Oğuzhan: Sultan of the Turks

Chapter One — A New Homeland

1094, Hatay

As the evening sun disappeared behind the Amanos Mountains, a crimson glow spread across the plain.

The wind swept through the high hills, making the banners in front of the tents flutter.

A black wolf was embroidered upon the largest banner.

It was the symbol of the Bozkurtlu Tribe, a community of nearly four hundred and fifty people.

Around the camp, nearly three hundred mounted warriors kept watch, while another hundred and fifty infantrymen guarded the tents and herds.

These lands did not belong to them yet.

But Bori Bey was determined to make them their homeland.

Years ago, their fathers and grandfathers had traveled west from Khorasan, entering Anatolia alongside the Seljuk armies.

After the Byzantine army had been defeated at Manzikert, the gates of Anatolia had opened to the Turks.

But entering a land was one thing.

Establishing a permanent homeland was another.

Bori Bey understood that.

He sat upon his horse, gazing toward the hills across the plain.

Two of his sons stood beside him.

Alp Arslan and Tuğrul.

A little behind them stood seventeen-year-old Oğuzhan.

Bori Bey remained silent for a long while.

Finally, he spoke.

“There is water here.”

Tuğrul nodded.

“And plenty of grass.”

Alp Arslan pointed toward the surrounding hills.

“And the mountains can protect us.”

Bori Bey looked at his sons.

“Then why do you still think this land belongs to us?”

The three brothers exchanged glances.

Bori Bey continued.

“Because pitching a tent upon a piece of land and making that land your homeland are not the same thing.”

Oğuzhan spoke for the first time.

“A homeland becomes a homeland when blood is spilled for it.”

Bori Bey turned his head.

He looked at his youngest son.

There was a hardness in Oğuzhan’s face that had never disappeared since childhood.

He was only seventeen.

Yet Bori Bey saw something in his son’s eyes that did not belong to someone so young.

Ambition.

Oğuzhan did not merely want to become a good warrior.

He wanted something more.

Bori Bey knew it.

But even Oğuzhan himself did not yet know exactly what that something was.

Bori Bey dismounted and stood before his three sons.

“Listen.”

The three brothers fell silent.

“We are Turks.”

He pointed toward the black wolf banner.

“Those who came before us shed blood upon these lands. Those who come after us will live upon whatever lands we leave behind.”

Then he looked at Oğuzhan.

“A bey must first learn to rule himself.”

Oğuzhan lowered his head.

“Yes, Father.”

Bori Bey smiled.

“Learn to carry orders before you learn to give them.”

The expression on Oğuzhan’s face changed.

He did not like those words.

But he said nothing.

Bori Bey’s Tent

That same night, the elders of the tribe gathered inside the great tent.

Dozens of people were present.

White-bearded elders, alp commanders, and warriors filled the tent.

Bori Bey sat in the center.

Alp Arslan sat on his right, while Tuğrul sat on his left.

Oğuzhan remained slightly behind them.

On the opposite side sat Aybike Hatun.

Her eyes repeatedly moved toward her own sons, Kılıçarslan and Bayındır.

Eventually, she spoke.

“My Bey.”

Bori Bey turned toward her.

“Speak.”

“Who will lead all these people after you should be discussed.”

The tent fell silent.

Oğuzhan raised his head.

Aybike Hatun continued.

“Alp Arslan is the eldest. Tuğrul comes after him. But after them...”

Her gaze moved toward her own son.

“Kılıçarslan is no longer a child.”

Bori Bey’s brows furrowed.

“Kılıçarslan is only fifteen.”

“I have seen beys enter the battlefield at fifteen.”

“So have I.”

Bori Bey’s voice hardened.

“And I have seen the graves of most of them.”

Aybike Hatun fell silent.

Bori Bey rose.

“I will not choose a bey among my sons while I am still alive.”

Whispers spread throughout the tent.

“Turkish tradition does not allow such a thing.”

He looked at his three sons.

“Whoever proves worthy will lead.”

Aybike Hatun’s expression tightened.

She understood exactly what Bori Bey meant.

Kılıçarslan would receive no special treatment.

Neither would Oğuzhan.

That night, when everyone had returned to their tents, Oğuzhan could not sleep.

