Dark Wolves

by J A Deriu

  “They have encamped over the mountain borders. They will wait for the reinforcements of the empire to arrive. It will be a time measured in less than two Gregorian months. There will be a battle. We intend to meet the army when it comes.”

  “Two months,” Clavdia repeated.

  “Can you have your army ready in that time?”

  “The army will be ready, but it will be the logistics that will be the concern. There is a lot of territory.”

  “That will be accommodated, as you will have free passage through the kingdom and you will find our transport of the quality of the Egnatian Way itself.”

  “And what will this army of the Persians look like?”

  Uncertainty stood in his eyes for a moment. “They are conscripting … they will send reserves from every corner of their empire … the Nubians have promised one hundred thousand … the Arabs the same … there is no doubt it will be huge – the largest assembled on this continent for a century.”

  Clavdia looked at Miles. He stared blankly at Tulock.

  “Numbers do not matter when confronted with resolve,” the Abyssinian said. “We have not taken our actions without decree from the Gods. Yes, and I do say ‘Gods.’ We have jettisoned the Persian God that had been placed on us like a yoke and returned to our own Gods, which includes your Christ.” He completed a sign of the cross. “This is the last beginning. There won’t be another chance for rebellion.”

  “Then the Grand Master has made a wise bargain. We are here to assist you in your destiny of freedom from the Persian tyranny.”

  “And we to assist you Templars in your destiny. You will have the passage you desire,” he said with a flourish of his arms, as though an orator.

  She walked with Miles back to the camp. They did not speak until they were past the archway.

  “Your thoughts, Captain?” she asked, looking ahead to the camp, which had tents on a barren slope, stretching to fall over the other side. It was raining in thick, warm droplets, getting heavier as they walked.

  “Hmm. Lord Commander, I don’t trust them.”

  “You are starting to sound like Richord.”

  “When it comes to these matters, I am Richord,” he said, rainwater dripping down his face. “At least the Qing looked like warriors. These I don’t know.”

  “Yes, I share your concern. Tulock had the carry of a salesman. And the brother and sister – why could they not speak? Everything around us is unknowable.”

  She stopped to watch the camp. Fulke had roused the Templars. There were squads of them in their sleeveless tunics running as a pack, others muddied and exercising, and some jousting with sticks. She ran to be part of it.

  Chapter Six

  Rovis angled the umbrella to meet the rain which was thick and coming from the sides. One of the pallbearers, a stringy great-grandson, was struggling across the mud, his knee bent awkwardly. Carsten grimaced, but the young man kept his grip on the handle and straightened, the rain dripped from the boy’s nose. Carsten closed his eyes, knowing the city well enough to know that this angry rupture of rain would pass and the sun would reappear as if nothing had happened. Yet when he opened his eyes, it was the same. Rovis continued to fight with the umbrella. The rain droplets angled even harder. His jacket carried the marks from the downpour. The priest, his glasses splashed, anxiously watched as the group of pallbearers made it to the newly dug grave with mounds of wet earth on either side.

  Carsten could not hear the words of the priest. His eyes could not even tell him if he was talking, but he assumed he was. He could not see the faces of the others standing around the grave either. Only the serious face of Rovis, his lips locked straight, was distinguishable to him. He would have to ask his butler who had come. Over the shoulder of the human shapes, he could see the outline of a clock tower in the distance, nothing more. He looked down to the hole in the ground. It was dark, and he could not see the coffin that had been lowered. He strained his eyes, trying to extract the last scraps of energy left in them. He wanted to see his wife’s casket one more time. The plain wooden box that was in keeping with their puritanical ways. It was hopeless, and a wave of sadness swept over him. Rovis sensed it and tightened his grip at Carsten’s elbow.

