Casca 48: The Austrian, page 5
Now she kept her distance but Juncker was not looking behind him, for who would be interested in one such as he, a lowly man from the church? He came to the tavern, off to the left, and entered. Margareta tutted in irritation; she would not be expected to go in there unless she was a serving wench or looking for a client to take to her place for some pleasure. How would she know who Juncker had made contact with?
She sucked on her teeth, torn with indecision. Then, steeling herself, she strode to the door and went in. The main tavern room was still, dark and without a sign of life. The smell of stale alcohol and unwashed bodies filled her senses and she grimaced. Not a place she readily attended, and for good reason. Footsteps came from above. Someone was moving upstairs, and she peered through the gloom for a flight of stairs. There! To the right, an open set of steps giving access to the top floor.
She negotiated the hazard of the tables, chairs, sleeping patrons, of which there were about three, so she could discern, and the slippery floor and got to the bottom of the stairs. A snore alerted her and she swung about, but it was only the barkeep, sleeping with his head pillowed on his folded arms, leaning across the bar top.
She took a deep breath, then went up the stairs. It was just light enough for her to see where she was going and along the series of doors that gave way to the various rooms, one was open. She got as close as she could, her heart beating, and listened. There wasn’t much she could understand, as they were talking in a language she didn’t understand, but she recognized Juncker’s.
The conversation appeared to be coming to an end and she almost panicked. The next door to the one Juncker was in, the one just behind her, she took a chance and pushed it open and slipped in. It was dark and someone was asleep in the bed across the small room. She held the door shut and listened. Juncker walked past and back to the stairs, and she eased the door open, looked up and down the corridor, and left the room and the sleeping occupant. She went back to the room Juncker’s contact was in, took two deep breaths, and pushed it open slowly, standing in the doorway.
The oblong room was small, with one shuttered window, and there was a small rough bed, a set of drawers and a table. Nothing else. A single man sat on the bed, looking up in surprise. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Margareta came in, closing the door behind her, and she leaned against it. “You haven’t paid up,” she said.
The man, half-seen in the dawn light growing through the edges of the shutters, gaped. “What? Are you serious?” He couldn’t recall seeing this woman before; was she the landlord’s wife?
Margareta shrugged. She knew a quick check with the man downstairs would reveal that she was lying, but she wasn’t concerned about that. “Pay up or you will be forced to leave.”
The man got up off the bed and faced her. He was in no mood to hear this shit, and besides, he had an important mission to fulfill, right now. “Get out of my way!” he breathed, pushing her aside. He strode for the door, and Margareta sprang into action.
Her rosary was still with her, around her neck, and she lifted it off and brought it over his head from behind and pulled hard. The beads bit into his throat and she closed her hands together, completing the garotte. He tried to throw her aside, his hands attempting to grab her, but she stood firm and fell backwards onto the floor, wrapping her legs around him, immobilizing him. His hands flailed desperately, and she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and concentrated on holding her hands tight, digging the beads deeper and deeper into his throat.
The struggles gradually lessened and then he went limp.
Margareta slowly loosened her grip and slid her legs off him, shaking. Her hands hurt and she felt slightly sick. Her rosary was unwrapped from its victim’s throat and she pushed him off her, rolling to her hands and knees. A quick search of him and she found the letter, sealed. She looked at the address. It was in Florence. The Brotherhood rarely let such gems drop into the hands of her family, but here was one. It may not be the Elder, and probably wasn’t but it was a link. Milan would need to know. She took the letter and left hastily.
Some of the people were stirring, so she rushed out, breathing deeply into the new day’s fresh air. She leaned against the wall of a nearby building, trembling, fighting to get herself under control. All very well being taught how to kill someone years ago when she had been so much younger, before she had taken up her vows, another thing entirely actually doing it. But she had no qualms about extinguishing one of the Brotherhood’s agents. To her, they were the epitome of Lucifer’s legions, and had to be exterminated. Not only were they her family’s mortal enemies, and should their existence come to the Brotherhood’s attention she was in no doubt they would all be killed, but also those in the sect were twisted, sick people who perverted Christianity.
