Casca 48: The Austrian, page 13
Casca nodded. “We’ll take care of that, but what about him? Will you be alright to take care of it?”
She nodded. “I have a plan. Now you two get going; you have a part to play in keeping Vienna Christian. May God go with you.”
Peter bowed and returned to the room he’d killed the Brotherhood agent in. Casca waited for a moment. “Sister, you’re one hell of a woman. I like you, even if you are a firm believer in God.” He leaned forward and kissed her lips softly.
She didn’t flinch. He pulled back, and saw she was smiling. “Go, you godless sinner.”
“Oh, you’ve got that right, Sister,” he chuckled softly. “I’ve sinned alright.” He vanished into Juncker’s room.
Margareta pulled a wry smile. “I know you have.” She licked her lips. She would need to go to confession to ask forgiveness for the ungodly thoughts racing around her head. Damn that sinful man! Why did God send temptation her way? Thou shalt not… what? A sinner she had been in her youth, but now she wished to put that all behind her. Thou shalt not kill. She didn’t think that extended to the Brotherhood.
Once she was alone after the two victims had been carried or dragged away down to the crypt, she went to her room, fetched her broom and then went up to Jacobius’ door. What she was about to do was dangerous, but a prayer and a plea for forgiveness later, she knocked loudly on the priest’s door. She listened, heard him mumbling sleepily as to who was there, repeated the knocking, and then hurried away.
Jacobius cursed as he got up out of the bed. What in the name of Izram was going on? He was dressed in a long cotton gown and this was enough in the heat of the summer’s night. He lit a candle and unlocked his door. Who was knocking at this ungodly hour? Probably the ungodly. He saw nobody upon opening the door, and gazed in vexation at the empty corridor. Then he noticed the open doors along the passageway and made his way to them. The beds were untidy, but unoccupied.
He slowly returned to the corridor. Something was not right. He sucked in a deep breath. Longinus! He padded barefoot down to the nave. The entrance to the crypt was wide open and flickering light could be seen below. He descended slowly, his eyes widening in disbelief at what the single oil lamp hanging from a wall hook revealed to him. Sister Margareta sweeping the floor, unconcerned as if all was normal! The door to the partition… it was ajar, and… and… He gasped. In full view, his throat a bloody ruin, sat on the stool, was one of his men. Dead.
He stared at Margareta again. She was ignoring him and the grotesque visage of the dead man and just carrying on sweeping the floor! It was just unreal. Was she mad? He decided to ignore the nun and find out the one thing that was troubling him hugely. Was Longinus there or not? Where he had been, a man was manacled, but not Longinus. Even at this distance he knew it was not him. Another man lay at his feet, clearly dead. Another of his men.
He made his way up to the shackled man, whose head was bowed, and he put the candle down now that an oil lamp was lighting the space sufficiently. He raised the man’s head by his hair. Juncker. He’d been strangled.
He whirled. Standing there, brush in hand, ten feet away, was the nun. “What are you doing here?”
“Cleaning up. Your men really leave a mess, don’t you think?”
Jacobius’ mouth opened, closed, opened again. This was beyond insanity. Finally, he got control over himself. “Where is Longinus? What have you done with him?”
She shrugged. “He’s gone, clearly. Away from your evil clutches, agent of Satan.”
“You whore bitch,” Jacobius snarled. “You’re going to tell me everything; what you’ve been up to, and why you’ve done what you’ve done. If you don’t, I’m going to extract it from you through sheer unimaginable pain.” The fact she was stood there with three of his men dead around her didn’t really register with him.
She looked at him in disgust. “Whore bitch? Is that the best you can come up with, Brotherhood lackey?”
Jacobius gasped. “You know that much?” Then he had a burst of clarity. “You! It was you who killed my agent in the tavern!”
Margareta nodded. “God will no doubt punish me for my sins here on earth, although I believe he will ignore the ones I have committed against your evil sect.”
His face darkened in fury. “You will tell me now!” He moved for her, hands outstretched, intending to grab her by the throat.
