by J A Deriu
“Ah, I am afraid it does not sound good. He said that you can explain yourself to the sultan’s torturer.”
“What? What does he mean?”
“He intends to take you to the capital.” Alex looked at the man and then back to Pierre. “I am sorry. He is Mahsusa. They are not the type to talk things over.”
“But … but ...” Pierre looked at Therma. She replied only with a hopeless face.
Taymoor spoke to Alex. They exchanged short, abrupt sentences. Pierre spied men moving out of the shadows toward him. They wore black suits. The orange men backed out of their way. As soon as they were near him, their arms thrust out and grabbed him. Any movement he made was too late. His arms were pulled behind him. Alex continued to talk to the Ottoman. Pierre called to Therma. “Can’t you help me? Please!”
There was a trickle of a tear across her cheek. She covered it with her hand and then abruptly turned her head. She went inside the house. Her friend went after her.
The Ottomans tightened their grip. Taymoor moved to within touching distance and leaned toward Pierre as if smelling him. His eyes were cruel and his breath foul. More of the black-suited men ran past Pierre and into the mansion. Alex watched them go inside. He looked at Pierre. “A terrible turn of events, my friend. I have asked them to be gentle with you.” Taymoor shouted after the men that had gone into the house. Pierre shuddered at the harshness of the words. Alex looked sorrowfully at Pierre. “They have gone to get your companion from the laundries, the little man.”
Chapter Fifteen
The sound of a bird told him that it was the morning. His body was stiff and missed his own bed with the familiar furrow he had made in his mattress over the decades. He heard more noise from downstairs. Rovis was awake and filling a kettle. He could see the outline of the Metropolis from the small window in the attic room. The cottage was in the stunted mountain range that bordered the city. His eyes were only able to see the blur of light and indistinct shapes, but if he closed them, he could imagine the city as if he were standing in its heart.
It was called an industrial Gothic age. Modern industry and machines dominated, yet architecture was loyal to the Gothic age, every skyscraper looked like a cathedral. It was distant and alien to him at the moment, as he had been forced to flee on advice from his lawyers due to the maneuvers against him in his own company.
Rovis whistled, happy to be in his cottage, a place Carsten imagined that Rovis could count on one hand the times he had visited in the last years. His loyal man seemed upbeat. It was hard to explain with the battering of the past days, but perhaps being in his cottage had lifted his spirits. Still, Carsten understood that there were spirits in the house also – those of Rovis’s family. He had seen the portraits of them downstairs on the mantelpiece. Perhaps being close to them again had inspired rather than dampened him. This was the time of the dead.
“Ah, you’re up, sir,” Rovis said as he came down the steps. “I have made breakfast.”
“When was the last time you were here?” Carsten asked, sitting at the table. Rovis had spread the morning papers. It was his habit of scouring them for information on their corporation and then deciding whether Carsten needed to know or not. “Anything in the newspapers?”
“I was here months ago, that weekend you attended the museum, and no, there is nothing for us in there.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“Which, that I was here or the newspapers?”
“The newspapers, of course.”
“Hmm, yes, well, I haven’t read them as yet.”
“Ha, devious answer.”
“More correctly, I should say, of course there is matters that would concern us in there, but I dread to read them.”
“Well, if I could read … if I had my glasses … I would guess the banner. Something like ‘Fallen Tycoon Forced to Flee City.’”
The look on the face of Rovis showed that he had actually read the headlines, and this was close to what they said.
“This place is well kept,” Carsten said, noticing the ordered room with cushions neatly positioned on a sofa and drapes tied with ribbons.
“There is a maid and gardener I employ, good local folk.”
“Is that one of them?” Carsten said looking through the windows and seeing the shape of a person bending over in the garden.
Rovis narrowed his eyes. “No, not at all. That is our guest. She is very early.” The guest smelled flowers, lifted her head as if examining the sky, and turned when Rovis had opened the outside door. “You are early,” he called across the garden.
“There was no traffic,” she answered. “Apparently there is a general strike. Did you know? I didn’t know.” She wore her customary cape, the oversized hood down, across her shoulders. The sunlight caught her red hair. “Ah, it is warm in here.” Rovis had wood burning in the fireplace.
“You are in time for breakfast,” Rovis said. “It is toast and jam. Are you a coffee or a tea?”
“Splendid. Coffee for me. Black, please.”
“The strike is not a new one,” Rovis said. “It is hard to keep up. There are so many controversies. The city is awash in them. Even the monarchists are louder than they have been for a long time. The repercussions from the siege of the university are still exploding. But the strike … I would say that is to do with the workers being disgruntled again that the politicians that claim they are their representatives don’t act like they are their representatives.”
She sat at the table. “Good morning, Carsten. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“I am surprised you’d want to. Apparently the news is not good.” He nodded at the newspapers. She nodded sympathetically. “My predicament has worsened in the last days, hence why I am hiding.”
“There is grim news?”
“Hmm, yes, the voting majority is gone, meaning like minded people are no longer in the majority at Cheval Corp. Our cause is being beaten up at the shareholder meetings, no doubt a Fugger plot. My place in the city has become untenable. I have been bombarded with demands – meetings, statements, files, records. I am a fugitive from my own corporation.”