Still, killing one of them had been a traumatic experience and she hoped she wouldn’t have to do it again, but she had the awful feeling that Juncker and Jacobius might have to be removed. She was the only permanent Longini member in Vienna so she had to be everything; spy, agent, assassin, organizer. She had some people who did her bidding but they were either servants or paid to do what she wished.
One of these servants was not far and so she made her way to the run-down block off a side alleyway. The day was fully upon her now so she went up to a peeling and chipped door and inserted a key she got from her dress pocket and opened it.
Inside was a ramshackle flat that smelt of damp. Margareta didn’t like this place but it served as a safe house where the Longini could organize their imperial activities. There were two floors, the top one accessible by a ladder propped up through a hole in the roof of the lower one.
A bent, thick-set man got up out of a warped chair and bowed to her. He was ugly, his features distorted by a jutting lower jaw, protruding teeth, hair that stuck up in every direction and a bulbous nose. “Mistress,” he growled by way of greeting.
“Morning, Hans.” Margareta had known the dim-witted man for a number of years, showing him kindness when others had mocked and had fun at his expense. Hans had latched onto her out of a pathetic sense of gratitude, not having anyone of his own; his own family had disowned him out of a sense of revulsion. He now did a combined housekeeper/guard role. When Margareta was here, she felt safe.
“Hans, letter to send today.”
“Letter, now?”
“Not yet. I will tell you. Sweep the floor.” The place was a mess; Hans just didn’t know when to clean up unless she told him, but he did a thorough job when he go to it. She ascended the ladder to her room, a chamber which was hers and not for Hans. Inside, there was a small bed, a desk and a set of drawers for her clothes. This was her Longini family hidey-hole, where she assumed her alternative identities whenever the need arose.
On the desk were implements for writing and she composed a covering letter within which she put the Brotherhood missive. Then she sealed it and got it ready for Hans. She looked into the small mirror on the desk and studied herself. She was once thought of as very marriable and desirable, but things hadn’t gone right in her younger years and she had shied away from relationships ever since, and it was no surprise to those who knew her that finally she had entered God’s service.
She still retained her loyalty to her family and her hatred of the Brotherhood through it all. With a sigh she stood up and returned to the lower floor. She would have to return swiftly to the church and once again become Sister Margareta, before she was missed. Lauds she had attended but Prime she was in danger of missing and she didn’t want Jacobius to get suspicious.
Quickly telling Hans to take the letter to the courier who was always outside the Hofburg in the early mornings, she left and hurried to the back entrance of St. Michaels and slipped in, just as she heard the start of the prayers. A quick run up the stairs to her room, a change, and then she was hurrying to the side chapel for the women and Prime.
She hoped nobody had missed her.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next couple of weeks were full of the arguments over whether the Turks were going to fight the main field army by the fortresses or pass them by and attack Vienna. Casca stayed out of them as he knew without any doubt as to the Grand Vizier’s intentions. At the beginning of July the two armies closed outside the imperial fortress of Gyor but Duke Charles hastily retreated after seeing the size of the Ottoman force. Gyor was left to defend themselves as best they could.
This provoked a reaction. Casca was sat in the canteen with some of the others when an officer came bursting in. “Up, up, all of you! Grab your weapons, there’s a riot in the streets!”
They ran to their quarters and grabbed their muskets, bandoliers, powder bags and cartridge cases. The entire barracks was in a ferment. With only 2,000 soldiers in Vienna and many of them already manning the walls, gates and approaches, there weren’t many spare to deal with the disturbance. It seemed the main area of unrest was near Bishop Sinelli’s palace.
As they trotted through the streets, shrugging on their equipment and making sure everything was in place, Casca came up alongside the puffing Sergeant Klein. “Hey, Sergeant, what’s the rioting all about?”
“Shut up and keep in line,” Klein panted, his face red.