  The priest hurried his words, intent on getting out of the downpour. They trudged along the muddy path to the waiting motor vehicles. The lower half of his pants stuck to his legs with the wetness. He passed emotionless faces of those standing, respectfully waiting as he passed, a semblance of nods directed at him. He thought to ask Rovis whether his children were there. Margaret would certainly not be, but the other two. If they were would they avoid him? He had encountered neither. His son had written an editorial in a bohemian journal disowning his father, with a heavy heart and a shame-filled pen, he claimed. It was perhaps best if he kept his eyes low and focused on the next step. They made it to the gravel road. The motor vehicles gushing out plumes of smoke were being prepared to leave. A young man, his black hair pasted to his head, stepped in front of Carsten. He wore a black suit buttoned high so that only the knot of a black tie could be seen underneath. “A moment, sir?” he asked.

  Rovis put a soft hand to the chest of the young man. “Not now, if you please.”

  “Who are you?” Carsten asked.

  “Mister Cheval, I am the secretary of His Holiness, the Holy Father.”

  Carsten studied the eager young man. Rovis lowered his hand.

  “Sir, if you have a moment, His Holiness would like to offer his condolences.”

  “Ah, what, he is here?”

  “Yes, sir, certainly. He was a great admirer and friend of your wife.”

  “Where is he?” Rovis looked around. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, sir,” the secretary said. “He is in his motor vehicle, please, over here.” He pointed to a large black motor vehicle that was parked on the grass. On its side Carsten could see the outline of a symbol that he assumed was the papal seal.

  “Yes, I will see him.”

  He moved step by step across the wet grass, being conscious to avoid a fall. The secretary pulled the heavy door open. Carsten could see that inside it was roomy and warm, with long leather seats on each side, like an old-fashioned horse-pulled carriage. Sitting in the center on one side was a plump figure with short legs that didn’t touch the floor. His face was round and friendly.

  “You must forgive me, Carsten,” the pope said, “my health is poor, and this weather.” He coughed faintly to emphasize his point. “I would have liked to have stood with the mourners.”

  “It is no matter. I did not expect you.” Carsten settled onto the seat. Rovis next to him. “You are a man with an immense schedule.” The secretary had closed the door and remained outside.

  “That is not really the case.” The pope’s tiny lips curled upward. “Your wife was very dear to me. Her generosity was beyond measure. There would be countless in this great city that have benefited from her care. Orphans, the hungry, and those without homes. I could say many more. But the truth would be that she not only had a generous spirit but a noble, gentle, and blessed one as well.”

  “Your words are appreciated. I am sure she is at peace in the higher realm.”

  The bald forehead of the pope wrinkled. “For those that muster those beliefs.” His words lost their rhythm. His accent had reverted to its non-English origins and its Latin cadence seized his next words. “Such a terrible day,” he said looking out the window that was covered in raindrops.

  Carsten felt no need to say anything. Rovis breathed heavily next to him. The pope continued to look out the window distracted. Rovis broke the silence. “Shall we pray?” he said, as if guessing.

  “Oh, I haven’t prayed in a long time,” the pope said, moving his hands down his white tunic and moving his head to look at Carsten again. He took a long breath. “It would be remiss of me i
f I did not take this opportunity, regardless of the circumstances, to talk of something else. Not of your beloved wife but of you, Carsten.”

  Carsten edged back in his chair. Rovis edged forward. Neither said anything.

  The pope continued. “Tensions are rising in the city.” He joined his fingers in front of his face and took another long breath. He waited for a response and then reached for a packet on his lap that Carsten had not noticed. It was a paper packet, and from it he took out a peanut. He inspected it as he held it up ready to go into his mouth. He held it for elongated seconds, studying it from different angles. Finally, he placed it in his mouth and carefully chewed. He reached the packet across. “Peanut?”

  “No, I am not hungry,” Carsten replied. “The city always has tension.”

  “Yes, it always has, yet it seems different.”

  Rovis spoke, keeping his voice soft. “You said it had to do with Mister Cheval – your matter, that is. This matter, the tensions, are nothing to do with him, and especially at this time.”

