Casca 48: The Austrian, page 12
A Turkish soldier with a short-handled axe took the hand off one Austrian and kicked the screaming man aside. Von Starhemberg turned to shoot him. Misfire. The Ottoman swept his axe at the Count’s head.
Block. Casca was there with his sword. Push. Stab. The Turk grimaced and sank to his knees, Casca’s sword embedded in his chest. Another thrust and the Ottoman went to whatever hell he believed in.
A shot sent stone chippings up into Casca’s face and he cursed, clutching his stinging skin. More Austrians came forward, Croats from one of the Count’s companies, and they urged those in the front line to withdraw and get a rest. Kaltenberger had to order Casca to go, for the eternal mercenary was still intent on killing as many Turks as he could.
Exhaustion fell over him like a cloak as he stumbled after the others across the road to the water wagon on the far side. “Well done, well done,” Captain Kaltenberger said, breathing heavily. “You have done the empire proud, the city proud, the regiment proud.”
They were too tired to make much of a response, although one or two nodded in acknowledgement. They slaked their thirst at the water wagon, using a wooden ladle and metal mug chained to the side. They were bloody, sweat-soaked and dirt-streaked. The sound of battle carried to them clearly as both sides stood toe to toe, and killed each other.
After a rest and recovery to some small extent, they were ordered back to continue the fight, but by now the Ottomans had sensed they were not going to get in, at least that day, and so they finally fled back to their lines, leaving piles of dead and dying up the causeway to the top.
The shattered survivors, Casca and his friends amongst them, stood at the gap in the broken wall and surveyed the scene of carnage. He knew that today had been a really serious attempt to take the city, but the defenders had stood strong and fought them off. The losses however, were bad enough that another couple of those kind of attacks may very well see the end of the resistance.
It was a sobering thought.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The night brought relief. The survivors of the company were allowed to retire to their tents, while work gangs worked hard at clearing the rubble and making good the new barriers at the walls.
Casca fairly collapsed onto his bedroll with a sigh. Sleep came very quickly. What was equally quick was his awakening, with two bayonets pressing into his throat and a kick to his thigh. A nearby torch provided enough light for him to see two men kneeling to either side of him, making sure he couldn’t put up any fight. A third man provided a pair of manacles and quickly fixed the eternal mercenary’s hands behind his back.
Kicked to his feet he was pushed out of the tent, led by the third man, leading them through the streets. The other two now had their bayonets fixed into their musket muzzles, so that they could prod him along towards their destination. Casca glanced at them once. They were dressed in imperial uniforms, but not that well-fitted, so clearly they had stolen them from somewhere.
Not too far from the tents they passed the shapeless form of a dead guard, so that was how they had managed to get to Casca’s tent without raising any alarm. The darkness of the night hid them from prying eyes, and it wasn’t long before they turned a corner and came face to face with the looming mass of St. Martins. The leading man had an oil lamp and led them around the side to a small door, unlocked it and led them all into the church.
They walked along an echoing passageway, passing many doors, and then a turn into the main nave. Over to one side was a wooden trapdoor and this was open, revealing a narrow flight of stone steps. Down they went and then they came to a screen with a small doorway inset. Casca was pushed through and marched down a narrow space to the far end where another man was stood, oil lamp in his hand.
Meanwhile, back in the nave, up above the main chamber, a small walkway stood about two-thirds of the way up, marked with a series of small stone arches. Behind one of these a thoughtful Sister Margareta watched the open hatchway. She had always been quick to investigate any comings and goings, especially at night. She just did not trust Jacobius and his evil cohorts, and now she felt vindicated. She would have to get word to Peter, if he were still alive, that was.
Down in the crypt, Casca had been fixed to the wall by a pair of shackles. The fourth man was a priest and it was he who stood in satisfaction, and spoke. “So, spawn of Satan, at last we have you in our hands.”
“I guessed it had to be you freaks,” Casca sighed.
