Under favorable winds, they sailed into the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea while hugging the shore of the Aegean. They cruised among a rocky kaleidoscope of Greek islands—Khios, Samos, and Rhodes—then turned southeast again, along the mountainous coast of Turkey.
Robur’s sailors followed a hilly coast covered with olive groves, brown grasses, and vineyards. But as they proceeded, all signs of population faded. Nemo and his companions found themselves in a wasteland, far from any port or city. The craggy shoreline folded, creating a deep cove surrounded by tall cliffs between which the dhow navigated. The curious prisoners watched, certain that they were close to their destination, where perhaps they would receive their answers.
Farther into the cove, out of sight from passing ships, stood an entire industrial city. Rock quarries and ore smelters marked the mountains. Docks extended into the deep channel, and lines of barracks rose up the slopes. Nemo blinked at the astonishing site. Everything looked so modern—austere but efficient. Newly built.
Like a performer playing his audience to increase suspense, Caliph Robur stepped to the bow of the ship. He turned, placing his hands on his hips. Ocean breezes whipped his shimmering pantaloons.
“This is my city of Rurapente,” Robur said. “With the guidance of the sultan, I have spared no expense to make resources available. You men will receive every allowance to complete the work I give you. In the sultan’s name, I expect great things from you. You will be made comfortable and therefore productive, for you will spend years here—perhaps the rest of your lives.”
In a babel of languages, the captives cried out in indignation. “We are not slaves!” “We do not belong to the Turks.” “We are citizens of our own countries.”
The caliph’s face remained stony as he stared at them, unaffected by their complaints. Nemo held his tongue and studied the man, keeping the dark wings of anger at bay. Robur was without question his enemy.
When their clamor had died down, the caliph spoke again. “You men are all officially dead. The proper paperwork has been completed. Your governments believe you were killed in battle. For those few of you who had families, they have already received letters of notification and posthumous medals.” His voice was harsh and utterly confident. “No one will look for you. No one will find you. You are mine.”
The prisoners gasped in disbelief, but Nemo knew the caliph could easily have done as he said. The tangled bureaucracy and confused ineptitude of the Crimean commanders would have made such a trick pathetically simple to achieve.
Robur smiled at them. “The Ottoman Empire is falling apart. Your own European press calls us the ‘sick man of Europe.’ We were one of the greatest empires in the world, and now Britain and France see us only as the spoils of war. They dicker over how to divide the fallen corpse when Turkey falls.” Beneath his jeweled turban, the caliph’s eyes blazed. He scratched at the jagged scar on his cheek.
“But I am an enlightened military ruler. I look ahead, and I act for myself. I know that the old Ottoman ways are doomed to failure—but I must have experts. I need engineers, metallurgists, meteorologists, boatbuilders, chemists, opticians. You men are my technological advantage. You shall work together to create invincible machinery of war, ingenious new defenses that will help the Ottoman Empire draw a fresh breath and return to life.”
The caliph strode down the deck, looking at them all. He saw anger among the prisoners, and defiance, but his gaze did not waver. “I have selected you, the best and brightest minds that were senselessly wasted on the battlefield. You should thank me. I will allow you to be creative and use your talents.” His next words hung like a heavy weight over them. “You will cooperate—or you will be executed.”
He stopped in front of Nemo, who glowered at him, but kept his angry words in check by clenching and unclenching his fists. During his time among the prisoners, Nemo had already bound the men together. Though he had no aspirations of grandeur or power, the prisoners looked to him with respect, as their nominal leader. Robur had noticed him and singled him out. Someday, Nemo vowed to lead his companions out of here.
“I consider myself a learned man,” the caliph said. “I will allow you certain freedoms and certain rewards—but I expect much in return.” He looked down at Nemo. “In your Latin language, my name Robur translates as ‘ powerful.’ I intend to live up to my name.”
