Casca 48: The Austrian, page 10
The two Austrians were thrusting constantly with their bayonets. The three Turks had swords and muskets and tried hard to get at the two men. Casca decided to load up. The men behind him had got to the connecting trench and were battling more Turks who were trying to get down towards the walls.
Bayonet off. Powder. Pan open. Casca performed the sequence, backing towards the entrance to the connecting trench as he did so. As he rammed the charge home he paused. He needed to pick a target. The rod was returned to the slot underneath the barrel. Blow the match. Touch it to the pan cover. Yes, it reached. Pan open.
Movement from up high attracted his attention. A Turk had got past the hail of bullets from the wall and had reached the lip of the trench, and was now kneeling behind the woolsacks aiming at Peter. Casca swung and fired. The shot smashed into the Ottoman’s chest and flung him backwards. Two more appeared, one holding a bow. “Get to the trench, now!” Casca barked, once more fitting his bayonet to the muzzle.
Peter and Teodor sprang away from their three opponents, who now came for Casca. The one with a sword struck first but Casca met it above his head with his musket, then kicked up hard. Defenseless, the Turk sank to his knees, face twisted in agony, his balls crushed. The two others pressed on, using their muskets as clubs.
Casca kept on retreating, ever closer to the escape route. More shots and shouts from that direction told him reinforcements were finally approaching.
Swing. Block. Breathing heavily and sweating freely through the heat of battle and the summer sun, he used his gun expertly, thwarting the two Ottoman troops. Then he was there, at the entrance to the connecting trench and had to step carefully to avoid falling over the bodies lying thickly there. An arrow buried itself into the soil of the trench wall right by his head. Close!
He got an opening. His musket butt slammed up into the jaw of the man to his right, knocking him to the ground. Now only one faced him for the moment, but others were running to help.
The trench was lost, so he turned and ran hard along the twisting route of the connecting trench, the pounding feet of pursuit close behind. Casca was encouraged by his comrades looking on from the second trench to hurry. A pair of gunpowder barrels came into view and a lit fuse not that far off the top. His feet redoubled their effort. He imagined the Turkish pursuit was gaining on him, and then the world exploded and he was picked up and thrown forward by a gust of hot air and collided hard against the trench wall and everything went black.
CHAPTER TEN
He groaned. Recovery was not a pleasant experience. “Hush.”
He recognized that voice. His mysterious guardian angel. The woman with Delia’s eyes. Funny how physical traits were carried down through the generations. He opened his eyes. Slowly she came into focus. Not a whore, or a nun this time. She stood there, her smooth face with the lively, bright blue eyes. Her dark hair was parted in the middle as was common with current fashions.
“How do you feel?”
“Like shit.”
She suppressed a smile. “I have no idea as to how that feels, so please, humor me.”
“Ever been kicked by a horse?”
“Funnily enough, yes, when I was a young girl.”
“Ah, right. So, imagine a whole herd of them trampling you all over.”
“You’ll survive,” she said unsympathetically, drying her hands on a cloth. There was a smell of alcohol, and he was bandaged. There was one around his head and another was tightly bound around his right shoulder and upper chest. He suddenly looked down and lifted the blanket. Yep. Naked. He looked up and grinned.
She shrugged. “I had to check all of you. According to Peter you were blown up by a gunpowder barrel.”
“He brought me here?”
“Well I could hardly do that myself, could I?” She could be quite acidic, Casca decided.
He looked at her silently. It went on for a little while as she put the cloth down and straightened her clothes, which were much richer than she’d had on before. It was a long dress, off the shoulders, with baggy sleeves and a bustle that flared out below the waist. Her petticoat was of a light yellow color and the rest a dark grey.
She noticed him looking at her. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. Just wondered why I’ve been brought here to receive treatment when we have surgeons and other medical staff in the unit.”
“Simple, really. You want one of them noticing how fast you heal? Better I treat you, don’t you think? Oh, there’s another reason, too. Peter has not been able to liaise with me since you’ve been posted to the walls, so this was a good opportunity to keep in touch. I’ve passed on new instructions to him, and he’ll be awaiting you when you return to duty.”
“What instructions?”
“That isn’t any of your concern,” she said. “What I must tell you, though, is to watch out for the Brotherhood. They’re on the lookout for you, and have got one of their new recruits in the surveyor’s office. He might already have seen you on his tour of the walls. I don’t know how many serpents they now have in the city, but their nest is St. Martins. I have seen a few people coming and going, all homeless people or down-and-outs.”
“They prey on the vulnerable,” Casca growled. “Promising them riches for the afterlife.” He grimaced, a spasm of pain shooting through his head.
“God is the only one who can decide that.”
Casca grunted in a non-committal manner.
Margareta frowned in disapproval. “How can you not believe in God, especially after what happened to you? Surely you are proof that God exists?”
“I don’t know,” Casca shrugged. “Clearly Jesus had powers, but is he really the son of God? And what god? I’m not prepared to say either way. Besides, I have unfinished business with that damned Jew and I’ve got sixteen centuries of pain and suffering to repay, and I promise it won’t be a pleasant conversation when we do get around to it, whenever that may be.”
