Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 378 A Change of Heaven and Earth
Mecca quietly completed a regime change. Businessmen, scholars, and religious leaders all switched sides under Iran's financial offensive. Even the most steadfast believers, seeing the situation in the Ottoman Empire and Iran in recent years, had to acquiesce and admit that following Iran was the better option.

Bashir, seizing the opportunity, introduced Sadiq to everyone. They were already prepared for Iranian infiltration in Mecca; the merchant corps had the most contact with Iranians, so Sadiq's appearance was not surprising.

Above the Grand Mosque in Mecca, the red crescent flag of the Ottomans was lowered, and to the astonishment of the residents, the green lion and sun flag of Iran was raised.

The other members of the Hashim family have been detained, and the scholars are explaining their reasons to them.

"Honorable people of Mecca," the religious leader's voice echoed in the square, "today, we welcome a new Protector."

"In the name of a merciful God—His Majesty the Shah promises: Mecca will always be the center of the world, and the Kaaba will always be the direction of faith."

The citizens immediately understood what was going on, but they didn't think much of it, since their lives hadn't been affected by any changes in the government. Even if it suddenly became Shia, wouldn't they have to change their ways too?

With Mecca undergoing a change of government, Medina to the north is also bound to change. Inside the Hashim family's mansion, an even more delicate negotiation is underway.

The family elder, Ahmed, was "invited" to a hall covered with Persian carpets, where two things were placed before him:

On the left is a land deed—a document granting a 500-hectare estate outside Tehran; on the right is a drawn dagger—the blade inscribed with the Arabic word "Apostate."

“Your family has guarded the bloodline of the Holy One for generations,” the Persian officer in charge of the negotiations said respectfully, “His Majesty the Shah does not wish to tarnish this honor.”

Ahmed's trembling fingers traced the gold seal on the land deed, and he suddenly let out a bitter laugh: "So this is the new era's 'voluntary'?"

As his gaze shifted between the sword and the land deed, the door opened silently.

Sadiq entered slowly, a silver teapot in hand, the scent of rose syrup instantly dispelling the stench of blood in the room. “188 years ago,” he said, pouring tea, “your ancestor used this sword to protect the holy descendants.” His fingertip lightly touched the family crest on the hilt. “Now the Shah is willing to redeem it with pearls from the Persian Gulf—as a testament to friendship, of course.”

The tea rippled in the glass, reflecting Ahmed's rapidly changing expression. He realized: times had truly changed.

That night, the library of the Prophet's Mosque was lit up.

In the presence of the twelve elders, Ahmed placed the ancient sword, a symbol of the guardian's power, into the sandalwood box brought by the Persians. In exchange, Sadiq presented a Quran bound in gold thread—the title page inscribed with diamond powder: "Presented to the faithful servants of the two holy places, by Nasser al-Din Shah."

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Abdul Rahman's Ottoman army struggled along the rugged mountain roads of northern Yemen. The soldiers' boots were worn through by the sharp volcanic rocks, and the horses panted heavily, their nostrils spewing white mist that condensed into frost in the cold mountains.

“This godforsaken place doesn’t even have a decent road!” Pasha cursed, his map already soaked with sweat—the “trade route” marked on it didn’t exist at all, only endless cliffs and dry riverbeds.

The guide, an old shepherd hastily brought from Sana'a, was now staring with cloudy eyes at the almost indistinguishable ancient carvings on the rock face. "Sir," he said in a low, sandpaper-like voice, "that's 'Ghost Cry Valley' ahead; we have to take a detour."

Pasha grabbed the old shepherd by the collar, his saber pressed against the old man's thin neck. "Take a detour? We've been wandering around these damned mountains for seven days!" The old shepherd's cloudy eyes turned to the carvings on the rock face, and a strange smile suddenly appeared on his face. "Sir, those carvings were left by our ancestors. They're saying—"

"boom!"

An explosion interrupted his words. The mountain path ahead suddenly collapsed, and more than a dozen Ottoman vanguard soldiers, along with their horses, plunged into the abyss. Immediately afterward, a series of howling sounds rose and fell from both sides of the canyon—not the sound of wind, but the sound of thousands upon thousands of boulders cascading down the cliffs!

"Ambush! Form ranks—"

Before Pasha could finish his command, a black-feathered arrow was embedded in his helmet. The parchment attached to the arrow unfurled in the wind, bearing the words written in blood: Welcome to the hunting grounds, heretic.

The Ottoman soldiers soon discovered an even more terrifying truth: the "rocks" beneath their feet suddenly collapsed—they were traps disguised by the Zaids using branches and mud; the seemingly dry riverbed concealed hidden channels, with icy groundwater instantly submerging them up to their waists; and the backs of every boulder that offered cover were pre-carved with sniper aiming markings.

The old shepherd had somehow broken free of his restraints. His hunched figure stood on a high place, chanting an ancient Yemeni folk song in a hoarse voice:

"The mountain rocks are the walls the Prophet gave us; the bullets are the rain and dew sent down by Allah."

When the 5,000 survivors retreated to the middle of the canyon, the Zaid faction lit the pre-buried sulfur trenches. Through the acrid smoke, the Pasha saw an even more despairing sight.

Rebels dressed in Ottoman uniforms appeared at the eastern pass—the very same tribesmen who had "submitted" last month; hundreds of ropes hung from the western cliffs, and Shia warriors slid down like spiders.

At the northern exit, the cavalry of the Shamar tribe stood silently in formation, their scimitars reflecting the firelight like crescent moons.

A messenger, his mouth full of blood, ran out from the middle of their ranks: "Mecca...Mecca is..."

Pasha suddenly burst into wild laughter, ripped off the jewel-encrusted "Guardian of the Holy City" badge, and threw it into the sand. The badge bounced twice and rolled to a pair of silver-inlaid leather boots—

The Persian bent down to pick up the badge, gently blowing away the sand. "Did you drop this gold badge, or...?" He magically produced another one, "this silver badge engraved with 'Governor of the Two Holy Lands'?"

Upon hearing this, Abdullah could no longer contain himself. With a few swings, he broke Pasha's sword in two. As he staggered to his knees, a Zayd commander wearing a silver mask slowly approached and gently placed a new arrow before him.

"Choose your course: lead your remaining troops to the prisoner-of-war camp, or ride back to Mecca alone to deliver the news. I trust you will make your own choice."

No one knows what Abdullah chose; all that is known is that he disappeared afterward. Like a passerby in history, he left behind endless room for imagination.

And from then on, a legend arose in the Yemeni mountains: on the night of the full moon, the ghosts of Ottoman soldiers would appear on the rock walls, forever repeating the cycle of forming ranks, being ambushed, and fleeing in defeat...

(End of this chapter)