by J A Deriu
Chapter Sixteen
The black smoke curled toward the sky. Clavdia lowered the binoculars.
“There is nothing to be done, Lord Commander,” Miles said.
“A waste. Who put them on this beach?”
“Themselves.” There were a dozen boats ruined in the low tide. The bodies dipped with the waves. “Let’s go, Lord Commander. This is not safe.”
“Left like that, it is not right.”
“There are two of us and hundreds of bodies,” Miles said. “Now that we know the location, we can send a recovery mission.”
Clavdia disdainfully looked over the scene for a final time. Boy robbers manhandled the bodies. She slid down the dune. Her boots dug into the sand. The motorbike was lying at the base. Miles lifted it up and mounted. Clavdia settled behind him with her arms around his waist. He started the engine. It made noise, but before it would have carried to the beach, they skidded across the sand. He accelerated when they reached firmer flatlands, scorched earth with scattered shrubs.
The bulk of the Templar expeditionary force had landed on the African continent peacefully. Intense scouting had located safe inlets. They were fully onshore within the day and bivouacked inland the next. Only shepherds and their red-brown sheep had watched them. The Volunteers’ forces, however, had not coordinated. They had accepted the date, but other than that, the liaisons had been ignored. A portion of them had picked a bad beach to land. They had been spotted by an enemy patrol, and a nearby Persian garrison had massed on the overlooking hills to slaughter them before they could disembark from the boats.
Miles steered the motorbike with skill. They became airborne when he jumped from dune to dune. She released a hand to tighten her face mask and brood. The history of battles was a matter of numbers. Whoever had the most numbers usually won. They would be outnumbered – that was certain – thus, no men could be recklessly lost.
The Templar lookouts spotted them, and they were waved into the camp. Pikes were being dug into the dirt to protect the perimeter. The tents were crisply new and well-spaced. Captains Marco and Greta were waiting for them. Clavdia stamped the dust off her boots, lifted her goggles, and lowered her face mask. “It was a massacre,” she said without emotion. “Captain Miles will organize a squad for the recovery, which will operate under the cover of darkness. We did not see any survivors. I looked hard.” Miles had already run away. The wheels of the motorbike were still spinning where he had dumped it on its side. Greta and Marco had stopped. “What is it, Captains?”
“There is more news,” Marco said in his deadpan manner. “A company of Volunteers landed only an hour from the regional capital. They were hunted in the desert and killed, their bodies paraded through the streets of the capital.”
“Damn it,” Clavdia cursed. “By the head of Saint Euphemia.”
“Another company landed well south of here, Lord Commander. I know – it’s confusing. We don’t know where these companies are landing and if they are rallying,” Greta said. “This one landed safely, but there are other problems.”
“What?”
“There are reports of bad deeds to do with the villages.”
“What deeds?”
“Sketchy, Lord Commander, but our scouts claim that they ransacked and looted villages and roughed the locals.”
Clavdia shook her head. “Get the scouts to confirm these reports and provide names. No, wait … I’ll talk to the scouts. Send them to me.”
“There is another waiting for you, Lord Commander. He should be seen first. It is Tulock the Abyssinian. He is in the guest tent.”
“Yes, he should be seen. I will see him now. In the meantime, gather all the information you can on the Volunteer landings, especially if Magnus and the Hospitallers have landed. I want them to report to command. I can’t help but feel he is confusing command. If the Volunteers had coordinated properly, we could have provided protection and a watchful eye.”
“Yes, Lord Commander.” They completed Templar salutes and hurried away.
Tulock sat cross legged on a mat in the center of the tent. He stood when she entered. He was wearing an old-fashioned military uniform with golden epaulets on his shoulders and a thick sash across the dark green of his blazer. “Congratulations, Commander,” he said and bowed as she approached. “You have landed your force well. There are Templar tents as far as the eye can see.”
“Please, sit. Let’s talk,” she said and indicated the ground. They both sat cross legged. “The others coming from Tana have not landed so well.”
“Were they a diversion? You cannot say. Of no concern to your soldiers, I am sure. I have seen the faces of your men. They look disciplined, lean, and hungry. The eyes that should be worn for wars in this part of the world.”
“I am interested in your update on the rebellion and how many of your people will be in the fight.”
His face tensed. “We have ten thousand armed and ready to fight.” He responded to the coolness of Clavdia’s face. “This is the most significant force the kingdom has assembled in living memory. You must remember that the Persians have severely limited local militias for many years. You will be impressed when you see. I am not sure what arrangements you have made for movement. The queen of Sheba expects to see you on the great plateau. Her view is that it is best to intercept the Persian relief forces when they come across the mountain ranges and then pivot to attack the local garrisons. Her rebels will be keeping the garrisons pinned and undersupplied.”
“The first part is something that is feasible. We can defeat the Persian Army on the battlefield. It is the reason for the existence of this expedition. The second part – we are not a force for sieges.”
“There is time, Commander.” Tulock eased. “The queen will be pleased to see your battle plan.”
“And the other? There was the one you called Prester John at out meeting. He said nothing, like the queen.”
