It's a good thing Herr doktor was on the wine rather than on the raki, otherwise he could have ended floating in the bosphorus 
I can't believe German didn't have a word for suffrage
I can't believe German didn't have a word for suffrage
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The tempting lure of a beautiful woman... Lady Greenhaven (her real name? I doubt it) is too goreous to be innocent... Never mind how irritating he is, I feel sorry for the oblivious Herr Doctor...
Flummoxed by Foxy Feminist Femme Fatale! Soulfully Slain by Sultry Sufragette!
Ah, Krieger. He's in for misunderstanding and disappointment aplenty. And what was that about a war with Russia?
Ah, Krieger. He's in for misunderstanding and disappointment aplenty. And what was that about a war with Russia?
Good. Your wife is keeping tabs on you. *cackles diabolically*
It's a good thing Herr doktor was on the wine rather than on the raki, otherwise he could have ended floating in the bosphorus
I can't believe German didn't have a word for suffrage
They do, but Krieger has about zero knowledge of English, thus has no way of connecting the two words.
I will take that as a compliment. Not to mention the connection might get stronger, as the next part could include fisticuffs. Or it could include clowns. Who knows?
Yes, he is a bit of a bumbling but loveable bloke. In a chauvinistic, paternal autocratic sort of way.
The war is proceeding, although more details will be available with time.
I know it's OT, but that was awesome.
Oh, also astute observation about this situation with Russia. I'd missed it, nestled within the romcom mishaps.
I know it's OT, but that was awesome.
Agreed.
Its that whole 'Crimean War' whatzit.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Johannes Krieger
Hospitality
__________________________________________________________________________________________
The sun retreated, the shadows deepened, and the clouds burned with deep amber fire as time wore on.
”Oh, the Ottoman Empire is a fascinating place,” I told Catherine, speaking carefully as I worked to keep myself from slurring the words together. “Truly fascinating,” I repeated. “It has such a rich history and culture. Plus! Plus, its ability to hold itself together for so long is certainly worthy of study.” Sparing a glance down at my glass I considered pouring myself another measure of wine before Catherine’s response momentarily interrupted my thoughts.
“So is that why you study the Turks, Doktor?” Catherine asked as she sipped from her glass of sweetened lemon juice, the name of which seemed to elude me. Annoying. I could guarantee I would remember the name some time later when it was irrelevant.
“Well... yes,” I answered lamely. Setting my empty glass aside I considered the possibility that perhaps I had consumed enough wine for the day.
“But how is the Ottoman Empire more ‘fascinating’ than France, or England, or Scandinavia?” she responded. “They have been around for as long as the Ottoman Empire. Some even longer. Why not study their history, and write books about what they have accomplished?”
“Bah!” I waved my hand dismissively at the notion, rocking back in my chair as I met her gaze. “They have been studied ad nauseam; so much so that there is almost nothing interesting to be found. But the Ottomans! The Ottomans! Well, they are virgin territory! New! Fresh! Here I have a chance to examine in depth something scholars have ignored or marginalized for centuries. It’s as if they avoided discussing the Ottomans hoping that the Turk would suddenly disappear.”
The front legs of my chair impacted the stone floor with a crack as I shifted my weight forward again, my eagerness to explain myself driven by equal parts passion and alcohol. “But it’s not just about being one of the first to do an in-depth study of the Ottomans,” I assured her. “I am going to show those hacks back at the University how a proper historical work is to be done! The Sublime State going to be accurate, approachable, and most importantly, free of the bias that so often infects such endeavours.” I met Catherine’s gaze with a sly grin, telling her in a low voice, “And it will also make me a small fortune. Every respectable man of letters will want a copy of it in their study.”
Catherine nodded as she considered my words. “Well, you certainly are confident of your future success,” she stated flatly. For the briefest of moments I felt as though she were hiding her amusement at something I had said. “But you told me you already completed all of your research months ago,” she continued. “So why are you still here in Constantinople, Doktor?”
“Oh...” I lowered my head and let out a long sigh. “It... well, it has been a rough few months.” As I spoke dark memories came flooding back, nightmare images of my fellow travellers being gunned down in the dancing light of the burning train while the screams of the trapped wounded filled the night sky. Slowly, cautiously, I began to repeat the tale for Catherine in a hushed tone, laying out a rough picture of the many obstacles that had arisen in my attempts to return home.
