Casca 48: The Austrian, page 6
The following day everything changed. The emperor at last decided that he was in danger and he’d best flee. He wrote down a series of orders before he left, taking much of the court with him. Even as he was packing up, rumors came flooding in of a battle along the Danube at a place called Petronell, and it was being circulated that the Ottomans had won a crushing victory. Panic set in and thousands streamed out of the western gates, crossing the bridges to the far side and wanting to get as much distance between them and the approaching horde.
Vienna seemed empty afterwards. The mayor, Burgomeister Liebenberg, issued an edict calling for calm and asking for every able-bodied man with a musket to report to one of the mustering centers, usually a church, and await further instructions.
Captain Kaltenberger called the men out into the courtyard early the next morning. “The city’s defense is now under the command of Count Ernst Rudiger von Starhemberg,” he said, reading from a roll of parchment. “He is soon to arrive from the army along with reinforcements. In the meantime we are to gather as much firewood, timber and all items that can be used to construct barricades and other defensive constructions. We are now under martial law, and so you are to conduct yourselves in the manner expected that of imperial soldiers. The eyes of God, the Pope and all Christians are upon us.”
Casca flicked his eyes skywards. Are you watching? he silently asked. He had no doubt that the Jew was. He’d had too many instances of the Curse intervening in his long life, and so many times he’d heard Jesus’ voice on the wind speaking to him. Is this pleasing you? Fighting to keep the religion that remembers you from being overrun? Is this why you’ve sent me here, right now?
He spat on the ground in disgust. Still, it would give him a chance to kill more Ottomans. Here, at least, was a war that he was actually looking forwards to fighting in. All too often he didn’t really feel a tie to whatever conflict it was, but now and again, yes. Damn the Curse, damn Jesus and damn the whole lot of them. He just wanted to kill Turks. All for revenge for Constantinople.
They were detailed to grab as much from the suburbs as they could, such as timber and planking. There were plenty of materials lying about, but the residents at first objected to their fences being dismantled, but when a seemingly endless line of soldiers appeared from the east and began tramping past tiredly, everyone stopped arguing and the dread feeling began to cloak everyone. Tales of Ottoman advances soon spread from the troops. Casca looked them over. They weren’t a defeated army, they were just exhausted. There were no wounds or men being carried. They just looked out on their feet.
Casca offered one of them a drink from his water canteen, which the soldier gratefully took, stepping out of the shambling line.
“That’s better,” he said with a deep sigh, “I so needed that!”
“So what’s happened? You look done in – all of you.”
The soldier paused, looking eastwards. “A mess. Damned Ottomans outflanked us on the Fischa. The Duke reckoned we could hold the river for a while, gaining time, but the main Turkish army turned south, crossed upriver, thanks to those accursed Tatars, and suddenly we were in danger of being cut off. The Duke ordered a forced march to the Schwechat River.”
“Which you made,” Casca noted.
“Huh, only just! The rearguard was still at Petronell when the Tatars attacked. It was a close-run thing, apparently, and only the dragoons arriving saved the day. Chased off the Tatars. That decided it. The Duke said we weren’t to halt on the river but to get to Vienna as fast as we could. So here we are. The enemy is only a few days behind.”
“And nothing in their way?” Peter asked.
“No,” the soldier shook his head. “The Duke reckons Vienna can hold out here against the main Ottoman army for a while. He’s going to cross over here with the main army and defend the northern bank of the Danube. Von Starhemberg and some of the army will reinforce your men. Not sure how many, but it’ll be enough.”
“They’re definitely coming then?” Herbert queried.
“Oh, yes, you’ll see the swine soon enough. Tens of thousands of them. Camels, tents, cannon, exotic costumes, the lot. You won’t believe your eyes.”
Casca thanked the man who stepped back into the column of men passing through the suburbs onto Vienna. “Well,” the eternal mercenary said, “you heard him. The Duke has left the way for the Ottomans to get here at their leisure. It’s down to us now to hold them off.”
They all looked at one another wordlessly.
CHAPTER SIX
The next couple of days saw the new garrison commander von Starhemberg get control and begin to organize the defenders. Now that there was no doubt as to where the Ottomans were going, everyone redoubled their efforts. All valuable materials were dragged or carried across the bridges into Vienna, and many of the residents of the suburbs left their homes for the city.
Guns were mounted on the bastions, and the militia called up. The Burgomeister encouraged all citizens to store as much water as they possibly could in their houses. Even the clergy were asked to contribute, either in preparing defenses or to practice musketry.
Amongst the latter were Juncker and Jacobius. They were both handed old matchlocks and given rudimentary training by a retired soldier. Margareta asked if she and her colleagues could be included too but Jacobius refused point blank, so she went over his head to the bishop who, after some thought, agreed even the nuns ought to help defend God’s house against the perfidious Turk.
When she turned up holding her musket, Jacobius was furious. He ordered Juncker to confiscate all three nun’s weapons. Margareta, however, stood her ground. “The bishop himself has permitted us to carry these to defend God’s church. That is what we intend doing, with his blessing, and that of God. You may not approve, Father, but the bishop’s word carries more weight in Vienna than does yours, and surely God would not stop such dedicated servants of Him carrying out His wishes?”
