veiled allusion to Cem, would finally be avenged through future glory. After a minute of silence that seemed eternal, Bayezid broke the religious formality.
"Let us speak of the peace that builds," said the Sultan. "How do our works progress? The empire does not only expand with steel, but with faith and science. The mosques, the madrasas and, above all, my Darüşşifa (hospitals)."
The overseer of public works, a man whose face was weathered by the sun of the quarries, rose with a bundle of reports.
"Majesty, construction in the great cities does not stop. Curiously, in the provinces where the groups of Sephardic Jews have settled, the speed has increased… They themselves have taken over the direction of their temples and, to our surprise, have contributed a large part of their own coins to finance the public hospitals. They say it is their way of paying for the hospitality of the Lion."
Bayezid let out a genuine laugh that echoed off the Iznik tiled walls.
"Ferdinand of Aragon! He calls himself 'Catholic King' and believes himself wise," he commented with a hint of mockery. "How stupid must a sovereign be to impoverish his own kingdom to enrich mine, expelling people so capable and loyal."
Those present laughed with him, enjoying the irony. Bayezid then turned his gaze toward a man who dressed with an austere dignity: the newly appointed Grand Rabbi, Eliyahu Mizrachi.
"Tell me, Mizrachi, do your people find rest in our cities? Has the welcome been in accordance with what my decree ordered?"
Mizrachi stood up, bowing his head with deep respect, but maintaining a firm voice.
"The grace of your shadow, Sultan, is the only roof we need. My people have been received as brothers in need. Where before there was fear under the kings of the west, now there is work and gratitude under your command."
The meeting flowed for another hour between taxes and logistics, until the atmosphere grew tense again when Bayezid leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Enough of administration. Let us speak of war and horizons. What is the state of our fronts?"
One of the generals of the war council, a man with scars that narrated past battles, stood up.
"In the west, the infidels tear each other apart, Majesty. France and Italy are locked in a dance of betrayals. It is the time to steady our grip on the Karadeniz (Black Sea). If we control every port of this sea, all the trade of silk and spices will die or live according to your desire."
Bayezid nodded, but his mind always looked in two directions.
"And the east? The Safavids are not like the Europeans; they share our blood, but not our vision."
Another general intervened with concern.
"The power of the Safavids in Persia grows like a tide, sire. Their incursions are bolder. I recommend that, before looking toward Rome, we strengthen the eastern borders. We cannot allow the Persian wolf to bite our backs while we look at the sea."
An elderly advisor, who had remained silent, asked for the floor with a humble gesture.
"Majesty, if you permit me… A prolonged truce with the Kingdom of Hungary would give us the necessary respite. If we maintain only the pressure in Moldavia and Wallachia, we could move the bulk of our Janissaries to the east to teach the Safavids a lesson."
The proposal was received with murmurs of approval. Bayezid meditated on the idea, but suddenly, his gaze returned to Eliyahu Mizrachi. He remembered the secret conversations with the previous rabbi, Moses Capsali, about maps and stars.
"Mizrachi," said the Sultan in a tone that made even the generals fall silent. "Your predecessor spoke to me of certain rumors that your relatives in the Iberian Peninsula whispered before being expelled. Rumors of ships that do not go south to round Africa, but instead launch themselves into the heart of the ocean, toward the west. Are they sailors' tales or is there truth in them?"
Eliyahu Mizrachi kept a cautious silence before responding. He knew that the information he possessed was political dynamite.
"Majesty... it is real. The kings of Castile and Portugal are obsessed with finding a route that frees them from your commercial taxes. They seek Cipangu and the lands of the Great Ming by traveling the path where the sun sets. But…" Mizrachi paused, measuring his words, "the news that reaches us from our brothers who still remain in the western courts suggests something else. They have not found the way to the spices of the East."
Bayezid narrowed his eyes. "Then what have they found in that immensity of water?"
"They have found a world that did not figure on any map of the Greeks or the Arabs, Majesty. A different realm, vast and strange. It is not Cipangu, nor is it, China. They call it the Suaza Kingdom."
A deathly silence took hold of the Divan. The generals looked at each other with incredulity, but Bayezid remained impassive, although his heart beat with a curiosity he had not felt since he studied Ptolemy's maps in his youth.
"A new kingdom?" whispered Bayezid, more to himself than to the others. "While we fight for every inch of land on the Danube, is the world getting bigger behind our backs?"
The Sultan looked at his generals and then at Mizrachi. The death of his brother was no longer the most important news of the day. The game board had just expanded to infinity.
(POV 3rd person, Muhammad al-Shaykh)
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fifth Month (July 1495).
Dar al-Makhzen (Royal Palace), Fez el-Jdid, Wattasid Sultanate (Morocco).