Margareta twisted the handle of her broom, pulled hard and the top two feet came free of the rest. The end, concealed up to now inside the hollow handle, was a tapered, sharpened point of wood. She stabbed hard, sinking it into his unprotected belly. Jacobius cried out in pain and shock, then took hold of the handle and wrenched it free of his stomach. His nerves sent waves of agony through his body and he almost fell to his knees, but he kept on coming for her, the blood-stained weapon in one hand.
Margareta stepped backwards, eyes wide in disbelief. She had counted on the blow being enough to disable him at the least, but he was clearly stronger than she suspected. She stepped back again and came alongside the oil lamp by the partition exit. She picked it up, raised it high, and smashed it onto the stone flagged floor at his feet, where it shattered.
He trod on shards of hot glass and yelled in more pain, stepping to one side, almost falling. The oil ignited and caught his gown alight, and suddenly he was ablaze, screaming. He rolled onto the floor, beating at the flames.
Margareta rushed out of the partitioned space, slamming the door shut. Behind her, on the other side of the door, Jacobius’ screams abruptly ceased. She closed her eyes and leaned against one of the immense stone pillars of the crypt. She felt dizzy, nauseous and more than a little ashamed. But at least the evil ways of the Brotherhood had been stamped out here. There remained just the one other due in the morning, but she would take care of that. Then she and the other nuns would have to find a new place for themselves to work. There were plenty of places caring for the sick, elderly, homeless or dying. They would leave St. Martins for one of the lesser priests to take over. She was just glad enough to have survived.
She hoped Casca and Peter would emerge victorious at the walls.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Casca was grateful to be back in the front line of the siege. He went with the excuse he’d been with a prostitute, glibly lying about wanting to blow off his frustrations after the fight at the walls. Enduring an admonishment from Captain Kaltenberger, he went back to shooting at Ottomans who were not careful enough about keeping cover.
The Ottomans had extended their lines and had virtual control of the moat, ravelin and glacis. Debris lay everywhere. It was a totally alien landscape. The heat of the summer didn’t help, either, as the dead lying in bits and pieces amongst the ruined earthworks stank.
Von Starhemberg realized the defenses needed shoring up so he got some of the garrison not on duty and civilian volunteers to work on the Palace Bastion area. Part of the older walls and a tower called The Spaniard were worked on and strengthened, ditches dug, wooden stakes thrust into the ground and more bags piled up close by. It was hot work and Casca had to strip to the waist whilst digging, drawing the usual comments about his build and scars.
The Löbel Bastion wasn’t worked on, due to a design flaw; they would have to rely on the existing walls holding firm.
There had been another mine explosion the morning Casca got back and this had resulted in the Austrians finally surrendering the counterscarp, and the next morning the defenders woke to find a crescent-shaped barricade in front of the Löbel, protecting the Turkish soldiers behind it.
Sorties and counter-attacks went on, and now pots of boiled water and pitch were positioned close to each unit, with kettles constantly on the camp fires. It was just like the old days, Casca mused. Some things never changed.
It was just after a major sortie which resulted in badly-needed oxen being herded into the city, that the eternal mercenary was summoned to Kaltenberger. The captain looked tired and drawn, but there remained that spark in his eyes. “Sergeant Lang. There is to be a sortie on the 25th. It is then that you will break out to contact our allies north of the Danube.”
“How, sir?”
Kaltenberger handed over a pile of clothes. “These have been taken from a number of dead Turks, cleaned and repaired. There should be enough there to fit you and make you look like one of their soldiers. You are a little too light-skinned and your eyes are the wrong color, but we can’t do much about that.”
“I can pass myself off as a Circassian, Captain. They are of an appearance rightly similar to myself.” He had done so before, when just prior to the Crusades, he’d been captured and enslaved, and described as a Circassian. “I shall find a set of clothes suitable and hopefully ones that will fit.”
