Chapter 15
Ennsegg Castle
Enns, Austria
Eight miles east of Linz
“It would appear, Halil, that your intelligence on the jeweler’s immobility was incorrect,” Murad IV said as he gathered with many of his lieutenants in war council.
Halil Pasha, who had come late to the meeting, bowed in sincere supplication. “I am sorry, My Sultan. I did not anticipate such a foolish and misguided move by—”
Murad put up his hand and closed his eyes to seek patience. But patience was what had put them in this dangerous situation. No more patience. “Do not speak to me unless I call upon you, my learned adviser. Stand there, for once, in silence, and listen.”
The room was so quiet, Murad could hear birds chirping through the open window in the adjoining chamber. A light breeze flowed through the space, shuffling the edges of the battle map that Suleyman had laid out on the table before them. Quiet, peaceful, unlike the siege raging nearby.
“The Grand Army of the Sunrise is now in Kassa,” Murad continued, pointing at a stone on the map, “near halfway to Transylvania. If the Jew turns his column east and moves quicker than anticipated”—he turned to glare at Halil Pasha—“he’ll be in Gyulafehérvár within the month.”
Semsi Ahmed, commander of the Gureba-i hava, the Ottoman air force, cleared his throat and begged to speak. “If I may, Sultan.” His words were calm, careful. “We must entertain the possibility that the up-time general has abandoned his plan to prevent the Chmielnicki Pogrom and intends on joining his army with the United States of Europe. If so, then his goal may be Pressburg.”
Murad nodded. “And your opinion, Suleyman?” he asked.
The commander of the Akinji nodded. “It is a possibility, My Sultan.” He pointed at Pressburg on the map. “It is a little shorter in distance than the Transylvania capital. In the opposite direction, of course, but the ground near Pressburg is more palatable for an army like his, My Sultan, a mixture of mercenary cavalry, Bohemian Brethren, and untrained Jews.”
“An army of Jews and mercenaries that handily defeated their most recent opponent,” Murad interjected.
Suleyman nodded. “Yes, My Sultan, with the help of the USE and their Galician allies. This move to Kassa may well constitute another gathering of forces, this time with the USE specifically, with the intent of moving upon Pressburg. It makes sense militarily.”
Murad paused and considered. It certainly did make sense. Too much sense, in fact, for Murad to just discount the notion, no matter how badly he wanted to. Still, it seemed very unlikely to him that Bohemia and Transylvania would go through such a public announcement of their alliance, and then leave Transylvania to die at the hands of Matei Basarab and Vasile Lupu. Why would the prince of Transylvania announce the alliance to the world, unless he had had assurances that the Grand Army of the Sunrise would move to assist? Could that up-time jeweler be so deceitful as to turn his back now on a promise that he most assuredly had made to George Rákóczi?
Of course he could. He was a merchant, a jeweler, an up-timer, and a Jew. How could he not be so?
And yet…what to do, what to do…
Through his confused thoughts, Murad heard his father Ahmed’s voice clear and precise…Follow your own counsel, Murad. Follow your instincts.
“No,” Murad said, “I do not believe that the jeweler intends on moving his army to Pressburg. His success has called thousands of Jews to his ranks—we know this for certain—with assurances to seek and find a promised land. That is not toward Pressburg; that way lies death and desolation to all who have answered his call. No. He will turn his column toward Transylvania. There is no doubt in my mind of that. The question before us now is…when.”
Murad turned to face Halil Pasha. The cowed advisor responded immediately by snapping to attention, his face showing great eagerness to again be in the good graces of his suzerain. “Yes, My Sultan.”
“Have my vassals moved against Transylvania?”
Halil nodded. “I have received confirmation from Voivode Lupu, My Sultan. His army will be ready, within days, to move. The Moldavians may already be in the field.”
“And Matei?”
Halil shook his head. “I have received no word from Voivode Basarab, My Sultan. But I would assume that he—”
“That is your weakness, Halil,” Murad snapped. “You sometimes offer too much of your own opinion. Do not assume. Say you have heard nothing and leave it there.”