He climbed a small hill outside the camp.

Thousands of stars filled the sky.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.

Oğuzhan placed a hand upon the hilt of his sword.

He had no beylic of his own.

No men of his own.

No land of his own.

Yet he carried a strange conviction within him.

One day...

Thousands of people would gather beneath his own banner.

A voice came from behind him.

“You’re not asleep?”

Oğuzhan turned.

It was his elder brother, Tuğrul.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Tuğrul sat beside him.

For a while, they silently watched the plain.

Then Tuğrul spoke.

“Our mother doesn’t like you.”

Oğuzhan smiled faintly.

“I don’t like her either.”

“Because of Kılıçarslan.”

“Because of me.”

Tuğrul looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

Oğuzhan stared toward the horizon.

“Our mother wants Kılıçarslan to become bey. That’s obvious.”

“And you?”

Oğuzhan remained silent for a moment.

Then he spoke.

“I don’t want to become a bey.”

Tuğrul was surprised.

“Then what do you want?”

Oğuzhan stood.

He watched the black wolf banner fluttering in the night wind.

“What I want...”

He paused.

“...is something greater than being a bey.”

The smile disappeared from Tuğrul’s face.

“What?”

Oğuzhan did not answer.

Because he did not know himself.

But fate would give him the answer soon enough.

Toward the end of 1094, a message would reach the borders of the Bozkurtlu Tribe and change the fate of the entire family.

Byzantine soldiers were approaching from the west.

Turkish beys were advancing from the east.

And new powers were rising across the lands of Syria.

Anatolia was becoming more than a land of warriors.

It was becoming a land where beyliks and states would be born.

Oğuzhan was only seventeen.

But the war waiting for him would not merely be a struggle over land. The first steps of a conflict that would begin with his own family and eventually reshape Anatolia were about to be taken.

1094, Bozkurtlu Camp

As the morning sun illuminated the foothills of the Amanos Mountains, an unusual sense of activity spread throughout the camp.

Horses were being prepared.

Saddles were being tightened.

Bows were inspected.

Swords were sharpened.

The reason was a messenger who had arrived at the camp the previous night.

The messenger had entered Bori Bey’s tent around midnight and remained there until morning after a long discussion.

At sunrise, Bori Bey summoned his three sons.

Alp Arslan, Tuğrul, and Oğuzhan stood side by side before the tent.

Bori Bey held a sealed letter.

“It came from Aleppo.”

Tuğrul was surprised.

“Aleppo?”

Bori Bey nodded.

“From Emir Atsız.”

Oğuzhan’s eyes lit up.

Atsız.

He was one of the Turkish emirs whose influence was rapidly growing in Syria.

Bori Bey opened the letter.

“Emir Atsız is gathering a new army in Syria. He is calling Turkmen beys, Arab emirs, and warriors to Aleppo.”

Alp Arslan asked,

“Does he want soldiers from us?”

“Not merely soldiers.”

Bori Bey folded the letter.

“He wants beys.”

The tent fell silent.

Bori Bey looked at his sons.

“We cannot remain alone in these lands.”

He spread a map across the ground.

He pointed toward Aleppo, Antioch, and the surrounding Turkmen settlements.

“We have established a new homeland here. Byzantium lies to our west. The emirates of Syria lie to the south. And to the east, the Turkmen beys are growing stronger by the day.”

His finger moved to Aleppo.

“Whoever controls Aleppo controls the roads of this region.”

Oğuzhan studied the map carefully.

“And whoever is allied with these beys...”

Bori Bey finished his son’s thought.

“...will not stand alone when the enemy comes.”

Then he announced his decision.

“All three of you will go to Aleppo.”

When Aybike Hatun heard this, her expression darkened.

“Why isn’t Kılıçarslan going?”

Bori Bey looked at her.

“Because this time, I am sending my elder sons.”

Aybike Hatun said nothing.

Oğuzhan remained silent.

For the first time, he would attend such a major political gathering.

For the first time, he would leave the borders of his own tribe.

And for the first time, he would sit among other Turkish beys.

The Road to Aleppo

By noon, twenty horsemen had set out.

Alp Arslan rode at the front.

Tuğrul followed closely behind him, with Oğuzhan beside him.