“He no longer walks this earth, Commander. I will not say more.” He benignly lifted a hand. “It is the queen that commands and the queen alone.”
“Our war command will be meeting shortly. I will relay our discussion. We will talk again. Will you be here in the morning?”
“I will wait. I have patience.”
She moved to stand. He followed. She stopped when she was half raised. “What of the Brotherhood of Saint George?”
His body became rigid. “Ah, those, they are dangerous. They should not be met with. They are rogues and troublemakers.” His eyes scoured Clavdia’s face. She kept her look plain.
Tobias Deen was pensive.
“I do not trust him,” Clavdia said. “His body language was worrying.” She stood next to him as they looked across the camp. It was dark. No fires or lamps had been lit. Only moonlight and a cloudless sky allowed them to see the gray tent tops.
“You have the battle plan,” Deen said. “Your council was robust but productive. Do not attack the enemy. Capture an undefended position that they need and force them to attack a position you have had the time to prepare the ground for.”
“And you think this is a sound strategy?”
“I do. Janissaries have fought Persians in countless battles. I experienced four of these, none as a general. However, from my learnings, it is agreed that a battlefield of our choosing is crucial.”
She left him under the moonlight and walked through the sleeping camp. She found the single-man tent she was looking for and pulled open the flap, knowing that he would not be asleep. Frank Paulus sat on his unrolled bed studying a map under a dim lamp. He looked up. “Have you thought about it?” he said.
“I have. And you?”
“I am ready to go. I am eager.”
“I thought so.”
“Well then?”
“The Abyssinian envoy has warned me against the Brotherhood.”
“That means nothing. Y
ou know it.”
“Do you trust them?”
“Ha, how can you trust anybody in a part of the world we know nothing about? But what can we lose?”
“Lives. Yours included. Yet we need their aid. We are going to be outnumbered badly on the battlefield.”
“Then I go. Neither of us thought that it would be different. Give me an escort, and I will leave after I have had a few hours of sleep.”
“You will have my own personal guard. They will take you to the port. How are we to communicate?”
“I have not thought of that yet. I will find a way.”
“Good. Keep this mission brief. I have other pressing matters. This is important, but I need you here too. The Volunteer forces are a mess. You have experience with them. I want to solve this before it becomes a festering sore.”
She walked the camp, aware that she would not sleep until she was mentally as well as physically exhausted. The Templars slept. She could hear the snores as she passed tents. There was an aggressive chill in the clear night air, which was strange for such a hot country. She stepped into her tent. Greta or Pedro had left a stack of paperwork on her bedroll and set up her traveling office. Her portable drawing board had been unpacked. She picked up the paperwork. They had crossed where she needed to sign. The paperwork was all the details for keeping an army in the field. Promotions, citations, some matters for discipline, and more promotions because the numbers had swelled. She began signing.
Her distractions were the thoughts of festering sores, and in particular, as if it were the fountainhead, the Hospitallers and their Lord Commander, Magnus. The Templars had never trusted the rival order and in particular when they were allied. She longed to vent to someone like the Grand Master.
Her head lifted with the sound of motor vehicles entering the camp. She went outside, knowing that it was Captain Miles and his men returning. They had their lights dimmed. She hurried to the assembly point. Miles was talking to his soldiers. The dust floated off the machines and men. He saw her, ended his address, and walked to her. “We did what we could, Lord Commander.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes, which were surrounded by the clear circles created by the goggles. “We buried many. But could only do shallow graves. We will need to go back. We found a dozen alive.” He motioned his head to one of the transports, where ragged Volunteers were stepping off.
“Where were they?”
“By their account, they had a poor captain on their boat. They lost touch with the landing flotilla, which turned to be fortunate. They landed at the wrong inlet. They missed the slaughter. We found them wandering in the dunes.” They walked toward the stragglers. “There are some here that were in the Qing.” A huge man looked across to them. He was helping others. Although he was a man, he had the face of a boy, even younger, like a baby. “They said they were with the tsar’s Volunteers in the Qing and didn’t want to return to New Europa, so they joined this outfit, which was being paid by Harry Habsburg.”
The big man stood and looked at Clavdia with recognition. “What is your name, soldier?” she asked him.
“Robert,” the Volunteer next to him said, “but we call him Babyman. I’m Timothy, and this is Olga.” He was a short man, and the girl had no teeth. “Glad the Templars found us. We are ready to be Templars. We would be brilliant for you. You are the Lord Commander, aren’t you? You are famous.”
“The prince was lost,” Babyman said.
Clavdia questioned him with her look.
“He means the tsar’s son,” Timothy said. “He was taken by the Mongols.”
“Tell Captain Miles all you know,” Clavdia said, “but rest first. Later we will give you intelligence tests. If you pass, we will take you, but not as Templars, as auxiliaries.” The three of them looked at her blankly. People were needed for carting and cooking while the Templars honed their battle skills.