As I spoke Catherine’s face grew pale. When I told her about the attack on my train she raised a hand to her mouth, hanging onto every one of my words with a fierce desire to hear more. It was a desire I understood. There had been a growing need to retell what had happened to someone, anyone, building within my breast. It had been haunting my nights over the previous weeks as I realized Ettore and myself could very well be the only living individuals who could bear witness to those heinous acts.
After I finished a sombre silence enveloped our table, the conversations of the other patrons muted and distant as we both reflected quietly. “That...” Catherine began, trying to find the right words. “That... is quite the story, Doktor. Why have you not tried to tell others about what had happened? The idea that such acts can go unpunished in this day and age... won’t the Turks do something?”
“What can I tell them?” I replied despondently. “That I escaped the attack on the train, but have no information on who the attackers were, or where they were based, or what their motives were? The Turks would have a better idea of who might attack that train; nothing I can remember would aid them in bringing those murderers to justice.”
“But I can help!” she stated, the force behind her words enough to make me blink a few times in surprise. The outburst was almost unladylike. “I can write letters back home and tell the public about the atrocities being committed by these groups! The United Kingdom is an ally of the Ottomans against Russia, so there is no reason to believe that a public outcry couldn’t force Parliament to order some aid to the afflicted regions. If you let me publish your story and tell me everything, we can help prevent more people from being hurt!”
I opened my mouth to reject her offer before pausing awkwardly with my mouth hanging open, unable to find a real reason why I was so afraid to follow Catherine’s advice. I knew it couldn’t be that I was afraid, as logically there was no reason for me to be worried. Seeing the eagerness in her eyes I quickly found my voice again. “It is getting late, Lady Greenhaven, and my mind is slowed by the wine,” I said, hastily constructing an excuse. “And this is a, well, a big decision. Might I beg your indulgence that I see you again tomorrow, after I have had time to consider it further?”
Catherine’s expression fell in disappointment at my words, but she eventually nodded. “I am staying at the Il Prete Rosso. I am sure you have heard of it?” she said, waiting until I signalled I knew which hotel she meant. It would have been hard not to; Il Prete Rosso was one of the most luxurious lodgings within Constantinople outside of an Imperial palace. “Very good. Please leave a message with the concierge about your decision, Doktor Krieger. I’ll be waiting for you, and I do hope you will do the right thing.”
I lurched to my feet as she rose gracefully from the table, giving her another polite bow. “Of course, Lady Greenhaven,” I assured her. “I’ll go there as soon as I am able. You have my word on that.”
“And thank you very much for the drink, Doktor. It was a pleasure talking with you.”
“The pleasure was mine, Madame,” I repeated the bow as she made her way back out into the street, the light pastels of her dress in stark contrast to the simple earth-tones of the common clothing around her. I waited until she was a respectful distance away before tossing a few lira onto the table and returning my top hat to its perch on my head. With unsteady feet I made my way from the establishment, winding through Constantinople’s numerous side-streets and small alleyways as I homed in on my destination. The boarding house I currently occupied opened up onto a typical dead-end alley with almost no foot-traffic to speak of. It was about as quiet a place one could find within Constantinople’s walls.
I silently thanked God that I didn’t have to trek any further as I stumbled up to the aged door and pushed my way inside. The burly innkeeper looked up from his sweeping as I slammed the door open, a broad scowl on his face. Regardless, I politely doffed my hat for him before shutting the door behind me with exaggerated care. “Why are all the business owners in Turkey large, hairy men?” I asked him with a smile, knowing he didn’t speak a word of German. Alcohol has a way of giving a man the willpower to say what he wants without the handicap of evaluating whether or not his words are worth being said. Under normal circumstances insulting a man whose forearms are the size of hams would not be the sort of action I would countenance.
The frank rudeness of my insult did feel good, however. That much I must admit. His grimace only deepened as he returned to his chores, and my mood elevated slightly at my juvenile words. Ignoring the oaf I made my way to the stairs, eager to collapse into my rough imitation of a bed to collect some needed sleep. I had left Ettore there to rest and recuperate, handing him a few choice books I had managed to borrow from the embassy’s own library. He might have recovered from his illness, but he still tired easily and the last thing I needed was to have him become ill once again. The young lad had returned to his normal gregarious self, and seemed to devour knowledge like a starving man at a royal feast: insatiable of appetite and annoying to those around him.
