Ring of Fire III Read online

  * * *

  Arash had much to be pleased about. The Ottomans had not advanced their trenches significantly, nor was there any indication that they were trying to undermine the walls. They seemed content to stand off and shoot at him—their bombardment had been continuous, yet the guns they were using were definitely on the light end of the scale for siege weapons. They were able to chip away at his walls, but the rate at which damage was being done meant that the walls were unlikely to fall in the next few months.

  Yet, as he looked out over the Ottoman trenches, Arash fought an unhappiness that he knew was unreasonable, even ridiculous. Today had been, by his calculations, the first day it would be reasonable to expect the arrival of the relief force. And they had not come.

  It didn’t help that he was accompanied on his walk of the walls today by Bestam, one of the shah’s loyal circle who Arash was convinced had been sent to spy on him. Bestam commanded only a thousand cavalrymen, all also fanatically loyal to the shah, but nevertheless he behaved as though it occasionally slipped his mind that Arash was in command. But the major reason that Arash would have preferred not to have him along was that Bestam insisted on always wearing his “Haydar’s crown,” the tall hat whose traditional red color had given the Ottomans their nickname of redheads for the Persians. It attracted attention that Arash would have preferred to avoid.

  In fact, as he stood looking out over the field, his eye was suddenly attracted to one of the Ottoman guns. Its crew seemed to be working with great diligence to train the gun right where he was standing. He drew back, to Bestam’s apparent amusement. Arash was briefly tempted to let the man stand there. Instead, he waved him down.

  An instant later he had the satisfaction of seeing Bestam’s face lose its amused look as the Ottoman’s ball sent stone fragments flying over the walkway. For just a moment he felt a bit of kinship with the man as Bestam tried to cover his loss of composure.

  “It’s a good thing they didn’t think to bring along any of their real siege guns. Our walls would collapse in a few days if they had.”

  “Once they got the range, anyway. This place is so small a real gun would send its ball over it—or through it.”

  “Where do you suppose their big guns are? They’ve always brought a few along in the past.”

  “I don’t know...” Arash hesitated. Something bothered him about this, and he felt that he was on the edge of an answer. But before he crossed that edge, Bestam decided to demonstrate his loyalty.

  “Perhaps the shah sent someone to destroy them. They could have been far back, given how quickly these people arrived—a raid in their rear would have surprised them.”

  Arash saw the men near them—who had been ostentatiously not listening to their officers’ conversation—straighten a bit at that. He knew that that wasn’t where his thoughts had been headed, but it was a possibility. Better yet, it was a possibility that would hearten the men. So he stopped trying to find his answer and contented himself with saying loudly enough to ensure he was overheard, “It could be.”

  * * *

  The footsteps of the messenger woke Arash before the man could speak.

  “What is it?”

  “Music,” the man was clearly flustered by the question from a man he had thought was sleeping. “We can hear music from the walls.”

  Arash’s look spurred the man to further explanation, “Our music. Not the music of the Turks.”

  Arash moved with a speed that he wouldn’t have believed himself capable of the day before. As he came out into the road, he heard the music. The sound was distinctive. It could only be from a band accompanying the relief force. It was distant, but the drums especially carried easily through the quiet that came just before dawn.

  The quiet. The Ottomans had not allowed it to remain quiet for more than a few minutes at a time since the siege had begun. A basic tactic, aimed at denying the defenders rest. But it was quiet now.

  “When did they last fire a cannon at us?”

  The messenger who had followed him out into the twilight looked confused.

  “I don’t know. Not since I woke tonight.”

  They have good scouts—they would have known the relief force was coming. They must have waited for night to withdraw.

  He grabbed the messenger by the shoulder.

  “Go and tell my deputy to rouse the garrison. We must get ready to welcome the shah.”

  * * *

  The dawn sun shone on walls lined with men waiting to greet the army that had driven the Ottomans away. Arash looked out on the Ottoman trenches. It was clear they had left in a great hurry—they seemed to have abandoned all their heavy equipment in place and here and there in the trenches he saw furtive stirrings, as though men forgotten in the rush to get away were trying to move unnoticed. Arash supposed he should have someone fire on the stirrings, but he was so happy that the siege was at an end that he was inclined to be charitable and let the stragglers escape if they could.

  Then the music swelled and the band came into view. The men began a cheer that stuttered away as the music changed abruptly into an Ottoman martial tune and the trenches that had seemed empty suddenly filled as the men who had been lying in them stood up and began to insult the defenders.

  * * *

  The delegation of his soldiers had been respectful, but firm. They knew how low the supplies were, and the Ottomans had made it clear that their relief had somehow been stopped. Breaking out was clearly impossible. If Arash wouldn’t negotiate he would be replaced by someone who would.

  Now Arash looked out the new hole in the wall of his official residence—the Ottomans had punctuated their jeers with an artillery barrage that had reached inside the city—and prayed for a solution. He could hold on for two weeks, perhaps four, before food ran out. If the troops were willing, he could go further, but the troops had made it clear that they weren’t willing. But then...if word of a surrender reached Esfahan, whether he or his men acting for him had made it, his family would pay.

