by J. R. Rain
I scowled playfully. “The right thing to do? As in two unmarried people pretending to be otherwise? It’s wonderful, but...”
Hannah shushed me, shaking her head. She rolled onto her back, wearing an impish smile, her head resting on my chest. She looked into my face and sighed. “Don’t you ever have the feeling that you need to do something, Allan, before the moment passes? A feeling so strong that you can’t ignore it? And you know it will be important in your life, even if you don’t yet understand why or how? That’s why I came to you last night.”
It was a new perspective for me to consider… I knew the instincts I trusted as a soldier, as a sharpshooter, but I had never thought about any of it. Then again, I had made my fair share of mistakes, although I certainly hoped she didn’t see me as a mistake.
We lay in each other’s arms for a while yet, until the train stopped again. I eased away from her warm embrace and slid open one of the curtains far enough to peer through it. The sign on the platform read Munich. I checked my watch and found it was seven o’clock. We would be stationary for at least half an hour for water and fuel to be loaded. I sat on the bed and laid a hand on her own bare hip. Hers, mercifully, was smooth and perfect.
“I’m going for a bit of a walk. Do you care to join me?”
She shook her head and reclined in the bed. I pulled on my trousers and boots and grabbed my shirt and moleskin coat.
Baron von Duba was smoking a pipe on the platform. He turned to me, raising a bushy brow. “My wife does not care for tobacco smoke… says it gives her a headache. So, I must smoke anywhere but in our own little palace on the railways.”
The baron came to stand beside me, lowering his voice.
“You had a very enjoyable night,” he continued. “My wife is not very happy this morning. She complained about the noise from ‘those newly wedded blemishes on decent society.’” He grinned. “I, on the other hand, do not mind the sound of young people doing what the frigid witch has not allowed me to do with her for years.”
I chuckled, finding myself drawn to the baron’s jovial and forthright personality. “I hope we did not inconvenience you too much.”
The baron laughed and shook his head. “My good man, you did not!”
“Nevertheless, I apologize, in particular, to your wife,” I said with a smile, ready now to change the subject. After all, gentlemen did not discuss affairs of the bedroom, at least, not to new acquaintances. Meanwhile, I shivered. My grandmother had once said such sudden shivers occurred when a goose walked over one’s grave. And what of the hair standing on end on the back of my neck? Goose, be damned. I knew what such indicators meant.
I spun around in time to see a man—a short man sporting a bowler hat and a well-tailored white dinner jacket—duck away. He disappeared into the station building.
“Anything wrong?” the baron asked.
“No,” I said softly. “But if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on something.”
I dashed to the station building, checking the hall, the restaurant and the lines in front of the ticket office. But the man was nowhere to be found. Then again, it wouldn’t have taken much to ditch the hat and jacket and blend in. Grumbling, I slowly walked back to the platform and over again to the baron. As the baron launched into a rambling account of his own time in the military, I found myself distracted and scanning the platform. Only a few porters and conductors were about, and none seemed suspicious.
Finally, I excused myself and returned to Hannah, who was now asleep. Careful not to wake her, I retrieved the book I had purchased in Paris from my duffel and sat in our compartment’s lone chair.
My Latin was rusty, but with some effort, I managed to read the book. I had studied the language in grammar school, as with Greek. But I had enjoyed Latin the most, preferring the classics. I thumbed through the book now, comparing it to the notes in Dr. Byrd’s journal.
I read until the steward knocked on the door, where I quietly made arrangements for our breakfast in an hour in our compartment. Then I returned to the book and the notes. Minutes later, I was so engrossed that I failed to notice Hannah had awakened. She looked at me with sleepy, yet hungry eyes. She was leaning on her elbow and resting her head on her hand.
“What are you reading?”
“The book I bought in Paris,” I answered. “Sorry. I thought to let you sleep.”
“I’m awake now. What’s the book about?”
“The life and death of Justinian.”
She frowned. “Why are you reading that? I thought Constantine was the one who found the Lance?”
I held up her father’s journal. “According to this, yes. After Constantine went to all the work of uniting the Empire, his sons later divided it into three parts upon his death. After their own deaths, the dynasty was carried on by some of their generals. The Valentinian Dynasty took over from there, but after that, the Empire never united again. Slowly, the Roman Empire began to disintegrate. Both the Western and Eastern facets came under pressure and the entire empire crumbled shortly thereafter. None of the emperors or generals stand out. Except for one.”
Hannah eyed me curiously. Surely, she studied history, but her knowledge was of art history and symbolism, not of tactics, warfare and politics.
Now, I waved the book. “Justinian the Great. He made several campaigns, even re-conquering parts of the fallen Western half of the Empire. He was a skilled bureaucrat and a patron of the arts and architecture. He was later buried in the Church of the Holy Apostles, which he had rebuilt. He was truly the last Latin Emperor; all Eastern Emperors after him spoke Greek. He was supremely interested in Roman history, in theology, and the study of law. And his generals were highly successful. So, I asked myself: Was there any clue that Justinian the Great held the Lance as well?”
I could tell Hannah was highly interested in that.
“And is there such a clue?” she asked, nearly breathless.