In his tent he discarded those clothes that were too small or unsuitable, and finally got a set of clothes that he was satisfied with. He had a pale yellow overcoat that reached to the level of his knees, with a wide split at the front, with underneath a white undershirt that buttoned up tight at the throat and reached down to the same level as his coat. He had a pair of soft brown leather shoes and a pair of tight-fitting leggings that he could tie just above his knees.
Hanging down his back was a dull red cloak which doubled as a blanket for sleeping, and on his head was a soft cap with a wide rim of wool. One of the ornately-decorated Ottoman muskets was handed to him by a wordless Peter and then a short straight-bladed dagger that hung from a sheath set dead center on his waist belt.
The Ottomans loved to put their cartridges in two places set on the chest, two rows of fifteen cartridges. He had a powder case and hanging down his left thigh was a sword, a typical Turkish sword with a curved tip.
“I wouldn’t go walking around the city like that,” Peter said, “or someone will shoot you.”
“Aye. A bullet is as painful from an Austrian gun as a Turkish.”
Peter sat down on a wooden crate, shaking his head. “So let me get this straight. In four days you’ll sneak out at the rear of the sortie from the Löbel, follow the battle, then when the fight is over, lie low and wait till the Ottomans return and pass yourself off as one of them? It’s a big risk, isn’t it?”
“I know, but look at it from von Starhemberg’s point of view; we’re running out of time. The number of men available to fight is dropping every day – we’re below half-strength and a few more attacks from the Grand Vizier’s men could leave us with not enough to man the walls. Then there’s the mining; it’s causing havoc and the bastions here are showing signs of breaking up. They definitely won’t last much longer I can tell you. Food is another concern, we don’t know how long it will last. It’s mid-August now, and I think we’ve got maybe a month left, that’s all. We need to get word out we can’t hang on and so he needs someone who can speak Turkish to sneak through, hopefully, and also Polish, assuming that the Poles are on their way.”
“And so what about me? I’m supposed to look after you.”
“You have, Peter, and thank you. But you’re not suited to what I’m about to try, and let’s face it, if I get caught, what’s the worst that can happen? You keep here behind the walls, carry on fighting and maybe look after that nun. She deserves a guardian angel.”
“I think she would look after me,” Peter said sourly.
Casca laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, she could very well do that. One heck of a tough woman, she is.”
Peter looked downcast, and Casca knew why. Peter had been charged with ensuring Casca remained safe and now his charge was going to try to leave the encircled city, leaving him there without a purpose other than to try to stop the hugely overwhelming numbers of Ottoman troops from breaking in.
Casca commiserated with him and reassured him that he would get help as soon as possible. Time was running out and he had to go now before it was too late. Von Starhemberg’s staff had come up with a plan to get over the river and a location. A map was provided, roughly drawn, and Casca memorized it thoroughly.
He asked Peter to contact the nun, as he called her, still unaware as to her name, despite asking Peter who shrugged and professed ignorance too. Peter returned with news that St. Martins was now empty of the Brotherhood and the nuns and a small number of priests and choirboys were there, trying to keep the congregation’s morale up. Peter had sneaked into the crypt, finding the last Brotherhood body there and he had been strangled by the look of things. Peter had tidied it all up, including the charred remains of Jacobius, which had been an unpleasant business, and shut the door. One day someone would discover it all and probably wonder what had happened, but all those connected with it would be long gone by then.
The two shared a drink the evening before the sortie, and toasted the nun. They hoped she was safe, wherever she was. Casca had the feeling she was. That kind of person would endure, he knew. Peter kept largely silent. He was full of conflicting thoughts. His safe life in the Rhineland would never be the same again, and his attitude towards the family legend had changed dramatically, now he had actually met its founder. Sure, Casca wasn’t any kind of god or demi-god. He was a soldier, an irreverent and down-to-earth man with so many faults, but he guessed that having lived as long as he had, it should be no surprise that he came out the way he had.
One thing was certain; Casca was immortal and a tough, rough bastard, and someone you wanted on your side. The experience with the Brotherhood had taught Peter that Casca absolutely needed to be kept as much a secret from the rest of the world as possible, and what his family did and was doing now made absolute sense.