  “There is no right time for a talk like this, I am afraid, and sorry.” The pope spoke evenly and fingered another peanut. “I am a reader of the daily papers, an avid reader, and the name Carsten Cheval is constantly recurrent in the papers, and this is to do with these tensions, more specifically the Order of the Temple.”

  Rovis gasped politely. “Your Holiness, I am surprised! A man in your position … those papers, they have the informational value of a toilet wall, with all respect.”

  “I was investigated, you will recall,” Carsten added, “and cleared of all wrongdoing.”

  “Hmm.” The pope eyed the peanut. “Contentious, that whole affair was. Inspector Milo and the meddling, novice councillor. What really happened?”

  “What really happened,” Rovis said, “was what happened. Mister Cheval was not charged.”

  “I see, I hear.” The pope studied a new peanut. “Yet I am compelled to talk to you about the Order. And you need not say anything in response but I am compelled to talk to you.”

  Carsten tightened his lips. Rovis opened his mouth, gave a side glance toward Carsten, and said nothing.

  “The Order has had a victory. That can’t be denied,” the pope continued, “and the moments of celebration are justified for their supporters, but there is too much at stake for the Order to desire more.”

  Carsten glanced again at Rovis. He was looking angrily at the peanut. His mouth barely moved as he took the cue of Carsten’s silence to talk. “Your Holiness, why would you be telling Carsten this?”

  The pope indiscernibly smirked. “Let us not pretend that you have not been meeting the Grand Master, and let us not pretend that these meetings are to discuss poetry. Thus, with that placed on the table, let me also bluntly state that the position of the Holy States is against any war with the Ottomans or their cousins.”

  “Ha! Rainclouds.” Rovis gulped. “War! What war? I can’t imagine any war.”

  “The war that the Templars are brewing. You would know that they are not returning to New Europa.”

  “It has naught to do with Mister Cheval, whatever their intentions.”

  “Ah, but that is not the answer, and we all know that. Without Mister Cheval the Templars would be shaking their tins and practicing their choir.”

  “I have heard all of these accusations before, Your Holiness,” Carsten interjected. “What is your point?”

  “My point is that the Holy Roman Church is not nothing. It has a voice. I know you are not a man that stands in one of our pews, but the majority of those Christianlike enough do. And it is for them that I speak.” He settled the peanuts on his lap and wiped his fingers on his tunic. “I must speak in a stern voice as though I was the God of the Old Testament.” His mild smirk appeared again. “I will say it. You must refrain from these activities and undo the damage already done. You can debate among yourselves how this will be done, but it must be done.”

  The silence lasted. The pope, disciplined, kept his hands away from the peanuts. Rovis’s breathing could be heard, but he said nothing.

  “This is not the conversation I expected,” Carsten said.

  “I think it is best to say nothing.” Rovis turned to him. “We better get back to the mourners, the genuine ones.”

  “Yes, say nothing,” the pope replied, “but be assured the Holy Roman Church will not stand idle while chaos is sown.”

  “Yet, Your Holiness” – Carsten spoke without emotion – “even if I could talk to the Templars, would they not be wary of any words from your church due to past betrayals?”

  “You speak to them as you wish. You are a man who has had unmatched success in the art of negotiation and in the art of transactions. There are those believing in prophesies that the Christian time for world domination is now. Don’t be one of these, Carsten.”

  Carsten looked away at the velvet curtain that was bunched at the sides of the window. “I must mourn my wife. I can’t think of anything else at this moment.”

  “Then I conclude with this statement,” the pope said. “Be wary of the Grand Master. She will be your demise.” He emphasized the word she and nodded his head knowingly after he had finished.

  Carsten willed his weary body to move, as if he had encountered a demon. Rovis had left with a Parthian shot at the pontiff, but Carsten in his activity had not heard the words, and he did not ask for them to be repeated as they walked bad-tempered across the dreary scene.