Casca thought the slob hadn’t had such exercise in years, and it wouldn’t be any surprise if he had a seizure. Klein was left in his wake and the regiment turned into the square where the main rioting was taking place. It seemed hundreds of people were there, shouting against all kinds of people and the current situation. The object of their wrath was the bishop’s palace, but they were being kept back by the iron gate and railings, and a few worried-looking soldiers were stood on the inside. Stones and rocks were being hurled at the soldiers and buildings, and a few windows were smashed.
“Why him?” Casca asked, standing in the front line.
Nobody could tell him. Lieutenant Hickersdorf shouted to the mob to disperse, but of course nobody was listening, nor could they hear him. He turned to the men behind him. “Front rank fix bayonets. Second rank load.”
At least this man knew some sensible stuff. Casca nodded in approval as the front rank now stood across the square, muskets leveled at the mob who were still ignoring the soldiers, while the second rank loaded up nervously. The lieutenant loaded one pistol, stepped forward one pace and discharged into the air.
People jumped and swung around in alarm. Now they took notice of the white line at the end of the square. “You will disperse and return to your homes,” the officer bellowed into the suddenly silent square.
“We have no homes,” a man snapped, stepping forward. “The Tartars are raiding our villages so we have fled here, but we cannot find a place to stay!”
“Refugees,” Casca grunted to Peter and Herbert, the men on either side of him. “No wonder they’re rioting. Nobody stopped the raiders and coming here seeing the imperial family messing about would piss me off too.”
Hickersdorf repeated his command but the mob wasn’t in a mood to listen. They began advancing towards the soldiers, picking up stones and rocks. The lieutenant snapped an order and the second row raised their muskets above the heads of the front rank, and blasted a ragged volley into the air.
Casca winced and wiggled a finger in his right ear, holding his breath. The smell of rotten eggs was very strong. Some of the mob had halted and some others fled, but most were there and still coming at them. Hickersdorf had enough. He snapped to the front rank to advance.
“About damned time,” Casca growled, and began stepping forward as the drum behind started a beat. The entire line moved forward, bayonets wickedly pointing ahead. A few stones arced towards them but the soldiers pressed on grimly.
The rioters shrank away from the gleaming steel points, many abandoning their sticks, stones and torches. Like a receding tide, the square began to empty of people as the soldiers marched on, confidence growing with every step. One rioter, a scarlet-clad man with a musket, thought about raising his gun at the soldiers, but then had a sensible change of heart and fled, too.
The rioters were funneled into the narrow streets, fleeing in panic, leaving behind a debris-strewn square. Klein appeared now the action was finished. “Get into line and smarten up you lazy swine!”
Casca grumbled but stepped into the slowly forming line of men, many of whom were keen to pursue the unarmed civilians, but the officers were not interested. The riot had been driven away from the palaces and if they took it out on the houses, then they were only doing it to themselves. They would, though, go through the motions of patrolling the streets.
The grease-stained overweight sergeant poured scorn onto the men who stood in two lines. The soldiers looked a little dismayed but Casca expected it of a man like Klein, a lazy bastard intend only on keeping his hide safe and his job even safer. People like him needed to be thrown out of the army but it was hard to do in a situation like this, especially as standing armies were a relatively new concept.
Up to now kingdoms had relied on a levy or call-up in times of war, or pay mercenary companies to fight for them. The recent war in Europe had drained so many treasuries and it was reckoned that a standing army was much safer and cheaper. The problem was to stock it with enough quality. Quality would only rear its head in times of war, and recent peacetime had confused matters. Klein would be found out quick enough. He was unfit, unhealthy and unsuited to the army. He had no idea what made a decent soldier, since he wasn’t one himself.
They were ordered to separate into groups of fifty and march down the streets, clearing them of any gathered groups considered a threat to the security of the city. The people who had gathered had split into smaller groups and most of them had lost the courage to continue now the army was chasing them from the streets.
