Casca 48: The Austrian Read online

  The rest of the squad had been persuaded by Casca to accompany him, partly because they were bored at the barracks, partly because they wanted to be away from Klein and partly because they saw Casca as a model professional and wanted to pick up all tips and hints from him. Casca on his part looked at them as almost a kind of father figure, leading a group of young trainees. It was because they had been so badly led, trained and looked after. Klein and the officers had no real idea, and ignored the rank and file as being beneath their attention.

  Casca’s reason for coming to the establishment was to get a drink and be able to relax, especially as he now had florins in his pocket.

  The eight men commandeered a large table that stood next to two of the stout oaken pillars that held up the huge wooden roof. To the right in the wall stood a large unlit fireplace, that would be roaring away in wintertime. Illumination was provided by a mixture of cheap candles and smelly oil lamps. Smelly because they were using low quality fish oil, probably, or so Casca reckoned.

  A few serving wenches plied in between the tables and chairs, and Casca called one over to them. She was a young buxom lass with black hair, brown eyes and filed out her white blouse and skirt very nicely indeed. She had a pleasant smile and greeted the eight with expectation. Maybe she could earn some good coin here?

  Drinks were ordered. All eight had florins to spend and piled their coins on the table. The girl returned with a long tray and eight mugs of ale. Casca eyed her as she bent forwards to place the tray down, admiring her assets. He felt she was worth pursuing, especially as war was imminent. Who knows when such opportunity would present itself once the shooting began? The girl was busy placing the mugs before each man when she felt a coin slip down her cleavage. She looked to her right into the light blue eyes of the scarred man who she had noticed before.

  Goosebumps ran up her arms and down her back. She felt her body tingle with excitement. A second coin was placed deliberately in between her breasts and she looked deeply into those oh-so mesmerizing eyes. A hand stroked her leg, slipping up underneath her skirt. Now was the time she could refuse him, turn him down, slap him or snap irritably and tell him to leave her alone. She did none of these. Her body was telling her she wanted him.

  He nodded slightly to her and she nodded back. His hand returned to his mug and he lifted it towards his lips. “Later,” he whispered to her.

  She walked away from the table, making sure the coins that had been placed in her cleavage were kept separate from the ones she’d picked up from the table. Her legs trembled slightly, and butterflies were fluttering in her stomach. Why did this particular man get her feeling like this? It wasn’t as if he was the first to offer coin to her for a night of pleasure. Like most girls in her position she earned an extra income from this sort of thing, provided it was done off-site. Normally she went to the patron’s home, but occasionally she took them to her small one-bed attic room in the house she was renting.

  Casca felt satisfied as he sat and drank his ale. One thing he’d discovered quickly, and that was although the empire was strapped for funds and had recently debased the coinage, supplies were in abundance, as were munitions. Only manpower was in short supply. The city wouldn’t go hungry in a siege that quickly. He also knew the Ottomans had a limited amount of time to actually breach the walls and take Vienna. Winters here were harsh and the Turks would have to retreat if they hadn’t succeeded in doing this by the beginning of October. It was now the end of June so they had three months to do the job. He wondered if they had the technology to succeed. A lot would hang on the sappers to do a decent job.

  The others were talking around the subject – whether Duke Charles and the field army would confront the Ottomans at Gyor, and if so, could they stop them? Casca thought not; the Turks were led by the Grand Vizier Kara Mustafa himself. The eternal mercenary pointed out to the others that the position of the Hungarians could have a lot to do with how the armies fared. Would they side with the Turks or Austrians? The previous year Sultan Mehmet IV had granted Count Imre Thokoly of Hungary the title King of Upper Hungary, the area that was currently ruled by Vienna. Thokoly was clearly being groomed as a vassal of the Ottomans, provided he paid for it and supported the Turks in the war. How many Hungarians ended up following the Count was still yet to be determined, but the rebel Count was gathering a large number of men to his banners.