Nemo looked back with a bland expression that masked his anger. “And I am called Nemo. In Latin that name means ‘ no one.’ ” Now he allowed himself a smile. “But I don’t put too much stock in a name.”
VII
Writing by candlelight in Paris, Jules Verne sent letter after letter to his parents, explaining his daily work and his dreams. Even with nothing more than a cold attic room and little to eat, he badly wanted to remain here. Knowing the quaint country life of Nantes, he felt he could not survive anywhere but in the vibrant bustle of the City of Light.
After all this time, Verne had achieved only the most modest success with his writing, and no fame whatsoever. In the letters he downplayed his poetry, plays, and theatre work, knowing what stern Pierre Verne would think. The older man would be baffled, incapable of understanding why his son would brush aside predictable security.
But even after graduating with his law degree, he had dawdled and made excuses to stay in Paris. Despite his father’s plans, Verne did not want to settle into the dull attorney’s office on Ile Feydeau.
Now, though, as he finally returned home to Nantes, fresh plans brewed in his mind. He needed to put forward his own case in a way that would make even the greatest lawyer proud.
Pierre Verne and his son sat in silence together in the withdrawing room after an exquisite dinner his mother had prepared. They each drank a glass of tawny port, each puffed on a cigar. Nothing would ever change, and the elder Verne seemed to prefer it that way.
Scratching his sideburns, the elder Verne sat shrouded in a contented, peaceful silence of routine as he read the Nantes newspaper. With his son beside him, the gruff older man enjoyed the luxury of making pointed and opinionated comments about the news of the day. He read the headlines aloud—“Treaty of Paris Signed”—and grumbled his appreciation. “It’s about time this whole Crimean debacle ended.” He jabbed the paper with a fingertip. “I knew that once Tsar Nicholas died, his son Alexander II would prove more reasonable.”
Verne perked up. “Is it true then? The war is at an end?”
“What an awful mess for three years.” The older man shook his head. He continued to read as if he hadn’t even heard his son’s questions. “Ah! Here’s another triumph for France.” While Verne waited, his father took a long puff on his cigar and exhaled a heady-sweet cloud. “Ferdinand de Lesseps, a French diplomat and engineer, has been selected to undertake the largest excavation project in the history of mankind.”
“Greater than the pyramids of Egypt?” Verne asked, as he was expected to. He knew all the rules of conversation with his father.
“Pasha Mohammed Said has granted permission to excavate a channel across the Suez Isthmus. It’ll take years, but someday ships will be able to sail directly from the Mediterranean to the Red Sea and down into the Indian Ocean. That cuts six thousand miles off the journey from Europe to China.”
He took a drink of the tawny port. “Good thing a French engineer is in charge.”
“A Suez Canal? There’ll be enormous repercussions for world trade,” Verne said, trying to keep up his end of the conversation. “I wonder if Caroline Hatteras has heard the news, since it will have a dramatic effect on her shipping company.” His father muttered an acknowledgment.
Now that the Crimean War was over, Nemo would be returning home. It was entirely possible that his friend’s experience as an accomplished engineer might land him a prestigious assignment on de Lesseps’ crew. It would be wonderful if Nemo could help accomplish such a magnificent undertaking . . . and it would also keep him in Egypt, far from France and Caroline.
Th
ough nine years had passed without word from Captain Hatteras, Caroline still refused to go through the formality of declaring herself a widow—at least not so long as Nemo remained away. . . .
“Father, we must consider my future,” he said abruptly. The elder Verne looked up at his son, bushy eyebrows knit in puzzlement, though Jules knew he was aware of the situation. He had written home often enough about his dreams for a palatable livelihood. “I have studied all the information, sir, spoken with all the appropriate people. I’m certain that I have discovered a way for us to become rich.” His words came out like pattering hailstones. “A true career that will be engrossing to me, and successful, too.”
“The stock market?” his father said. “Yes, yes, you mentioned something about that in a letter.” His voice was unwelcoming, but the younger Verne did not allow himself to be dismayed. To him, anything—even working in a stock exchange—seemed preferable to becoming a country lawyer.