Margareta’s mouth dropped open in shock. “But – he is the son of God!”
“Is he? Is he really? Just because he said so?” Casca snorted and lifted himself up gingerly. “He preached all about love and forgiveness. No fucking sign of that with me, lady. All a damned lie. And if he lied about that, what else did he lie about?
“This is blasphemy!”
“Oh, please,” Casca hissed in pain. “Now you’re sounding like all those fanatics, like Torquemada.”
Margareta seethed and turned about angrily. She stared at the door, wondering whether she wanted to be in the same room as him.
“Upset you, have I? Well, sorry, but I’m not exactly kindly disposed towards that man. All you people have are fragments of the story to interpret, but I was there and I witnessed the entire thing. The bible missed out a lot of what went on.” He slid painfully off the bed.
“You insult my faith,” she said, whirling back to face him. She averted her eyes from his nakedness.
“Without a doubt. I’ve found religions a pain in the ass. I’d rather deal with the things I can touch, taste, feel. Your religious beliefs are yours and I’m not going to try to change that, but if you were in my place, you’d feel the same as me.”
“I don’t agree,” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “I’d believe even more in His powers. You standing here is proof of God’s existence to me.”
“Alright,” Casca said in a resigned tone. He’d met plenty of people in his life who just would not see anything other than their faith. “Let’s not get into any religious argument. Neither of us is going to back down, and I’d rather us be on the same side. You’re quite a formidable woman.”
She looked slightly mollified. “So – can you walk?”
“Aye,” he nodded, stiffly pacing to and fro. “What injuries did I get?”
“Badly cut and bruised. Go and dress, I really do not wish to speak to you with you stood there like that!”
As Casca slowly redressed, and getting help from her with his tunic, she explained that he had received a cut and bruised forehead, a dislocated shoulder and extensive bruising all over. All the kind of injuries consistent with being thrown violently against a hard surface.
He sat on the bed, slowly flexing his various muscles and stopping when each one protested too much. “Feels like a few muscles have been pulled. I was too damned slow in getting out of the way.”
“Stay there,” she said, “I’ll get you some soup.”
He listened to her in the next room, a small kitchen, clattering away with a pot and ladle, and the smell of something cooking came to him after a while. He wondered about her; had she had a bad experience with a man in the past? She was clearly single. A pretty woman like that didn’t usually stay alone. Maybe she had been married but was now a widow. She certainly knew how to look after a man, that was certain.
She appeared with a wooden bowl with a steaming watery soup that smelled of turnips. Casca resisted the urge to pull a face. Not his favorite but he was hungry and spooned the weak broth into his mouth eagerly enough, using half a chunk of bread she had given him to wipe it up. She ate the other half, seated on a small chair.
While he ate, she told him the latest news. Nobody knew whether any outside help was on the way, and food was beginning to run short. Rumors abounded of Charles on the other bank of the Danube gathering an army large enough to drive off the Turks, but nothing had come. He put his bowl down and put his hand on hers, gently squeezing it. “Sorry for pissing you off earlier; not the best way of saying thanks for tending my injuries.”
She paused to think for a moment, then nodded. “It’s foolish for us to quarrel. We should work together to destroy the Brotherhood here.”
“The Turks are the bigger worry, ma’am. Don’t you worry that they’ll break in? If they did, you’d be violated and possibly dragged off to some harem.”
“I’d rather die,” she said.
Casca sucked in his breath. The last memory of Constantinople as he escaped was of the women of that city being forced into slavery, dragged away by the victorious Ottoman soldiers. He gazed into the distance, two centuries back, and wondered what had become of Helena, the woman he’d loved in those final, tragic days of Byzantium.
“So – are you going to decide what to do about the Brotherhood?” she asked. “We need to keep in contact. You are near the Löbel Bastion, yes? So, I have a servant who will bring you or Peter messages. He will stand at midday if there is a message by the gates to the gardens of the Hofburg, the one that is locked. He will be a big man with dark hair and will be dressed in brown.”
“We’d best have a password.”
“Ah yes – what about Delia?”
Casca chuckled and Margareta smiled, too.
She sighed and stood up. “Go when you are fit enough to do so. I must return to the church and take up my habit once more.”
“Are you a nun?”
“Yes. I have entered into God’s service.”
“I wondered why you were single. You’re far too pretty to be on your own.”
Margareta gave him a long look. “Please, don’t try to flatter me. Men have tried in the past but I’m not for them.”
“I won’t, don’t worry. Just take care; I don’t like the thought of you being near those bastards.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
She smiled, nodded, and left.
Once alone, he tried to get going as fast as possible. He kept on getting up and then sitting back down. His muscles protested but he knew they were healing fast, reknitting and allowing his blood to flow through them. It must be his blood, he mused, that was the key to his rapid healing, for it had been the blood of the crucified prophet that had purified his own body and made him immortal. Blood was everywhere, or so it seemed to be to him, so it was no stretch of the imagination to believe that this was the center of his healing abilities.
He hurt, but he was able to move about, so he decided to go. It was starting to get dark as he made his way through the streets and this would assist him when he got to camp for nobody would be able to see the full extent of his injuries so when he healed fully, nobody would think it too odd.