  He had summoned his deputy Behmanesh and his watcher Bestram and told them that they needed to play for time. Behmanesh was to go and attempt to negotiate with the Ottomans. He pointed out to Bestram that, as long as they thought he was negotiating, the rest of the men would continue to resist, if only in the hope of improving the terms. After Bestram left, muttering that it would be better to kill the members of the soldiers’ delegation to remind the others where their loyalties should lie, he told Behmanesh to negotiate as though it was real, and get the best terms possible. And then he had spoken in a way that had clearly puzzled Behmanesh.

  “You have no family, do you?”

  “No. They were taken by the plague two years ago. Only I am left.”

  “In these times, that can be a blessing. May Allah go with you.”

  * * *

  Ahmed Pasha had felt content. It wasn’t often that God made it so clear whose side He was on. When a Tartar messenger had brought word that the Persian army had stopped in the middle of the day while it was still a three-day march away—one day before he would have ordered his own forces to begin to fall back—he had concluded that he was no longer a distraction. Less than twelve hours later his conclusions were verified when another messenger had brought word that a newly captured prisoner had explained that the sudden halt was the result of word reaching the army that Sultan Murad had besieged Baghdad and that the army was now going to retrace its steps and go to relieve that city. He had immediately sent messages—and some of the sipahi cavalry—to ensure that the Persians would be harassed at every opportunity, and then turned his mind to his new task of ensuring that the garrison remained bottled up and unable to follow the relief force.

  He’d wanted to do more than just keep them bottled up, however. Sooner or later he would have to end his siege, and that would leave the Persians with an intact army. He wanted to inflict more casualties on them. Destroying small raiding parties and picking men off the walls were just pinpricks. But aside fro
m that one attempt, the Persian commander had offered him no real opportunities.

  Then that troop of Tartars had ridden in with the instruments they’d taken as plunder after falling on a Persian band that had found itself left behind when the Persian army had changed direction. It had been too good an opportunity to pass up. Now the Persians knew their relief force wasn’t coming and, since prisoners had told him that their food was running out, that meant the commander would have to do something other than just sit there.

  Yes, Ahmed Pasha had felt content. The feeling had lasted almost six hours. Then he had received word that the Persians had sent a delegation to negotiate with him. That was unexpected. It was clear that the Persians had almost as many men in the city as he had outside of it. Of course, he had been at some pains to keep them from realizing that. Now he would have to take even greater pains. The only thing to do was to offer such unreasonable terms that the Persian would have to refuse them.

  But, just in case, he would have some of the sekban troops that had been preparing his fallback positions move up. After all, they had been sent along to garrison the city if he did manage to capture it. And letting the Persians see fresh troops arriving would help keep them from realizing how closely matched they were.

  * * *

  Behmanesh was downcast as he spoke.

  “He was completely unreasonable. We are offered our lives as slaves to the Ottomans, nothing more, if we leave the city with all stores and weapons intact and only if we accept immediately. It was all I could do to get an extra day for us to consider the offer.”

  Arash found himself relaxing. His course was now set.

  “Well, I will talk to him tomorrow. Perhaps I can convince him to soften things a bit.”

  * * *

  Ahmed was hard pressed to hide his astonishment. Not only had the Persian returned for further talks, he had brought along the commander of the city. Their situation must be worse than he had thought. Against any reasonable expectation, it might just be that he could actually take the city. Perhaps a concession or two might be in order, although he would have to avoid anything that would let the shah get his garrison back.

  When the Persians were ushered into the tent that had been set up for the talks, Ahmed found himself confused by the demeanor of the commander. Mir Arash Khan had sat through the initial round of diplomatic pleasantries giving every impression that his mind was elsewhere.

  The Persian’s first words, spoken very softly after the pleasantries were over, were also a bit off key.

  “Your sultan is not here then?”

  “I am who you must deal with. My sultan has more important matters to attend to.”

  “Of course. I meant no insult.”

  The Persian seemed to be trying to bring his mind back from wherever it had strayed.

  “Your terms are quite severe. We are to march out unarmed, leaving all intact, and become your slaves. And we must agree by today.”

  “That is so,” Ahmed temporized, his mind racing. How to soften it so that the man would throw open the gates. He could get no feel for what the man wanted. Offer him something for himself and something for his men and see which he went for.

  “Of course, I would be willing to offer safe passage for yourself and your family, and,” a nod to the Persian’s deputy, “some of your senior officers as a token of my respect for your determined resistance. And, of course, any of your men who should choose to abandon their false beliefs might well be freed to serve in our ranks.”

  Interesting. The deputy had shown irritation at the first offer and started to object when he made the second offer. But Arash simply gestured to stop whatever objection Behmanesh was going to make.

  “My men are urging this course of action...”

  An astonishing admission.

  “...and I cannot know what they will do, although you may find fewer who will abandon the truth than you think. As for my family, they are in Esfahan.”

  Those last eight words were the key. The words themselves, written down, would sound like defiance—a claim that his family was safe from Ahmed. But the tone in which the words were spoken was one of despair. And then came a shock.

  “Very well. I will accept those terms with one stipulation. As a matter of honor, I and my personal guard must be allowed to ride out under arms to make our surrender.”

