Ring of Fire III

by Eric Flint

  Hopefully, Melek Ahmed thought, that will be ended this year when the sultan takes Baghdad.

  But it was not Persia that was the major threat to the empire. As had been revealed by the histories from the miracle city of Grantville, it was the Austrians and Hungarians who were the real threat to Ottoman rule, especially in the Balkans. And the Russians, of course. But they would be later. Much later, God willing.

  “It was fortunate you arrived in time with your reinforcements.”

  Ismail bin Abdullah, chorbaci and commander of the new regiments training with the weapons provided by the Republic of Essen, shook his head.

  “The battle was nearly over by the time we arrived, my Pasha. Mustafa bin Kemal and the Essen technical expert, Sampson Gideon, rallied the armorers once the local janissary infantry company was routed.”

  “Mustafa bin Kemal? Is he not the nephew of Evrenos Bey?”

  Ismail nodded. “And his maternal grandfather was a Bektashi pir.”

  “Ah? I assume he is mastering the new mysteries of the pious foundation we have established in Salonica?”

  “So I have heard,” Ismail said. “The fate of the Bektashi and the other Sufi orders will be much different than in the universe from which Grantville came, God willing.”

  Melek Ahmed nodded. Bektashi mysteries were just that to many members of the ulema, the religious leaders of the empire. The conservatives had no interest in them and even dismissed them contemptuously as nothing but heresies. So it was unlikely they would investigate an unusual mystery in a Bektashi lodge in a newly minted province, despite the fact that increasing numbers of Bektashi dervishes were visiting to learn about the latest knowledge.

  Unless the Kadi decided to investigate. “You still think the Kadi, Ebu Said, is behind this attack, Ismail? I find it hard to believe. What would his purpose be?”

  Ismail shrugged. “He is a Kadizadeli, my Pasha. Your reforms in Salonica alone would be enough to incur his ire. But he is also Albanian and milk-brother to Yusuf Bey.”

  Melek Ahmed felt his lip curl. “Yusuf Bey. Too wealthy for his own good. If Yusuf Bey is behind this attack...” He looked down at another rebel body on the ground. “Were any prisoners taken?”

  “Half a dozen,” Ismail said. “No officers. They have been taken to the Red Tower.”

  “Good. Let me know immediately if any useful information can be extracted from them.”

  “As you wish,” Ismail said. “And Mustafa bin Kemal? Without him the factory would have fallen to the rebels.”

  “A reward. Two kese. That will also make Evrenos Bey happy, as some of the honor will reflect on him. And a kese as well for the Jewish Englishman, Gideon, when he recovers from his wounds. This explosive he has manufactured for us...what is it called?”

  “Dynamite.”

  “Yes. The ‘dynamite’ has allowed us to open new shafts in Sidrekapsi and increase production by twenty percent.”

  Ismail smiled. “The sultan will be happy to hear that.”

  “Indeed. And he will need that extra silver if he expects to attack Vienna after Baghdad. Never have two campaigns been planned so close together. Will your new regiments be ready?”

  “They will,” Ismail said. “The gunpowder factory will have two hundred tons of the new powder within a year, and the next supply of weapons from Essen should arrive this summer.”

  Melek stroked his beard. “The sultan has given me great power in this sançak. But if Yusuf Bey and Ebu Said stand against us, we will need plentiful evidence to have them removed from power. Find me that evidence, Ismail.”

  “I will, my Pasha. On the grave of my mother, I swear it.”

  * * *

  Lara was just beginning to prepare the mid-day soup when Hannalica Castro entered the kitchen.

  “They can’t do this. They just can’t!” Hannalica cried. “The inspection of my trousseau is tomorrow!”

  “Who can’t do what, Hannalica?” Lara asked. She tasted the soup.

  “Him! That Englishman, Sampson Gideon. They’ve put him on my bed. Mine!”

  Lara felt herself go still. Hannalica’s bed was the most comfortable bed in Don Diego’s household. There was no reason to put Sampson on Hannalica’s bed unless...

  “He is injured?”

  Hannalica nodded. “There was a battle at the new gunpowder factory this morning. He’s been shot. Not badly, they say, a minor head wound, but still...what if he gets blood all over my bed?”

