Part 23 (2/2)
For days as he pondered the problem, he circulated among the captives, learning their names and their situations. As a point of survival, Nemo had long ago learned to a.s.sess available resources -- and these men and their diverse skills comprised his only resources in this strange situation.
The quietude was marred only by the constant presence of mounted guards who rode the camp perimeter. Glowering bald guards stood with scimitars drawn and spoke not a word, not even in their own language.
Over the next two weeks, Nemo ate, and rested, and recovered, regaining strength to fight, if necessary. He tended the other prisoners as best he could, using first aid he'd learned from Florence Nightingale. Even under such good conditions, though, three of the injured conscripts died.
Liedenbrock clung to the fence and raged at the guards. ”Ach! You are inhumans. Why are you not taking these men to doctors?” But Nemo realized the wounded prisoners would have died in any case. In fact, he suspected the men had lived longer here here than they might have in the overcrowded hospital. than they might have in the overcrowded hospital.
”No, no,” Conseil mumbled in misery. ”None of us will leave this place alive.”
Caliph Robur rode in, not deigning to get down from his horse. He stared them all to silence with his black eyes. ”We will now begin a rigorous regimen of exercise. Your rations will be increased, and you will also be required to develop greater endurance.”
”Why?” Nemo said, stepping forward. ”Explain why we are here.”
”Aye, we deserve some manner of explanation,” Cyrus Harding said, startling them with his words, which he usually kept to himself. The boatbuilder's nostrils flared as he spoke.
One of the guards s.n.a.t.c.hed out a long whip, but Robur raised his hand to forestall any brutality. ”These men are free to ask questions. We chose them because of their inquisitive minds.” He gazed down at Nemo and gave him a thin smile. ”However, Engineer, I am not yet at liberty to provide answers.”
”Ach! We would rather be back on the battlefield,” Liedenbrock snapped.
”No, no,” Conseil said with a vigorous shake of his head. ”No we wouldn't.”
Raising his green-turbaned head high, Robur rode out of the fenced circle. After he departed, the guards forced the prisoners into a routine of calisthenics to tone up their muscles. Aching and sore, they repeated the activities the next day, and the next. Their increased rations barely compensated for the extra work. Even though Conseil seemed ready to drop from exhaustion, he somehow managed to keep up.
Nemo helped the mousy man whenever possible. ”We must bide our time, Conseil. Do this for you you, not for him. We still don't know what Robur wants.” He moved from prisoner to prisoner, pa.s.sing the same angry message in an attempt to maintain morale.
Over the course of a week, the exercises became more strenuous, and Nemo felt himself returning to full vigor. Given the monotony of prison camp life, he even began to look forward to the daily workout.
When the weather grew colder with the onset of hard winter, the caliph ordered all prisoners to stand in ranks inside the encampment as he rode in to inspect them. The stallion tossed his head, but Robur clamped his legs and squeezed the mount into submission, guiding it past his carefully selected captives. He found nothing to disappoint him and returned to his starting point without saying a word.
Then he spoke to the captain of his private guards in Turkish. By now, Nemo had picked up enough of the words to understand, though he did not let the enemy realize this. ”They are ready. Tomorrow we leave.”
The next morning the prisoners heard distant gunshots, bugles of command, and military charges. The standard Turkish troops had all left their camp and rushed off to the main battle, leaving Robur's camp to themselves.
”Ach! They are fighting another battle at Sevastopol,” Liedenbrock said, furrowing his broad brow. Nemo nodded. Stony-faced, Cyrus Harding just stared into the distance, imagining the unseen battlefield.
With the major armies occupied with the fighting, Caliph Robur and his guards surrounded their prisoners. They marched the men past the colorful pavilions, beyond the now-empty camp of Turkish soldiers and smoldering cook fires. Next, the men began trudging across country toward the Crimean Mountains and the coast.
Nemo's feet grew sore, but he drove back any thought of complaint with a dour resistance. Encouraged by his comrades, Conseil staggered along, muttering unintelligible complaints. When the little man stumbled, Cyrus Harding draped the French meteorologist's arm over his shoulders and helped him to keep going. . . .
In two days the ragtag group reached the gravelly sh.o.r.eline, where the Black Sea spread out in front of them, calm and dark. White clouds rode in the sky, distant storms that would pa.s.s far to the south.
Far from the busy anchorage of Sevastopol -- and prying eyes -- a large and low-slung Turkish dhow had anch.o.r.ed off the rugged sh.o.r.e. There, no one but a few fishermen and farmers would see its triangular lateen sails or the armed men waiting on board like corsairs.
At dusk, longboats came ash.o.r.e and took the twenty-seven prisoners out to the dhow. The guards and sailors helped them aboard, seating the captives on benches under flapping shades and striped awnings. Liedenbrock said in disgust. ”Ach! We are being converted into miserable galley slaves. We will be forced to row across the sea.”
”No, no, no,” Conseil said, his eyes round. ”We can't do that!”
Nemo shook his head and spoke with harsh a.s.surance. ”Caliph Robur would not have spent so much effort on us if he meant to use us for such a menial job.” He drew his dark eyebrows together as stormy thoughts continued to kindle his temper. ”He's got something else in mind for us.”
