“Visibility seventy five, air passage clear,” he turned back to inform his crew. “I can’t see what all this fuss is about,” he muttered out before bending over the binoculars again. “Big deal, yet another airship arriving...”
He never finished the sentence. With incredulity written all over his face and his eyebrows furrowed, he leaned back and then went straight for the binoculars again.
When talking about air cruisers or frigates, balloonists are well aware that these air vessels look nothing like their namesakes in the sea. It was nothing more than a borrowed name. And so the flying fortress in the eye of Kmit’s mind was just a dirigible enhanced by German experts, now going by a different name. But he could not have been more wrong.
The flying fortress was indeed a flying fortress.
Four giant funnels spat out white smoke and greenish sparks – the remnants of promethelium. The massive hull, the size of a mountain ridge, covered with tiny port holes, was coated in black steel and dotted with cannons, like a hedgehog with needles. This giant was too heavy to be lifted by the power of the steam boilers alone; therefore propellers turned dementedly at its sides and rear. And above them there loomed... six... no, probably eight – Kmit lost count – large air floats. The jewel in this magnificent crown was the captain’s bridge protruding at the front, shaped like the beak of an eagle – the coat of arms of the Kaiser’s Germany – with a yellow breitwimpel flying proudly in the wind above, bearing a black cross and the inscription Gott mit uns – God is with us.
The gaping mouths of residents acquired the shape of the letter O, while the more superstitious ones began making the sign of the cross in order to ward off the evil spirit which was now landing on their heads.
“Message from Parsifal!” yelled the signaller.
“Read,” barked Kmit, still in a state of deep shock.
“The Parsifal, the flying fortress of the German Kaiser and King of Prussia Wilhelm II, extends its greetings to the free city of Vilnius, and requests permission to land,” the signaller was talking nineteen to the dozen.
“How are they intending to land?” asked Kmit, adding a stronger word for emphasis. “They will tear all of Viscigavas down.” This statement was accompanied by an additional word even stronger than the first.
“Your airship port is too small for us to land, and for that reason we shall not be landing here,” The Parsifal reported. “We shall allow our delegation to disembark for the Summit and shall get the ship airborne again. We request the Tower to provide us with an air corridor and the landing coordinates.”
The Navigators’ Tower soon lit the sky with multi-coloured command lights. Having dispatched its reply, the enormous flying fortress came to a stop hanging in the air above Viscigavas. In his thoughts, Kmit thanked the Direction Councillor for taking care of clearing the entire Vilnius air space.
Strange things happened on the hill besides Viscigavas: children screamed and women gracefully fainted, while men, their fingers trembling with fright, rolled smokes. Everyone stared at the monster suspended above their heads, no one daring to leave. Their curiosity was stronger than their fright.
With the hatches open in the lower part of Parsifal, two enclosed platforms, held by chains of impressive proportions, were pushed out by powerful mechanical screw pinions. Just above the ground the platforms paused and the doors opened, releasing stairs with a hissing sound. First to descend the steps were several uniformed men of Herculean build, followed by members of the German delegation for the Summit, and its main figure: Prussian Minister of War Karl von Einem. With both feet on the ground, the Minister paused and looked around slowly, as if drinking in the impression that The Parsifal had left on the people. The meeting officers and the squad of Legionnaires responsible for the safety of the guests were on their way to greet the new arrivals.
The stairs were retracted inside the platforms, which were pulled back into the innards of the flying fortress. The Parsifal, exchanging volleys of light signals with The Navigators’ Tower, and puffing out clouds of smoke, ascended into the air and hung over the outskirts of Vilnius, away from Viscigavas Port.
The crowds on the hill and in the streets began to thin out. Some onlookers made their way to cafes and inns where they would continue to discuss the miracle they had just witnessed; others strolled to the Gardens of Bernardines; while yet others packed around traders, savouring spiced hot wine and snacks, while they waited for the evening fun and games to hit the city.