  “Then we’ll clean it up, Hannalica. Don’t be such a spoiled child.”

  Hannalica stomped her foot. “I am not a child. I am fifteen and about to be married into the most important family in the Aragon congregation.” She lifted her chin and looked at Lara. “Not that I would expect a Ukrainian slave to understand that.”

  “Don’t get snippy with me, Hannalica,” Lara said. “Or have you forgotten who made the poultice to fight your night terrors when you were ten? Or the amulet to guard against the evil eye of the girls you think are jealous of you?”

  Hannalica lowered her head. “I’m sorry, Lara. Truly. But why couldn’t they have taken him to the hospital?”

  “Would you want to go the hospital?” Lara asked. “Yes, it’s light and airy, but it’s also in the middle of the cemetery. Tombs for tables and chairs. Señor Gideon will be much more comfortable here.”

  “But what about my trousseau? Where are we going to put my things? Doña Gazela doesn’t like me already, I know it. If she sees even the least thing out of place tomorrow...”

  “It will be fine, Hannalica. The weather is good. We’ll put everything in the courtyard. We have plenty of room since your brother Raphael and his family moved to Izmir.”

  Now, if she could just keep her sister Lina from finding out that her secret love was injured...

  Lina came running into the kitchen. “Lara! Sampson’s been hurt!”

  Oh bother.

  * * *

  “He is so handsome. Don’t you think so, Lara?”

  Sampson Gideon kept his eyes closed. He knew that voice. Who...his memories returned like a wave rushing in to the shore.

  Ah, Lina. Sampson felt himself squirming inside. He’d been attracted to the red-haired Ukrainian slave in Don Diego Castro’s household from the first time he had seen her in the kitchen. And her older blond sister as well. At first it had made him uncomfortable that such beautiful women were actual slaves (and possibly concubines) in a Jewish household. But Issac Castro, the Republic of Essen’s consul in Salonica and Don Diego’s cousin, had assured him that the use of slaves in the houses of Jewish notables was a normal practice. Slavery in the Ottoman Empire was a much more fluid concept than the slavery in Brazil, Issac had told him. Many slaves were manumitted after their years of service and those who converted to the religion of their owners often became an integral part of the household and the community.

  “Handsome enough, I suppose.” Sampson heard amusement in Lara’s voice. “Let’s get this over with before he wakes up.”

  It was the clucking noise that made Sampson open his eyes.

  “What are you doing, Lara?” Sampson asked.

  Lara stopped rotating the rooster over his head.

  “Don’t stop, Lara, finish!” Lina said.

  “I have to start over or it won’t work, Lina. It has to be done all at once.”

  Lina put her hand on his arm. “Be still, Señor Gideon. This will make you feel better. Truly. Lara is a healer. Your pain and injury will pass from you to the rooster.”

  “I see. In that case, please finish, Lara.”

  Do not laugh, Sampson, he thought. Don’t!

  Lara smiled down at him. Then winked. Ah, now it made sense. This was for Lina’s sake, not his.

  Lara rotated the rooster three times over his head, then neatly wrung its neck.

  “You will feel better soon, Señor Gideon,” Lara said.

  “Thank you, Lara,” he said. He looked at Lina. “And you too, Lina.” He tried to sit up and
his head seemed to swim. Once again he felt Lina’s cool hands on his arm.

  “Careful, Señor Gideon. You will not feel truly better until the ritual is complete.”

  “Ritual?”

  “The Kappará. Sacrifice.” Lara said. She held up the rooster and stepped to the door. “The rooster must be eaten by the patient and his family. Since Don Diego and his household are the closest thing to your family here in Salonica, we will put the rooster into the mid-day soup. Chicken broth is good for the health and soul anyway.”

  “Stay with him until the soup is done, Lina,” Lara said, shaking the rooster at her sister. She walked out the door.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” Sampson said. His head began to swim again. “Well, maybe not. Lina, can you help me lie down?”

  Lina’s hands were strong and firm now. They cupped his cheek as his head settled back on the pillow. Her fingers brushed lightly over the bandage on the left side of his head.