Clavdia tightened her eyes and eased her body. She could finally try for a trancelike state. The camp was in its deepest recess of sleep, moments before the dawn and frantic action when they would be on the move. She mouthed the words to a Templar prayer. “What can a man do to me? He can do to my body whatever. To my soul. He can do nothing. That is mine.” In her hands, which were made into fists, she could feel the chain of her rosary beads tangled with her fingers. It is known that one was a Templar when there is no more doubt and no more fear. What was the real reason they fought? How had she found her faith, through hardship, and the rosary beads, to her initiation? The thoughts chased each other around her head.
Chapter Seventeen
Ida dug her fingers into the wood of the lectern as though she would sink into turbid waters if she let go. She lowered her eyes for a moment, only long enough to see one face of the many that were riveted toward her. The proud face of Dagni. She ignored all the others, which sat atop stiff bodies. Ida’s eyes skipped over the pages that were in front of her. She had not needed them. She lifted her chin and returned her stare to the distant columned walls of the Forum, where they had settled for most of the speech.
“The state as its highest ideal – is why this Forum exists.” Her voice was strong and without waver. “Yet what we hear in this chamber in one hundred different ways is that the state has been broken in two, and no one believes that the two parts can be mended, as if they exist only to torment each other. In this world an optimist must commit suicide.” She paused. The silence was unnatural. “Decay can only be met with an urgent and firm hand. It is not a time to abandon all hope. It is a time to grasp hope by the neck and shake it back to life.” She lowered her eyes to look at the faces and understood that she had no fear. “In this maiden speech, what I say to this Forum, and what I say to this city, is that I will be a councillor that will be like no other that you have known. I will go to the strangest places to find solutions, and I will be beholden to nobody. No threat of force or high-flown flattery will derail me.” She stood away from the lectern. It seemed long moments waiting for the applause. It came, slowly at first.
“Your speech will be loved in the streets and hated in the Forum. That is a great speech,” Dagni said and touched the ivory animal statuette that was on the desk. “This is your office now?”
“Yes, I have been told that it is,” Ida replied and looked at the mounted head of a moose with massive antlers that dominated the wall. “P. would like that. I will change some things.” A fire underneath the moose was making the room sultry, which added to its masculine virility, as did the furs on the floor and the high-priced paintings of hunting game.
“This is the most prestigious office, I have heard, especially saved for the elite of the elite.”
“Councillor Newton had this office for thirty years. I do not know who was before him.”
Dagni leaned back in the leather armchair. “No doubt someone of note. That’s you now. I deserve congratulations. I saw it.”
“I will not listen to you or read what you are referring to. This city will elevate anyone for a few minutes.”
“Ha, it is more than that. From what I have read, it is a coronation. Even the press of the Traditionalists is referring to you as the heroine of the university.”
“Really? Perhaps I should read the Christian News more. Let’s have a drink of something. I am sure there is a special bottle somewhere in here. Your own success deserves recognition.” Ida opened a wooden cabinet. “Ah, here we are. The gnome was a heavy drinker.” She showed Dagni the decanter of whiskey. “I believe the fate of Inspector Milo has not been pleasant.”
“There is no tear from me.”
“No, but there are many cheers for you. The pamphlet writers have given you the scalp.”
“It may be premature. I hope not. The reports are encouraging. She is not receiving any new cases. No one trusts a hider of secrets.”
Ida held up a pair of glasses to the light to see that they were clean.
“I must say
, though, I don’t understand … was not Inspector Milo a stalwart for your causes? Always adept at playing the political game at the expense of the legal one.”
“Let me answer that we had our differences, but more importantly I wanted to help a friend. Please, let’s sit on this.” She moved to a luxurious-looking sofa and carried two glasses filled with the liquor. Dagni sat at the end and held the glass without drinking. “We are both married this year, is that true?”
“It is. Your husband is missing. A brave man to travel to the Qing. I pray for him.”
“It was not by choice. It was the manipulations of that fiend Vandergrift before he fell.”
“I am sorry to hear.”
“Yes, a terrible ordeal. And your husband, who is he?”
“He is my greatest supporter. He once walked for twenty hours in a day, knocking on doors, handing pamphlets, because they had my name on it.”
Ida slid along the sofa so that their knees touched. Her head was heavy, filled with the euphoria of what she had done and the rapturous ovation from the Forum for her maiden speech. She understood that to the outside world she appeared normal, energetic, confident. Inside, she was a seething mess, yet with a lack of fear. She leaned over and touched Dagni’s knee. “Have a drink to celebrate. Why are you not drinking?”
“I avoid it.”
“The devil’s brew?” Ida moved her hand along Dagni’s thigh. Dagni spilled the drink. There were uncertain moments. Dagni looked away and stood in a hurry. She walked toward the moose and spilled more of the drink. Ida stood and stalked after her. Dagni stopped under the moose head. Ida put her arm around Dagni’s chest and then pressed her body against her warmth. She touched her lips at the back of her head and pushed against the thick, lush hair. Dagni’s body was limp as if surrendered. It suddenly stiffened, and Ida’s arm was pulled away.
Ida was left standing next to the flames as Dagni retreated across the room. For moments nothing was said.