The sound of hooves echoed along the rocky roads.

The Bozkurtlu banner fluttered in the wind.

Throughout the journey, Oğuzhan carefully studied his surroundings.

Villages.

Small fortresses.

Trade routes.

Turkmen camps.

And, in the distance, Byzantine fortifications.

Tuğrul looked at his younger brother.

“It’s your first time going to Aleppo.”

“Yes.”

“There will be dozens of beys there, just like us.”

Oğuzhan smiled.

“Not dozens of beys.”

Tuğrul raised an eyebrow.

“Then what?”

“Dozens of rivals.”

Alp Arslan called from behind them.

“Both of you, keep your heads straight. In Aleppo, words are just as important as swords.”

Oğuzhan looked at his brother.

“You can do the talking.”

Alp Arslan laughed.

“And you can learn to remain silent.”

Oğuzhan said nothing.

But the smile remained on his face.

Aleppo

After several days of travel, the walls of Aleppo finally appeared.

Oğuzhan had never seen such a large city in his life.

High walls.

Crowded markets.

Caravans of camels.

Arab, Turkish, Kurdish, Armenian, and Greek merchants.

Different languages filled the streets.

Different banners flew above the city.

Alp Arslan slowed his horse.

“There is Aleppo.”

Oğuzhan stared at the city.

“How many people live there?”

“Many,” Tuğrul replied.

Oğuzhan smiled.

“One day we’ll see even greater cities.”

Alp Arslan glanced at him.

“First, let’s make sure we enter this one alive.”

When the Bozkurtlu party approached the fortress, men sent by Emir Atsız came to meet them.

“Are you the beys of the Bozkurtlu Tribe?”

Alp Arslan stepped forward.

“We are the sons of Bori Bey.”

The officer bowed.

“Emir Atsız is waiting for you.”

The three brothers dismounted.

They entered the great hall of the palace.

Many beys were already inside.

Turkish emirs.

Turkmen alp commanders.

Arab emirs.

Warriors from different regions of Syria.

And every face carried the same expression.

Preparation for war.

At the far end of the hall sat Emir Atsız.

Atsız carefully studied the three brothers.

“Bozkurtlu.”

Alp Arslan bowed.

“Emir Atsız.”

Atsız’s eyes moved to Tuğrul.

Then they stopped on Oğuzhan.

“Who is this young man?”

Oğuzhan stepped forward.

“Bori Bey’s third son. Oğuzhan.”

Atsız studied him from head to toe.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

Some of the beys in the hall smiled.

Atsız did not.

“Why would a child of seventeen be sent to a council of war?”

Oğuzhan answered without hesitation.

“Because my father does not consider me a child.”

Several beys exchanged glances.

A faint smile appeared on Atsız’s face.

“And you?”

Oğuzhan answered,

“I don’t consider myself a child either.”

Atsız leaned back.

“Then we shall see.”

He turned toward the three brothers.

“Your tribe sits upon the frontier. Joining our army does not simply mean sending warriors.”

He paused.

“In this region, we will need one another.”

Alp Arslan bowed.

“The Bozkurtlu Tribe has answered Emir Atsız’s call.”

Tuğrul bowed as well.

Oğuzhan remained silent for a moment.

Then he said,

“Our father told us that we must stand together with the powerful Turkmen beys.”

Atsız nodded.

“An intelligent man.”

Oğuzhan continued.

“We have come to join your army upon his orders.”

Atsız rose.

“Then welcome.”

That night, after the three brothers had returned to their quarters in Aleppo, Oğuzhan remained awake for a long time.

The noise of the city could be heard outside.

Tuğrul was preparing to sleep.

“What are you thinking about?”

Oğuzhan looked out the window.

“Our father was right.”

“About what?”

Oğuzhan watched the distant banners.

“There isn’t merely a tribe here.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“There is enough power here for a state to be born.”

Tuğrul sat upright.

“A state?”

Oğuzhan turned toward him.

“Not yet.”

The sound of war drums echoed through the city.

Oğuzhan’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

“First, we fight.”

And that night, the three sons of Bozkurtlu joined Emir Atsız’s army.

None of them yet knew that the decision made in Aleppo would become the first great turning point in Oğuzhan’s life.