  “Once the soup is done, I will bring you a big bowl, Señor Gideon. Lara has put fresh vermicelli in it as well. It is very tasty.” Lina licked her lips and smiled at him.

  Sampson found himself squirming again. He couldn’t help wondering how tasty Lina’s lips might be.

  * * *

  Issac Castro watched from the doorway as the two slaves fed the soup to Sampson Gideon. It was difficult not to laugh out loud as the two young women fussed over him.

  They are as infatuated with him as he is with them, Issac thought. It is probably good that he has had to spend all his time at the gunpowder factory.

  Issac cleared his throat.

  Lara and Lina looked up at the doorway.

  “Is he well enough to carry on a conversation?” Issac asked.

  Lina looked disappointed.

  “Of course, Don Issac,” Lara answered. “We were just leaving. Lina, get the soup bowl.”

  “But...”

  “Now, little sister.” She turned toward Sampson. “We will bring you dinner this evening, Señor Gideon. I will have Lina go to the market to get the fruit you want. That should go well with the meat dish I have planned. Something to give you more strength.”

  Both women left and Issac nodded towards the door as he approached the bed.

  “They seem to be taking good care of you, Sampson.”

  Sampson smiled. “Excellent care, Don Issac.” He chuckled. “I woke up with a rooster over my head.”

  Issac nodded. “The Kappará. The Jews of Salonica have a number of interesting superstitions. It may take some time getting them to think in a more scientific fashion about health. But at least Melek Ahmed Pasha seems amenable to taking preventative measures against disease in the city. If only the rabbis were as easy to convince.”

  “Apparently Melek Ahmed sent his protégé, Evliya Chelebi, to Grantville to investigate the rumors of a city from the future,” Sampson said. “I think I actually met Evliya at a chess tournament in the summer of 1632.”

  “Speaking of Melek Ahmed,” Issac said, “the pasha has rewarded both you and Mustafa for your defense of the factory. Two kese for Mustafa and one for you. That will be a nice bonus to take back to Essen.”

  “Take back?” Sampson’s voice seemed to rise in tone.

  Ah ha, Issac thought. As I suspected. He wants to stay. A pity.

  “That was much too close this morning. If that musket ball had been an inch to the right...your father would never forgive me. It’s time for you to go home, Sampson.”

  “But, Don Issac—”

  Issac held up his hand. “You yourself have told me that Mustafa is more than competent now, have you not?”

  Sampson nodded. It seemed a reluctant nod to Issac, but still verification of the essential truth that the principal job for which Sampson had been hired was over.

  “Good,” Issac said. “Once you’re well enough to travel, say in a week or two, we’ll get you on a ship to Livorno and then home.”

  Sampson crossed his arms. “But, Don Issac, I don’t want to go back to Essen!”

  Issac smiled. The young man had the same stubborn expression on his face his own sons held when they didn’t get what they wanted.

  “I understand. Salonica has been an adventure. Exotic compared to Amsterdam or Essen. But every adventure must end, young man. I’ll give you a month. No more.”

  * * *

  “He can’t do this to me, Mustafa,” Sampson said, sipping his coffee. “He just can’t!”

  Mustafa laughed and took a sip of his own coffee.

  The coffee shop they patronized was less than two streets away from the busy thoroughfare of the via Kalamaria. Still, it was a tranquil place with a fountain in the small square and several Roman era columns to lean against.

  Mustafa shook his head. “I’m sorry, my friend. I should not laugh at you. But you cannot fight the tide. Issac Castro pays your salary. And Melek Ahmed Pasha will not want to upset the consul of the nation providing him with rifles and cannon for the regiments he is forming. Unless...”

  Mustafa’s look turned speculative.

  Sampson felt himself lean inward. “Unless what?”

  “You know what,” Mustafa said. “We have discussed this before.”

  Sampson sighed. He knew what Mustafa was talking about. Conversion to Islam. If he converted to Islam Melek Ahmed Pasha would reward him with money and a government position at the gunpowder factory.

  It was tempting. He’d never been a pious Jew, despite his mother’s wish that he become a rabbi. His interest in science had been a great disappointment to her and they had not spoken in years. He’d thought about conversion for months, especially as he had learned more about Mustafa’s Sufi sect, the Bektashi.

