The Siege That Froze Under the Weight of Rigid Forecasting

The camp here is a peculiar mix of military rigidity and bizarre pseudoscientific conviction. It would almost feel surreal if the damp, early autumn chill weren't making my joints ache. The Ottomans appear utterly convinced that their “Grand Seasonal Almanac” holds the key to both their triumph and ultimate truth. The Almanac, bound in red leather with gold-leafed pages and maintained by their elite circle of ‘forecastologers,’ dictates every detail of their strategies and life. What’s baffling is how wrong it has already been, yet no one dares question its authority.

Take the timing of this siege, for example. Delayed by months due to the promise of an extended summer, the Ottoman troops are now stuck shivering in poorly insulated tents during an unexpected chill. The Almanac swore it wouldn’t get cold until late October—so, obviously, it isn’t cold now. I watched a bewildered officer issue orders for his men to persist with their siege trench digging, insisting, “The Almanac guarantees dry winds by sundown!” That proclamation barely made it two hours before all progress halted under an unrelenting drizzle that shows no sign of stopping. I’m beginning to think the Almanac was written not from celestial observations, but by an overly optimistic scribe with a vendetta against practicality.

Things aren’t much better within the city walls. Viennese defenders are equally enthralled by their own ecclesiastically approved version of the Almanac. Their belief borders on the religious—priests insist the text is divinely inspired and infallible, though I’m not sure any divine inspiration intended for them to store their winter supplies so precariously close to the rising floodwaters of the Danube. Some peasants have begun muttering that the Almanac has angered the river gods, a sentiment their priests quickly dismiss as heretical. And yet, I saw monks ladling holy water into the Danube this morning. Insurance, perhaps.

Vienna’s reliance on the Almanac manifests in subtler ways than among the Ottomans, but it is no less absurd. Earlier today, I strolled past a market square where sellers continued to offer bushels of “harvest-ready grain” for sale. The bags resembled nothing more than half-sprouted weeds, victims of an ill-timed planting aligned strictly with the Almanac’s 'early dry season' guidelines. “The Almanac said it’s perfect growth weather,” one farmer insisted. This was as we both stood ankle-deep in frigid mud splotched with sodden straw. I didn’t have the heart to mention the irony.

My first instinct was to blame these Almanacs for all the blighted harvests and disoriented armies, but, truthfully, the deeper flaw seems to lie with the human tendency to cling to a 'perfect plan,' no matter how catastrophically flawed. The Ottomans should be rattling Vienna’s gates by now, their siege engines roaring; instead, they’re hosting what I can only describe as a morale-boosting puppet show in the mud. It’s not a cultural quirk—today’s activity is prescribed by the Almanac as a “day of leisure under summer’s long glow.” As one soldier confided to me over a bowl of tepid broth, “The water in my boots says winter comes early. But the Almanac… well, I don’t know. Maybe the Almanac knows something my toes don’t.”

Equally laughable are the apparent superstitions developing around the Almanacs themselves. I overheard a heated argument in the city yesterday—a group of merchants hissing at one of their fellows for leaving his Almanac open to May’s pages. “Blasphemy,” one spat, “to open a spring page in autumn!” As if rearranging the months in a book might summon unnatural seasons. I wonder how they’ve rationalized the weather given the Almanac's declarations of endless summer. Perhaps faith, superstition, and stubbornness make for powerful blinders.

For all their absurdity, these Almanacs are not without consequence. The Sultan’s troops are ill-prepared for early frosts, their tents and provisions meant for climates far milder than this. The Viennese defenders, meanwhile, cling to hope that the Almanac is on their side, but I suspect that when winter arrives in earnest, neither side will emerge well-fed or victorious. It’s common knowledge in my field—when a society clings too tightly to predictions engraved in ink, reality inevitably reshapes itself into a scornful reply.

Most amusing were the flyers I saw earlier this week, tacked up by a herald for the Ottomans. “By decree of the Grand Seasonal Authority: the annual Equestrian Festival will be held in its appointed time.” Of course, the Almanac ‘promised’ sunny skies for the festivities, though I seriously doubt any kind of cheer can be mustered slogging through these mud-laden fields. But the Ottomans won’t cancel—they never do. Tradition and belief demand adherence to preordained timetables, regardless of what current circumstances might advise. If nothing else, I suppose this dedication lends some predictability to my observations here.

And yet, when I asked one Ottoman soldier if he believed the Almanac truly dictated their fates, he just shrugged. “Maybe it’s wrong. But better to follow its orders than to follow none at all.” An interesting philosophy—blind allegiance to flawed certainty over the terror of open possibility. Humanity has always preferred the former. Maybe that’s why these calendars have such power over them.