yards away. “There. Put your cannon there. You’ll have good enfilade fire.”
“As you command.” MacGregor winked at Sampson and galloped off.
Once again Mustafa moved down the line of his men. He clapped one on the shoulder and shook him. When he reached Sampson he fixed the bayonet on his own rifle.
“They are coming, Sampson. If Allah wills, we will be victorious. If not…” Mustafa shrugged, then smiled. “We will meet each other in Paradise.”
Sampson took a breath. “I’m not ready for Paradise just yet, Mustafa.”
Mustafa laughed. “Then victory it is. A good slogan.” He turned to the men along the wall. “For the sultan. Victory or death!”
“Victory or death!” the men shouted.
Sampson grabbed Mustafa’s arm. “Here they come!”
A wave of riders and infantry charged from the forest.
“Close, Ismail, too close indeed. If the rebels had reached the magazines…”
Melek Ahmed Pasha, governor-general of the new expanded sancak of Salonica, closed his eyes and imagined the battle that had taken place at the gunpowder factory. He had been too young to see the end of the Habsburg war in 1606, but there had been plenty of wars with the Persians over the past thirty years.
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 sancak. 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. Senor Gideon will be much more comfortable here.”
“But what about my trousseau? Where are we going to put my things? Dona 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