The heat of the 'summer' in the Maghreb was not simply a temperature; it was a physical weight that settled on the shoulders of men and the domes of the mosques.
In northwest Africa, the air vibrated with the echo of a past glory and the uncertainty of a fragmented future.
Since the fall of the great Almohad Caliphate, the region had become a mosaic of broken ambitions. What was once a united empire under the banner of faith now languished divided into three distinct wills that looked at each other with suspicion across invisible borders.
To the east, the Hafsid Sultanate stood as the solidest pillar, protected by the growing shadow of the Ottomans and enriched by the caravans that brought gold from the south and the galleys that crossed the Mediterranean.
In the center, the Zayyanid Sultanate was a shadow of what it was, suffocated by internal intrigues and the boot of the crown of Aragon, which kept it in a controlled decadence.
And then there was the Wattasid Sultanate, the home of Muhammad al-Shaykh. From his balcony in Fes, the sultan could feel the salty breath of the sea, but that air brought with it the smell of gunpowder and the burnt wood of Portuguese ships.
Portugal was a plague that devoured his coasts, occupying vital ports and strangling the commerce that was the soul of his people. However, in the last three years, a new actor had emerged from the mists of the Atlantic: the Suaza Kingdom.
At first, Muhammad observed them with the cynicism of one who has seen too many conquerors. He expected the men of the west, coming from those lands they called Great Quyca, to bring the same chains as the Christians of the Iberian Peninsula.
But the Suaza did not ask for blood tributes nor did they erect fortresses on his beaches; they brought unknown spices, metals of an amazing purity and, above all, a courtesy that disarmed the most veteran generals.
The reception hall of the Royal Palace of Fes el-Jdid was a masterpiece of Marinid and Wattasid architecture.
The intricate zellige work on the walls created geometric patterns that seemed to dance under the light of the bronze lamps, and the soft murmur of a central fountain helped mitigate the suffocating heat outside.
Sitting on his silk divan, Sultan Muhammad observed the retinue that advanced over the Persian rugs.
At the front walked Apqua, a man of bronzed skin and serene bearing, whose reputation preceded him: it was said that he had held his gaze before the Spanish kings without blinking.
What most surprised the court was not his exotic clothing, but that, upon reaching the throne, Apqua knelt with perfect fluidity and pronounced the greeting in impeccable Arabic.
"May peace be with you, oh Sultan, and may Allah grant you the wisdom to guide your people through paths of prosperity," said Apqua, bowing his head according to the protocol of Fes.
Muhammad, pleasantly impressed by the respect for his language and faith, nodded with a solemn gesture.
"Be welcome, envoy of the Suaza. Your words honor this house."
Apqua stood up and pointed to the presents that his men carried.
"Leader Chuta sends me to strengthen the ties that the ocean has tried to separate. First, allow me to give you these rings, forged with the gold of our mountains and adorned with stones that keep the fire of the Great Quyca."
Muhammad took one of the jewels after the inspection of his vizier. The embedded ruby seemed to throb with its own light.
But the next gift was the one that stole the sultan's breath: a painting of Fes el-Jdid. It was not an abstract interpretation, but a representation of an almost supernatural realism.
Each minaret, each horseshoe arch and each detail of the wall were captured with such precision that Muhammad felt he could step into the canvas. The gesture was eloquent: the Suaza were not here to impose their image, but to celebrate his.
Finally, the aroma of food flooded the hall. Apqua presented a tray with steaming dishes and dark drinks.
"This is cacao, the blood of our land, sweetened for your delight. And these are potato cakes and corn tortillas, the sustenance of our warriors and sages."
To dissipate any fear, Apqua served himself a portion of each dish and drank the cacao in front of the sultan. Muhammad, intrigued, took a tortilla and a cake.
At the first bite, his eyes opened with wonder. The texture of the potato was soft, contrasted with a spicy heat that danced on his tongue, a warm and vibrant sensation that he had never experienced. The cacao, thick and sweet with a trace of noble bitterness, produced an almost immediate satisfaction in him.
It was the taste of abundance.
After the tasting, the atmosphere became denser, more political. Muhammad left the silver cup on the carved wooden table and fixed his dark eyes on Apqua.
"Your delicacies are exquisite and your jewels admirable," began the sultan, his voice becoming deeper. "But we know that men do not cross oceans only for the pleasure of cooking. Tell me, Apqua, what is the true purpose of this visit?"
Apqua did not flinch. He sighed slightly and interlaced his hands.
"Sultan, as you know, our kingdom has traded with the Songhai Empire to the south for some years. We respect their mosques and their traditions, and they have thrived with us. But observing your coasts, we see an injustice… Your current neighbors, Portugal and Spain, speak of respect, but act with the sword."