  The deputy had a look of confusion on his face. Ahmed agreed with it—he had never heard such a proposal before—but he elected to ignore it.

  “How large is your guard?”

  “One thousand men.”

  Ahmed looked at Arash. And what he saw in his eyes convinced him.

  “It is agreed then.”

  * * *

  Arash was not surprised when Bestam strode into the hall, hand on the hilt of his shamshir.

  “Is it true? You are surrendering? Wasn’t it made clear to you what would happen?”

  Arash looked at him for a moment and then said, “Yes. Yes. And yes.”

  Bestam froze. Apparently he had been prepared only for denial.

  “I received very good terms for myself. I have even secured permission to leave the city accompanied by my personal guard under arms.”

  “What? What are you talking about? You don’t have a personal guard.”

  “Of course I do. You command it.”

  Bestam seemed unsure whether he was being offered some sort of a bribe or just dealing with a madman. Arash pressed on.

  “Think! If we try to assemble for an attack, they simply shoot fireworks at us, and use their new volley guns to kill those the fireworks miss. But tomorrow we come out in an orderly fashion and start to come toward them at the walk...”

  Light dawned, “...we get out of the place they have their fireworks aimed for, then we can make a charge. I guess I don’t need to kill you. Perhaps I will get to kill Murad instead.”

  Arash hesitated. That possibility clearly justified his actions to Bestam. Only Behmanesh had heard him ask the question, and Ahmed hadn’t—precisely—said that the sultan wasn’t here.

  “Perhaps.”

  * * *

  Bestam had moved his men to the gate the night before, replacing the soldiers who had been on duty there so that they could complete their preparations without anyone realizing what they were doing. Arash’s own preparations had been simple. He had gotten dressed, handed Behmanesh with a letter naming him commander in his stead, and given him a final command: “Whatever happens, once I am gone, wait an hour and then do what you think best.”

  And now Arash was riding over the ground that had seen the failure of his first attempt to sweep the Ottomans away. It was a remarkably pleasant day, with a slight breeze and a few fluffy clouds in the sky. He found that he was easily distracted. Fortunately Bestam was occupied with the business of getting his men in position.

  Bestam had given a lot of thought to getting outside the area that the rockets had swept. He had had bridges built to let the horses cross over the ditch and had had the one placed in the center weakened so that it collapsed as the second horse walked over it. This gave an excuse for the cavalry to spread out and present a wide front outside the ditch, while the excitement at the center explained why the troop didn’t close up again quickly. Still, it took a while for a thousand men to get into position. Arash didn’t mind.

  But eventually they were all across the ditch and Bestam gave the prearranged signal. Arash didn’t like the man, but his men were good at what they did. As one they turned and began their charge. Arash simply tried to keep pace with Bestam.

  * * *

  Kemal had watched with growing concern as the horsemen had crossed the ditch unmolested. He had been told it had to be allowed by no less a person than Ahmed Pasha himself. He had also been told that he would have to be ready to break up any charge that might be made. When he had pointed out that once they were outside the ditch, they would be inside the range at which the rockets were intended to work, he had simply been told to find a way.


  He had quickly concluded that increasing the angle at which the rockets were launched was probably a bad idea. The horses would be moving fast, and he wasn’t sure just when he would be ordered to send them at their target. Calculating the right angle as cavalry closed was not a task he wanted to try. Instead he had lowered the angle. The rockets would be sent nearly horizontally at the Persians if they decided to attack. He had picked a place a little over halfway between his position and the ditch as an aiming point because it looked like a place where any attackers would have to bunch up.

  He had also personally picked out the rockets they would use, avoiding any that seemed in any way imperfect. There had been some unpleasant surprises, including a rocket that had exploded before it had left the rack, killing the luckless Mustafa. Oddly, the explosion seemed to have fixed the launch rack—the adjusting crank no longer jammed.

  He had also trimmed each of the fuses himself. The rockets would launch almost in the instant the fuses were lit—the men lighting them would have just enough time to leap away.

  Then he turned away from the Persians and looked toward Ahmed Pasha. The commander had positioned himself a bit farther back and higher up, with two of the men with the new long barreled “rifles” and two men with traditional bows. As Kemal watched, he pointed at something back where the Persians were. The four men all shifted, clearly concentrating on what the Pasha had pointed to, but Kemal kept his attention on Küçük Ahmed. He didn’t want to chance even a second’s delay once the Pasha gave the order to launch.

  Suddenly and within a heartbeat of one another the riflemen fired and the bowmen loosed their arrows. At the same moment the Pasha looked at Kemal and made a slashing gesture. Kemal didn’t wait for the formal signal, but turned back to his launchers, and for a moment his voice froze in his throat. The Persian cavalry was closing the distance incredibly quickly. “Light them, light them,” he screamed, running toward his launchers as if he could somehow make the rockets launch sooner by his presence.

  * * *

  Arash found himself on the ground looking up at the clouds. He had had the wind knocked out of him when he was shot off his horse, but somehow it no longer seemed important to try to breathe. He knew he had done everything he could. If God willed, it would be enough to save his family.