Legate of Vilnius Antanas Sidabras, an exasperated expression on his face, turned his head left and right, trying to loosen the tight grip of the collar on his neck, before pulling at the cuffs of the tuxedo forced on him by the Town Hall Master of Ceremonies. Having satisfied himself that the landing as well as the consequent take-off of The Parsifal had gone smoothly and without any damage to the city, and that the Legionnaires had successfully set up wireless-equipped mobile posts in the hottest spots of town, Sidabras made his way to the nearest one, situated in the Baltasis Stralis cafe on Pilies Street, adjacent to University Dominium. The owners of this place did not mind the presence of Legionnaires in the slightest: quite on the contrary – they thought themselves quite fortunate to be afforded extra protection, as public merriment in the city would often end in fighting and the smashing of windows. The Truzzi Circus Company was giving a performance that evening, and the excited crowd poured to the tent to see fireeaters, horse riders, acrobats and even the half-naked Signora Kezzi lifting weights and even men! Sidabras allowed himself to be carried by the crowd as it flowed towards Cathedral Square, where the show was soon to begin. Finally reached the Baltasis Stralis cafe, Sidabras managed to free himself from the claws of the crowd and stepped inside. He nodded in greeting to the cashier, his eyes inspecting the little tables behind the long counter, covered with a number of Stralis cakes.
As soon as this post’s duty sergeant and signaller, leaning over one of the out-of-the-way tables, set eyes on their commander, they jumped up to salute him. Sidabras waved them off dismissively and sat down beside them. A minute later a waiter appeared by his side.
“Would you like anything, sir?”
“No, I’m all right...” Sidabras began but then changed his mind. “Double whisky. Neat,” he asked. He decided it would be a good idea to loosen up before the Summit banquet in the Town Hall, where he would inevitably have to listen to lifeless speeches given by boring men.
A few moments later the waiter had his drink ready and served. There was a golden rule that cafe and inn owners always tried to observe: the quicker you serve the men of the Legion, the faster they will come to your help when the need arises.
“You look smashing, Legate,” the duty sergeant complimented him on his attire. He was really trying hard not to smile.
“Another word and you’ll scrub the solitary confinement cells for three days, once the festivities are over,” Sidabras snarled in a good-natured way and took a sip of his single malt. “Any news?” he added. “Did I miss anything?”
The smile instantly disappeared from the sergeant’s face.
“There were no problems with The Parsifal landing and taking off again,” he reported. “The German delegation are getting settled in the hotel and the street trolleys are packed with people coming back from Viscigavas airship port. But it is all under control and in the hands of our men. The report from the post on Green Bridge says it is still quiet there.”
“I have just received a message from the post at Cathedral Square,” the signaller interrupted, his eyes fixed on the wireless. “The Knights of the Cathedral have gone wild.”
Sidabras frowned.
“What are they up to this time?” he asked in grim voice.
“They have encircled the Italian circus tent in Cathedral Square, and are urging people to stay away from the infidels’ lair; also, they are praying aloud and burning candles.”
“Are they obstructing people’s movement?”
The signaller shook his head.
“I don’t think they are. People are going around them. When they are given the choice of a half-naked, men-lifting lady or praying, they obviously go for the former.”
“No matter, then, let’s leave them alone. Tell the Cathedral post to be vigilant but avoid interfering, unless the knights cause an obstruction and prevent people from entering the circus.” Sidabras sighed.
“When will they realise that it’s been a while since the end of their beloved Middle Ages?”
“Understood,” replied the signaller, before concentrating on tapping the keys.
Sidabras took another sip of whisky. If only he had a double who could go to the banquet dressed in his tuxedo, while he stayed here on duty with his men.
“And that is not all,” Sidabras’ train of thought was cut short by the sergeant. “Just before you came we received a message from the Town Hall. In the square opposite...
“What?” Sidabras sounded baffled. “I have just been there. Yes, what is it?” his impatience was obvious.
“A few tramps have rolled resin-filled barrels into the square and set them on fire. Now they are threatening to have their own ball. People in the Town Hall are getting distressed as the guests will start gathering any moment now. They think trouble may ensue.”