  This sparked off another debate around the table, and whether they thought Thokoly would march on Pressburg, just along the Danube from Vienna. Casca thought it was likely, as it would both be a good place to capture as a center of supply, and it would also distract imperial forces from the Ottoman army. Charles wouldn’t be able to block both with what he had. It was clear that the Austrians needed help badly.

  He asked what help was likely, and the others suggested Bavaria and Saxony were most likely to come to their assistance, along with Poland. But unless they acted quickly, it might well be too late. One of the men also said the church and Pope had been asked for financial help. Casca nodded slowly. Made sense, as the church would end up being the biggest losers if the Muslim Turks took Vienna and the Austrian lands. It would be best of the Pope funded the soldiers necessary to throw back the threat to Christianity.

  The evening went on. The serving girl, Lotte, returned a few times to refill the mugs, and got more coins down her front from the scarred man. There was no doubt that she was his for the night. She tingled.

  One by one the others drifted away, either drunk or broke – or both. Finally, Casca drained his mug, wiped his mouth, and turned to Peter who was the last one to remain with him. “Peter, I’m going to be busy tonight,” he looked over at Lotte, who stood by the bar. Peter followed his gaze. “You may as well return to the barracks. I’ll be back at dawn.”

  “Be careful,” Peter said, heaving himself up. “Don’t want Klein having cause to discipline you.”

  “He’ll be too busy filling his face to notice,” Casca grunted, getting to his feet. “Sleep well.” He slapped Peter on the shoulder.

  Peter nodded and left. There weren’t that many patrons left there now. A couple of carpenters by the door, a dour merchant leaning over the bar, half asleep, two soldiers at the back and a non-descript fellow on his own near the unlit fireplace.

  Casca went over to the girl and held out one arm which she took, pressing herself against him. “I am yours tonight,” she said. He had paid her enough for two nights.

  As they walked to the door, the man by the fireplace watched carefully. He hissed through his teeth, then stood up as the door closed. He made his way smartly to the exit, jerked it open, and emerged into the night air. Casca and the girl were vanishing into the darkness around a corner. The man spat onto the ground, then went off in the opposite direction.

  He made for the church of St. Michael, walking not to the main entrance but around the side of the church. He knocked on a small side door urgently, and it was finally opened on the fourth attempt. The noise had woken Margareta and she peered out of her window, directly above the doorway. She saw the visitor talking to someone, and she listened and recognized the voice of Gerd Juncker. The visitor then turned and walked off, head bowed. Intrigued, Margareta cautiously opened the door of her room and listened, then crept to the rail along the landing.

  Juncker was walking through the small hallway that served as the entryway to the working part of the church, so she glided down the stone stairs and peered around the corner. At the end was a door that was normally locked from the other side, and here were the sleeping rooms of the males, priests, curates, worker and so on. Juncker was knocking on the door of Fr. Jacobius’ room, in his haste neglecting to shut the partitioning door. Margareta made her way quickly to this and nudged the door so that it now concealed her but she could hear everything.

  “What is it?” Jacobius asked testily upon opening the door. “It is the middle of the night, man!”

  “May God forgive me, Father,” Juncker said deferentially, kneeling in
supplication. “But I have just been informed that the Spawn of Satan is present in Vienna.”

  “By the sacred word of Izram!” Jacobius breathed. He looked along the corridor but saw nothing untoward. “You are sure?”

  “My contact confirmed it just now, Father. What shall we do?”

  “We must bring this to the attention of the Elder. I shall write to him this very night, and you will take it to your contact to pass to him.”

  “Yes, Father. Shall I wait for it now?”

  “No, deliver it in the morning. Now shut that door and let me think on what to say.”

  Margareta held her breath and pressed herself tight against the wall, and shuddered as the door moved. It shut, with Juncker not checking to see if anyone was hiding behind it. The bolt slid home and she breathed out slowly, then returned to her room, her mind racing.

