His commanders had pressed him to try again. They pointed out that only one man in eight had been lost-not so many for an attack on a fortified position. They ignored the fact that the attack had not even started. They argued that the fact the bombardment had stopped after the third volley meant that the Ottomans were out of the deadly rockets. They ignored the losses among his best gun crews, and his own near death.
Perhaps they were right. But Arash had been fooled once already. He had thought the Ottomans were weak and would fall before him. The bodies before the gate provided a refutation of that belief.
No, his orders were to hold the city. He would follow those orders. He had been led astray by pride, by a desire for glory. Never again. He would hold his position and let the Ottomans smash themselves against his walls if they dared.
Arash smiled as the scribe left the room. The man had obviously been confused by his reaction. He had come to tell his Khan that they needed to ration supplies, that at the current rate they had only enough food for three more weeks. Whatever reaction he had expected, it was clear that Arash’s peal of relieved laughter had not been it. It was also clear that he had expected a much larger reduction than Arash had ordered.
But then the man did not know what Arash did. After the disaster of yesterday, Arash had expected nothing but bad news. But it was clear that much of the food that had been planned for had been delivered and had made it inside the walls before the Ottomans had attacked. The scribe thought they had to plan for an indefinite siege, at least three months, perhaps more, before winter would force the Ottomans away. But Arash knew that Shah Safi was probably already on his way to break the siege.
For all that he had heavily reinforced Iravan, Shah Safi had not completely trusted the words of the magicians-Shah Safi did not completely trust anything-and so he had not placed his forces in front of Iravan at places where the Ottomans could have been ambushed before even coming into sight of its walls. But he had created a mobile force that he himself led and had positioned it so that it could move toward any spot that was threatened.
Despite the chaos of the day the Ottomans had attacked, several messengers had been sent and even if all had been caught, the failure of his usual weekly report to arrive would have caused the alarm to be sounded. In fact, by now, the shah’s army was probably marching to his relief. It was, at most, a four-week march away. If they forced their pace, they might even arrive before he would have needed to start rationing.
Better to be safe, of course. And cutting rations would actually be good for morale-the men would expect it as part of how things were done in a siege, and if any were captured, they would tell the enemy what he expected to hear. He had ordered the rations cut by enough to make them last six weeks. If he dug into what the inhabitants of the city had hidden away for themselves, he could probably stretch it to eight weeks. But long before that became necessary, he had no doubt that he would see the Ottomans crushed between the hammer of the shah’s army and the anvil of the fortress of Iravan.
Ahmed looked down at the map. He wasn’t sure if he liked these new maps-to be sure, they showed the geometry of the area with great precision, and the terrain-where it was shown-was accurate as well. But the old maps, despite their inaccuracies, had given him a better idea of how long it took to go between places, even if the actual distances were sometimes off. Still, if what the messenger his scouts had captured had told them was true, then the Persian relief force was at least a three-week march away. He could count on at least three days warning from his deli scouts or the Tartars who had spread out from Revan. So all he had to do to accomplish his goals was keep the Persians bottled up until he was told the relief force was close by, and then he could fall back on the positions being prepared by the sekban s who had followed his strike force. With any luck the Persians would chase him and he would get a chance to bloody their noses.
He looked at the man who had brought the report. “You are certain he said it was the shah himself who led the force?”
“Yes. He was emphatic about the vengeance that would soon fall on us.”
“Interesting.” He sent the man to get himself a meal while he thought about the possibilities. Shah Safi had a reputation for being…erratic. With such a man in command of the opposition, there might be opportunities.
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.”