Casca 48: The Austrian Read online

  Gossip was that Leopold still didn’t believe the Turks would actually march into Hungary, until in December he was finally persuaded that the threat was real and he grudgingly allowed the treasury to funnel money into the repairs, but it was a slow process. “People in the Hofburg still think that Gyor is the Ottoman’s destination.”

  Margareta hissed with displeasure. “That’s Leopold talking again. He’s convinced himself because he has little in the treasury the Ottomans won’t be coming here so he won’t have to spend anything on defense. He’s a fool. You don’t send an army that size to take one border fortress.”

  “You’re well informed for a nun,” Peter observed.

  Margareta made the sign of the cross and rose to her feet, followed by Peter. She looked about. The nearest people were in the main apse, kneeling in prayer. “We have agents watching all the approach routes to Vienna. War always attracts attention from afar, and it was almost certain that Carl would be coming here, so instead of copying Leopold and sitting on our behinds with hands over our ears, we looked at the three main routes here; from Italy, from Germany and from Poland.”

  “So you knew which road he was on?”

  “Indeed. The moment he was seen, we knew to contact you as you were the closest.”

  Peter sighed deeply. Just his luck. He glanced at the nun. “Rumors are that the Poles are preparing to help.”

  “Calls have gone out from the palace to all. To the pope, the French, the other princes of the Empire, the Poles. We need help. We haven’t the forces or the defenses to hold out for long. Now go, be with Carl, and look out for anyone taking an undue interest in him.”

  “Oh. The Brotherhood?”

  Margareta nodded. “They’ll be here, somewhere. Don’t try to take them on; they’ll stamp you out in a flash. If you do suspect they are watching, report to me at once.”

  Peter nodded and left, retrieving his musket from the porch. He walked across the platz towards the barracks which were in the gardens to one side of the Hofburg. He knew very little, except it was his duty to do as the nun had commanded. Odd to think they were related, if distantly. Peter Longini, Margareta Longini. They had originally come from Italy, he knew, and spread out from that side of the Alps, establishing branches in the empire and beyond.

  He had been born in Mainz twenty-five years previously, and since he could recall had been taught about his family’s history and mission, to protect their founder, Casca Rufio Longinus, and to hunt their sworn enemy, the Brotherhood of the Lamb. But they were few and the Brotherhood many and established in governments and in religious organizations. The Longini therefore had to tread very carefully, drawing no attention to themselves.

  Peter had never really believed in the stories, and after his parents had been taken away by the plague, he had married and now had two children of his own. He’d not passed on any of the Longini traditions, thinking it to be nonsense, and when the letter had arrived in April telling him he was needed to find Casca, he had not believed it at first. But then a shadowy figure had spoken to him in the town center a day or two later, ordering him to go or else there would be repercussions, not only to him but his family. Left without a choice, he had bid his tearful wife and children a farewell, promising to be back once the war was won.

  He had resented going on what he saw as a fool’s errand, but he had been stunned to actually find Casca and realize that, after all, the stories were true. The letter he had also told him who to contact and where once he got to Vienna. Margareta in St. Michael’s. The contact would be confirmed when she identified him as a Protestant.

  He would now be in awe of the man he had joined up with.

  Meanwhile Margareta made her way slowly through the corridors of the church that existed behind the closed doors that separated the public areas from the accommodation section for the priests and their helpers. Besides her, there were two other nuns currently accommodated there, allowed to stay in a small section apart from the males. They were there because of the recent plague that had decimated the church employees, and Margareta had volunteered along with the two others to carry out the domestic chores while the priests busied themselves with reassuring fearful people. In times of strife and conflict, people always sought succor from God and the church.

  There was more than enough for the three nuns to do around the church, and their days were spent constantly cleaning, tidying up and ensuring a steady supply of holy wine, water, food, clothes and other items into St. Michael’s. She herself was naturally organized and had a natural affinity to organize others, which was also why her family looked to her to co-ordinate matters in the empire.

