Ancient Laws

“It is acceptable for a Sultan of the Ottomans to kill his brothers for the common good of the people.”

These ancient laws etched into our Sultanate have put me against my brother. I stare into my brother’s eyes and wonder: how is it ever acceptable?

I remember when I returned to Istanbul, and the only people to welcome me at the Palace’s gate were the Janissaries. But a little boy stood between them. Adorned with a cute white turban, his face lit up as he saw me.

“Brother!” he said, and I fell to my knees to hug him. I never fell to my knees for anyone. Even for Baba Sultan, a simple bow was enough.

“How are you, Ahmed?” I said.

“I missed you.” He grinned, and his teeth shined like stars.

But now, anger has twisted his face into a frown.

I turn to my army, clad in armour as red as blood. “Bismillah, Allah, Allah, Hu!”

The roar trembles the air like thunder.

“You will die here, brother!” says Ahmed from the other side. “Surrender now, and I may leave you.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Have you gone mad, Ahmed? Only one of us will leave here alive. These are the ancient laws written in blood and glory.”

“You are too soft-hearted, Selim. Like our father once said—”

“Enough!” I take out my kilij, and it shines orange in the drowning sun. “I only talk when my sword has sated its thirst for blood!”

The war begins with the beat of drums and the thunder of horns. I have spent my entire life on the battlefield, but always against the enemies of my father and the Sultanate. As the Janissary said during my sword ceremony:

“Oh, the enemies of the Ummah, Allah, and the Prophet, you are on one side, and we are on the other. You are the ungrateful ones, and we, the grateful ones.”

As I thrust my kilij into a man wearing the same armour as me and take the name of my god as he dies, I wonder: who is the grateful, and who the ungrateful? On whose side is he, and on which side do I stand?

“Brother!” says Ahmed, and for a moment, I think he’ll plead for me to stop like the countless times he did during our sparring sessions. He called me “brother” then to garner my sympathy. I wonder what he wishes now.

The clanks of our kilijs fall like lightning on my heart. His eyes, which once glittered like diamonds, now spew poison. Finally, I grab his hand and thrust my kilij into his chest. He falls to his knees with a thud. His eyes bulge as if they’ll fall out at any moment. I take him in my arms, and all I see is my brother, adorned in his little white turban. His majestic eyes are now forever shut to me.

“Ahmed!” I cry. “Ahmed!” I cry again. Maybe his soul will hear and return. Tears flood my eyes as I hug my brother. He doesn’t speak, for I have sewn his mouth with iron. I cry and cry, but no amount of tears extinguishes the fire in my heart.

I never wanted to kill my brother. But such laws have kept our empire intact. They prevent civil wars and rebellions. The life of one for the lives of many. But when that one is your brother, I didn’t know if I could do it—until I did.

“Will I have to kill my brothers too, Father?” my son asks me.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I can do it.”

“You will.”