“Yet the battle goes on.” She placed her bony fingers on the table. “The first victory has brought more challenges than celebrations.”
“Not here to celebrate then?” Rovis placed a coffee cup in front of the Grand Master and a teacup in front of Carsten.
“The battle has only begun. The imbalances in this world have only corrected marginally. The next battle will be greater and more consequential.”
“We have heard, but where, why?” Rovis asked and sat at the table.
“The Kingdom of Abyssinia in Africa. This kingdom has been under the Persian Empire for over a century, albeit always tenuously. It is in open revolt. We will aid the rebellion. And to such an extent that it will succeed.” She paused to emphasize.
“I think I understand,” Rovis said, “that any client state of one of the empires peeled away is a victory, but this kingdom, in Africa, I don’t see.”
“Have you heard of the game called dominoes?” the Grand Master asked.
Carsten answered Rovis. “They intend to topple kingdoms until the Holy Land.”
Rovis blew a short, sharp whistle. “That is ambitious.”
“It certainly is,” Carsten said, “but not unexpected.” He lifted his chin to the Grand Master. “You have waited long for this time, and I understand why there is the desire for it to continue.”
“That there is,” the Templar Grand Master said. “Carsten, your partnership was integral to the success of the Qing campaign. There should be no reason why this cannot continue. There is much to do. The war has escalated, not ended. The expeditionary force has more than doubled, perhaps tripled, in a short time, as though called by the trumpet of an archangel. It is now unmistakably under the leadership of Templ
ar Command. The drain on funding is enormous. There was some bonus plundered with the tacit consent of the Qing from the coffers of Fugger Corporation held in the kingdom. Not enough, though. The weaponry costs alone will exceed this plunder. Long-range rifles are needed for the conditions. Every Templar and soldier deployed needs to be paid, not for themselves, but for the family they are supporting. Otherwise, they have to return to their factory or farm. I daresay that all that has been achieved, the balance that has been changed, without the reality of coin will die in the deserts of Africa.”
Rovis opened his mouth but said nothing, balling his hands into nervous fists instead.
Carsten bowed his head as if thinking. The Grand Master did not interrupt the silence.
“I am in an uncertain position,” he finally said. “My corporation has been turned against me. I am being lobbied by powerful forces to end my association. I guess you would know by who. In truth, it is none of these crises that precludes me. It is my own crisis. That of my conscience. I am not battle hardened as you are.”
The Grand Master considered. Rovis tentatively reached for his cup of coffee.
“There is supernatural power at work in crisis,” she said. “This is what we believe. Divine providence guards our fortunes. I know that you are handicapped. But you are not. There is something that you can do.”
“And what is that?”
“Pray. Your answers will come.” The Grand Master paused. The chime of a clock and crackle of the fire could be heard in the background. “When you have finished your prayers, there is a task that we must talk of.”
There was silence, only broken by Rovis biting on a slice of toast and chewing uncomfortably.
“This is a financial battle as much as anything,” the Grand Master said. “The movement will not survive if the Forum is successful in its anti-Templar legislation. It is known how the Forum works. If there is not financial clout to oppose the legislation, it will give power to those that wish the movement destroyed.”
“It’s a bad time for the old man to organize financial support,” Rovis said with a mouth full of toast. “You do understand the crippling nature of what has happened. The usual means that we have used have been closed. The traitors in the company have made it impossible for the old man to write a check to pay for a haircut. If he wanted to help your cause, there are hawks that would betray him to the jackals of the Progressive establishment without remorse.”
“Hmm, I understand,” the Grand Master said. “But it is not this. I know. Carsten is the most resourceful of men. He is not the type to be stopped from doing what he chooses by bureaucrats and low-level pigeons.”
“Yes, yes, you are both right,” Carsten interrupted. “I truly understand your predicament, Miss Stein, but I need solitude, time to think.”
“You have the right place for that,” she said looking about and then reaching for a slice of toast and the jam knife.
The Grand Master had stayed for many hours but had not mentioned the matter of the Templars again, instead she showed her knowledge in a multitude of other interests, from her review of a motion picture film that Rovis was interested to see to a discussion on the gossip that filled the bulk of the newspapers. Carsten let the conversation ebb until he looked up and saw that the Grand Master had gone and that Rovis was dozing on the armchair next to the fire. He decided that a walk would be good to clear his head. He had the energy. The greenery and sunshine looked enticing. He set off without waking Rovis and a cap pulled tight on his head and a scarf wrapped around his neck.
Rovis’s cottage was one of many hidden by trees and the leafy vines. He followed a path that had high-reaching, bark-covered trees on each side that blocked the sunlight. He walked slowly, thinking that he would be better if he had a cane and wondering whether there were snakes. It had been a long time since he had been in nature. In his distant past, he had been a boy of the country, not the city. The trees, breeze, and bird noises had a blank familiarity to them. There were other people on the path. He stood aside for them to pass. They bid him hello. His mind was still clouded.