  The Brotherhood were definitely here, and she would now have to do something about it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The morning brought three people out onto the streets of Vienna, doing things they really ought not to be. Casca was the first, emerging from the small house in the back streets of Vienna. He felt a deep satisfaction after a night of sin with Lotte. She was good and enthusiastic; not the most experienced he’d known but she made up for that in many other ways, and he showed her a thing or two that she’d clearly not known.

  She was now sleeping peacefully, a smile on her face, and he made his way to the barracks, tired, aching in a few places, but happy. Going through the main door wasn’t ideal, so he slipped around to the rear and climbed in through one of the windows that were open in the kitchen. The cooks were preparing the food for the day and they were too busy to worry about one errant soldier squeezing in, putting a finger to his lips, kissing the female cook nearest to the window in an attempt to bribe her to silence, then sneaking out into the corridors beyond. “Rogue,” the cook grumbled for the benefit of her jealous colleagues, then smiled to herself. Maybe her husband might have some unexpected surprises later?

  Casca crept to the stairs that led up to his squad’s quarters. “Now, Lang, where have you been?”

  The eternal mercenary cursed his luck. Lieutenant Hickersdorf eyed him without expression. The young officer was still in that keen-to-please phase, hoping it would mean promotion, and not having learned yet that the establishment looked after their own and would only promote friends and family no matter how unsuitable they were, while leaving the talented in their lowly place.

  “Sir,” Casca snapped to attention. “Sneaking in after a night of whoring, sir.” It might not be the best tactic to be honest, but he privately bet to himself this young man would have never encountered such brazen truthfulness before, nor maybe have much of an idea what whoring entailed. He looked about nineteen.

  “Really?” Hickersdorf’s eyebrows rose. “And you are proud of this, soldier?”

  “Sir. Training.”

  “What?” The lieutenant’s confusion was almost laughable.

  Casca decided to act the buffoon. “Sir. Sneaking on the enemy to capture one for information can give you a huge advantage,” he nodded earnestly, staring at the young officer, “so I’m practicing this now before the battle comes to us.”

  “Uh, I don’t understand, Lang. But, you won’t find whores in the enemy ranks!”

  “Ah, how do you know? The Turks could capture the suburbs outside the walls and there are whores there, many of them, in fact, I know,” he winked outrageously. “Sir, I could show you in fact, tonight!”

  “Ah, no soldier, thank you but this will not be necessary. Continue.”

  “Thank you, sir. So, these whores could overhear things, you know, secrets. Men tell whores all kind of things they shouldn’t, and did you know some of the most successful spies are whores?”

  Hickersdorf’s mouth opened in shock. “But – they’re whores, women of ill repute!”

  “And so are spies, I mean, people of ill repute, else they wouldn’t be spies would they, sir? I mean, they would be honest people, like priests, or merchants, or army officers, sir.”

  The lieutenant looked totally lost. “Ah, yes, I see, thank you, soldier.”

  “So, I could sneak up to a whore, either interrogate her or capture her, and sneak back to these barracks with the information that could tell us where the enemy positions are and what their plans are, and where their soup kitchens are.”

  Hickersdorf put a hand to his forehead. “Soup – soup kitchens?”

  “Oh, sir, the Turks – they put great importance to the soup ladlers, so they do!” he nodded with emphasis again. “They call them Corbaci, which means soup server, and they hold the rank above that of captain, commanding a regiment. They know the wisdom of feeding their soldiers, sir.”

  Hickersdorf shook his head slowly. This was unreal. “How-how do you know this, Lang?”

  “I served a few years ago with the Polish army fighting the Turks and we captured a camp of theirs, and the soup cauldrons were everywhere! Capture them and the Ottoman morale would collapse, absolutely, sir!”

  The lieutenant sucked in his breath. “Go to your room and make ready for the day. I shall think on what you have said. In the meantime I have other more important matters to take care of.”

