Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 377 Argument
Inside the Grand Mosque in Mecca, the generals, chiefs, and ulima who remained in Mecca gathered to discuss the current situation.

"As you all know, things have been rather unsettled in Mecca lately. The Pasha has led his army south, but it seems we have more than one enemy."

Everyone started discussing it; they all knew that Mecca had been attacked by an enemy. Based on their experience, this meant Mecca was in danger again, and this time the enemy might be the newly rising power, Iran.

"Hmph, no matter how many times they come, I will kill them!" Khalid, who was in charge of guarding Mecca, raised his weapon.

“The influence of the Persians has been too great lately. Since the Ottomans were defeated by them, it has had a huge impact on our understanding of the world.”

It's not just about perception; it has also had a significant impact on the local population of Mecca. In recent years, the number of Shia pilgrims has been increasing, and they are coming in large groups.

During the Hajj pilgrimage, Shiites would travel to Mecca by boat or camel caravan. The substantial profits generated from this journey were something they couldn't bear to part with, not to mention the annual imports from Iran—goods the Ottomans couldn't provide.

The elderly Ulima Sheikh Abdul slowly opened his half-closed eyes, the sound of his sandalwood rosary beads turning clearly in the silence: "General Khalid's courage is admirable. But have you ever calculated how much of last year's tax revenue came from Persian caravans?"

He shakily pulled a ledger from his bosom. The dense records on the parchment made everyone present gasp – the revenue brought by Shia pilgrims and Persian caravans accounted for half of Mecca's annual tax revenue!
"This is like drinking poison to quench thirst!" Khalid slammed his fist on the table, his armor clanging. "Are we really going to sell the Holy City's dignity for a few gold coins?"

“Don’t put it so harshly,” Bashir said. “You need to understand that the situation is beyond our control now. The Pasha’s path is a dead end. The Ottomans can’t protect us, and England will annex us sooner or later. Rather than that, we should let the Persians protect us.”

Bashir's words were like a sharp dagger, piercing the last fig leaf in the council chamber.

Khalid's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white, but when his gaze swept over the crowd, all he saw were flickering eyes and bowed heads—none of these once steadfast guardians met his eyes at this moment.

“You…” His voice trembled with anger, “Are you going to betray Allah?”

An older scholar offered the answer: "Faith needs bread to sustain it. When Ottoman tax collectors squeezed out the last copper coin, when famine made the children of Mecca weep—who would protect their dignity?"

I know it was a difficult choice, but it was worth it.

Bashir's efficiency was also remarkable. The Mecca merchant caravan's interests were deeply intertwined, with every family involved in profiting from it. The caravan also provided them with goods, including narcotics like alcohol. Therefore, when the caravan persuaded them, it was effortless. The deal was easily passed.

Bashir seized the opportunity to step forward; his voice was not loud, but every word was like a hammer blow:

"The Persians accomplished at least three things—"

Their caravans paid taxes on time and never missed a payment; their army was disciplined and did not plunder civilians; they respected the Hajj tradition and even expanded the holy mosque.

He surveyed the crowd and delivered the fatal blow: "And what did the Ottomans give us? Empty titles, bankrupt treasuries, and corrupt governors!"

The council chamber was deathly silent, save for Khalid's increasingly heavy breathing.

Suddenly, Khalid drew his scimitar, its cold light drawing a silver arc through the air.

“My father gave me the name Khalid in the hope that I would become like him, a sword in Allah’s hand.”

"He once conquered Persia, and now, Persia wants to conquer this place?" Khalid's words were fierce, but what filled him with despair was—

Not a single person stood up to respond. Even his most trusted adjutant silently retreated into the shadows.

Khalid's scimitar gleamed coldly in the morning light, the Quranic verse "Victory comes only from God" engraved on its blade appearing particularly striking at that moment. He stood alone in the center of the hall, like a trapped lion.

“My father—” his voice was hoarse and heavy, “swore before the Kaaba that Mecca would never bow to heresy!”

Bashir slowly shook his head, taking out a wax-sealed letter from his sleeve: "Your father also signed this agreement—allowing Persian caravans to enter the holy city tax-free." He unfolded the parchment, revealing the Khalid family crest at the end. "For what? Because that year the Ottomans cut off Mecca's food supply."

The elderly sheikh suddenly coughed violently, and the rosary beads in his hand fell to the ground with a clatter. The eighteen ebony beads scattered across the stone slab, much like the fleeing Mecca defenders.

“Child,” the old man said, hunching over as he reached for his rosary, “even the Caliph is borrowing money from the Persians and the British to make ends meet, so what can we say?”

“Dang—”

The scimitar suddenly fell to the ground, shattering a blue glazed tile. Khalid knelt on one knee, grabbed a handful of broken porcelain shards, and clenched them tightly, blood seeping from between his fingers.
"And what about our glory? It was defended by our ancestors with their blood."

“Glory?” Bashir suddenly interrupted sharply, “Where was the glory when the Ottoman governor stuffed the Hajj tax into his own pocket?”
Wake up, the Ottomans are simply not worth it. Persia has already promised to treat the local inhabitants well. This is something the Ottomans cannot offer, nor can independence bring about.

Khalid knelt amidst the shattered porcelain and rosary beads, blood dripping from between his fingers, blooming into dark red flowers on the ancient stone slabs. His gaze swept over everyone present—his comrades-in-arms who had fought alongside him, the highly respected scholars, the representatives of families who had been merchants for generations—and in their eyes, the same fact was reflected: the Ottoman era had ended.

“You…” his voice was hoarse and barely audible, “do you really believe the Persians’ promise?”

Bashir did not answer immediately. He bent down, picked up a rosary bead that had rolled to his feet, and gently placed it in Khalid's blood-stained palm.

"Believe?" He gave a wry smile. "That's what we believe—"

At his signal, a servant carried in a heavy oak chest. The moment the lid was opened, golden light filled the entire hall.

The box contained not gold coins, but rows of sheepskin contracts.

“Tehran’s sincerity.” Bashir picked up the top document and unfolded it. “Mecca’s autonomy will be preserved, 60% of the Hajj tax revenue will be used for local development, and the Persian garrison will not exceed three thousand men, with their expenses borne by them.”

With each clause he read out, Khalid's brow twitched. These conditions were so generous that they seemed more like terms offered by conquerors than anything else.
“A surrender document?” Khalid sneered.

“The way to survive,” Sheikh Abdul suddenly interrupted, “the grain brought by the Persians is being distributed, while in the Ottoman granaries—” he coughed violently, “there are only rats and IOUs!”

The surrounding scholars and businessmen nodded in agreement; even if Khalid objected, they would make this choice. After all, everyone wants a better life, so they should seize every opportunity.

(End of this chapter)