He returned to the cottage. Rovis was asleep. In the room he could only think of his friend and of his friend’s family. There was the portrait of them on the mantelpiece. His eyes were not good enough to see their faces. There was tragedy in the picture, even though he could not see it. “Have you cleared your mind?” Rovis asked him.
“Were you asleep?”
“I withdrew to this warm spot so that you could think.”
“I walked to clear my mind, but for no benefit. There were too many people. My thinking could not function.”
“You will find that the walking paths around here are full. There is a shrine somewhere in the mountain woods. I have not been there myself, but there are always hikers looking for it.”
“A shrine? What do you mean?”
“Years ago, some shepherd girls claim that they spoke to the Virgin Mary. That kind of batty story from nutty Catholics.”
“Really? Why did you not say? This is interesting.”
“Interesting? You are not Catholic.”
“I am not, but others are. I must visit this place.”
He left the cottage again, this time with a walking stick and Rovis. The thought of the shepherd girls praying to the Virgin Mary helped his thinking and the stick his walking. It was his meeting with the Templar Commander by the name of Clavdia of the Montgisard Corporation that had started this stream of action. It was from the agitations of the Qing ambassador that he had been interested. This was even before the Grand Master considered the expedition a viable idea.
“Sir, I don’t like to break the silence,” Rovis said, “especially when it is poor news. But I am being forward looking. I am thinking that you will want to eat dinner in a restaurant – there is that tavern at the foot of the hills, with the roast boar I know that you fancy. It is that I have been to the bank to check on the accounts, and in truth replenish sterling.” He stopped, lifted his hand to shield the sun that was stabbing through branches and to see that no others were on the track. “It seems that the bank accounts have been frozen. They would not allow one sterling. I am figuring that this is the work of those that have infiltrated the corporation, malicious runts.”
Carsten leaned on his stick. “Are you saying we can’t even pay for a meal?”
Rovis nodded. “It could be said. Damn rainclouds.”
“I don’t want to go out to dinner, and the last time I ate roast boar was twenty years ago. Ha, I am broke! Let’s keep moving. I want to get to this shrine.”
It was a steady climb. Carsten found that he had ample energy subject to regular stops. Rovis returned to his silence, only broken by his well-ordered greetings to others who passed them on the worn path. The leaves of the trees rustled gently. The path narrowed so that they had to stand aside when others passed. Markers were at regular intervals – a cross fastened to a tree, a stone with the distance painted. It was a longer walk than he had thought. The path rose sharply and narrow. Dirt steps led to a clearing. Carsten was haggard and looked down at the ground, waiting for his breathing to steady. “Looks like we have arrived,” Rovis cheerily announced.
The clearing was hemmed in by high-reaching trees. Carsten looked up, but he could not see their tops. Rovis sat on a log bench and crossed his legs. Under the canopy of branches, a wooden sculpture of Saint Mary stood. A cross was behind her. Her arms were lowered with her palms peacefully held out. Carsten moved closer to see better. There were woodcuts for kneeling in front of the statue. Elderly nuns were helping each other up after praying, their rosary beads dangled from their fingers. Carsten moved to touching distance of the statue. She had a young face, long hair that hung down over her shoulders, and she wore a simple robe tied with a sash at the waist. A nun was watching him. He retreated from being too close. He used the walking stick to lower to his knees. He settled into p
osition as the last of the nuns stood. He sagged so that he was bearably comfortable. He closed his eyes and bowed to the statue. He heard little of what was happening about him – the screech of a bird, distant voices from the walking track, and the creaking of branches.
He stood, uncertain of how long he had been kneeling. It must have been some time. His body ached. He could not feel one of his legs. His eyes adjusted. It had darkened. Rovis was still on the bench, an elbow on his knee and his arm propping up his head. Carsten waited for feeling to come back to his leg. Rovis had his eyes closed. He came to life when Carsten sat next to him. “Ah, its late.”
“Yes, let’s go.”
The path was empty and the temperature had dropped, forcing Carsten to tighten the scarf around his neck. “Well, how did it go? Did you think things over?” Rovis asked.
“Yes, I did.”
They walked slowly. It was easier downhill, but they had to watch where they stepped in the diminishing light. “And can I ask?”
“Yes, of course. I have concluded that I am destined to continue.” Rovis stopped, and Carsten stopped with him. “I was there when this began. The Templar spoke of the liberation of Jerusalem, and I did not dispute. I was not averse then. Why should I be now?” He used his walking stick to tap Rovis gently on the leg. “You are a man free of this – and young. Don’t let it be your burden.”
“I won’t be doing anything else other than being part of this – whatever it is. But sir, I don’t question your thinking, yet it seems thwarted. What can you do? Your sterling, your assets, are seized.”
“Ah, did you think that I keep all my eggs in the one basket?”
Rovis moved his mouth but did not say anything.
“I have assets in reserve. Over my long career, I have been a squirrel.”
“But, sir, the corporation, the banks, the tentacles of the state … how will you touch the sterling?”
“Ah, but it is not sterling. It is in gulden. And is in another state. What do you know of the House of Habsburg?”