  Casca saluted and bounded up the stairs, chuckling to himself. If reason won’t work, baffle them with bullshit. The poor young officer would not get far with the information he’d been given, partly because it was so outrageous nobody would believe him, and partly because the ruling officer corps were so corrupt and conservative they would not listen to any new idea unless it came from above. Keep the same methods and squash any new idea. The thing was, Casca knew what he had said had a lot of truth in it; the Turks did have a rank of Corbaci, pronounced ‘chorbaja’, and was a regimental commander. He knew. He’d fought the Turks before.

  He entered the barracks room. Light was low, dawn was breaking and the men were still sleeping or dozing in that pre-dawn phase. Casca sat on his bed, grabbed his on-duty straps and equipment and began cleaning them in the semi-dark. Klein would be along soon, waking the innocents, so it would be good for him to be already up and ready. He was still damned tired, though.

  Maybe he’d do a regular thing with Lotte. She was a nice, pleasant young girl working in the tavern supplementing her meager income by letting patrons sleep with her. He’d seen it all so many times before; full-time prostitutes were one thing, but so many women with low incomes or bad financial situations had been forced into selling their bodies.

  Lotte’s story – from the little she’d told him – was that her life had been turned upside down a year ago when her parents had fallen to the last burst of the plague, leaving her at eighteen without a home, a job or a man. She had been dating someone but he also had died. A neighbor had told her about a room going in a house of someone he knew and so on, but she needed an income, so the tavern job was the best she could find, and of course, to pay for food she had needed to sell herself. Her earnings from the job she had just about covered the rent.

  Casca would have loved to take her under his wing, but he was army and had a job to do and the barracks were no place for a tavern wench. Christ, he thought to himself, she’d be the center of attention, and some stuck-up officer would either chase her off or grab her for himself. She wasn’t unattractive, but he wondered how long she had before her lifestyle affected her for good and she ended up cynical, hard-hearted and on the game for good.

  His further thoughts were ended by Klein crashing the door open and standing in the doorway, barking to the men to get up and get ready for a day of training. More utter boredom Casca mused, wiping down his wide belt. The poor bastards just weren’t given proper training.

  “Already up?” Klein asked in surprise, seeing Casca sitting on his bed.

  “Sergeant,” Casca said curtly, trying to ignore the portly moron.

  “And why is that?”

  For fuck’s sake, Casca thought in exasperation. “Se
rgeant, I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Are you unwell? Not showing signs of the plague, are you?”

  Casca sighed and stood up slowly. “No Sergeant, I was just excited by the prospect of another day’s training.”

  A couple of the men, having woken up and listening to the exchange, sniggered and hid their faces.

  Klein huffed and puffed out his chest, his lower lip jutting belligerently. “Are you mocking me, soldier?”

  “Of course not, Sergeant. Put me though my paces; I’ll be glad to do them.” Casca held Klein’s gaze, and the sergeant, suddenly uncomfortable, switched his attention to the others.

  “Come on, you lazy shits, get up, or you’ll be doing double routines!”

  Casca sat back down and continued cleaning his gear, knowing the others would have to do the same. Klein grumbled and warned the men to be downstairs in the canteen in ten minutes. He slammed the door shut behind him. Casca knew the type; a petty-minded bully. He had his measure.

  While this was happening, out in the streets the other two who were doing things they should not were making their way from St. Michael’s along the main street to the north-west of the church. The first, Juncker, was walking swiftly, head down, the letter from Jacobius tucked inside his shirt. He had an appointment with his contact at the Black Eagle, which is where this man would always be.

  Behind him, walking on one side of the street, keeping her distance, was Margareta. She was, though, not in a nun’s habit. She had changed and now was dressed in an ordinary woman’s clothing, her hair hanging loosely down her back. Juncker would not recognize her unless he looked closely and long enough. She had slipped out the back as the sky had begun to lighten and waited for Juncker to pass her, concealed as she had been behind the carpentry workshop that stood behind the church.