Muhammad frowned, feeling a pang of bitterness.
"In that you are not wrong," spat the sultan. "Those kingdoms only have eyes for conquest and only respect those who pray toward their same altars. Even among themselves they devour each other like hungry wolves."
"Also, we are aware of that; with us," Apqua paused, "they only maintain a facade of peace because they fear the power of our fleets, not because they value your culture."
Muhammad did not comment further, but his face already expressed many of his thoughts.
"Our kingdom has decided that the balance in this sea must change," commented Apqua with a serious tone. "We want to help you."
Muhammad tensed, his right hand unconsciously stroking the hilt of his dagger.
"Help us? In exchange for what? Do you want us to let your armies into my cities to 'protect' us from the Portuguese? … I will not change one master for another."
Apqua shook his head immediately, with a sincerity that seemed to cool the tension in the room.
"No, Sultan. There will be no Suaza armies in your lands, nor our ships occupying your ports permanently. What we offer you is much more dangerous for your enemies than ten thousand soldiers: we will give you the knowledge and supplies."
Muhammad was surprised by the proposal, but did not respond immediately. So Apqua continued.
"We will provide them with material support, techniques of navigation and defense, and the tools so that your own army is the one that expels the invaders. We will strengthen your hand so that the Maghreb is once again the master of its destiny… And what we want in return is to learn from your science, from your medicine and from your faith."
Muhammad sank into a long silence. He looked at the realistic painting of his city, then the gold ring, and finally the man who offered him the strength to be free without asking for his freedom in return.
For the first time in decades, the sultan of Fes felt that the west wind did not bring storms, but an opportunity.
.
----
.
[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support. Let's get straight to the chapter comments.
CHAPTER COMMENTS
First, I wanted to mention that I had some doubts about the title of this section. Initially, Distant Echoes was going to cover Eastern Europe and the Middle East, but I felt it was unnecessary to discuss Russia, Poland, or other Middle Eastern kingdoms that wouldn't have direct relevance to the immediate plot.
However, this doesn't mean I don't have information about them. In fact, for each kingdom with a clear record, my research progresses by one or two years.
Second, I was going to create a section just for Africa, but honestly, it didn't seem important, aside from the already mentioned Songhai Empire and the sultanates of Northwest Africa.
However, I must confess that finding information about them is considerably more complicated.
Finally, since we already have a character from the Suaza kingdom, this will be the last echo for now.
Perhaps the next one will be Echoes of the Horizon (East Asia and Southeast Asia), but that will be at least a year away.
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS
I don't know if you noticed, but this one is somewhat shorter, so it took me considerably less time to prepare, although it also worked in my favor that I had already researched the sultanates.
On another note, we will return with chapters about Chuta, where we will see these echoes reflected in his decisions and the reports he receives.
Furthermore, I want to know if anyone is bothered by the friendly attitude of the Suaza Kingdom.
I ask because I was rereading some chapters where the Europeans seem very docile, and the Suaza Kingdom also seems to grant many benefits to others and doesn't appear strong.
I will explain the issue of the Europeans as an example and, consequently, the reason why this attitude of the kingdom works.
First, let me clarify that the European kingdoms were literally all embroiled in wars, every single one. Perhaps only the Kalmar Union (Norway, Denmark, and Sweden) was spared, but even during this period, Sweden wanted to secede, and there were other internal conflicts.
Second, each military campaign was extremely expensive, and those who paid for them were generally the lower classes and some merchant classes. This was even more pronounced for maritime explorations.
Keep in mind that for Columbus's first voyage, I even mentioned in previous chapters that some merchants lent money to the crown.
I'll get to the main point.
Imagine this situation: Ships arrive at your ports, carrying the very resources you've been searching for: rare spices, precious stones, jewels, gold, silver, some specialty crops, fabrics, furs, and other highly sought-after items.
These ships trade openly with you, without overcharging, and in return, they ask for crops, books, art, animals, etc.—things that are readily available and have little domestic demand.
Knowing this trade, you have two options (there are more, but these are the main ones):
Go and find the products yourself, with all the investment and inherent dangers, or continue trading with them.
Furthermore, keep in mind that just as the Ottoman Empire and the Safavids profited as intermediaries in the East along the Silk Road, these kingdoms—Spain, Portugal, and England—would profit in the same way, and with even less risk.
This is why, with the right political tactics (a three-way alliance and future support for sultanates and the Ottoman Empire) and commercial strategies (trade dependence, joint expeditions, open trade routes, and new commercial markets), the kingdom can appear friendly.
What will happen when someone tries to overstep its boundaries or attacks the kingdom?
Well, we'll see in due time... perhaps soon.
----
Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
You can find them on my profile.]