  Unlike Judaism and the Counter-Remonstrant version of Calvinism he’d known in Amsterdam, Bektashi doctrine was much more tolerant and pantheistic. Many of its rituals seemed similar to Christian ones and unlike more mainstream adherents of Islam, they allowed the eating of pork, drank wine, and incorporated dancing as part of their faith. But the most appealing part of their doctrine, especially after what he had experienced in Grantville, was their attitude toward the education of women.

  What had Haci Bektash said?

  “Mustafa, what was that quote by Haci Bektash you told me about?”

  Mustafa smiled. “Which one? There are hundreds.”

  “The one about the education of women.”

  “Ah. ‘Educate your women,’ Haci Bektash said. ‘A nation that does not educate its women cannot progress.’ ”

  Sampson nodded. “That’s it. And in the thirteenth century yet. I was just thinking what the rabbis of Amsterdam or Salonica would think about that.”

  “Probably recoil in horror at the thought.”

  But could he give up his Judaism so easily? What would his mother say? His father?

  Sampson shuddered. They would not understand. If he converted to Islam, he would be dead to them. He did not care about his mother. They had been estranged for years. But his father...

  He sighed.

  “I don’t know, Mustafa. My heart feels torn in two. I was born a Jew. But I have no faith. Bektashi doctrine excites me. It feels right. But...”

  Sampson put his head in his hands.

  After a minute he felt Mustafa’s arm around his shoulders.

  “Come with me. I know what you need.”

  “What?”

  “Mohammed once said, ‘if your heart is perplexed with sorrow, go seek consolation at the graves of holy men.’ I have a friend who is the hodja at the Casimiye mosque. He will let us pray for guidance at the crypt of Saint Casim, he who once was known as Saint Demetrios. Perhaps he will even build an amulet for you that will help you make your decision. Come.”

  “What good will this do?”

  Mustafa shrugged. “It cannot hurt. And many people have been helped by praying at the crypt of Saint Casim, including my father. Have faith, my friend.”

  * * *

  The chapel containing the crypt of
Saint Casim was dark and cool.

  “Your name?” asked the hodja.

  “Sampson.”

  “Sampson,” the religious teacher repeated, holding the knot in the candle flame. “It does not burn. That is good.” Again he held the knot in the flame.

  “The name of your father and your mother?”

  “Jonathan is my father. Rebecca my mother.”

  Again the hodja held the sacred knot in the flame, then placed it in a small packet along with one of the silver coins Sampson had given him. He added a few bits of soil from the tomb and handed it to Sampson.

  “This will ease your anxiety and help you make your decision. Carry it close to your heart for a week.”

  Outside the mosque, Sampson shook his head.

  “Just superstition.”

  Mustafa smiled. “Is it?”

  Wasn’t it?

  For whatever reason, Sampson felt better once he put the amulet inside his vest pocket. Close to the heart, Sampson. Keep it close to the heart.

  * * *

  Yusuf Bey motioned the slave girl away and turned toward Ebu Said.

  “An excellent meal, as always, milk-brother. But enough. What news from the Red Tower?”

  “Excellent news, Yusuf. There was only one man captured who knew anything about your relationship with the rebel fighters. He has quite mysteriously strangled himself before he could be interrogated. A mystery that I, as Kadi, must investigate, of course.” Ebu Said laughed. “At least we may get something out of this disaster.”

  “And a disaster it was,” Yusuf said. “Melek Ahmed has used this incident to increase his grip on the city. The landowners’ advisory council is backing him fully on his proposal for a city police force. They have also acquiesced to his use of prisoners to sweep the streets and clean up the filth. Sanitation measures, he says.”

  Ebu Said nodded. “We have lost this round, Yusuf. But a fight does not end with a single blow. We have just begun.”

  We have, have we? Yusuf thought. Perhaps his milk-brother had. But he was already feeling the pressures from the other landowners, especially Evrenos Bey’s friends and relatives. And a banker must be careful of his reputation or he will soon have no customers, especially with the Jews eager to lend money. One more disaster and he would have to cut his losses.