One of the driving forces behind my sojourns to local drinking establishments was the need escape his constant interrogations over everything he could conceive of. From history (Who was Friedrich der Große?) to contemporary art (What is Romanticism?) to idle daydreaming that bridged the gap between the inane and the deeply philosophical (Why do bad things happen to good people?), Ettore was an unending fountain of questions.
At first I had been thrilled to help educate the boy. He reminded me so much of my dearly departed younger brother Reinhard that spending time with him was like a doorway through which I could pass to the carefree days of my youth. Gradually his incessant questions began to take their toll and I had to remove myself with the consolation that the books I had given him would help to improve his German. A part of me had felt guilty at leaving the young lad alone, but that quickly dissipated once he discovered a new line of inquiry with which to annoy me (How do clouds form?).
With outstretched hands I gradually made my way up the creaking stairs, carefully placing one foot in front of the next to avoid an embarrassing tumble backwards. I paused for a moment as I watched the owner disappear out the front door without a word, leaving his sweeping unfinished. “Must be lazy as well as fat,” I remarked to myself before returning my attention to the stairway. The faint illumination provided by the disappearing sun through the hotel’s open windows (and I use the term “hotel” loosely in this regard) was barely enough to light my path, driving me to slow to a crawl as I tentatively toed each step to ensure it was not some phantom image. The thought of ending up in a crumpled pile at the feet of the churlish owner was more than enough incentive to ensure my caution, and eventually I mounted the last step with a strange sense of accomplishment.
I knew I had consumed too much wine, but thankfully I still possessed the same iron-clad stomach that had earned me so much praise from amongst my fellow University students. I may become dizzy, belligerent, overly emotional, or unconscious, but Johannes Krieger never vomited! They had always joked that I was too stubborn to throw up, which I had always received with a measure of pride. With thoughts of my University days bouncing around within my mind I soon found myself softly humming some drinking song, the lyrics of which escaped me (although they were no doubt very bawdy).
The first blow stuck me in the back of my head with enough force to send me into an uncoordinated tumble. Jagged bolts of pain exploded behind my eyes as I slammed into the hard-wood floor, knocking the air from my lungs and sending me into a wheezing fit as I tried to draw a full breath. My mouth was filled with the sharp copper taste of blood, letting me know that I had bit my tongue. As much as the alcohol might have dulled my senses, it, well, dulled my senses, and the pain seemed strangely muted. I tried to push myself up off my stomach as my unseen attacked planted a firm kick into my side, painfully flipping me over onto my back with a howl of pain.
The room was blurred and unclear, my vision impaired by the alcohol and tears of pain that imparted a dream-like quality to the dark hall. A shadow formed before me and sent another kick into my side. The agony of the impact was decidedly nightmarish, and the shadow only increased my suffering by dropping down onto my prone form and planting a knee into my gut. Grabbing my hair it tugged my head up and pressed a cool object against my throat before barking a question at me. Stunned, in pain, and most certainly intoxicated, it took me a few long seconds to realize the words were in Turkish.
“Where is the boy?” the man hissed in a dangerous tone, his face slowly swimming into focus. His head was wrapped in dark cloth that matched the rest of his outfit, bringing to mind nothing less than some playwright’s depiction of an Arab Hashshashin, right down to the gleaming blade he had firmly planted against my neck. Once my eyes settled on the dagger I found it filling my vision, unable to look away from its razor edges. With a ragged gasp of fear I lashed out at my attacker with all the skill and physical grace of an untrained and intoxicated scholar with a concussion.
One of my hands found something soft and yielding, and to my absolute relief the man’s knife was pulled away from my flesh with only a trickle of blood on its edge. The pressure on my stomach also abated as the masked figure toppled off of me with a loud squeal, his gloved hands clutching at his face. With adrenaline coursing through my body I leapt to my feet to confront the assassin, only to have my legs give out beneath me and unceremoniously slam back down to the floor face first.