The priest glowered. “I shall personally write to the bishop and object most strenuously. I shall also request that he reconsider the decision not to send you and your assistants out of the city. This is not the place for women.”
“Are you concerned I’m not able to fight like any other person here?” she countered, her eyes flashing. “Shall we see?” She beckoned to the elderly retired soldier who was taking them for shooting lessons. He handed her a powder bag and a cartridge, then stepped back. He saw she was handling the musket quite easily with no awkwardness. He watched as she flipped open the pan, tapped a little powder down the touchhole, closed it, passed him the bag back, then placed the musket butt on the ground and bit off the end of the cartridge before pouring the powder into the muzzle, followed by the musket ball and wadding. Then she rammed it down with the rod. After replacing the rod she hefted the musket, blew on the cord until it glowed, jammed it into the jaws of the holder, flicked open the pan, levelled the gun, squinted down the barrel at the target across the courtyard, braced herself with one leg behind the other and squeezed the trigger. She absorbed the shock of the recoil with her right shoulder.
Jacobius and Juncker gaped in astonishment.
The trainer looked at the target. “Hit. Sister, either you are guided by God or you’ve done this before.”
Margareta put the musket butt-first onto the ground. Her face was blackened. “In my younger days I learned to shoot. It’s been some years, but it all came back to me.”
Jacobius left the practice yard, grumbling. All was going wrong. It was testing his patience and he was more than a little short tempered. In his luxurious quarters he dropped into his stout oaken chair with deep velvet upholstery. Juncker stood deferentially before him. “Damn that nun,” he growled, “she is proving to be nothing but trouble. We need to do something about getting rid of her.”
“I agree, Father,” Juncker said. “But finding a replacement, especially now, would prove difficult, if not impossible.”
“I am aware of that,” Jacobius snarled, thumping the table top. “Has any progress been made about the murder of our contact?”
Juncker shook his head. “Perhaps Longinus was responsible?”
“Perhaps. You will take another letter to the courier. We must alert the Brotherhood as to the presence of the Beast here. This is stupid, only having two of us in the city! What in the name of Izram are they thinking of? We need more here.”
“The plague took away three of our number, Father,” Juncker reminded the red-faced cleric, “and we lost another who was needed in Nuremburg. It takes time to replace losses.”
“Then we should recruit members ourselves. Are there any who look suitable? You know who we seek; those who are downtrodden, disadvantaged. Look for one or two at the bottom and promise them the riches of heaven. Speak to them, then if any show promise, bring them to me.”
“It shall be done, Father.” Juncker bowed and left.
Jacobius scowled and pondered on his situation. The murder of their contact had been a shock, and it made them wonder if they were being observed. What was certain was there would be hell to pay when he discovered who it was.
Meanwhile, Margareta had gone to her room, having satisfied the trainer that she was perfectly capable. She put the musket in the corner of the room, then set about cleaning her face, grimacing at the powder marks. There was one task she had to perform, one that she had to do. She would have to go to her safe house, change, adopt her alternative identity, and then secretly meet the person she had to speak to. She breathed in deeply and continued wiping.
Casca finished his daily tasks and cleaned his equipment, then wondered out into the streets as darkness was falling. The air was tense. That day Duke Charles had marched out with the majority of his army and crossed the Danube. Now they were on the north bank, ready to deal with Thokoly and anything else. They just had to keep the crossings clear.
The city was being prepared. Some bridges had been dismantled and the suburbs had been ordered to be burned. Nothing to be left to the Turks. The soldiers were tired; they weren’t used to such hard and intensive work, and many had bruises, cuts and splinters they were gingerly nursing. As well as the salvageable material from the suburbs, some men had been ordered to cut nearby trees and bring straight lengths of freshly cut wood into the city as well. Von Starhemberg was leaving nothing to chance.
Casca himself was fine, thanks to his condition. One consequence of his Curse that he actually liked was the fact he healed fast, so all his bumps and bruises collected that afternoon were now gone as if they had never been. He was careful not to let anyone see, lest it made them suspicious. In these times of religious superstitions, being seen to heal fast would be thought the work of Lucifer, and he knew where that would lead.
The last thing he wanted was the damned inquisition poking its nose into his affairs. He’d been a guest of the Spanish inquisition two hundred years before in Seville, where none other than the feared Grand Inquisitor, Tomas de Torquemada, interrogated him, which resulted in Casca being locked away in a dungeon for twenty years or so until he managed to ingeniously escape. Never again, if he could help it.
The night was warm, as were most high summers in Central Europe, as a contrast to the icy cold winters. He was looking forward to an evening of relaxation, drink and an exchange of stories, whether they be true or not.
At one corner, just before the turning into the street the tavern was in, a woman leaned against the doorway of a closed shop door. She was half-seen in the contrasting moonlight and deep shadow. Casca’s eyes strayed to the slim outline of her lower body that he could see, and the silhouette of her long hair, brief clothing and alluring pose. A whore? Here?
