Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 376 The Undercurrents in Mecca

In the vast desert, the sun scorched the earth, and in the distance, a troop was moving swiftly. They were the vanguard of the Shamari tribe.

The desert is their home, and they know it intimately. They know every sand dune and every dried-up riverbed in this barren land like the back of their hand. They don't need maps; the stars and the wind are their guides.

"Further ahead lies Hejaz territory," Captain Fahd whispered to his deputy. "The Ottoman Pasha would never expect us to emerge from the depths of the desert."

As night fell, the Shamari warriors approached the Ottoman outpost on the outskirts of Mecca by the light of the moon.

“Remember, a swift victory,” Fahd ordered. “Burn their supplies, then retreat immediately. We must let their army starve to death in the desert.”

A sharp whistle pierced the night sky—the attack had begun!

The riders burst from the darkness like ghosts, their scimitars gleaming coldly. The sentries didn't even have time to raise their guns before being cut down. The granary burst into flames, black smoke billowing into the sky.

"Withdraw!" Fahd shouted.

The warriors vanished like the wind into the depths of the desert, leaving behind only chaotic soldiers and a burning camp.

At this time, Abdullah had led his army away from Mecca for less than two days, and the people of Mecca quickly caught up with him to report the news.

When the messenger stumbled into the central command tent, Abdullah Pasha was studying the battle situation in the south in front of a map.

"Sir! Urgent military news!" The messenger knelt on one knee, his voice trembling with rapid breathing. "The Shamari cavalry attacked outposts on the outskirts of Mecca last night and burned down three granaries!"

The tent was instantly silent.

Abdullah Pasha's hand hovered above the map, veins throbbing at his temples. He slowly turned his head, his hawk-like eyes fixed on the messenger: "Say it again."

"The people of the Samaritan tribe"

"boom!"

The ivory-inlaid sandalwood table was overturned, maps and teacups shattering and scattering on the floor. Pasha's roar shook the tent: "Those desert dogs!" He grabbed the messenger by the collar. "Where are the garrison? Where are my guards?!"

"The defending troops were scattered... appearing and disappearing like ghosts."

Pasha abruptly shoved the messenger aside and paced back and forth in the tent, his boots crushing shards of pottery on the ground. The staff held their breath, not daring to even cough.

Suddenly, he stopped.

“They want to force me to return to Mecca so that the heretics in the south can catch their breath.” Pasha turned and grabbed the gilded scimitar hanging in the corner of the tent. “Pass down the order—”

"The entire army must accelerate its southward advance! I will raze those heretical rats' lair to the ground within three days!"

The chief of staff mustered his courage and said, "But sir, what if they take advantage of the situation?"

“Mecca’s walls are strong enough!” Pasha cleaved a candlestick in two with a single blow, the burning candle rolling to the ground. “After we crush the southern rebels, we’ll come back and hang these savages one by one at the gates of the holy city!”

His eyes burned with a morbid light, the madness of a gambler betting everything: "God will protect his protector!"

Abdullah Pasha's army continued its southward advance under the scorching sun, but his orders had already shaken the morale of his troops.

"Has Pasha gone mad?" an officer whispered to his colleague. "Abandoning the holy city to chase after those rebels in the mountains?"

"Hush... I heard he executed two more staff officers last night who suggested returning to reinforce." The soldiers' steps grew heavier, their water sacks nearly empty. The desert steamed like an oven, and the rugged mountain roads to the south only compounded the exhaustion of this weary army.

The streets of Mecca appear calm on the surface, but an atmosphere of unease permeates the air.

The once bustling pilgrims of the Great Mosque Square are now dispersed by heavily armed Ottoman guards, replaced by patrolling soldiers and whispering merchants.

"Have you heard? An army is approaching Mecca. Could it be...?" A spice merchant lowered his voice, his fingers nervously rubbing against a bronze scale.

"Shh! Do you want to be hanged on the city gate?" His companion looked around nervously, but his eyes also flickered with hesitation.

Everyone knew Mecca had been attacked, and the local residents knew it was likely a repeat of Muhammad Ali's conquest of Hejaz decades earlier. All they could do was wait quietly for the final victor.

The turmoil within Mecca continues, but the shift in power has already begun. The Mecca merchant caravans are among the first to act; these large families, who have been engaged in pilgrimage trade for generations, have long suffered from the heavy taxes imposed by the Ottomans and the exploitation by the Hashim family.

Inside the mansion of merchant Bashir, a secret conversation that will influence the fate of Mecca is taking place.

Sadiq sat in a pearl-inlaid teak chair, his fingertips lightly tapping a parchment contract. His voice was calm, yet carried an undeniable authority:
"Your Excellency Bashir, you are a wise man. The future of Mecca is now in your hands."

Mahmoud Bashir—Mecca's wealthiest spice trader and the de facto leader of the caravan—stroked his amber rosary with a deep gaze.

After Sadiq set off with the chief and met with his contact in the north, he hurried back to Mecca, where more things awaited him.

“Lord Sadiq, we merchants only care about one thing—whether the business can continue.”

Sadiq smiled, took a list from his sleeve, and pushed it in front of Bashir.

“This is the Shah’s sincerity, please take a look.”

The agreement contained many provisions, including granting them a monopoly on certain goods traded along the Red Sea route, and a 50% tax reduction during the Hajj season, provided that the merchant caravans ensured the safety and order of the pilgrims. It also included the expansion of the port of Jeddah to increase trade.

Bashir's pupils contracted slightly. These conditions were far more favorable than in the Ottoman era, but he knew there was no such thing as a free lunch.

"Then, sir, what is the price?"

“It’s very simple.” He slowly got up, walked to the window, and looked at the golden dome of the Great Mosque.

“You only need to convince the scholars in Mecca to accept reality. The Caliphate will not be passed down through one family forever, nor will the Protector of Mecca. They need a new Protector, one who can lead them to prosperity, and only the Shah can do that.”

Bashir gripped the rosary beads tighter, slowly raising his head, his voice low and cautious:
"Lord Sadiq, what you seek is not merely the submission of Mecca, but a challenge to a thousand-year-old tradition."

Sadiq turned around, his silhouette sharp as if carved by a knife in the backlight.

“Tradition?” He chuckled softly. “When the Ottoman sultans indulged in European extravagance, when the taxes of the holy city suffocated merchants, when the Hajj route was controlled by corrupt Pashas—was such a tradition worth preserving?”

As he approached Bashir, each step seemed to tread upon a pivotal moment in history.

“What the Shah desires is not destruction, but rebirth. Mecca will still be Mecca, and the Kaaba will still be the Kaaba. Only…” He leaned down, his voice as cold and clear as the desert night wind, “its guardian needs a change.”

Bashir didn't know what the future held, but he sensed that his life was about to change. Under Sadiq's gaze, he slowly nodded.

(End of this chapter)