The man growled dangerously as I tried to lift my head up, one hand pressed firmly against one of his eyes as the other glared down at me furiously. “You will pay for that,” he spat at me, flipping the knife over so its blade was pointed downward. In a panic I tried to force my unresponsive limps to lift me up as he advanced on my defenceless frame, the dagger raised to plunge into my flesh “No! Please!” I pleaded, raising one hand up to shield my head as I clenched my eyes shut in fearful anticipation. How unfair; my life to be cut tragically short in some dirty Turkish boarding house.
A loud wooden crack echoed around the hallway, followed a second later by a heavy impact as something fell to the floor. Slowly I opened my eyes, finding myself staring directly into the murderer’s covered face. With a gasp I pulled away from him, managing to roll over so I could back peddle away from him. I only halted my mad scramble for escape once I realized he lay in an unconscious pile, a second figure standing over him with a busted chair in his hands.
“Are you alright, Herr Doktor?” Ettore asked me, panting heavily as he looked down at the man. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide with fear and surprise as if he couldn’t believe his actions. I nodded slowly, trying to catch my own breath as I took in the scene. Dropping the chair from his hands the youth moved over to me and helped pull me to my feet. “I heard you scream and came running,” he explained, purposely avoiding looking at the assassin.
“Thank God you did,” I replied sincerely. With the adrenaline in my system and the pain of the blow to my head becoming nothing more than a dull throb I soon managed to support my own weight. “Ettore, go to the room and grab our things,” I commanded him in a low voice. “Meet me downstairs as soon as you can.”
“Yes, Herr Doktor,” he answered and gratefully fled back down the hall. Looking around, I was surprised to find that the attack had not drawn any attention from other residents. The boarding house only held three or four rooms, but I had seen more guests that just the pair of us there. Dismissing it as irrelevant I dropped to a knee to check on the would-be assassin. There was a small pool of blood leaking out from beneath his body, the liquid a deep black in the limited light. I rolled him over onto his side to discover the dagger embedded in his own belly, his dead eyes locked wide open in surprise as his hand grasped the hilt
I let him roll back over onto his front and rose to my feet, my mouth suddenly dry. I remembered how the owner left as soon as I made my way upstairs. ‘He must have been in on it,’ I thought to myself. Glancing around at the other unopened doors I realized he must have gotten the others to leave for the night, thus leaving the place empty for the masked knifeman to kill me in peace. ‘But then why did he need to know where Ettore was?’ I pondered, slowly making my way to the room to help Ettore pack. ‘Couldn’t the inn keeper have told him?’
Quickly the pair of us packed up our few possessions and made our way down the stairs, neither of us feeling any desire to speak as we passed by the dead Turk. Pushing open the door I stepped out into the alley, narrow side street illuminated from within. Lying across the worn stones was the corpse of the fat owner, his blood slowly working its way down the drainage channel. I could see his chubby fingers still wrapped tightly around a small leather purse which undoubtedly held his payment for aiding the masked killer.
“Where can we go?” Ettore asked, seemingly unaffected by this second dead body. “If they found us here, then where is safe?” I pondered for a moment about asking if Ettore knew just why an assassin would be looking for him, but decided it could wait till I was sober again. With the pain in my ribs and head I was in no mood to try and piece together just what mess I now found myself.
“I think I know a place,” I replied.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
The painted door swung open to reveal Lady Catherine, her nightclothes hastily covered in a heavy shawl as she glared at me through puffy eyes, clearly irritated that her sleep had been interrupted. Her annoyed gaze shifted between myself and the concierge at my side, trying to decide which of us was more at fault.
“Lady Greenhaven, there are two-” the concierge started before he was interrupted by a gasp from Catherine. “Herr Krieger!” she said in shock, worry and concern written over her lovely features. “How... what happened to you?” After rubbing some of the sleep from her eyes Catherine had clearly spotted my bruised face and the trickle of blood that leaked from the corner of my mouth.
I removed my top hat respectfully, trying to hold myself upright despite the aching pain in my side from the assassin’s boot. “Well Lady Greenhaven,” I began, giving Catherine the best smile I could manage, “I was wondering if we might impose upon you to stay here for the evening, if it would not be considered too improper of myself to ask. Our last place of residence became unsuitable for our needs rather rapidly, and I am embarrassed to say I find myself out on the streets.”
