Having served in the most perilous places of the world, Michal Vielholskiy was a legend among the Legionnaires. While suffering from malaria among other things, he was one of the first to storm the capital of Madagascar – Antananarivo – and, as part of the Second Foreign Regiment, wading up to his knees in blood, took part in the Mandingo War and the destruction of the Wassoulou Empire. At night he was still haunted by nightmares from the Second Anglo-Boer War, which he fled alongside the General Cronjé Army, with the elite British imperial forces breathing down their neck. But how Michal wished he could go back to any of these places now, because there everything was crystal clear, while here...
Vielholskiy read the message for the third time, straining his eyes to look for, albeit unsuccessfully, a single comforting aspect... The crumpled paper flew to the ground, while he turned round to face his men and bellowed, “Legionnaires! Get ready for confrontation!”
The Town Hall guards spread their legs apart, their glove-clad hands clutching heavy batons. Their pistols remained in their holsters.
Michal Vielholskiy raised his fist in the air. All the surrounding roofs were taken by snipers and gunners ready to use the portable cannons that were the pride and joy of Steam City’s armoury, shooting streams of water and hot steam. The men acknowledged his command with their fists above their heads, signalling their readiness for battle.
Vielholskiy lowered his face guard and froze in anticipation of collision, of which, as he had admitted to himself, he was terrified.
With a feeling of heavy tension in the air, the dawdlers lingering about suddenly found it prudent to desert the Town Square. They did not go far though, only to the safe haven of the nearest alleyway, from which they strained their heads, eagerly waiting for events outside the Town Hall to unfold. All they wanted out of this spectacle was a chance to boast to their friends and family: I saw everything with my own two eyes as I was there. And just by sheer luck I managed to escape unhurt.”
“And Basilisk shuffled back down into the cellars in search of yet another victim, the look of his eyes so chilling that everyone who was touched by it was turned to stone. People attempted to fight him by hurling bunches of rue into his cellars and waving their stalwart swords at him, each being defeated like the one who came before him. Whenever a trooper looked him in the eye, he was left as nothing but a piece of rock,” old Efraim rambled on, sitting comfortably at the foot of St Johns’ Church. Four rows of spectators were so entranced by his horribly mesmerising story that they all flinched each time a poor soul was turned to stone. “But one day came a young lad, who climbed down into the underground without a sward or a halberd, nothing but a tiny mirror in his hand. And he marched down to meet the killer Basilisk...” the shoesmith continued.
“And what next, what happened next?” impetuous voices urged. Efraim gave a cough and was about to carry on with his story about the lad armed with a mirror, but was suddenly cut short.
The pilot of the reconnaissance dirigible The Svarnas took another moment to check its intended course, before manoeuvring the little airship into a position suspended above Vilnius convenient for observing the flowing streams of people. One torrent was carrying people along St George’s Avenue, in the direction of Lukiskes and the exhibition, while in the vicinity of Green Bridge the street was consumed by a mad whirlpool. Not a single vacant space was left in the spectator stand or on the embankment. Several quickwits took a boat ride to the middle of the Neris, only to be caught and chased back to the bank by a patrol steamship.
The Svarnas patrols also took care not to avert their eyes from another tributary of the river of people, flowing up along Pilies Street and into the Town Hall Square. There was no pushing and shoving in that flock, no stepping on the neighbour’s feet either. Passers-by walking in the opposite direction gave way to this crowd, hurriedly pressing their backs against the building walls or slipping into side streets, their curious eyes unable to leave the marching formation. No one could deny it was a special sight.
The crowd was made up exclusively of women. Old and young. Pregnant and pulling one or two children behind them by the hand, some of them cradling a third infant in their arms. These were the daughters, wives and mothers of Vilnius, who had poured out into the streets to demand what they were entitled to. They were not going to back off.
The flaming eyes and anxious gazes. Faces exhausted following a sleepless night and lips pressed tightly together. A perilous barrel of heated gunpowder.