“I don’t know yet.” I tapped the book with my index finger. “I haven’t gotten that far.”
A sudden knock on the door ended the discussion. After allowing her to dress, I let the steward into the compartment with our breakfast tray containing two glasses of orange juice, boiled eggs, ham, cheese, a small bowl of strawberry jam, freshly baked bread that had been loaded on board in Munich and a pot of tea. The young man helped us collapse the beds, converting the bottom one into a bench. Although my rifle was now out of reach, I still had the derringer resting inside the shoulder holster, hidden now under my jacket, itself thrown over the back of the chair. The steward erected the small table in the compartment and placed the tray on it.
“Guten Appetit,” he wished us.
Hannah tied up her hair and then, with a cheeky wink, she threw off her robe again. She took my breath away… not just her body, but her bold attitude. Her vivaciousness and impulsive nature intrigued me to no end.
She pulled out some pillows and piled them on the bench, then reclined on the bench in the Roman style. For now, I resisted the bait and took the lone chair. It was a breakfast full of tension. A breakfast made exciting and uncomfortable by Hannah’s flirting and seduction. Every little shift of her body was a temptation to ravish her all over again. We tried to talk about our respective lives, but I constantly felt foolish, knowing I sounded like an idiot, halting and stuttering with nearly every sentence. I wondered if that was something left over from the war, or if I was just unable to focus on any topic but her.
After breakfast, she expelled me from the compartment and requested hot water from the steward so she could wash. I took my books and headed for the restaurant carriage. The baron and his wife were there, but I decided not to interrupt their breakfast.
The three Americans were there as well. They sat around a table talking in hushed tones. For the first time, I noticed the two burlier men were military. Their backs were straight and even, leaning into the conversation with their chins up and shoulders back. Their slight companion didn’t hold himself quite in the sa
me manner. He lounged in his seat, his movements fluid as he explained something in a lively manner. Oddly, it seemed as if he were the one giving the other two some orders.
I settled into the same chair I’d sat in the night before, opening the books again. My theories on Justinian were based on an educated guess, nothing more. But I felt certain that I would be proven right. I also knew the Holy Lance could not be in Justinian’s tomb. After all, it had been raided by the Crusaders, making it highly unlikely they left an important relic like that in his mausoleum. If the legends were true, one of the lances in the museums of Venice or Vienna would likely be the true spear. If Hitler chased it because of the legend, he surely would have tried his luck with those first when he had held control of Austria. Mussolini was also a candidate.
For me, the important question was whether or not the lance had ever been in the possession of Justinian. Armed with that knowledge, I could possibly trace its course through history. I leafed through the pages and soon after, sighed. Admittedly, my mind was not on archaic relics, as it remained on the train compartment I’d recently left. Blasted women and their soft curves. Just as I prepared to close the book, a phrase jumped out at me:
Militariae militum mortuosum.
It brought a relieved smile and I tore a piece from yesterday’s Times left on the table to use as a bookmark. Hannah appeared just as I finally closed the book.
“What are you smiling about, Allan?” She sashayed into the carriage and kissed me before sitting down. I noticed the instant grin she conjured on the baron’s face. One of the burly Americans was the very image of jealousy, and the slight man looked on in disgust. I decided I didn’t like him very much. Hell with the whole lot of them.
Meanwhile, I leaned closer to her.
“...militariae militum mortuosum.” I repeated. “Just found those words in this book.”
“What do they mean?”
“The deeds of the army of the dead,” I replied.
“You did just say army of the dead?”
I nodded and snapped open the book again at the bookmark. I read the passage aloud, although in hushed tones, translating the Latin phrases as I went:
“The deeds of the army of the dead were amongst the greatest the Empire had seen and it was this army that caused the recapture of the Vandal Kingdom. The army summoned by the Emperor, at divine command, was led by the great general, Belisarius, who, wielding his lance, rode at the head of the heavy cavalry of the Emperor’s armies. With brandished lance, given to him by the Emperor, the infantry rose from the earth like the ghosts of the brave Carthaginians, those who had fallen under the sandals of the Roman legions. As sure as the dawn breaks, they destroyed the barbarians utterly, for the glory of the Emperor.”
“But Allan... what does this mean? I am confused.”
“As am I. Taken at face value...”
“Taken at face value, it sounds as if an army of the dead had been raised.” She whispered, “Incarnate.”
“Yeah,” I said, frowning. “That.”
A sudden crash in the adjoining carriage drew our attention. I hastily closed the book and shoved it inside my jacket and strode off to where the noise originated. I was not very surprised to see that our compartment door was now standing open. At the far end of the carriage, I saw a man dash between an elderly couple, nearly knocking them over, and slip into the next car. I frowned, and reached under my waistcoat, drawing the derringer. I stepped inside the compartment, noting the lock had been ripped clean from the frame, leaving wood splinters everywhere. The contents of my duffel bag were on the floor, and Hannah’s suitcase had been emptied as well. Nothing else had been touched. Then again, we didn’t have much else, either.