“Here we go,” the thought dashed through Sidabras’ head. With his drink finished in one gulp, he banged the glass on the table and stormed out of the cafe, heading in the direction of Didzioji Street.
In the vicinity of the Town Hall he was approached by Lt. Vielholskiy with a concerned expression on his face, and two Legionnaires. The Lieutenant’s face was glaring evidence that things were not going well at all.
“I have no idea where they have come from,” he sounded really puzzled. Arms spread to the side in bafflement, he followed Sidabras, struggling to keep up with him. “It was all quiet, and then they suddenly started crawling like cockroaches from all over the place. They are now shuffling around their barrels, the rattles on their bodies causing a real racket in the square. And they’ve also brought half a pig along.”
Sidabras stopped.
“Half a pig?”
“Yes. They are threatening to roast it, then dance, sing and have fun. And it’s a full house – about fifty of those beggars. The guests are on their way. I was thinking, maybe we should form a safe corridor?”
“Just you wait, I shall form a corridor for them myself,” Sidabras said through gritted teeth, surveying Town Hall Square, which had just opened up before his eyes.
One corner of the square was taken up by four large metal barrels. Orange tongues of flames leapt from them, black smoke coiling around them. The spot next to the barrels had been taken up by an orchestra, its members swaying suspiciously from side to side: a porcine man pulling on a giant accordion, a skinny henchman accompanying him on the fiddle. Right next to them, dressed in rags, several dirty creatures pranced. Now and then they would pause to go to a small barrel – the only one not seized by the flames – and would take turns to use a single ladle to scoop up the liquid and pour it in their mouths. A safe distance from them stood a flock of city residents, warily ogling the strange lunatics. The bonfire in the middle of the square with half a pig on a spit hanging over it ready to be roasted was the thing that they found most amusing. Other guests of the ball were loitering around the bonfire.
Sidabras recognized one of the mugs right away. Girsa Sibukas was a parasite, tramp and scandalist, of whom the Legionnaires were sick to death. But the men around him were not familiar to Sidabras at all, nor did they look like beggars. Tall and muscular, their eyes darted around alertly. The sight of Sidabras and the accompanying Legionnaires coming into view made a few men sneer.
“Boss!” bellowed Sibukas, his arms wide open. His face and fingers were dirty and greasy. “What brilliant timing! Look at us – frying up some meat, dancing and making music, and not getting in any trouble whatsoever. The Summit is not an occasion exclusive to the rich. We paupers also want to have fun.”
With a brazen smile on his face, Sibukas shamelessly stuck out his tongue and licked his greasy fingers. He looked confident, knowing that the Legionnaires would do nothing to harm him. Possibly because the confrontation was being watched by a large group of spectators, and possibly because of the mysterious well-built men, standing behind the daredevil’s back.
All the Legionnaires’ eyes were on Sidabras, expectant of his instructions, but he didn’t say a word. He did not know how to act. Realising that made Sibukas fly even higher.
“Not causing any trouble, not breaching any laws,” he went on. “We will play and dance, take off our hats and bow to the guests, before each setting on our way.” He turned away to face his accomplices, traipsing around the flaming barrels. “Hey, Cipa!” he yelled. “Come over here, say hello to the boss.”
A pudgy lady, herself like a barrel, came floundering towards the Legionnaires, swaying from side to side. The fiddler and the accordionist strutted behind her, still playing along. Detecting the scent of a scandal in the air, the nosy spectators inched their way forward, and several photo picture cameras were raised above heads in the crowd.
“I would love to invite you over, dear bosses, for dinner.” Sibukas just wouldn’t let it go and was now pointing his finger at Sidabras’ tuxedo. “But I am afraid you may find the paupers’ offerings slightly inferior. Just like our floozies – not quite up to your standards, but good enough for us.” He put his arm around Cipa and winked at Sidabras, simultaneously releasing a loud burp. “We know, we know that the bosses’ hearts lean more towards the landed aristocrats. Or maybe merchants’ daughters, ha ha... from the almshouse. I wonder if the boss is aware that strange peckers have started to frequent her own cave. In fact, they have poked their little beaks in it so many times, that compared to them Cipa’s cave could be easily called unpopular, ha. But maybe the boss doesn’t mind...”