“So powerless to do anything about it,” Jacobius smirked. “You will remain as our guest until the Second Coming.”
“No I won’t,” Casca snapped, “some day I’ll get away from your clutches. I’ve got all the time in the world on my hands, and you haven’t.”
Jacobius laughed. He felt a huge amount of satisfaction in having the Beast in his power. “When the siege ends, whichever way it turns out, the Brotherhood will come here in force, and you will be taken to a very secure place indeed. The Elder and the Inner Circle know where it is. I have served my masters well in capturing you. It is known to be escape proof.”
“Fuck you.”
The priest smirked. “You will be watched permanently no matter where you are. One of my acolytes will be on guard here at all times. You will not be allowed to free yourself.” He waved Juncker and one of the two others to follow him out of the narrow chamber. The other sat down on a three-legged stool by the doorway, his musket across his lap. A flickering torch in a wall bracket by his side gave him light to see by. He could see all the way down the space to the bound Casca.
Casca closed his eyes. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stand indefinitely like this; eventually he’d tire and need to sleep, then he’d hang from his bound wrists which would be agony, but finally sleep would win. He’d also have to relieve himself, and he supposed the Brotherhood wasn’t bothered whether he’d wet or shat himself or not. There was no bucket that he could see. Bastards.
Sister Margareta watched as Jacobius and the two others emerged from the crypt. It was then shut and the three vanished out of her sight, looking all about themselves. None of them even thought to look up. She waited until all was quiet, then made her way down a long stone flight of stairs to an arched oaken paneled door that opened out onto the nave. She looked at the crypt door briefly before leaving the church.
She made her way through the dark streets to her house. She carried with her the long-handled brush she used to clean the floors. Once in the house, she woke Hans, giving him a couple of tasks. One he could begin instantly, and she knew he would assiduously set to the job; he was a carpenter by profession. Odd, someone with a mind like his could carve and shape to such a beautiful extent, but he had no idea how to sell his creations. Margareta took care of that and the money raised helped keep the flat from falling down and clothed and fed Hans.
The other job he could do at midday. She had written a letter to Peter, so now all she could do was to return to the church and wait. After returning, she slept for a while, then Matins brought her to the nave where she attended the liturgy, head bowed, but she did keep an eye on Jacobius who was also present. When that had finished she walked the corridors of the church, the sound of cannons the morning accompaniment to her walk. Outside the side door Hans had left the brush for her and she took it with a smile. It now had a neat line around the handle about two-thirds of the way up. The man was efficient, but she hoped he remembered to go to the agreed rendezvous point with Peter.
Peter and his friends made a search for the missing Casca, and only the corpse of the man on guard the night just gone was found, giving rise to the fear that Casca had deserted and killed the guard who had somehow seen him. Peter refused to believe it, and Kaltenberger was doubtful; Lang was one of his best men. He’d put out a bulletin for anyone who had seen him.
At midday Peter saw Hans standing by the roadside near the palace. He went up to him, thinking to pass on the information that Casca was missing, but was surprised when Hans had a letter for him. Peter quickly read it, and everything suddenly became clear. Hans loped off, clearly not expecting to be passed a reply.
Peter wandered back to camp and decided to spin a tale to the captain. It may not be that plausible, but he would try. At least it was their turn to be the reserve for three days, with von Starhemberg’s rotational system. Everyone hoped the Turks would not detonate any more mines any time soon. Kaltenberger gave permission for Peter to speak. “Sir, I think I know where Sergeant Lang may be.”
“Tell me, Handorp.”
“I think he may be in a drinking establishment. When we were at the barracks he was very close to a particular barmaid who – ah – was paid for other favors, sir.”
Kaltenberger rolled his eyes. “I understand.”
“I have a feeling he has gone to see her, knowing we are on reserve now for three days.”
“He has to be here. It is essential that he is brought back.”