The front of the formation was marked with a large banner, demanding Work, Bread, Justice, while dotted throughout the crowd were other smaller placards, calling for an increase in wages, benefits and jobs, as well as white flags with St Christopher carrying baby Jesus across a river blowing in the wind. Dozens of babies in their mothers’ arms looked as if they had just stepped down from Holy paintings. Older children held their heads up high and carried red balloons bobbing in the air, given to them as presents.
As the women’s group was walking past St Johns’ bell tower, a better part of the children listening to the fable about Basilisk and the lad with the mirror were made to tear their eyes away from the storyteller and, even if very reluctantly, join their marching mothers, who beckoned and even shook fingers in their faces.
Efraim only shrugged his shoulders, considered for a moment, then followed behind the crowd, intending to see what it was all about. While the women continued marching uphill, straight into the Town Square.
Over his shoulder The Svarnas pilot yelled a short command to the signaller, who immediately started tapping on the keys of the wireless, his action resulting in a courier delivering a second message to Michal Vielholskiy in the shortest time possible. But the Lieutenant no longer needed to be told what was going on. The Pole made a dismissive gesture with his hand and gave a heavy sigh.
The instigator Misha Suslov was sitting on one of the window seats in Baltasis Stralis and, oblivious to the fussing Legionnaires at the other end of the cafe, was sipping strong Indian tea. When the marching women – a crowd of tired faces – came into his view, for a moment he sat there as before, waiting for the last demonstrator to march by the window. Then, a smug expression on his face, he stood up and tossed a 10-copeck coin on the table. He left the cafe and loped along, keeping a safe distance behind the demonstrators.
“Whatever money can’t do, obscene money can,” he mumbled under his breath with a faint smile.
Jadvyga had done a brilliant job, no one could wish for more. The women had been brought from all over the place – from Vilnius as well as the surrounding areas – and they came with children; besides, Suslov’s top men – seasoned rioters, who had been assigned a special task for once they got to the Town Square – had managed to immerse themselves in the crowd in a timely and opportune manner. Now they were preoccupied with chanting slogans and clutching the tiny hands of little beggars who, following a meticulous scrub, had been brought over from the Troubles, Paplauja and New World.
Suslov smacked his lips at the thought of things going so well. He certainly would not wish to put himself in the shoes of the Vilnius Legion now. As far as he was concerned they could cover the rooves with all their armoury’s artillery, it wouldn’t change a thing. If the Legionnaires decided to use violence against women at the time of the Summit, Vilnius would be darkened by a very ominous cloud – so dark that it would make the skies of the entire Alliance leaden. And if they allowed the protesters inside the Town Hall and their petition got into the hands of the Summit leaders, Suslov’s rioters would be there as well. Bloodshed would be inevitable, causing Vilnius much harm. The Legion had stumbled into a deadend situation. Even more so, because the only person who might be able to find a way out – Legate of Vilnius Sidabras – had been thrown out of the game.
The front rows of protesters reached the area just outside the Town Hall Square and stopped. They were soon surrounded by a mob of other women, placards and flags in their hands.
Every window in the f
acing the Square surrounding buildings was filled with curious faces, and all the back alleys and gateways teemed with nosy characters – at full readiness to leave any minute but by no means willing to miss out on any entertaining scenes.
The positions next to the line of Legionnaires drawn up abreast of each other were taken by the fearless newspaper and foreign news agency photo picture takers. The Truth of Vilnius photographer cast an unfavourable glance at his rival from The Vilnius News and, as if by accident, elbowed him in the side while turning.
With his eyes closed Michal Vielholskiy, summoned all his strength to imagine something pleasant – something like the Wassoulou savages running at him with their poisoned hatchets swinging in the air.
Inside the Town Hall, Russian Foreign Minister Vladimir Lamsdorf clicked up the lid of his pocket watch and glimpsed at its face, before getting up to stretch his legs. As if by accident he pulled back the curtain, which had been completely drawn to protect the VIP guests from the glaring sun, creating a small gap in it.
