Post by Sublime Porte on Feb 8, 2015 20:30:24 GMT
Budin Sarayi (Buda Palace)
He had worked long enough to force his servants to change candles around him, and even refused to change his clothes. He knew that the mild-mannered Nisanci, Ismail Pasha, had conducted a great coup in his peace with the Polish King. Convinced by the merits - and possibility of peace - Süleyman Pasha had worked hard since hearing of the Treaty of Kamieniec to negotiate an end to the hostilities with Austria. Of course, merely holding the line at Buda and Pest would not be enough for a man carrying the imperial seal, and Süleyman would have to plan a swift campaign somewhere manageable in order to prove he is no craven. The scattered peoples of the Caucuses would do. Perhaps a quick subjugation of the Georgians in Imereti would establish him as a Caucasian strong man, enough to gain the fealty of the other Caucasian peoples that have a much deeper history of serving the Sultan, and so would be more ready to bend the knee.
"Pasham!"
Sari Süleyman turned to greet the man who had interrupted his intense work in the late hours of the night. It was a man he had come to consider a friend, Bekri Mustafa Pasha.
"How are you doing, Blondie?"
The over familiarity of the Janissary commander often comforted the Grand Vezir, who knew that his job was one that done well would make him rich, and done badly would make him dead. The present situation of the empire made the latter a dangerously real possibility.
"The usual," sighed Süleyman. After a pause he added, "but that might change..."
"A shame," smiled Bekri. "This campaign has made you into an excellent poet. If you were a happy man, you'd deprive the world of your art."
Süleyman was not amused. He struggled to sleep since the Sultan deemed it appropriate to promote him. He idled away his darkest hours by penning a few lines of mediocre poetry. Having foolishly showed a few to his lieutenant, Bekri Mustafa now considered it his right to rummage through his papers and exaggerate the quality of the work.
"I may need you to hold he line at Budin, until the ceasefire with Austria is concluded with a treaty of peace," Süleyman was glad that the fighting had stopped, but in a strange way he found the silence far more taxing than the more immediate sense of doom that had preceded it. Without the constant movement of troops and the roar of cannons, Süleyman had too much time to think, and too much time to spend writing mediocre poetry. "I won't have lost any territory, but a draw is hardly prestigious for an Ottoman army. I'll have to start preparing troops for a campaign in the east if I am to convince my critics that I know what I'm doing. Imereti must taste my steel."
He had worked long enough to force his servants to change candles around him, and even refused to change his clothes. He knew that the mild-mannered Nisanci, Ismail Pasha, had conducted a great coup in his peace with the Polish King. Convinced by the merits - and possibility of peace - Süleyman Pasha had worked hard since hearing of the Treaty of Kamieniec to negotiate an end to the hostilities with Austria. Of course, merely holding the line at Buda and Pest would not be enough for a man carrying the imperial seal, and Süleyman would have to plan a swift campaign somewhere manageable in order to prove he is no craven. The scattered peoples of the Caucuses would do. Perhaps a quick subjugation of the Georgians in Imereti would establish him as a Caucasian strong man, enough to gain the fealty of the other Caucasian peoples that have a much deeper history of serving the Sultan, and so would be more ready to bend the knee.
"Pasham!"
Sari Süleyman turned to greet the man who had interrupted his intense work in the late hours of the night. It was a man he had come to consider a friend, Bekri Mustafa Pasha.
"How are you doing, Blondie?"
The over familiarity of the Janissary commander often comforted the Grand Vezir, who knew that his job was one that done well would make him rich, and done badly would make him dead. The present situation of the empire made the latter a dangerously real possibility.
"The usual," sighed Süleyman. After a pause he added, "but that might change..."
"A shame," smiled Bekri. "This campaign has made you into an excellent poet. If you were a happy man, you'd deprive the world of your art."
Süleyman was not amused. He struggled to sleep since the Sultan deemed it appropriate to promote him. He idled away his darkest hours by penning a few lines of mediocre poetry. Having foolishly showed a few to his lieutenant, Bekri Mustafa now considered it his right to rummage through his papers and exaggerate the quality of the work.
"I may need you to hold he line at Budin, until the ceasefire with Austria is concluded with a treaty of peace," Süleyman was glad that the fighting had stopped, but in a strange way he found the silence far more taxing than the more immediate sense of doom that had preceded it. Without the constant movement of troops and the roar of cannons, Süleyman had too much time to think, and too much time to spend writing mediocre poetry. "I won't have lost any territory, but a draw is hardly prestigious for an Ottoman army. I'll have to start preparing troops for a campaign in the east if I am to convince my critics that I know what I'm doing. Imereti must taste my steel."