Catherine continued to stare at me, looking completely at a loss for words. “If you do agree, I would be more than happy to let you write an article about the attack on my train,” I added hopefully. “And as surprising as it may be, I think I might have some new material for you to publish, if you are interested.”
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Close shave! Will it ever stop? And now all this made me wonder if our poor Doktor hadn't fallen out of the frying pan into the fire...
Your prose is really strong! I like it; almost unexpected after a largely historical AAR.
Krieger just can't seem to get away from them.
Krieger just can't seem to get away from them.
That was funny even before the good Doktor got seven shades of the brown stuff knocked out of him.
Sooo... Is trouble following the Doktor, or is it following Ettore?
Well-written scene. Obviously, something was going to happen to Herr Krieger, but the way the update was written and paced was excellent.
I really like the way you interweave a focus on the good Herr Doktor into a historical AAR ... ummmh methinks Ettore is one to watch?
That was more field research than the poor doktor can take in a day And to add insult to injury, I suspect Lady Greenhaven won't be giving her full attention to Herr Krieger now there is also Ettore to take care of
And to add insult to injury, I suspect Lady Greenhaven won't be giving her full attention to Herr Krieger now there is also Ettore to take care of
He does seem to be a magnet for misfortune.
They planted a tracer on him. And thanks!
That was funny even before the good Doktor got seven shades of the brown stuff knocked out of him.
Sooo... Is trouble following the Doktor, or is it following Ettore?
Well-written scene. Obviously, something was going to happen to Herr Krieger, but the way the update was written and paced was excellent.
Well glad you appreciated it. Its refreshing to do something a little different, and I thought the break between volume 1 and volume 2 of The Sublime State would be a good a time as any.
He does have a shady past. I'm thinking ex-Super Hero side-kick.
That was more field research than the poor doktor can take in a day
Lady Greenhaven is a tough, independent woman; she shows her ankles and doesn't care who sees them! *Gasp!*
A very good narrative chapter, deamonofdecay. And congrats on the two year anniversary of your AAR
A very good narrative chapter, deamonofdecay. And congrats on the two year anniversary of your AAR
Thanks! Is that the silver anniversary?
I sometimes wonder if I might earn the title of "longest running EU3 AAR", but then I do think there are one or two AARs which can rightfully claim that honor.
So improper.
Someone censor this!
Who knows, I might just post scandalous illustrations of women baring their ankles for the titillation of the reader!
Thanks, glad you enjoyed it.
On a side note, I should have the next section up tomorrow. Finished most of it today, but I'm feeling too tired to continue at the moment.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Part Forty-Seven
The Battle of Buda
__________________________________________________________________________________________
The term Pax Ottomana might be misleading for some readers with a limited knowledge about the Ottoman Empire. After all, it is not as though the Turks remained static and peaceful during the 17th and 18th centuries. Warfare was still an essential part of the Ottoman system, offering a means of advancement for ambitious Turks and a source of prestige and legitimacy for the Padishah. Like the Roman Empire and its Legions, the military of the Turkish nation played a prominent role in the functioning of the state; it was a crucial cog in the economy and helped ensure stability at home. The professional corps of Janissaries and the Sipahi of the Porte (Kapıkulu Sipahi) were paid a regularly salary, contrasting with the levied soldiers who only operated for specific campaigns generally relied on looting to reimburse them for their efforts.
Often these professional soldiers were located in the more remote regions of the Empire or in threatened provinces. The most significant garrisons were located within the Balkans, which was more loosely aligned to the Padishah than Anatolia or Egypt. With fortresses near or within important towns the soldiers had a great deal of exposure to the common peasant, which helped to reduce any desire or ability for organized resistance from the peasantry. One might expect that there could arise complications from keeping armed soldiers near populations of less than willing citizens, but with the exception of a few tragic events the two groups were amicable towards each other. Part of this was due to diligent oversight. Beys and Pashas kept a close eye on the soldiers within their provinces with the understanding that they were responsible for any trouble that might develop under their watch. Clashes between civilians and soldiers interrupted the normal flow of goods and created problems that could eventually threaten the stability of the Empire by fuelling rebellion and revolt.