The slight American came in behind me to have a look. “I know who did this,” he announced. I turned and arched an eyebrow. After all, I had seen the escaping man slip into the next carriage, and doubted the slim American had seen the same.
Still, I followed him back into the dining car, advising Hannah to stay next to me, sensing that something bigger than our broken-into compartment was afoot here. The American gave a nod to the two bigger men with him. One slipped away and returned almost immediately with, of all people, the baron.
“I demand that you release me at once!” sputtered the older man.
I stepped forward and felt Hannah’s hand on my hip, holding me back. She was right in that sense. I needed more information before I reacted. Still, I did not like seeing my new friend the baron treated in such manner.
“And where were you, Nazi scum?” asked the slender man.
I raised my eyebrows at the accusations, partly because this was news to me, and partly because of the venom that veritably dripped from the man’s words.
“What the devil are you talking about?” Baron von Duba said. He seemed as perplexed as I, and as he struggled against the bigger man, a bone-crunching blow was leveled upside his head. The baron’s knees buckled and he would have crumpled if not for a big guy holding him up. The big guy who had decked him.
I’d seen enough, and Hannah apparently had, too. Others in the dining car had given us space, backing off. Probably a good idea. I stepped forward and, without breaking stride, leveled a heavy punch under the eye socket to one of the big Americans. The punch had been one of my better ones in recent years, I’m proud to say. The American’s head snapped back and he did, in fact, crumple. Next, a chop with the side of my hand, and I had broken the baron free of his captor’s grasp.
“There will be none of that here,” I said, although I hadn’t a clue what that was.
The slight man stepped between myself and the large American presently holding his smarting hand. “The baron is under arrest and will be brought to justice for the war crimes he committed.”
“I do not know what he is talking about!” protested the baron.
“Who are you and why are you treating this poor man as such?” I asked.
“He is a Nazi war criminal,” said the leader evenly. “Not to mention, he is your burglar.”
I laughed, although it might have been more of a chortle. Surely, my expression reflected my incredulity. “You’ve got to be joking. He was right here just moments before that break in.”
“On the contrary, we witnessed him disappearing just before. And then, just now he came back as you chased him away from the scene of his crime.”
“I was in the commode,” said the accused baron, nearly chuckling.
The American who had been on the wrong end of my near-perfect punch finally found his feet, albeit a little woozily. He held his eye. “Filthy Nazi scum.”
“Never!” said the baron, his amusement fleeing in an instant. “I was the captain of a ship.”
“You were the captain of a ship that bombarded innocent people,” said the leader of the trio, speaking crisply, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket, keenly aware that we had made quite the spectacle. “And you will stand trial for your crimes.”
“I did nothing but follow orders,” said the baron. “So, to hell with you.”
One of the heavies lunged at him, and I stepped forward, cracking him above the brow with the meaty side of my elbow. This man dropped to a knee and held what was obviously a broken nose. I’d already removed the derringer and had it pointing at the slender man, even as the big fellow on the ground shook his head and found his feet.
I looked at the slender man. “Who are you and why are you here? And if your friend continues reaching inside his jacket, you will be the first to die.”
The man raised a finger. His friend’s hand paused.
“Remove it slowly,” I said.
He did so.
“Good boy. Now raise your hands, all of you.”
They did as they were told. “Now, you were about to tell me who the hell you are.”
“We are Israeli members of an elite squad. We find Nazis and bring them to justice.”
“You have an American accent.”
“I was born in New York
.”
“What’s your name?”
“Isaac Goldstein.”
“Where do you live now?”
“Tel Aviv.”
I glanced at the baron. “What say you?”
The older man rubbed the back of his head. “I’m not a Nazi. Never was, never will be. I was told to fight for the Nazis, or my family would be disposed of. Before that, I fought for the emperor, who was also a foreigner to us. I have fought my whole life for people other than my own because if I did not, my own people would suffer for it. And a man from New York knows how it was in Europe for the last thirty years, does he?” asked the baron. “He knows what it was like to fight for a foreign lord and then be forced to serve another while your family is held hostage. And you decide that I am to face trial for that? Dear sir, I am Austrian. And I am only Austrian because I could no longer call myself Croatian.”
“Meanwhile,” I said, “there are real Nazis on this train. And I do not speak of the baron.”
“What do you mean?” asked Isaac, whipping his gaze around to mine.
“I speak of the chap who broke into our compartment. I spied him running off and believe I recognize him as the same bugger I’d met in Oxford, a bugger to whom I’d given a bloody nose… and now, he is here.”
***
Our room had been rendered inhabitable, thanks to the destruction of the door and doorframe.
And so, with the baron and his wife taking leave in Vienna, our next stop, they helped us move our things into their compartment. The baron seemed relieved to be gone from the train quickly, and I did not blame him. Accusations of war crimes had a way of souring a trip. He had thanked me a number of times already, although I knew the Israelis would pursue him and others like him to the ends of the earth. Under orders, we had all done things in war that we were not proud of. The baron may very well have his time in court.
Now, as I once again hid the revolver and the rifle—with the baron and his wife watching me—the older man nodded. “You are wise to carry these with you, given that you seem to be followed. You are not on your honeymoon, though, are you?”