“Going somewhere, darling?” she said in a soft, husky voice.
Casca stopped, almost alongside her. Peter and the others walked on a few steps before stopping, turning their heads to see what was going to happen. They couldn’t see her top half clearly, as it was in shadow, and her features were concealed. “Got somewhere in mind, sweetheart?” Casca asked her.
“Mm,” she said. “but maybe not where you think. Listen,” she switched to Latin, lowering her voice so that only he could hear, “you’re in danger, legionary Longinus.”
Casca’s blood ran cold. Goosebumps broke out along his arms and ran down his back like an icy cold shower of rain. Firstly, she was speaking in his old language, and secondly she knew who and what he was. Brotherhood! his mind screamed to him.
As Peter and the others began to edge towards the conversation, Casca held out a palm to them, stopping them. “I’ll rejoin you in a minute,” he said. “Go get me a drink. I’ll be along shortly.”
The others slowly walked away, sensing something wasn’t right, but it was none of their business. Peter most reluctantly of all, but he eventually went after Casca nodded to him. He then whirled on the woman. “Speak, or by all the gods in the heavens and hell I’ll rip you apart!”
Margareta nodded. “I know you, and know that those who wish you harm are here. The Brotherhood are looking for you, Casca, and they are based in the church of St. Michael. One is the priest Jacobius, the other his acolyte Juncker. Be very wary of that place, and anyone connected with the church.”
“And what of you? Who are you, and how the hell do you know all this, especially who I am?”
“Let’s say I’m someone who wants to help you stay out of their clutches. The Brotherhood would kill me if they knew I was helping you.”
Casca stepped up close to her, so he could see her features better. She wasn’t bad looking, and there was definitely something about her that reminded him of someone he’d known long, long ago. Someone very familiar. He frowned. “You remind me of someone.”
“Delia?”
“De…” he stopped in shock. “Delia! Yes! You have her eyes, and damnit, you know of her? Tell me now, lady, who the hell are you?”
“A descendant. We are all taught about you from an early age, and we have been trying to keep you from the clutches of our enemies ever since. Yet we are few and scattered, and they are many.”
“A descendent – you mean, you’re a Longini? The family that goes back to Delia and Licinus?” Casca stepped back in shock, his mouth gaping. Not much surprised him after sixteen and a half centuries of existence, but this had floored him. “Fuck.” There wasn’t much else that could be said.
Margareta ran a fingertip down his scar. “I often wondered how I’d feel if I ever met you, and I must admit it’s overwhelming. You’re something much more than a legend, a myth. In fact, you frighten me a little. But you’re the creator of our family, and I am in awe of you. Please,” she looked into his eyes intently, “say nothing to anyone, anyone! The Brotherhood are close. Do not look for me, for you may bring me to their attention. We will do what we can to protect you from their evil clutches.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. It was not a sexually charged one, or passionate, but one with a deep loving affection. Then she was gone, gliding away across the street in the moonlight.
Casca was left there touching his face and lips wordlessly. That had been one surreal meeting, and his mind was whirling furiously. So there was not one secret organization out there looking for him, but two. One bad, one good. He felt somehow reassured by that, then his hatred of the Brotherhood returned. If they got their hands on that woman – he didn’t know her name – then he’d tear them all apart. That kiss – it had transferred so much feeling and emotion in just a few heartbeats, and told him that she loved him like a daughter did a father. Not for the first time his heart ached for him not being able to sire a child, someone he could love like any normal man.
He took one last look at her distant figure, half seen in the night, before he turned away and followed the others to the tavern. He sat down with his comrades and gratefully accepted his ale and sank a quarter before putting it down with a sigh and leaned back, thinking deeply.
Peter asked him if he was alright, and who the woman was.
“Oh, just a whore,” he said. “Wanted too much. Told her to piss off. Thinks I’m made of money.” He grinned and most of the others chuckled.
Peter shook his head. “She should take up a much more reputable line of work, like a seamstress.”
“She may well be in the daytime,” Casca shrugged. “She looked and spoke better than many women of the streets. Anyway, let’s think more about tomorrow,” he said, wanting to change the conversation away from the woman. “And what we’ll be doing.”
The others agreed. Things were looking better now von Starhemberg and his men had arrived to reinforce the garrison. Morale and hopes had been buoyed, but Casca still worried deep down. He leaned against the high wooden back of his seat and closed his eyes while the others spoke across the table.
The Longini. Delia and Licinus had begun the family way back in the time of Justinian, which was – when? He thought back. Eleven centuries or so. He’d seen both of them in Ravenna a decade afterwards when Licinus, calling himself Longinus, had been Exarch there. They had three children by that time, so that must have been the genesis of the Longini. He thought about them. He’d gone south to Naples, then across to Africa and Egypt and fought in the Persian war with the Roman Empire. He’d not really had much opportunity to think about that family until he had been part of Charlemagne’s forces that invaded Italy around the 770s, some two hundred years after he’d last been there.
His last memory of Delia had been her telling him that wherever he went, he would be watched over. He’d taken that as some kind of sentimental way of telling him their memories would stay with him, but now her words clearly had meant something different.
