Chapter 23
Inside the Chaldiran, high above East Transylvania
Moshe Mizrahi could not read Mordechai Pesach’s mind, but he knew they were thinking the same thing: grab the legs of this howling buffoon at the head of their airship and toss him overboard. The Chaldiran had already been used as an execution platform for the crew of the Esztergom. There was certainly no reason why it couldn’t be used again for that purpose. And it would be easy too. The man had come onto their airship with no protection, no guard. One nod to the Janissary guard who stood nearby, and over the edge the buffoon would go. But no, not now, not yet. Perhaps not ever. As much as the idea appealed to them both, it would not do to kill the voivode of Moldavia on the first day.
The buffoon stood there at the front of the gondola, leaning into the cool wind, letting it blow through his unkempt black hair and beard. He was grinning like a madman and howling like a wolf. “Whooooo! I’ve never felt anything like this. Feel that cold air. I feel like a bird. I feel like a god!”
What blasphemy! Then again, Moshe had heard that their new lord did suffer from delusions of grandeur. “My lord,” he said, taking a step closer to the voivode, “my I ask that you step away from the front of the gondola? It is far, far forward, as you see.” He swallowed. “With your weight, plus the weight of the extra Kalkan shields that have been put in place for your protection, you are causing the nose of the craft to dip. Please, I beg you, come back to the center of the gondola.”
Those extra Kalkan shields were bulky enough that the Chaldiran had to dispense with its radio. Signal flags would have to be used instead, but the prince of Moldavia didn’t seem to care a wit about the technical details of his new weapon.
“I hate the up-timers!” Vasile said, shouting through the whistling wind and stretching his arms out wide as if he were praising God. Sunlight spread across his broad face. “I wish to see them all dead. But I do love their weapons of war.”
“This is Sultan Murad’s airship, my lord,” Mordechai Pesach said as he guided the ship to the left and down. “His own design.”
Vasile turned. His boyish delight was gone, now replaced with a look that Moshe could only describe as confusion. “On the contrary, kafir. It is mine. The Chaldiran is mine. I paid for it. Therefore, I paid for you. You are mine. You and everyone on this ship. Do you understand?”
Both Mordechai and Moshe bowed humbly. “Yes, my lord,” they said almost in unison, then Moshe thought, No, Voivode, it is not yours. You may think what you like, but if the Sultan wishes it back, he will get it back.
“My lord,” Moshe said, nodding to Mordechai, “will you allow our engineer to show you how the Chaldiran works, how its armaments work?”
Vasile Lupu deflated before them as if he were a child whose toy had been taken away. “Oh, very well. Let’s get on with it.”
Mordechai spent the next several minutes explaining how the airship worked. He then explained how ballasts were used to either lower or lift the airship to the desired height. The voivode of Moldavia accepted these demonstrations in a manner befitting his station: with a quiet interest that indicated clearly that he was bored. His attitude, however, changed when Mordechai hefted a jar bomb and began explaining its use.
“Oooh, can I throw it?”
Moshe and Mordechai exchanged exasperated glances. Moshe cleared his throat. “My lord, these bombs are very volatile. One error in its use, and the gondola, and yourself, could burst into flames.”
Vasile grunted, grabbed the jar, and walked to the front of the gondola. “I want to throw it.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Mordechai readied the jar. “Toss it forward, my lord. Release the jar as soon as your arm is fully extended, like this.” He extended his own arm in a throwing motion, opening his hand at the precise moment.
Vasile waited, waited, until they were flying over a farm. A Székely shepherd and his herd of Hungarian gray cattle moved like tiny ants below. The shepherd looked up, saw the monstrous airship, and began running, slapping his cattle on the rump to get them moving. Vasile cackled like a chicken.
He dropped the bomb. It struck the herd off-center, igniting across the ground and through the legs of the terrified beasts. Three were burned. The shepherd was untouched.
“Curse the sky!” Vasile said, wagging his fist in the air. “I missed him.”
“My lord,” Moshe said, again thinking about tossing this buffoon to the rolling hills below, “only two wagons of munitions resupply followed the Chaldiran into the field, many of which are larger bombs than the one you just tossed and are more appropriate for a battle. But nevertheless, it is important that we preserve our bombs, both large and small, to support your army as it moves—”
“Do not worry, Moshe Mizrahi,” Vasile said, using his name for the first time since they had met. “I understand the need to preserve supply for the true battle. That was just for fun…and practice.”
He rejoined them in the center of the gondola. “Now, let’s turn this ship toward my army. We will fly ahead of my men and provide them with intelligence to ensure our victory over Prince Rákóczi as we march toward his capital. Forward!”
Moshe and Mordechai looked at each other, rolled their eyes out of Voivode Lupu’s view, and said, “Yes, my lord.”