“But what is happening here, my dears?” he gasped in a theatrical style, his eyes fixed on the Town Hall Square.
It was already swarming with demonstrators in its entirety. The signaller of The Svarnas, now hanging suspended above the Square, was hurriedly relaying messages to other patrols in the city.
Suddenly all became quiet – one could have heard a pin drop. The tension in the air was so thick that even the whining children in the crowd hushed. The front rows of the women’s flank began shuffling on their feet but had still not gathered enough courage for the advance toward the Town Hall. The majority of the women would occasionally cast a fearful glance at the cannons on the rooves and the Legionnaires drawn up abreast of each other.
Concealed behind the women’s backs Jadvyga bit her lip until it bled – everything had been arranged, a gathering momentum had been gained, all that was left now was the final step. Were these proletarian hens going to run scared now?
Like a shadow Suslov sneaked into the square. He froze in anticipation, feeling his heart go wild.
“Come on,” Jadvyga bent over and whispered, before pushing several women standing at the front. “Come on, girls. Get your kids and let’s go. They won’t hurt us.”
Maybe her slight push, or maybe the word “us” that she had used, woke the protesters from their numbness. “Work, bread, justice!” – quiet at first, voices gradually became stronger and louder.
The formation advanced. It was headed by three protesters in shabby clothes, a young child next to each of their hearts. In fact, they had nothing to do with the workers, and the children they held were not their own, but no one but themselves and Jadvyga needed to know that. She would have never dared to expose genuine Vilnius residents in the lead.
“Work, bread, justice!” chanted the crowd.
When a few dozen steps was all that separated the marchers from the line of Legionnaires, the three leaders put their arms in the air to stop the formation, before advancing a few steps forward by themselves.
“In the name of all the Vilnius women and mothers,” one of the leaders spoke in a shrill voice. “We demand that you allow us inside the Town Hall to meet with members of the Summit. We wish to enlighten them as to instances of gross injustice in the city, tell them about the impoverished, unemployed and starving people. About the gentlemen who make their money at our expense and who don’t give a damn about our children crying at night. About the rich who buy carriages and automatons, while our husbands are pushed out into the street. We want to look them in the eye and tell them the truth. Just that. Let us inside the Town Hall!”
It was a brilliant speech. Well-rehearsed and delivered by a true professional. The crowd began to cheer for her, flying flags and swinging placards in the air, children shooting their balloons high up in the sky. A few passers-by could not resist being enticed into the game either.
Lt. Vielholskiy knew he had lost the battle before he even spoke. He put a mechanical howler to his mouth.
“Citizens of Vilnius!” Michal’s metal-tinged voice, amplified by the howler, resounded across the square. “The Town Council has not issued a permit for a demonstration in the Town Hall Square. You have breached the rules of appropriate behaviour in the city streets, as set by the Public Order Councillor. I prohibit you from entering the Town Hall. I ask you to disperse and enjoy the celebrations in peace.”
“How can we enjoy anything, you scum, when our children run around barefoot?!” a person in the middle of the crowd bellowed.
Jadvyga gave a smug nod. The women seemed to have warmed up. Agitators alone won’t cause a revolution.
“Please disperse, panowie[39], or Vilnius Legion will have to use force,” the distressed Michal would not let it go. “We don’t want to...“
“Shame! Shame! Shame!” the crowd exploded.
A rock, flung by an invisible hand clinkered against the Legionnaire’s shield before dropping to the ground. Then another, and yet another again.
“Let’s go!” Jadvyga whispered to the back of someone’s head.
“Let’s go!” Suslov encouraged the women in his head.
“Let’s go mothers! They must hear us out!” the shrill voiced speaker at the front of the crowd yelled. “To the Town Hall!”
“To the Town Hall!” the choir intoned in return, the crowd – like a flood – slowly and persistently forging its way ahead.