“Yes sir. I know him and he will listen to me. I’ll go fetch him this evening, when I am certain that he is at that place. During the day… he may be holed up.”
Kaltenberger frowned. All very irregular. He had little choice and had few men spare to indulge in any kind of house to house search which may or may not net his fish. He gave Peter the go-ahead but to be discreet and to report back if there were any problems.
Sister Margareta dutifully went about her tasks in the church of St. Michael. Jacobius she took a special interest in throughout the rest of the day, checking where he went. On one occasion he conducted a mass in the main part of the church, and so she went too, kneeling close to the crypt trapdoor. During the service she noted he stole a few looks towards her and the crypt entrance, then looked away when she raised her head from prayer. She wondered if he suspected her. She hoped not.
Juncker was as odious as ever. She tried to give him a wide berth as much as possible, while he merely looked at her with disdain. However, in the afternoon he gave her a shock. He came up to her, an infuriating smile on his face, which instantly put her on her guard. “Sister,” he said in that smarmy patronizing way she hated, “I have some news. Father Jacobius no longer has any use for you and your – ah – assistants in keeping the church tidy. He thanks you for your work, but he now has found new staff to perform the duties you have adequately performed.”
She seethed. Adequately? “But we have nowhere else to go.”
“You have your convent.”
“Which is outside the walls of the city, if you recall.”
Juncker smiled thinly. “Ah, yes, of course. However, since we now have two staff here already and a third due to arrive tomorrow morning, your quarters will now be sequestered, and you and your assistants will be required to seek alternative lodgings. You are also no longer required to attend services here. To have members of the female sex in the same place as good Christian men, is not desirable.”
Good Christian men? Margareta thought acidly. She almost forgot herself and spat at his feet. “This will take time! I will have to ask around, and there is no guarantee we will be given suitable accommodation.”
Juncker shrugged without looking apologetic. “Tomorrow you will leave. That is all. You will gather what little possessions you have tonight and leave after Matins.”
She scowled. It was clear the Brotherhood was taking over the church and banishing all non-members. It would be their nest in Vienna from which all foul means of corruption and discord would spring. It would have to be stamped out now. This all depended on Peter and she hoped to God that he had received her message.
Evening came; vespers was held. She finished her prayers and rose from the hard wooden bench and straightened her habit. Discomfort was nothing to her as long as it was borne in the service of God. Nothing would divert her from her life of dedication; it had been her choice and she had taken it in both hands willingly. Better that than to suffer a lifetime of abuse from a brutal husband. In her spartan room she looked out of the window and saw a dark shape in the street, standing near the side door. There he was! She felt a wave of relief. Hurrying down to the cool passageway that led to the side door, she quickly unlocked it and let Peter in.
“Where is he?” he whispered as the door was shut.
“In the crypt. There are four of them now, and a fifth arriving tomorrow morning. We must act tonight – else they will send me away tomorrow and then there will be nobody here to help get Casca out.” She gave him directions,
“So what am I to do? I can hardly shoot members of the clergy in a church! I’d be excommunicated or even hanged!”
“Not if you use your bayonet. Be quick, be silent.”
“On all four of them?”
“I shall take care of Jacobius. One of them is on duty below, so you’ll have to get him out of the way. He is armed.”
They went to the nave, illuminated by candles lit by the faithful, lit for prayers to God to deliver them from the forces of Satan. She pointed out the trapdoor and he lifted it, using the ring pull set in the side. He took a candle and vanished down the stone steps, musket in one hand.
She was left in the nave and she took cover in between the rows of pews, nervously looking about her. The longer this took, the more likely someone would find out what was going on.
Peter got to the bottom of the steps and looked about. To the right ran the new wooden partition, and he could smell the newness of it. Pine. Light wood, and not that well constructed, either. Clearly it was there that he must go. A small, narrow door with a handle stood before him so he put the candle down, put a hand on the handle, took a deep breath, and twisted.