They shook hands before turning in, then Peter went to his bed and tried to go to sleep, but it was a difficult task. For Casca’s part, the eternal mercenary found sleep much easier, having been on the eve of so many similar situations in the past. He knew he had to get out and urge Duke Charles or King Jan Sobieski or whoever he found to hurry.
Vienna couldn’t hold out for much longer.
___
The sortie was planned for four in the afternoon, just when the Turks were expecting it the least. Hundreds of men were gathered behind the walls and barricades close to the Löbel Bastion, ready to pour out onto the unsuspecting Ottomans, with orders to spread mayhem and destruction, smashing and burning everything in sight. Casca was to follow once the last had gone, and he was pointed out to the Austrian soldiers so as not to be shot by mistake.
Casca hadn’t bothered to shave his upper lip these past few days so as to appear that he had at least the beginnings of a mustache, something popular amongst the Turkish troops. The story was that he was going to try to infiltrate the camp and steal secrets.
Better that version than to tell them the truth and risk having someone give it away, either voluntarily or under torture if he were unlucky enough to be caught. Other Austrians were on the walls, having loaded and now ready to shoot at any Turks who tried to fight back. The sortie was merely a show of bravado; everyone knew no matter what damage they did, the effects would be temporary and the siege would go on.
Casca nodded once to Peter who waved briefly back, as did Teodor and the others. They didn’t know whether they would see him again. Casca hoped they would survive, but it would depend on him getting through to the allies and convincing them of the urgency in coming to the rescue.
Von Starhemberg gave the order and men flooded out from behind cover, yelling and shouting, hurling hand bombs into the Turkish lines while the men on the walls and Bastions blasted away furiously. The first line of trenches was quickly taken and the Austrians fanned out left and right, stabbing, hurling bombs and shooting as they went.
Casca kept on putting his head around the edge of the barricade he was knelt behind, until he reckoned it was clear for him to slip out and into the trenches. Kaltenberger was crouched a few feet away and nodded a good luck to him. Casca saluted, turned and scuttled out, clutching his musket. It wasn’t loaded, but he had a dagger and a sword so he was armed well enough.
The ground dropped away steeply from the sally port. Once it had steps but they had been blasted away by cannons and the effects of the mine explosions. Now it was a steep, crumbling slope with projecting stones to get a purchase on. He jumped down the glacis into the ravelin, and hastily slipped into the first trench. Bodies of Turks lay in a pile and he had to step carefully over or around them. They had died hard and quickly.
Shooting and shouting was all around and he ducked to the right, away from the direction of the Palace Bastion. Most of the defenders would be in that direction. He turned a corner and caught sight of movement. Austrians. He stopped – even though they had been told about him, it was best not to get spotted just in case one loosed off a hasty shot.
Cannon fire began and clearly one or two of the platforms were being approached and were trying to shoot at the Austrians. They wouldn’t be able to depress enough to hit them, but they had to try to put the Austrians off.
Casca now heard more Turkish voices and guessed someone was organizing the defense and getting their act together. The other reason he was going right was that it would ultimately end with him going in the direction he wanted; west. More bodies, the sound of grunting and swearing men ahead – a sure sign of fighting, just around the next corner. Casca crouched and found a suitable spot to lie, and so he sprawled in between a dead Austrian and a Turk who was gasping his last breath, a huge bloodied rip down his front.
He had just got comfortable when the thought hit him; no good lying here if he wasn’t truly wounded. One huge advantage he had over mortals was that even if he was wounded, he would heal in a fraction of the time it took normal people. So, cursing the necessity of it, he grabbed the dead Austrian’s dagger from his belt, took a deep breath, and stabbed hard into his shoulder.
Swearing violently, he pulled the blade free and tossed it away. Waves of pain flowed over him and he lay back, gasping. It was a deep wound but already it would be healing. He lay back, screwing his eyes shut.
Feet came past, pounding. Voices in German urging the men to run faster. The sortie had ground to a halt and Turkish reinforcements were beginning to tell. He lay there for a while longer and now the voices around were Turkish.