Vielholskiy put his black-gloved fist in the air. The Legionnaires tensed, the gunmen on the roofs shuffled. The crowd paused, but only for a moment, no longer than a blink of an eye.
“Let’s go!” Jadvyga hissed. “Let’s go! Will you make a move, please?”
The women proceeded again with children by their side.
Between them and the Legionnaires there were no more than five steps.
Suslov’s eyes darted around the crowd, trying to spot his men. They had been ordered to make their way into the Town Hall at the first sign of the collapse of the Legion’s steely screen.
Vielholskiy’s glove clad fist froze in the air and then trembled, and...
Much later, sitting in one of the Legionnaires’ favourite inns, Michal Vielholskiy would tell his brothers-in-arms that up until the very last second he still didn’t know what he was going to do. But he did say a short prayer to Divine Providence. In a way it had helped.
So the glove-clad fist froze in the air and then trembled, and...
The drone of a trumpet filled the air.
Its crystal clear sound darted across the Town Hall Square like an arrow. The women stopped dead in their tracks. Michal’s fist stayed where it was. Everyone’s heads turned in the direction of the sound.
The Svarnas pilot abruptly dashed to the other side of the dirigible, nearly falling over as the side of the gondola dipped.
Suslov’s mouth gaped – he could not believe his eyes.
A compact, orderly procession of men was moving from St Casimier’s Church in the direction of the Town Hall. Oblivious to the heat they were dressed in long black gowns, their bald heads shining with sweat, their necks adorned with heavy white iron crosses, which could also be used as weapons if the need arose. Their gaze fixed straight ahead of them, the stony-faced men marched along, striking the ground with their feet.
The Knights of the Cathedral.
Prelate Masalskis was the first to step on to the cobblestones of the square. A few steps behind him followed two trumpeters, their instruments pressed to their lips, while the rest of the knights fanned out behind their leader, resembling the black wing of a crow.
At the bottom of the Town Hall steps, Prelate Masalskis, eyebrows furrowed, slowly moved his head from one side to the other, scrutinising the crowd. He then swiftly moved to the centre of the square, flapped the sides of his black robe a few times and turned to face the leaders of the women’s march.
He suddenly raised his hand into the air and all thought they saw it burst into flames. The ladies at the front screamed and cowe
red back, the children began to squeal with fright. And only the gawkers standing nearest to him were able to see that he was holding a rosary wrapped around his fist with a Crucifix and a massive precious stone glinting in the sun.
“Go!” the Prelate howled. “Elbow your way inside the Town Hall. I am addressing those who do not trust in God. Elbow your way in, those who know better than Him for whom they are destined. Go like a herd, stomping on everything on your way.” He paused to cast another glance over the crowd. “Have you forgotten what the Gospel according to Matthew says? Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
Therefore do not agonise and do not ask: ‘What are we going to eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear?’ Pagans pray for these things. Doesn’t your Heavenly Father know that you need all that?” – the Prelate’s voice grew stronger and stronger, until it reached a crescendo. He took a deep breath and pointed his finger at the children.
“Why did you bring them here? Why did you come here yourselves? The Lord will punish the guilty, and then they shall gnash their teeth! You belong in churches. Righteous in the eyes of God are not the instigators and breachers of the Law but its executors. So go with God. The heat and the Pharisees muddled your minds, so go to St Casimier’s Church and quench your thirst with a drop of pure water, refresh your confused souls with a heart-felt prayer.” With the last words of his speech, the Prelate slowly raised his hand in the air, and once again it sparked in the rays of light.
For a moment the mob remained dumbfounded, gaping, faces frozen. Then a wave travelled through the crowd and all its members began to career out of the square. Women grabbed their children’s hands and pushed and shoved among themselves, before disappearing into the surrounding streets. Some of them obediently hurried to St Casimier’s, as they had been ordered.
Hour of the Wolf Page 39