Damn it! The door was barred on the other side. Typical. He took hold of the musket in both hands and raised one foot.
“Who’s there?” came an anxious voice from the other side.
Peter kicked hard, splitting the new, soft wood and ripping the jamb apart. The door flew open, revealing a man who stood holding a musket, wearing imperial uniform. The man took a few heartbeats in reacting to the violence of the intrusion, and, besides, he had not loaded his musket, for the weapon really only could be loaded immediately before firing. He swung at Peter in blind desperation, but Peter had learned a lot these past few weeks, and his experience at the walls had made him more of a soldier than he had ever been before.
A block, and a thrust, and the Brotherhood agent was sinking to the floor, clutching his ruined neck, choking on his own blood. Peter ran down to the figure of Casca, staring at him in relief.
“Shit, am I glad to see you!” the eternal mercenary greeted him.
“How to you undo these?” Peter stared hard at the manacles.
“Pull the pin on the sides, you see them?” Casca was released and ruefully rubbed his wrists for a moment, then clapped his comrade on the shoulder. “Good work. Give me a moment, I badly need to piss.”
Peter turned away in disapproval as Casca urinated in a corner. This was sacrilege but he’d learned that Casca was irreligious, irreverent and indifferent to rules and regulations others lived their lives by.
Casca finished, buttoned up his trousers and then grinned. “I needed that! So, what’s the plan?”
Peter told him what he knew, and that Margareta was up in the nave awaiting them. Casca nodded, led his friend back to the door, picked up the now dead guard’s musket, powder horn and cartridge case, and led him out of the partitioned section and up the stone steps. They emerged into the church nave and Margareta joined them, relieved nobody had stumbled upon them. She faced Casca while Peter shut the trapdoor.
“I’m glad to see you,” she said.
“Thanks, ah, Sister, I suppose I call you?”
“Indeed. You may not agree with me, but God is looking after you.”
The scarred warrior smiled briefly. “Not as well as you two. So where do we go?”
“Before you two return to your unit, we must get rid of the remaining Brotherhood agents here. There are three at the moment, but a fourth is due tomorrow. Jacobius is the leader and the priest of this church. I shall deal with him myself, but you and Peter will have to dispose of Juncker and the other one.”
Casca held her gaze for a moment. “Isn’t this all against your beliefs? The bible is against killing, isn’t it? Turn the other cheek and all that crap.”
Margareta pursed her lips in disapproval at his words. “Those were written for people who could be saved, or for those with reasonable minds. The Brotherhood are agents of Satan. They must be destroyed, whether they be princes or paupers, priests or peddlers.”
“I like the way you put that. Go show us these devils.”
She led them up the stairs to the accommodation quarters. A narrow stone corridor had multiple doors leading off it and the first two she showed them, her voice dropping to a whisper. The light from the lamp she carried was the only illumination. “In there are the two others. Jacobius sleeps in the end room.”
Casca nodded and opened the nearest door. The room was unlit, so he left the door open and walked slowly forward. A bed stood before him, showing a man asleep in it, his torso exposed. Casca could see well enough in the semi-dark that he had a small tattoo of a fish on his left pectoral, a sign of the Brotherhood.
Juncker woke. The light from the lamp had disturbed him. He sat up in shock. Longinus! He went to shout but a firm, strong hand clamped over his mouth and pushed him back onto the bed, Casca’s body slipping onto his and pinning his arms by his sides. Juncker’s wide eyes met Casca’s light blue. Izram help me!
“Now, you bastard,” Casca whispered to him, “You’re going to hell and burn at the hands of the devil, if he indeed exists.” Both hands clamped around the helpless man’s throat and began to squeeze.
Juncker drummed his heels into the bed but it was no use breaking free. The Beast was simply too strong. He knew he was a dead man.
Margareta waited out in the passageway, and soon both men emerged, nodding briefly. She informed them that the bodies would have to be hidden, and the new partitioned section of the crypt was as good a place as any.