  She didn’t mind. It fulfilled her sense of purpose. She believed strongly in God, and if Casca had indeed speared Jesus on the cross, then it was not an evil act as some would say, but rather it was God’s will, and indeed paved the way for the resurrection, surely the most important event in Christian belief.

  She opened a stout oaken door to the robing room. Mice had been seen here, so she was checking on whether the poison left had done its job. Nothing was lying dead on the floor but the poison she’d left had been disturbed, so something had been there. She pulled out a small jar from her habit and sprinkled more around the small hole in the skirting board close to one corner. Then she checked the many robes hanging from pegs all around the room, surpluses, cassocks and richly colored robes.

  The door opened and one of the male assistants who had survived the plague appeared. “Oh, I didn’t know you were here,” he said.

  She regarded him coolly. The young man was slim and had an angular face which wasn’t that pretty. He was called Gerd Juncker, and his manners were worse than he looked. He was usually rude, abrupt and dismissive towards the three women. “Just doing my rounds,” she said, resuming her check of the clothing.

  “Father Jacobius requires the robe with the red cross for mass,” he said, holding out his hand peremptorily.

  “You know where it is,” Margareta said. “I’m sure you’re more than capable of picking it off the peg.”

  Gerd pulled a face. “I trust you haven’t allowed the vermin to make holes in it? Father Jacobius would not view this favorably if you failed in your duty.”

  “It is fine. Now take it and be gone.”

  Gerd angrily tugged the robe off the peg, folded it over his arm, and made to leave. He paused in the doorway. “I shall be glad when we get proper staff and you and your nuns can return to your convent. Women have no place here.”

  “God has a place for all. It is not for you to invent new rules for our religion. I am not aware of any new commandment: There shalt be no place for women in my place of worship.”

  Gerd sneered. “I look forward to the day that you are expelled from here.” With that he was gone, slamming the door shut.

  “As shall I,” she said.

  Her rounds completed, she retreated to her small chamber, a tiny room which had a rudimentary bed, a chest, a chair and a small set of drawers. Nothing else. Spartan, but she was used to austerity. She knelt by her bed, rosary in her hands, and prayed.

  Finally, just as the day faded from the single narrow window set high in the wall, she lit a candle and by its light wrote a letter. It was in Italian. It was addressed to Pietro Longini in Milan, the family leader. She described the situation in Vienna, then ended it with a paragraph referring to Casca. Our founder is here. I am fortunate to have our man from the Rhine act as a go-between. I shall keep in touch on matters.

  She folded the paper and, using a small wax stick, melted the end on the candle. She pulled out a small ring from one of the drawers and imprinted the ring face on the small amount of wax, sealing it. A courier would take the letter to Milan the following day. She had an efficient system of contacts, thanks to the family, using not only actual members, but others who worked for them, not knowing the true identity of the Longini.

  Her day done, she changed for bed, putting on a long white cotton nightdress that she had
received from Venice. A luxury she knew, but one she allowed herself. Her dark hair lay long down her back and she took time to comb it. There was a small silver mirror on her chest of drawers and she regarded herself for a moment. Then, with a sigh, she hung her rosary upon it, blew out the candle and slipped under her threadbare blanket. June in Vienna was warm so there was no problem with that, but from October onwards it would be much cooler. Hopefully by then she would be able to get hold of something thicker.

  One worry kept her awake for a while. It wasn’t the approaching Turkish army, rather it was the Brotherhood of the Lamb. She was convinced they were here in Vienna, and they would be seeking Casca, as they always did. Both the Brotherhood and the Longini knew that because of Casca’s nature, and his Curse, wherever there were wars, he would most likely be close by. So both organizations would actively look for the eternal mercenary in areas where conflict was taking place.

  She hoped fervently that the Brotherhood knew nothing about the Longini.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Casca studied himself in the mirror. Not bad, he mused, turning this way and that. He may be sixteen hundred and eighty, but he looked as good as someone of thirty. He grinned to himself at his sense of humor. Sometimes he needed it. He was wearing a new uniform, the Hapsburg armed forces color of off-white with red cuffs. The coat had a line of brass buttons running down from throat to the hem which was just above the knee.