Yet that was not the prime reason for the relative stability within the borders of the Ottoman Empire, as these bureaucrats were not always as diligent as they should be, or there were events that were beyond their means to control. History has shown us time and again that a man who cannot provide for himself or his family would be expected to seek a violent solution to his problems. If the peasantry experienced a bad harvest or two, their stores of food would dwindle and they would likely revolt against the authorities in an effort to feed themselves. A harvest was never a certain thing, and these irregular misfortunes were a plague to all the monarchies of Europe. Why then did there exist relatively little conflict in the majority of the Empire? It was a simple case of economics. The soldiers and civilians got on fairly well because the quarterly salaries of the Turks were regular as clockwork. Only a foolish Padishah neglected to pay the Janissaries, and this regular payment created a hearty backbone to the economies of the Ottoman Empire.
The shop of a Turkish merchant. I believe this would make a good illustration for the book. The artist was rather
destitute, so I was able to obtain the rights to this (and a few other of his illustrations) for less than a £1.
destitute, so I was able to obtain the rights to this (and a few other of his illustrations) for less than a £1.
The close proximity of the garrisons to towns and important trade routes meant the soldiers had easy access to the markets of the populace. Often the Turkish soldiers represented the most important facet of the local economy. Merchants and farmers would time their visits to these markets to coincide with the soldiers receiving their salaries. Brothels, a staple near every barracks, hired “part-time” girls during these months to capitalize on the influx of young soldiers with money and little else to spend it on. Populations within these small urban centres would often double with the numbers of people trying to peddle their wares. The middle-class of the Balkans can certainly trace its development to the interaction between the professional Turkish soldiers and the townsfolk of the region. Even today most cities within the Balkans hold their fairs and market days on a quarterly basis, a living remnant of the 17th century.
Stability was created by giving the populace a means to provide for themselves in desperate times. By selling the soldiers their excess crops for a profit the famers began to create larger and more efficient farms to maximize their income. When poor rains or blights destroyed crops, the wealth they had accrued gave them what we today might term a “safety net” so they could purchase what they needed to survive. Yet the process also made them more reliant on the Turkish state and those quarterly salaries, and the populace knew it. The local elders often sought to attract a garrison by providing governors and military commanders with gifts and bribes, knowing that a large garrison was tantamount to a strong local economy. The reverse was also true; relocating the soldiers elsewhere was a death knell for the community. Towns would shrivel up as the merchants followed the soldiers, turning once bustling cities into small backwaters. A skilled Bey could crush any grumbling amongst the people by simply hinting that they might shift the garrison to another town. The community’s leaders would do whatever they could to keep the military there, leading to a willing suppression of any rebellious sentiment within their own people. In effect ethnic groups like the Serbs, Croats, and Magyars who might normally have the desire to revolt against the Empire ended up policing themselves. The largest and most important cities within the Balkans were the most loyal to the Sultan; rebellion could only develop in the more remote and less important regions. The continued prosperity of these urban centres went hand in hand with a peaceful military presence.
Pax Ottomana does not mean absolute peace for the Ottoman Empire. There were always bandits or the odd localized revolt over taxes, but the peoples most likely to pose a constant threat to the Turkish state (the non-Muslim populations within Europe) were often the most obedient. Wars between the Ottomans and their neighbours still occurred with regularity, but there was no matching discord or violence within the Empire’s borders. The Pax in Pax Ottomana was a domestic peace. Then why is it worth noting? Because the sheer size of the Ottoman Empire meant that there was domestic tranquillity from Baghdad to Belgrade. Millions of beings lived relatively peaceful lives even when tens of thousands perished in campaigns against the Padishah’s enemies: another contrasting portrait of the Ottoman Empire. The only true challenge to the Ottoman peace would come from the Turks themselves.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Sultan Abdülhamid died at the very beginning of the 17th century and was succeeded by his son Mahmud I, who like many of his ancestors sought to cement his legitimacy with a military campaign against Christendom. Mahmud’s target was the weakened Hungarian Kingdom, whose borders had gradually been collapsed by successive Ottoman campaigns. Hungary’s military strength had been greatly reduced by the territory it had ceded to the Turks, making it an attractive target for further conquest. The lands that the much reduced Hungary occupied were not the most productive lands in terms of mineral wealth or agricultural output, but the geographic features of the kingdom made their conquest a strategic imperative for the Ottoman monarchy. The Carpathian Mountains formed a natural border along the north and eastern reaches of Hungary, providing a formidable obstacle for any invading Europeans by funnelling them down one of two different routes: to the east along the coast of the Black Sea, or down along the Danube into the heavily fortified Serbian region.