The Hofburg, alarmed at the influx of refugees and the riot that day, issued an order that all elderly monks and nuns, and all foreigners, were to leave the city. Tales of wide-ranging attacks by Tartar raiders were giving rise to all kinds of wild stories, some of which were circulated around the tables of the soldiers in the barracks that evening as they rested following the excitement of the day.
Casca sat in his chair with a mug of ale in one hand, listening. A lot of it was hugely exaggerated, but he was interested in the news that the imperial army under Duke Charles was still retreating and had reached a place called Berg, on the other side of the Danube to Pressburg. They were only about thirty miles away now.
“What about these raiders?” a blonde-haired man by the name of Klaus Dettinger asked. “They seem to be everywhere, plundering, raping and murdering! I’ve heard they’re killing women and children too!”
“I’m not surprised,” Casca said, attracting everyone’s attention. They all wanted to listen to what he had to say. “I know how the Turks fight a war, and sending in fast mobile raiders is a great way to terrorize the enemy. Burn a few villages, kill people, disrupt their supply lines and force the population to flee makes it so much easier for their main army.”
“But they’re slaughtering women and children!”
“I know,” Casca nodded, “but there’s not much anyone can do about it at the moment. We haven’t enough soldiers to be everywhere, and the treasury is bare, or so we’re told. We need that money promised us by the pope and the church.”
“The army ought to be able to stop them, surely!”
“Nope,” Casca shook his head. “Look here.” He arranged mugs, cups and knives on the table. “Vienna’s here, see? Alright, and these knives are the Danube. So, Pressburg on the north bank, Berg on the south. The Duke is at Berg, Pressburg is threatened by the Hungarian rebels under Thokoly. The Ottoman army is, so we are told, marching along the southern bank towards Berg.” He waved at the stout oaken tabletop. “To his right flank and behind, the raiders. They are scattered and too mobile to catch. His army is here to stop the main attack if possible. Now, if he turns to fight the raiders, firstly he won’t be able to catch them, and secondly he offers the Grand Vizier his flank and that’s fatal.”
“What of General Leslie at Gyor?” someone else spoke up. “I overheard one of the captains say he’s marching west towards Pressburg.”
Casca looked thoughtful. “That means Gyor has been abandoned to the Turks, and Leslie is pulling back before he’s surrounded. Sensible. He may be able to stop the rebels, or at least prevent them from advancing on Vienna from the north.” It did seem though that much of the confusion and worry was being caused by not knowing what was going on. So many rumors were flying about and as with all of these, some people took them as fact and spread alarmist news as being the truth.
Part of the problem was down to Emperor Leopold, who just didn’t seem to give a damn; he was still hunting in the Prater reserve. Nobody would even begin to guess that the retreating imperial army was only two days’ march away. Vienna was still unfit to withstand a proper determined siege and the eternal mercenary was concerned that the Ottomans could take the city without too much trouble.
There just weren’t enough soldiers, either.
It appeared one of the major problems was the failure of the main army to keep in regular contact but that was probably down to the raiders cutting communications. They were burning villages, slaughtering people, intercepting messengers and disrupting everything behind Duke Charles. Casca looked at the mugs and cups on the table. Unless Leslie and Duke Charles got going fast, both looked in danger of being cut off and surrounded, and then it would be all over. Leslie looked as if he were in a race with Thokoly to get to Pressburg first, while Charles was trying to fall back in formation and good order to Vienna. Whether he could or not was open to conjecture.
He thought back to the times he had been previously in this region; it had been a long time and places were now in existence that hadn’t been then. However, the geography was chiefly the same. Charles was hugging the Danube’s southern bank, a sensible tactic, for it covered one flank and he always had the river as a point of supply. But it also meant that his southern flank was open and the Tatar raiders could roam at will on his flank and in between him and Vienna. They would be keeping the Grand Vizier informed as to Charles’ position and movements, while Charles was ignorant of the Ottoman whereabouts. The advantages seemed to lie with the Turks.