  Around the waist a wide leather dull yellow belt ran, buckled at the front. Below the belt the buttons of the coat were undone. Just off-center to the left, hanging from the belt, was a leather pouch that held the bayonet, with its foot-long tapering blade. Atop his head was a wide-brimmed felt black hat, with the left-hand side turned up. Around his neck was a cravat of white. This was an import from the Hapsburg lands of Croatia which had given its name to this piece of fashion wear. Croatia in Croatian was Hrvatska. Cravat.

  A pair of low black leather shoes came up to his ankles, and a pair of white leggings ran up to a point above his knees. They were tied just below the knees with a leather strip. On his left hip hung his sword, and a bandolier with the gunpowder charges – seven of them – hung from his left shoulder down to his right hip.

  Underneath his coat he wore a white shirt with baggy sleeves. Lastly, he had in his hands his matchlock. He had kept the firearm as it was no better or worse than the standard issue the other soldiers had. He looked at Peter who was similarly attired. “It’ll do. At least we’re smart. Should impress the ladies of Vienna.”

  Peter smiled thinly. “We’re here to fight, not to occupy the beds of the Viennese.”

  “Ah, yes, you’re married, I keep forgetting. No matter, when I nip into the brothels, you can sit downstairs and drink.”

  “You should be taking this seriously,” Peter admonished him. “Hasn’t the news of the Duke’s retreat from Esztergom concerned you?”

  Casca shook his head. He put his musket down and relaxed. One of the things he’d learned in his life was a grasp of strategy. In his time as a grunt in the Roman army, he’d not bothered with such things, but then once he’d gained rank and become in charge of units, then tactics had to be learned, and then much later as a ruler, strategy. “A wise move. Sieges take time and cost a lot of lives. What’s the Duke’s strength? Thirty thousand? The Turks have three or four times that number, and they’re where?”

  “Some place called Osijek, I heard the captain say this morning.”

  “I know of it, north of Belgrade, south of Buda. So it’s about ten days’ march from Buda, and Esztergom isn’t that far from there. A siege of that fortress would take more than two weeks and he’d then be trapped in between the garrison and an advancing army, and he’d be squashed. That would be a disaster. Best he remains in the field and at least can act as a barrier to the Turkish raiders that they’ll send out to create havoc and wreck supply lines.”

  Peter didn’t argue. After all, this man was someone, or so the legend went, who had fought in wars for hundreds of years. He was in two minds about that. Surely there would be something special about him? Some kind of unusual feature, or sign? Casca – or Carl as he should now think of him – seemed just like so many of the soldiers here; rude, brash, tough and someone who didn’t seem to have that much respect for their superiors, or even God, much to Peter’s disgust.

  How had this man started the family, all those years ago? Was he, Peter, a direct blood descendant of this man? There seemed little resemblance. He decided to keep his counsel. Best not to annoy the scarred mercenary. He spoke with a peculiar accent and vocabulary, too. Although he spoke very good German, it was punctuated with archaic expressions, and his accent had a tinge of something like Scandinavian mixed in with it. Peter had once known a Swede whose accent had been strong indeed, and Carl’s was a touch like that.

  Casca himself wondered about Peter. This man clearly disapproved of the eternal mercenary’s behavior, especially where women were concerned. Peter seemed the straight and traditional type, very God-fearing and uncomplicated. It was a surprise that Peter had remained by his side, since the two were clearly very different people. Peter in fact was more like the majority of the garrison troops. These soldiers weren’t the best, clearly, and it wouldn’t be long before they all looked to Casca for guidance and tips. He couldn’t help but show that he was so much better than the average soldier.

  The garrison had a simple job, to patrol the walls and streets and ensure order was kept. The walls themselves were divided into sections, each stretch running from one bastion to the next. Squads of eight to ten men patrolled two stretches of walls, with two men walking each wall section and another standing guard on each bastion. One would act as squad leader, coordinating the others, rotating their positions every hour or so.

