Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey (37 page)

“Directly? No, not for some time. They are too weak . . .”

“Or, perhaps,” Rilke said to the emperor, “they are friendly!”

“But there are many who have not been threatening for many years. By that logic the Ottoman Empire is our chum,” Von Graeb said.

“Oh, don’t be silly. Everyone knows the Sultanate has modernized itself substantially since our last
disagreement
. No, they aren’t our ‘chums’ as you so glibly put it. But there is no indication that we need fear them as an imminent threat. Our spies give no such indications. Some have even referred to the Ottomans as ‘enlightened.’”

“Enlightened by what?” Von Graeb asked.

“Felix, please,” the emperor said, dropping all formality. “Viktor is, after all, the Minister of Defense. We should take the Major Rilke’s report for what it is.” The tone of familiarity and the use of first names would have shocked the rest of the court, had they been present.

“Mind you, Major Von Graeb,” Rilke said, “the Prussians are the greater threat. The Minister of Defense has ascertained this himself through spies and allies.” He held up a roll of documents that ostensibly proved his point. “Your obsession with our quiet neighbors to the south, while understandable, is misplaced. Though you and he may share common interests in military matters, I hope that your disagreement with this carefully researched assessment doesn’t endanger our common interest in protecting the throne.”

Rilke glanced at the emperor, who then glanced at Von Graeb.

“No, of course not,” Von Graeb said, barely retaining control of himself.

“There, there, Felix,” the emperor said reassuringly. “Leave it alone. There’s Viktor’s marriage to Addy to worry about, and I understand that she has asked you to help her prepare.”

“This is precisely my concern, your Majesty. There are matters of grave military importance, and, pardon my forwardness, but where is the Minister of Defense right now? Surely, he’s not just off contemplating his upcoming honeymoon!”

Emperor Joseph laughed, then looked to Von Edelweir’s representative. “Major, this is a legitimate concern that Herr Von Graeb brings up.”

Major Rilke shot a baleful glance at Von Graeb. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, then moved his hands, with the documents behind his back. “Your Majesty, I’m not entirely sure. I was told to tell you that he was indisposed, at the moment.”

“Well,” Emperor Joseph said. “I should hope that he is watching the situation closely.”

“Rest assured, your Majesty, that he is. I am certain that he is aware of every eventuality and has complete control of the situation.”

“I sincerely hope so, Major,” the emperor said. “You are dismissed.”

Rilke left the room, careful not to glance back.

“Felix,” the emperor said, “you have got to be more careful with your assertions.”

“I’m sorry, your Majesty. But look at this—here we are receiving intelligence that indicates a pending Prussian invasion of Saxony, yet he sends one of his majors to brief you on the situation. It doesn’t make sense! Where is he? I fear his miraculous return and good family name has caused us to overestimate his capabilities as a leader of men.”

“Noble cousin,” the emperor said, “I will assume responsibility for that decision. Surely you aren’t recommending yourself as—”

“Your Majesty!” a young page, shouted running into the room holding a hastily scrawled letter aloft.

“What is it, boy?” the emperor said, stooping down to get closer to the youth’s level.

“An invasion, your Majesty!”

“Prussia, then?” he asked, looking at Von Graeb.

“No, your Majesty. They are headed this way from Sofia.”

“Who is, boy?”

“Your Majesty, the Ottomans are invading.”

Von Graeb paced back and forth through the makeshift war room they had set up in the palace.

“Twelve hundred men,” Von Graeb complained to his staff. “How am I to defend the southern flank of the Holy Roman Empire with twelve hundred men? Twelve thousand
might
be enough, seeing that we have to defend an entire mountain chain from enemy cavalry two thousand strong and footmen of three times that number. Herzog!”

“Yes, Herr Major,” answered a grizzled veteran.

“Any word from the minister’s representative?”

“He says that he can spare only three hundred men, sir. Those orders came to him direct from the Minister of Defense.”

“Three hundred? But nothing is happening up there.”

“Sir, the minister feels that if we move too many troops from Saxony, the Prussians will perceive a weakness and move to attack at their first opportunity.”

“But nothing is happening up there!” Von Graeb repeated.

“Sorry, sir. I am only relaying a message.”

“Understood. Have we tried sending a diplomatic envoy?”

“Of course, sir.”

“And?”

“Sir, he was cut down before he reached Sofia. There were no negotiations.”

“So much for the diplomatic option. How soon until the graf’s three hundred reach us?”

“Two days, sir.”

“Two days?”

“They are bringing in a pair of artillery pieces, sir.”

“They’ll be firing on the smoldering ruins of Vienna by then.”

“Surely not the entire city, sir . . .”

“Maybe more!” Von Graeb shouted, then immediately regretted losing his composure. He gained control of himself and started giving orders in a measured, if certain voice.

“We send out a squadron of cavalry to cross the enemy’s front in order to mask our numbers. That will slow them by at least a couple of hours as their generals discuss how to proceed next. Then all cannons to the front gate. They will have to thin out to surround us, no?”

“Correct, sir.”

“Then the three hundred reinforcements can provide some harassment to the enemy’s flanks and maybe provide us a narrow gauntlet for escape from the siege, should it come to that.”

“Let’s hope not, sir.”

“Let’s hope and plan, Herzog. The squadron will leave within the hour. They are only to nettle the enemy, not to fully engage, clear?”

“Clear, sir.”

