Sunday, August 22, 1683
Ahmed
Turkish siege works south of Vienna
Ahmed and Murad waited with their men in the earthen trenches to the south of Vienna, the ones running parallel to the city wall. They were far enough from the enceinte that they could relax but close enough to attack if needed. Wooden planks formed a roof over their heads, sheltering them from enemy artillery.
“We should have taken the city by now.”
Ahmed picked out the frustration in Murad’s voice, because he felt it just as strongly. The siege had fallen into a pattern. The artillery sent round after round toward the enemy. The miners sprung their mines, and the janissaries rushed to take advantage of the disorder caused by the excavation. Somehow, each time, the defenders beat them back. They’d made progress, but the city had not yet broken.
Murad tested the sharpness of his yataghan. “Kara Mustafa Pasha wants our wings clipped. If we storm the city, we’ll get part of the plunder. If he forces them to surrender, he’ll get to keep all the treasure for himself. He wants to crack the walnut shell, but he’s not willing to risk any damage to the nut inside.”
Ahmed nodded in agreement. Their leader had already proven himself greedy. When Ahmed reported the incident with the Imperial envoy’s valet, Kara Mustafa Pasha had requested and kept the coins. Ahmed had not seen any of the bribe. The Grand Vizier was a poor general, and his leadership inspired no one. And yet, after forty days of siege, surely even the vizier was desperate for victory.
Forty days. Sieges weren’t supposed to last so long.
“Kismet agreed with me.”
Six days had passed since Kismet’s death, but Murad’s mention brought back all the images of the disastrous fight in the trenches and the enemy officer lopping Kismet’s head from his body and hoisting it into the air. That had been the worst moment of the siege. Janissaries like Kismet had seemed immortal, and his fall had shaken everyone.
Midday approached, and the mass of men all crowded together in the covered trenches made a trickle of sweat run down Ahmed’s neck. They were the elite of the sultan’s army. They would triumph—soon. And when they rushed through the city and put all resistance to the sword, their victory would be all the more glorious because they’d waited so long for it.
Janissaries were meant for glory. They had been the ones to break the siege and take the mighty city of Constantinople from the Christians, to destroy the Kingdom of Hungary at the Battle of Mohacs, to capture the island of Rhodes, and to gain a dozen other great victories. Their hard-earned reputation was why young boys in the streets of Constantinople would follow them and beg to touch their weapons. Like Hadice’s son, Ismail. Ahmed had given in to the boy’s pleadings to see his blade, had taught him a few strokes, and then had looked up to see the boy’s mother watching. Like any respectable woman out in public, her face had been mostly covered, with only her eyes visible. But what eyes—they had been like dark jewels, and they’d been fixed on him.
The ground had felt unstable that day in Constantinople, when he’d first seen Hadice. And now the ground rumbled again, but for a different reason. Everyone sheltering in the trenches felt it.
“I wasn’t expecting our mine to blow until later,” Murad said.
“Maybe it was the Christians’.” Ahmed hated to admit it, but the Christian counterminers were getting better. Curses upon them. Ahmed may have been born Christian, but the sultan and Islam had long ago won all his loyalty.
“One of theirs!” the call came along the parallel.
More news followed. “Swallowed up most of our pioneers, but a few of them are still alive and trapped.”
Ahmed motioned to his men. “Come on. We’ll help them.” Ahmed itched for a fight—and if he could save a few of the men who dug the trenches in the process, that was all the better. He led his men along the parallel into a trench that zigzagged its way toward the walls of Vienna.
As they reached the end of the trench and passed into the open air, the large ditch with its angled defenses spread out before him. A handful of the pioneers sheltered in small crevices and behind piles of fascines. If they moved, they’d be hit by a volley of musket fire. The Christians were out of view still—hiding behind their palisades and parapets. They would fall—each and every ravelin and bastion, each and every enemy musketeer and artilleryman—until the city belonged to Ahmed and the army he served.
“Sinan, grab the other end of that gabion and come with me.” Ahmed pointed, and Sinan obeyed.
A comrade raised a horse-tail tuğ. Ahmed let out his war cry, a praise to Allah, and he and Sinan ran to the nearest pioneer. They added the gabion to the front of the divot he sheltered in. Blood covered the lower part of the man’s leg, and he whimpered when Ahmed tried to move him.
A volley of musket fire stopped a dozen janissaries midstride as they left the opening of the trench. They were Ahmed’s brothers, even if they weren’t part of his orta. The siege was growing costly—too costly. Why didn’t the Christians surrender? They would fall soon, and then Ahmed would have his revenge for each of the janissaries they had slain. He glanced at a nearby body, one of the men who had dug tunnels and trenches. Ahmed would have revenge for the slain pioneers too.
On the ravelin, a group of enemies stepped forward and aimed their muskets in unison. The foreign calls came, and the next volley fired. He couldn’t see much of the men through the palisade, just the barrels of their muskets.
The officer with curly dark hair held a saber and called out commands. He was more visible than the others, standing between a crack in the wooden staves. Ahmed recognized him from that day almost a week ago when Ahmed and his men had tried to push back the Christian sortie.
The Christians were such monkeys, all going through the same motions and giving up initiative for obedience. Ahmed let his men with muskets shoot and reload whenever they deemed best. None of this ridiculous standing in a neat line. Bravery—that was what brought a man glory. Individual courage, not group cohesion.
And yet, that day in the ditch, Ahmed had seen plenty of Christian courage.
The enemy officer on the end of the ravelin could easily direct fire at Ahmed and the other wounded. Instead, he focused on the largest mass of Turks, shooting them down as soon as they left the trenches.
A score of dead janissaries met Ahmed’s eyes already, and it would turn to a bloodbath if they didn’t withdraw soon with the pioneer they’d come to rescue. “Put him on my back,” Ahmed ordered.
Sinan helped the wounded man, ignoring his cries of pain. The sakas would be gentle, but first, they had to get the man out of the rubble of the ditch.
“We wait for that next volley. Then we run,” Ahmed said.
Sinan nodded.
The foreign call came. The muskets discharged. Ahmed ran. The pioneer he carried on his back wasn’t a large man, but he was burly. The man’s weight and the uneven ground meant it would take longer than planned to run back to the shelter of the trenches.
The janissaries who hadn’t yet been shot aimed arrows and muskets at the defenders on the ravelin. Ahmed didn’t turn to see the results, but it couldn’t have been very effective. The Christians stayed behind their barricades when they could, just as Ahmed and his side stayed under their timbers and fascines.
A flash of light burst to the left. A hot force blew past Ahmed, barreling into him, knocking him off his feet.
The pioneer landed on top of him, cursing with pain. Then he jerked, and a warm liquid dripped onto Ahmed’s face. He’d been trying to save the man. Instead, the man had saved him when his head had blocked a musket ball that otherwise would have plowed into Ahmed.
Ahmed winced as he worked his way out from under the dead pioneer. Sinan lay on the ground, unmoving. He’d been closer to the grenade.
Someday soon, Ahmed would charge into Vienna and have his revenge on the Christians for what they had done to Sinan and the pioneer, for what they had done to his other comrades who had fallen. But today he ran back to the trenches, wincing whenever he stepped with his left foot, pleading with Allah to preserve him from the enemy’s contemptible but effective musket volleys.