  Kaltenberger left the details to his lieutenant, Hickersdorf, to draw up where the squads went. Casca, Peter and the six others in their squad went to the southern stretch, in between the Löbel, Palace and Burg bastions.

  Days passed and a sort of false hope began to grow amongst some of the people and troops, a hope that the Ottomans were, after all, not going to advance as far as the city, and were only interested in taking the two frontier fortresses of Komaron and Gyor.

  Peter and some of the others suggested that the emperor might be right, and his continued presence in the city seemed to back that up. Casca smiled as he looked out across the flat terrain that led from the fields in the distance, through the suburbs and up to the ravelin that stood before the Palace bastion, upon which he stood. Peter was to one side and a young brown-haired man called Herbert Frankl, was on the other.

  “No, Vienna is their target, I’ve no doubt of that. Why break a truce just for two poxed frontier fortresses? This army is huge and that can only mean one thing; they mean business and there’s no way they’re after just Gyor and Komaron. It’s costing the sultan a huge amount to keep it in the field and only by taking a city like Vienna will it be worth the cost.”

  “But the emperor seems certain, Carl,” Herbert insisted.

  “The emperor is no soldier – else he’d be leading the field army in person and not Duke Charles. Nope, he’s shut away in the Hofburg behind us. Rest assured, as soon as it comes clear the Turks aren’t stopping at the fortresses, then the shit’ll fly here.”

  Peter looked doubtful but he decided to play along with Casca’s greater experience. “So, how do you think they’ll attack?”

  Casca nodded at the terrain ahead. “They’ll surround the city, of course, and use every scrap of cover to build sap lines and trenches towards the walls. Then once they’re close enough, they’ll dig underground and try to blow up the walls from underneath. If they succeed in doing that, then we’ll have to try to stop them breaking in. If we don’t…” he shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

  “We have cannons,” Herbert said, pointing to a nearby artillery piece, resting silently top the bastion.

  “So have they,” Casca replied, “and
they’ll shoot the tops of the bastions clear in no time. It’ll boil down to a stand-off between their guns and ours, and they won’t be able to get close to our walls without being torn to pieces, but we won’t be able to pop our heads up above the walls without being shot to bits either. From what I know of their guns, they won’t have the pieces to knock our walls over, but they do have excellent sappers.”

  Peter surveyed the peaceful scene before him. “Will they attack everywhere?”

  Casca shook his head. “They’ll pick a spot that gives them the best chance to break through.” His mind went back to 1453 when he had been one of the defenders of Constantinople. The Turks had concentrated on the Lycus Valley, the geography aiding them, so that they could concentrate more guns to aim at one place along the walls. Even with a ditch and two walls, the bombardment had finally sent the old walls of the Romans toppling and sheer weight of numbers had told. He shook the memory from his mind. “The north is impossible; that’s the river. To the east isn’t likely, either, as the River Wien flows close to the walls,” he pointed off to their left.

  His gaze returned to the area before him. “I’d wager here is where they’ll concentrate. We have the ravelin before us, but that won’t stop them ultimately. They’ll try to knock one of these three bastions down,” he said.

  Herbert tutted. “It looks impossible, Carl. I mean, it’s so peaceful.”

  “It won’t be for long. They’re coming, and we’re still not fully prepared. We’re undermanned and isolated.”

  The three fell silent for a while. The news that had reached them over the past few days was all about the Ottoman advance through their territory towards the frontier, and they had reached Buda. Duke Charles had now retreated out of Ottoman lands to the imperial fortress of Gyor. Tensions were rising.

  That evening Casca and his squad were off-duty, having done their stint on the walls. Their squad leader, a sergeant by the name of Dieter Klein, did as little as he possibly could while taking all the praise from his superior, insisting he was organizing the squad as efficiently as anyone. Casca had nothing but contempt for the greasy, lazy bastard. Klein was asleep in his separate quarters when Casca led the others out of the barracks and along the street to the nearest tavern, der Schwarzer Adler, or the Black Eagle.