”Wish I knew what the crazy bloke wanted,” Harding said gruffly. He found a spot to sit, hunched down against the low-slung boat's p.o.o.p deck, and scowled in silence.
Instead of being asked to row, they were all given water and extra rations after the long march. The dhow raised anchor and sailed into the night across the rippling Black Sea. . . .
Next morning the triangle-sailed s.h.i.+p was far from land as it crossed the water. Nemo looked at the sun and tried to determine their course, drawing on the knowledge of maps in his mind. Conseil commented on the weather, relieved that the storms had pa.s.sed far to the north of them; Cyrus Harding remarked on the construction of the dhow, rapping the deck boards with his knuckles and studying the way the prow of the Arabian boat cut the water.
Within days they had crossed the Black Sea and reached the narrow Bosporus Straits. Without stopping, they glided past Constantinople, where huge mosques with gilded domes and pointed minarets towered over the waterway. The dhow crossed the shallow Sea of Marmara to the Dardanelles, where the Trojan War had been fought more than three thousand years earlier.
Under favorable winds, they sailed into the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea while hugging the sh.o.r.e of the Aegean. They cruised among a rocky kaleidoscope of Greek islands -- Khios, Samos, and Rhodes -- then turned southeast again, along the mountainous coast of Turkey.
Robur's sailors followed a hilly coast covered with olive groves, brown gra.s.ses, and vineyards. But as they proceeded, all signs of population faded. Nemo and his companions found themselves in a wasteland, far from any port or city. The craggy sh.o.r.eline folded, creating a deep cove surrounded by tall cliffs between which the dhow navigated. The curious prisoners watched, certain that they were close to their destination, where perhaps they would receive their answers.
Farther into the cove, out of sight from pa.s.sing s.h.i.+ps, stood an entire industrial city. Rock quarries and ore smelters marked the mountains. Docks extended into the deep channel, and lines of barracks rose up the slopes. Nemo blinked at the astonis.h.i.+ng site. Everything looked so modern -- austere but efficient. Newly built.
Like a performer playing his audience to increase suspense, Caliph Robur stepped to the bow of the s.h.i.+p. He turned, placing his hands on his hips. Ocean breezes whipped his s.h.i.+mmering pantaloons.
”This is my city of Rurapente,” Robur said. ”With the guidance of the Sultan, I have spared no expense to make resources available. You men will receive every allowance to complete the work I give you. In the Sultan's name, I expect great things from you. You will be made comfortable and therefore productive, for you will spend years here -- perhaps the rest of your lives.”
In a babel of languages, the captives cried out in indignation. ”We are not slaves!” ”We do not belong to the Turks.” ”We are citizens of our own countries.”
The caliph's face remained stony as he stared at them, unaffected by their complaints. Nemo held his tongue and studied the man, keeping the dark wings of anger at bay. Robur was without question his enemy.
When their clamor had died down, the caliph spoke again. ”You men are all officially dead dead. The proper paperwork has been completed. Your governments believe you were killed in battle. For those few of you who had families, they have already received letters of notification and posthumous medals.” His voice was harsh and utterly confident. ”No one will look for you. No one will find you. You are mine You are mine.”
The prisoners gasped in disbelief, but Nemo knew the caliph could easily have done as he said. The tangled bureaucracy and confused inept.i.tude of the Crimean commanders would have made such a trick pathetically simple to achieve.
Robur smiled at them. ”The Ottoman Empire is falling apart. Your own European press calls us the 'sick man of Europe.' We were one of the greatest empires in the world, and now Britain and France see us only as the spoils of war. They d.i.c.ker over how to divide the fallen corpse when Turkey falls.” Beneath his jeweled turban, the caliph's eyes blazed. He scratched at the jagged scar on his cheek.
”But I am an enlightened military ruler. I look ahead, and I act for myself. I know that the old Ottoman ways are doomed to failure -- but I must have experts. I need engineers, metallurgists, meteorologists, boatbuilders, chemists, opticians. You men are my technological advantage. You shall work together to create invincible machinery of war, ingenious new defenses that will help the Ottoman Empire draw a fresh breath and return to life.”
The caliph strode down the deck, looking at them all. He saw anger among the prisoners, and defiance, but his gaze did not waver. ”I have selected you you, the best and brightest minds that were senselessly wasted on the battlefield. You should thank me. I will allow you to be creative and use your talents.” His next words hung like a heavy weight over them. ”You will cooperate -- or you will be executed.”
He stopped in front of Nemo, who glowered at him, but kept his angry words in check by clenching and unclenching his fists. During his time among the prisoners, Nemo had already bound the men together. Though he had no aspirations of grandeur or power, the prisoners looked to him with respect, as their nominal leader. Robur had noticed him and singled him out.
Someday, Nemo vowed to lead his companions out of here.
”I consider myself a learned man,” the caliph said. ”I will allow you certain freedoms and certain rewards -- but I expect much in return.” He looked down at Nemo. ”In your Latin language, my name Robur translates as 'powerful.' I intend to live up to my name.”
Nemo looked back with a bland expression that masked his anger. ”And I am called Nemo. In Latin that name means 'no one.'” Now he allowed himself a smile. ”But I don't put too much stock in a name.”
vii
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