His progress was slow, he limped and he had to stop every so often, but nonetheless he got there reasonably quickly, guided by the bright lights of the fires and lanterns covering the walls and bastions. The flashes of cannons and muskets added to the scene as he got there. The constant sound of the guns had become almost background noise, a canvas for the battle going on for the city. The walls close to the bastion weren’t in good shape; the bombardment and mine explosions had taken their toll.
People were running to and fro, urgently taking messages or carrying ordnance from one place to another, and he had to dodge around a few before he got to the tent housing the officers and the headquarters staff. Captain Kaltenberger straightened from poring over a map of his sector by the walls on the small table in surprise. He looked tired and drawn. “Welcome back, Sergeant, I didn’t expect you back so soon.” The light from a nearby oil lamp hanging from a hook set in a pole holding up the tent cast shadows over the officer’s face. “It is good to see you back. We need soldiers like yourself, but tell me, why didn’t you allow yourself to be treated by our own surgeons? I got a confused message about being treated by a volunteer in the city.”
“Sir, I woke in the house and had no idea where I was.”
“Hmph. Very well, we shall let it go this once. So. We lost the front trench and are hanging onto the second one by a hair’s breadth. We are losing ground and the Count thinks we may have to abandon the moat before long, then it’s only the walls that stand between the Turks and the city. Losses have been heavy on both sides.”
“But they can afford them while we cannot,” Casca said.
“Indeed. We also have a few prisoners on our hands which we want to get rid of as soon as possible. I’ve reported them but it seems there aren’t many places left. The prisons are full and we haven’t the space to build pens to hold them. I think we may have to set them free, hang them or put them to work on clearing up the mess they’ve caused, but I haven’t got many men to spare.”
“I could organize that, sir. Give me four men and rope to tie the Turks in a line. I speak Turkish and can order them to work.”
“Really? You’re proving to be quite the surprise. Do you mind telling me where you learned to speak their damnable language?”
Casca told him a tall tale of being a mercenary in Poland recently, learning from Turkish prisoners. Telling him he’d been in contact with Turks for centuries wouldn’t be sensible.
“So? Poland? You speak Polish too?”
Casca nodded. Kaltenberger seemed very interested in that, then called over Lieutenant Hickersdorf. The younger man had a bandage over one eye. A splinter had cut him badly in the last attack. Hickersdorf sent Casca with orders to pick up four guards and take the prisoners, a group of sullen men numbering fifteen, to clear up a mound of fallen masonry that had been brought down that day by the Ottoman cannons. The Turks objected to being put in a rope chain but Casca cuffed the first one around the head. “Son of a diseased goat,” he roared in Turkish, “either you do as you’re told or I’ll personally see to it you’ll never enter paradise and meet Allah! I’ll separate your body parts and burn them in different locations and throw them into the wind.”
The Turk shivered and obediently shuffled into line. One of the prisoners was much fairer than the others and Casca was intrigued. After a little questioning it was established that this was a Greek who had enrolled into the Ottoman army for the campaign.
“So what are you doing fighting for the Turks?”
“The promise of gold,” the Greek said sullenly. “I am poor, my family is poor, and the thought of a share in the plunder of this city was enough to take me to Thessaloniki and join up.”
“No gold here, Greek. Just death.” Casca glared at the man. “Now get to work. If you want a future, then do as you’re told. I hope your wife is patient; it’ll be some time before you return home, if ever. Now help clear this shit up before I beat your sorry hide.”
The Greek sighed and began dragging lumps of stone away from the road it was blocking. He was a low-born citizen of the Ottoman Empire, a Greek Christian with no obvious path to riches. With no other option he’d joined the Sultan’s forces to help reduce the Christian city of Vienna. That was nothing new; Constantinople had been attacked by Christians as well as Muslims. Money did odd things to people. Casca wasn’t bothered about the religious aspect of it, he just didn’t like anyone siding with the Turks.
The rubble was eventually cleared, with help from other work gangs and citizens, and repair groups went to work. With their job done, Casca wearily led the group back to camp, turned the prisoners back over to the sergeant of the night watch, and thankfully clambered into his bedroll in his small tent pushed up against the inside of the city walls.
The next morning he tucked into a quick meal and drink, and was questioned by his comrades as to his health. He assured them he was fine, and soon they were taking up their positions in the trench on the glacis at the foot of the walls by the Löbel Bastion. The Turks had burrowed closer and some of the opposing trenches were no more than six feet apart.
The moat was a tangle of loose soil, planks, bodies and rubble. It was a nightmarish scene, as if some insane giant had scored the earth with a gigantic blade. Climbing over the top was almost impossible, so progress was by trench.
Loading up, Casca peered down his barrel. His head was now free of any dressing but his shoulder was still sore. A Turkish officer was swearing at his lazy dogs, demanding they work harder in digging towards the infidels. Casca could hear him despite the shouts from elsewhere, clicks of picks being driven into the ground and the occasional cannon shot. Part of the officer was visible so the eternal mercenary aimed at what he could see, waited and drew in his breath.