Halil nodded. “Yes, My Sultan.”
Murad returned to the map. He gently guided his fingers over Austria, Bohemia, and Transylvania. “The forces I ordered to ready: are they ready, and where are they coming from? Bec? If so, there will be little or no chance of us jumping their march, even if the Jew waits a week to move. We’re out of position.”
“Your forces are mustered and ready to move on your order,” Suleyman said.
“From where?”
“Timișoara, My Sultan,” Semsi Ahmed said.
Murad ran his hand down to a small dot in the Eyalet of Temesvár. He then ran his hand up to Transylvania. He smiled. “Whose idea was it to position them there?”
“Halil Pasha’s, My Sultan,” Semsi Ahmed said, seemingly eager to help their beleaguered advisor crawl out from under Murad’s rock. “He thought it best to find a place closer to Wallachia, in case you—”
“Congratulations, Halil,” Murad said, his mood improving, “you have finally made a decision worthy of praise.”
A smattering of light laughter filled the room. Halil grinned ear to ear. His face reddened with relief. He bowed. “Thank you, My Sultan. I live to serve you.”
Be still, Halil, I had no intention of punishing you for your misinformation. We’re all at fault here for allowing the heretic to confuse us, to guide us onto paths we know better than to tread. Not anymore…
“What troops have you mustered?”
“Two regiments of sipahi,” Suleyman said, placing a stone atop Timișoara. “One regiment of Akinji. One regiment of Janissaries. One sapper crew. Four katyusha rocket launchers. Three tanks, plus eight wagonloads of provisions, weapons, ammunition.”
“These tanks,” Murad said, “they are the new model, yes? What some are calling Ifrits?”
Suleyman bowed. “Yes, My Sultan. Gone is the main cannon, and in its place, a flamethrower capable of shooting fire up to sixty yards. A battering ram for siege work has also been installed to its front. It is a most capable machine.”
“Will these Ifrits keep pace with our forces?” Murad asked.
“No, My Sultan,” Suleyman said. “They will have to arrive later. Two weeks behind, at least.”
Murad wondered whether it was wise to even bother sending them. They were slow, big, bulky. Perhaps it’d be wiser to add more Janissaries, more sipahi cavalry. But the Grand Army of the Sunrise was a “modern” army, with USE weaponry, and they would most certainly wield those weapons to great effect. Armored fire tanks, though slow, could make a difference.
Does the jeweler have airships? Planes? Perhaps his spies could give them reliable intelligence on that.
“No airships?” Murad asked, leaning back from the map to stretch his back.
Suleyman cast his eyes down. “No, My Sultan. We do not have any to spare. That is why we have instead mustered three tanks. We can, at least, try to overwhelm them on the ground. Although I will say, Voivode Lupu is begging for an airship, and is, in fact, offering to buy one outright. He is convinced that it is necessary, given the rumors that the Jew’s army will have an air force of some kind.”
Murad sighed, paused, rubbed his well-kept beard. “Give him the ship with the two kafirs.”
“The Chaldiran, My Sultan?” Semsi Ahmed asked.
Murad nodded. “It can leave immediately.”
“Yes, My Sultan.”
Murad walked to the fireplace. He picked up the mace leaning against the rough stone hearth. He hefted it in his hand, and then stuck the tip of it into the flames and watched as the fire singed the metal, scorched the wood. He pulled it out and fixed his gaze upon the blackened spikes. He puckered his lips and blew embers away, feeling the heat of them on his mouth. He smiled. The day had begun badly. It was ending much, much better.
“Gentlemen,” he said, turning to his commanders. “Move our forces immediately from Timișoara. Move them day and night if you must but get them into the fields of Transylvania quickly. And tell the world we are doing it. Double, triple the numbers you announce. Let us give the jeweler and his not-so-grand army a reason to keep his commitment to Prince Rákóczi.
“Tell the world that Murad marches to Transylvania.”