  Their own driver tossed his cigarette as they turned from behind a hedge. Carsten felt uncomfortable with the young man driving, being used to the confidence of Rovis with the wheel. “I will want to get a report from Taft,” Carsten said to Rovis. “Have you instructed him to take us to the office?”

  “The office, sir? I thought to take you home.”

  “For what purpose? So that I can wallow in sorrow? The company is under siege, and I do not want to be seen as anything other than the man who shares the name of Cheval with the corporation.”

  Rovis looked uncomfortable in the back seat of the motor vehicle and spent the trip scolding the driver for his cigarette smell and his substandard skills in navigating the punishing streets. The office had its usual stillness. Clerks looked grimly at the folders of paper covering their desks. A telephone was not allowed to ring more than twice. Talk was kept at a whisper. They walked past the clerk desks without a head lifting. Rovis tapped Taft on the shoulder to signal for him to follow.

  Taft stood with his eyes looking at his shoes. “Take a seat, man,” Rovis said as he settled on his usual leather couch.

  “I was not expecting you back,” Taft said. He was a man in his twenties but carried himself like one of over fifty, which was the case for those who succeeded in the long watch of Carsten.

  “What is it, man? You look like a rabbit,” Rovis said. “How did the shareholders’ meeting go? Nothing happened as usual, I expect.”

  “Firstly, I must say, condolences for your wife, sir,” Taft said. “She was always kind to me and my family. Dropped in a splendid hamper when Jennifer was born.”

  “Thanks to you, my friend. How is your daughter?”

  “Oh, she is sweet. Started school and learning to read.”

  “What is it my friend? Rovis is right. You are as tense as a doctor.”

  “Sir, it is a sad day.”

  “Yes. The report for the meeting?”

  “Sir, it was not a nothing meeting as Mister Rovis said. I am unsure if it’s the right moment for a report. I can do it, but all that happened was unusual.”

  Rovis stood up. “What are you talking about, man? There was nothing of note on the agenda.”

  “You are right about that, and it felt like it would be unremarkable, as would be the normal, until I started noticing one strange face after another walking purposefully into the hall and sitting down. I have been going t
o these shareholder meetings for three years, as you know, for the reports. I am a fixture at them. I couldn’t even make the funeral of the Madam Carsten because I have to be in attendance. And I know all the faces of the regular stockholders, the ones that care to turn up for the monthly meetings. I started to count the strange faces as I was sitting at the desk waiting for things to start. I lost count. I watched the ones I could. They did not look the usual type to be holding stock in Cheval. Too young, too uppity. Too sure of themselves. Making eye contact with each other but not letting the head nod. I had an unsettled feeling, which has not left me since.” He lifted his eyes to look at Carsten and then Rovis.

  “Keep going, man,” said Rovis. “This is the most interesting report you have given in years.”

  “The meeting got underway. There was not a spare seat. The regulars noticed the difference. A lack of teacups, the plates with the morning sandwiches emptied before they could have a second. Things were progressed through the mundane. I started to ease a little, thinking that there had to be some innocent explanation for all the new faces. We were a good two hours into it when the first item of any real interest was reached. It was to do with the legal fund for the executives that were battered by the Milo inquiry. The item was to lift the limit of how much Cheval will contribute to their legal costs. As you know this has been without controversy. It has been increased three times already, with the unrelenting legal process from Milo. Without the funds from the corporation, each one of them would be in debtors’ prison. The vote was being readied in the usual way, no discussion, a voice vote, when one of the new faces stands up and wants a debate. He said, ‘Why should the corporation be aiding men that have broken the law?’ Another one joins him and says, ‘It doesn’t look good for the corporation to be defending this type.’ And shortly there was toing and froing. The old guard are scratching their head and thinking, What is this all about? A vote is organized with a show of hands. They look to be even. It takes time to count and then recount. The vote was narrowly lost. The shareholders voted against further support for those being prosecuted by Milo.”