Mahmud was a skilled military leader, and worked well initially with his Janissary officers planning the new conquest. Conquering Hungary would help cement Ottoman domination within the Balkans, and Mahmud looked upon this endeavour as his chance to leave a powerful mark on Ottoman history. While tactically astute and decisively ambitious, Mahmud was an incredibly arrogant ruler with a penchant for sudden, furious outbursts and arbitrarily cruel punishments for any who displeased him or failed to perform to his demanding expectations. In what could only be described as a triumph of anger and egotism, Mahmud managed to completely alienate the entire structure of the Ottoman state within a year of taking the throne. Initially it was the House of Osman that suffered the most from his violent tempers and propensity for ordering executions on a whim, but soon even the Divan and military found the Padishah to be a difficult man to work with. Discontent began to form within the Turkish government towards the upstart and unproven monarch, and he quickly earned the sobriquet Öfkeli (angry).
The Carpathian Mountains.
Despite the domestic problems caused by the Sultan’s disagreeable personality, preparations for the Hungarian campaign progressed at a swift pace. Soldiers were moved towards the staging grounds south of Hungary while supplies and materiel were stockpiled to support the invasion. The apparent weaknesses of the Hungarian kingdom were augmented by their lack of strong leadership at home; King Lajos III was only a small boy who relied on his mother and ministers of suspect loyalties to administer the realm. When the Turks crossed the border in 1604 the Hungarians could mount little resistance, their soldiers retreating north after a few small skirmishes that did little to delay the Ottoman wave.
There were others with their eyes on Hungary, however. The Austrian Habsburgs had their own designs on their neighbouring Christians, having worked to bring the two realms together through intermarriage and diplomatic overtures over generations. King Lajos’ older sister had married into the Habsburg royal line, and it was through this familial link that the Hungarian queen dowager Anna pleaded for help from their powerful neighbour. Emperor Maximilian II of Austria, a shrewd diplomat of the highest order, saw this as the perfect opportunity to bring Hungary fully into the Habsburg sphere. Ostensibly to defend their fellow Christians from the privations of the “heathen Turk and their bloodthirsty Sultan,” Austrian intervention into the war came with a heavy price for the young King Lajos. While their agreement was crafted privately and thus not given a contemporary name, later historians refer to the affair as the Treaty of Rust, after the small town where the Emperor was staying when he put his seal on the documents. In the treaty Lajos’ mother was forced to negotiate away most of the kingdom’s sovereignty, accept Lajos’ marriage to one of Maximilian’s daughters, and formally declare that Hungary was a vassal of the Habsburgs. In exchange the Emperor promised to keep Hungary a separate state, not remove Lajos from the throne, and to immediately intercede in the war.
Austria’s intervention surprised Sultan Mahmud. The Padishah had fully believed that Hungary’s weakness and Austria’s refusals to intervene in the previous years had demonstrated the Habsburgs cared little for their neighbour and would not risk a major war to defend them. So confident was Mahmud he had stripped the fortresses protecting Serbia and Croatia of their garrisons and sent the soldiers north, leaving the route into the Balkans completely undefended. This was a potential disaster for the Turks; their supply lines were entirely dependent on the Danube and the two major depots at Novi Sad and Belgrade. Vessels would make their way up the river two reach one of the two cities, where the supplies would be offloaded for transport north. The land routes through Turkey’s vassals of Wallachia and Transylvania, which had to pass through the Southern Carpathians, were slow and unable to meet the needs of the Ottoman army.