Sibukas did not get a chance to finish his sentence.
Already later, thinking back to the incident Sidabras understood that he knew right away that Sibukas was pushing his buttons in order to spark a conflict. He knew it but lost control anyway. It all added up. The red mist – that’s what mercenaries, who had been through fire and water before, called this thing, unanimous in their claims that it had never yet ended well for anyone. To withstand the red mist was very hard. Almost impossible.
The blow to Sibukas’ head made it snap to one side like a weathervane attacked by a sudden gust of wind. With his blood and saliva splashing around, the show-off looked unsteady on his feet, and then, following another blow, slumped down on the floor like a sack. Cipa screamed at the top of her voice and ran for her life, the accordionist ran behind, flinging his harmonica down to the ground as he ran.
But the fiddler decided to put up a brave front: he turned his instrument upside down and swung it toward the Legate. Sidabras brushed off the attack, and tore the fiddle out of the brave heart’s hands, before smashing it to smithereens against his back, causing the man to crash down alongside Sibukas. The latter made an attempt at getting up but the kick of a steel-capped boot to his mouth sent him back to the ground. It was the turn of the quiet fellows now, but one single glance from the furious Sidabras was enough for them to start backing off and soon disappear from the square altogether.
Screams and yells rolled over the pack of onlookers, magnesium flashes dazzling everyone’s eyes. As if by command, the beggars who had been loitering around the barrels pulled out knifes and rocks from their inside pockets and lunged at the Legionnaires, who responded by thrusting their heavy clubs at them. Then, accompanied by the shrill of the Legionnaires’ whistles, reinforcements from the Town Hall began to stream into the square. The paupers scattered into the crowd like scared chickens, dropping their rocks along the way. All that was left of them were the smoking barrels, half-roast pig and Sibukas and the fiddler stretched out on the ground.
Outraged at the Legionnaires’ cruelty, people shouted, but ther
e wasn’t a single loudmouth who dared come nearer, all of them choosing to remain in the safety of the crowd. A few quiet men mingling with the screamers did not go unnoticed by Sidabras. There came another bout of magnesium flashes and then somewhere in the distance resounded mechanical sirens, announcing the high officials’ journey to the Town Hall.
Sidabras took a deep breath before turning back to face his men. After staring at the Legate’s face for a few seconds, Vielholskiy’s eyes indicated towards the cuffs of his tuxedo. Stains – splashes of Sibukas’ blood – were clearly visible on them. That was what happens when one crosses the line. Sidabras was fully aware of this.
“Take these two to Sluskai,” Sidabras told his Legionnaires, while inspecting the organisers of the paupers’ ball now spread out on the cobblestones. “Make them explain their cruelty to animals,” he gesticulated over to the spit roast of half a pig. Looking at Michal Vielholskiy he then said, “Let’s go, Lieutenant. I hope my tuxedo fits you like a glove.” He smiled, nodding his head towards the Town Hall.
Encircled by his Councillors, the Burgomaster of Vilnius stood on the Town Hall stairs. Someone looking at him from a distance might have been reminded of a black raven, clutching at his heart.
Concluding that the show was over, the crowd took to the Old Town streets in search of other fun and games. The most curious folks packed the space outside the Town Hall, hoping to get a good look at the guests arriving for the banquet. The fire in the neglected barrels gradually died away in the half-empty square.
A steam stagecoach waited in a little alleyway behind the Town Hall. As soon as its passenger, who had watched the whole thing from behind the corner, convinced himself that the hired men had escaped safely, he clambered inside, lowered the curtain and reclined in his seat.
“What a good-value operation – only fifteen roubles” – the leader of the rioters Suslov could not contain his satisfaction. “The mercenaries’ brains have obviously overheated. In the game of chess, Vilnius has lost its rook. This should really please Emilia.”
Hour of the Wolf Page 32