“If you have enough faith in me to put up the money, I can invest in a brokerage house,” Verne continued. “I will handle my own securities, as well as my family’s and friends’.”
“And how can I be sure you know what you’re doing? You have spent years training to be an attorney,” Pierre Verne said, still devoting most of his attention to the newspaper. “What is wrong with being a lawyer? Will you not change your mind again in a month?”
Verne took a sip of the syrupy port. It burned at the back of his throat.
“Father, I need to change my way of living, because the present insecure situation simply can’t continue. This is the best way for me—and our family—to become wealthy.”
Without looking up from another news story, his father said, “Dallying with your poetry, and your stories, and your theatre work when you should have been concerned with the law—you have always been a reckless young man who gets excited about any new scheme. The stock market is nothing different.”
“But this isn’t entirely new, sir. Many in Paris have been successful at it.” He lowered his voice to quash the whining tone. “I know I can do this, Father.” Then he raised the point he knew would be most convincing to his mother, who would, of course, be one of his primary defenders. “If I get such a position on the stock exchange, I will be seen as a man with a stable career and ambitions. I must have that if I am ever to be . . . married. I am twenty-nine already. You do wish me to get married soon, don’t you, sir?”
Now Pierre Verne folded the paper and sighed. “Your mother certainly does.” He puffed on his cigar in silence and stubbed out the butt in an ashtray.
Verne waited until he could contain himself no longer. “I need to be happy—nothing less than that, sir.”
His younger brother Paul had gone away to sea and was successful in the French navy. His sisters had both married, and now Jules Verne was the last of his parents’ children still unattached and unfocused.
“Very well,” Pierre Verne said gruffly. “At least it has better prospects than writing those silly plays of yours.”
Overjoyed at his victory, Verne pumped his father’s hand in gratitude. As he thought of the Paris stock exchange and the bustle of well-dressed men buying and selling securities and commodities, Verne knew that he had a very exciting life in store for him.
VIII
Even though hostilities had ended in the Crimea, for Nemo and his fellow prisoners the war was never over. Not while Caliph Robur held them captive.
It had taken them only a few days to explore their facilities and take stock of their situation. In their temporary barracks of canvas and piled stone, the boatbuilder Cyrus Harding had spoken in a hushed voice with the metallurgist Liedenbrock as they concocted a possible plan of escape. “We could steal a boat, and I could sail her,” Harding said. “We’d cross the Aegean to Greece.”
“Ach! Why do we not just find another city on the Turkish coast?” Liedenbrock smacked a fist into his palm. “Any place will be better than to remain here in slavery.”
“No, no, no! The guards will stop us,” Conseil said, eavesdropping. “We are in a strange land. None of us could ever pass as Turks.”
Nemo joined the conversation. “Consider how isolated this compound is, men. Far from prying eyes. Robur chose Rurapente well—the mountains, the deep water, the lack of roads. He is an evil man, I sense, but he is not a fool. Besides, there are almost thirty of us. One or two might slip away, but never the whole group.” He looked at the prisoners, who listened to him intently. “I say we should all help each other. We have no chance if we try to act alone.”
Harding nodded, thrusting out his square, dimpled chin. “Got to agree with you there, Captain.” Surprised, Nemo realized the boatbuilder had used the title as an honorific. It felt . . . right to him.
The German-born metallurgist heaved a heavy sigh. “Ach, even if I am making it back to Sardinia, I will be thrown into the prison again—unless Caliph Robur intends to give us each a purse of gold when we go.” He gave a bitter laugh.
From what the prisoners had seen thus far, the caliph was not a man to pay for anything he could simply take. The industrial laborers at Rurapente had been recruited from Turkish villages in the Anatolian highlands, probably without the sultan’s knowledge. Some were slaves, others hostages; a few seemed content with their tasks, which were no more difficult or onerous than any other service for their masters.