“Very good. Tack my horse up. I want to be ready when the enemy arrives. But first I have someone to talk to. Lescher!”

Von Graeb’s assistant came out of the shadows.

“Major?”

“Lescher, you will meet me at the emperor’s residence as soon as my orders have been issued.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And, Lescher?”

“Yes, Major.”

“I want those orders given with exactness. You will not influence Sergeant Herzog on the matter. Any deviation, and I’ll have you sent to the front, if I have to drive you there myself. Understood?”

Lescher shrank. “Very well, sir.”

I cannot live on patriotism forever
, thought Bohren.
My body can’t keep up with my convictions.

He lifted his foot off the ground and tried to rotate it, but the shattered ankle had healed funny, and he could only make a circular motion from the knee, like some drunken Russian dancer whose movements made a mockery of his age. He recalled with irony how he had awoken on the trail to the Serb’s castle amidst a mud-pit of bootprints, in utter agony. His ribs, hand, and ankle had been broken in his deep sleep. As the the pain began to rush in, so did the villagers of Bozsok, trampling him a second time. This time, however, he was capable of shouting, which he did quite adamantly. The villagers were also more quiet on their return than they had been when they had originally stormed the Serb’s castle, quieted, Bohren surmised, by their own guilt at what they had done, though he felt that they had no reason for remorse at having eliminated a foreigner of suspicious motivation and intent.

Now some of those same villagers stood ready not to drive another out, but prepared to keep from being themselves driven away by foreign invaders.

The Turks were approaching, though they were not sure of the invading enemy’s numbers. The villagers of Bozsok capable of fighting numbered under a hundred. A few soldiers, recently garrisoned there by Major Felix Von Graeb, held the majority of the force’s firepower. Twenty soldiers, well-armed with muskets and sabers, took up positions on the leeward side of the mountains leading up to Bozsok from the southeast. Of the villagers, a dozen or so had firearms available to them. They had, in fact, been loath to let the imperial forces know that they held so many, but as the
magnitude of the crisis became clearer, the villagers came clean and submitted to the soldiers’ pleas to “fall in.” Bohren was given charge as a provisional commander of the militia, having proven an adequate leader of the people in times past.

For the first time, he felt inadequate to the task. Thirteen old, inaccurate blunderbuss rifles, eighty pitchforks and makeshift lances, not a proper sword among them outside of the old saber that Bohren now used as a crutch. This, plus twenty trained soldiers, none of who were under his command, hastily scrabbled together but not really together since the sergeant-at-arms refused to coordinate his efforts with Bohren’s; this ragtag militia was to defend the mountain village from an unknown number of Ottoman foot soldiers.

Well, they had faced these circumstances before, but not for a generation. In times past the roughness of the terrain had slowed the enemy advance long enough for help to arrive, but the sergeant wasn’t forthcoming regarding information on when to expect reinforcements or on how many men to expect. When pressed on the issue, the sergeant went silent, which did nothing to reassure Bohren or the other villagers, all of whom waited with grim resolve to defend their village or die trying. They knew that it was likely they would do both.

The morning sky was cloudy, which was good. Their numbers would be hidden, and they needn’t worry about the sun’s glare capriciously blinding them and spoiling their aim. If they were lucky, it might even rain, forcing the enemy to charge uphill on a slippery mud slope. Bohren silently prayed for the rain to come. They would need all the help they could get.

The rain came, but only as a quick misting, enough to drip down cold and discomfiting from the forest canopy, but barely enough to dampen the ground. It would do little to stop the advancing Turks.

As the noise of the rain quieted down, another sound arose from the slopes below. It had its own rhythm, more regular than the uneven rain: the steady beat of marching footsteps kept in cadence by more than one officer who counted their footsteps off in Turkish: “
Bir! Iki! Üç!
” The jangle of bandoliers and scimitar hangers clattered up the mountainside, closer and closer, growing
louder with each moment. And with each step of the march, Bozsok’s militia became more aware of its precarious situation. The sergeant-at-arms, who had taken up a forward position behind a large embankment with a platoon of his troops, looked back uphill at Bohren. The soldier shook his head, his face grim, resigned to fate, ready to die a warrior’s death, but without any false hopes of victory this day.

Bohren understood why. His ears betrayed to him the same circumstance that the sergeant could see directly as the Turks advanced. They were hopelessly outnumbered and hemmed in on three sides.

He drew his saber at nearly the same time as the sergeant. The enemy’s noise covered the sound of the slithering blades coming free from their scabbards.

The sergeant raised his saber, his men took aim, and the sun glinted through the breaking clouds as the troops of the Holy Roman Empire shot off their first, and possibly last volley. The musket-smoke cloud obstructed the view of the enemy lines, but the eruption of battle cries and gunfire was conclusive.

Bohren wouldn’t be troubled by his bad ankle for long.

C
HAPTER
25

“I
remember you,” a voice says.

Pomp remembers the voice. She cannot see anything, nor does she remember how she came to be in this darkness, but none of it matters as soon as she hears the voice.

“You are resilient,” Mowler says with a sense of perverse admiration. “You are strong. Therefore, I shall be saving you for a special sacrifice.”

The jar thuds down onto a tabletop, Pomp guesses, unable as she is to see beyond the bag in which she is wrapped. Vertigo overtakes her as the jar falls on its side, spins, rolls. She hardly knows which way is up.