The Ottoman military had advanced far into Hungary and settled down into siege lines, leaving them in a poor position to respond to the sudden developments. Enraged at having been caught off-guard by the Austrians, Mahmud executed many of his senior military commanders in a rage before ordering most of his armies back south as fast as possible. Fearful of sharing their predicessors’ fates, the new commanders ensured the manoeuvre was completed with amazing haste. The Bishop of Erlau, who had been present during the length of that town’s siege, wrote about the emergency withdrawal in his diary:
[The] sun arose on the 66th day of the siege to reveal that the siege had been lifted. The tents and earthworks that surrounded the city still remained but were left unoccupied and strangely empty. The ground was strewn with containers of grain and scattered weapons as a few lone cries reached our ears from the cattle and goats left in their pens. It was as if [the Turks] had vanished from this earth in a single moment.
The only major siege to continue was that around the city of Buda, where the Sultan himself had invested his Imperial Army and the Beuluks (the imperial household guards of the Janissary corps). The siege there had progressed too far for the army to easily disengage, and Mahmud’s stubborn nature left him unwilling to contemplate any withdrawal. He had made the siege a personal declaration of his skill, and he would not leave until Buda Castle fell. The siege left the Imperial Army, the largest contingent of the Ottoman military, a static and vulnerable target. Maximilian couldn’t pass up the opportunity that fell into his lap, personally leading the column of Austrian soldiers that marched to relieve Buda. Mahmud’s commanders were too frightened by his unpredictable nature to confront the Sultan over the looming danger. There have even been suggestions that reports about the advancing Europeans were suppressed and not relayed to Mahmud for fear of his reaction to the news; Mahmud had no compunctions about ‘shooting the messenger’, as it were.
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The Battle of Buda was a crushing defeat for the Ottomans. Only hours before the Austrians arrived did Mahmud become aware of the danger his extended lines were in, giving him little time to redeploy his forces. While Mahmud had a number of personal flaws that would condemn him, he still possessed a keen military mind and set to work trying to salvage what he could. He ordered his reserves and most of his left wing to wheel about and confront the advancing Austrians. Seyfettin Turgut Pasha took command of the rearguard action, fighting desperately to buy time for the rest of the force to frantically withdraw. At first it succeeded as the Austrian vanguard, mostly light cavalry, was pulled into a melee with Turgut’s ad-hoc division. However the main body of Austrian soldiers, lead by Maximilian, exploited a breach in the Turkish lines to flank him, swiftly surrounding and eradicating the blocking force with superior numbers and massive quantities of heavy cavalry.
Fleeing with the surviving men Mahmud narrowly escaped the same fate when the irregulars and light cavalry Maximilian used for scouts distracted themselves looting the hastily abandoned Turkish camp. Mahmud’s army, however, was a shattered shell. The Sipahi of the Porte, the cream of the Ottoman cavalry, were almost completely wiped out buying time for their Sultan’s retreat, while the Janissaries were left depleted and demoralized. The Humbaracı (bombardiers), experienced but loosely organized artillery gunners, escaped mostly unscathed but were left impotent by the need to abandon their cannons (over 60 pieces by some accounts) to move faster, leaving them to the victorious Austrians.
Artwork depicting Mahmud's flight.
Mahmud managed to reach friendly lines a few days later, but the damage to his army was almost as great as the damage to his prestige. Reports of his conduct at the battle grew more disparaging with every retelling. Soon Turgut had been transformed from a minor general who was a talented enough yes-man to avoid Mahmud’s wrath into a glorious martyr who had willingly sacrificed himself to buy time so the rest of the army could escape and the Sultan to slink away like a coward. While it is true that Mahmud’s character flaws had endangered his army in the first place, his decision was clearly the right one. If he and the entirety of his army had been destroyed, it is conceivable that the leaderless and stunned Ottomans would have lost their Croatian and Serbian lands. But that was little comfort to the average Turkish soldier; their blame fell on the unpopular monarch who had ordered the retreat. Facing discontent and the rumblings of revolt amongst his soldiers, most Sultan’s would have tread carefully by pulling back into a strong defensive position to give their troops time to rest and reorganize while they made sure of the loyalty of their commanders. Mahmud, for all his military acumen, had no sense of diplomacy. Instead Mahmud set about blaming his subordinates for the disaster and executed a number of the leaders who had escaped Buda with him for cowardice and incompetence.
It was the last major decision of his famously short reign.
- Johannes Krieger, The Sublime State: A History of The Ottoman Empire; vol. 2
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