By now, Nemo had learned that the industrial complex was capable of producing the finest materials, and the Europeans were allowed free access to books and experimental apparatus. But as yet, Robur had given them no specific instructions, only the speech about his grand vision. Then the caliph had ridden away up a steep mountain path on important business, which had kept him away for several days.
His mind sharp, Nemo refused to waste any time. He spent every daylight hour memorizing the details of Rurapente and the surrounding landscape, hoping to find some way to use it against the caliph. At the same time, he struggled to pick up as much of the Turkish language as his mind could hold. It would be useful. . . .
By himself at night, he spent many restless hours trying in vain to engineer an escape that would leave none of his comrades behind. When he grew too weary to think and threw himself onto one of the narrow sleeping pallets, images of his beloved Caroline—just out of reach—haunted his dreams. Far more than a year had passed. By now, Captain Hatteras would have been legally declared lost at sea, and he and Caroline could have been together by now, married . . . happy.
But instead, he was trapped here, a prisoner.
Caliph Robur returned after a week, riding on his magnificent stallion. The guards sounded a blaring note from a strange musical instrument to summon the group of captive scientists, engineers, and technical experts.
“Men, we are taking a journey into the mountains,” Robur said. His jaw clenched, and the jagged scar on his cheek wrinkled up. “I have a demonstration to show you.”
The men mumbled in consternation, but displayed no overt disobedience. Robur turned his horse and called over his shoulder. “Once you observe what I have done, you will share my enthusiasm about our future. Mine is the ultimate vision for progress.” Thrusting his pointed beard forward, he smiled . . . but no mirth reached his glittering eyes. “Then you will all agree that I am an enlightened leader, who will rule through technological advancement, rather than fanaticism. If I succeed, the world will indeed be a better place.”
Though wary, the prisoners were in good shape and well nourished. Robur set off up a zigzagging mountain path that took them along sheer cliffsides. Guards followed their every move. Even mousy Conseil did not lag behind as they trudged past trickling waterfalls and rockslides, until they reached the Anatolian Plateau, a wilderness peopled only by a few nomads.
They camped at night on the grasslands, wrapped in blankets as the warm wind picked up. In the distance they could hear the bleating and copper bells of a shepherd’s flock, but the melodic tinkling was soon overwhelmed by the sound of Liedenb
rock’s loud snores.
The next morning the twenty-seven men and their armed escorts marched along the edge of the plateau until the trampled dirt road ended. There, they saw a secret installation Robur had built into the stark cliffs. Gazing at the out-of-place facility, Nemo found himself intrigued. The other engineers and scientists gasped in amazement. Conseil squawked in disbelief.
Robur had built an enormous weapon mounted into a notch in the stony cliffs: a cannon barrel longer than an entire ship. The black tapering cylinder thrust into the sky, supported by iron girders. The muzzle was aimed high, pointing upward out into the Mediterranean distance.
Robur reigned up his horse. He said nothing at first, just letting his captives stare down at the incredible cannon barrel. The German-born metallurgist placed a hand on his jutting brow to shade his eyes. “Ach! How is this possible? To cast such an object will have been too difficult even for a master craftsman.”
Robur’s Turkish pride got the better of him. “The Columbiad is the largest cannon in the world—the longest gun barrel ever constructed in human history. It is named after the great Western explorer, who discovered new continents, though many told him it was impossible. We do not listen to the impossible.” His thin smile had no mirth. “Its length from breech to muzzle is nine hundred feet. The diameter is ten feet. And I, Robur the Conqueror, have created it.” He looked straight at Nemo. “Imagine the projectile that can fit inside, Engineer.”
The captives mumbled to each other, but Nemo stepped forward and squinted along the angle of the barrel. “It’s an artillery piece that lets you fire cannonballs across the Mediterranean?” In his mind, he calculated the range of such a cannon, but had trouble believing his own answer. Robur must be as mad as he was ambitious.
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