by J A Deriu
“You,” Pierre forcefully whispered back.
“I am the manservant. You are the lord. You are supposed to do the talking.”
“Be silent,” Taymoor said and turned to them with distraction.
At least it was known that he spoke English, albeit an angry, agitated version. “What is happening?” Pierre said. The Ottoman did not reply. The guards had started to move with caution, as if wanting to be silent. The steps were slippery and the walls covered with mold. Drips landed on Pierre’s back. He did not talk again. They stopped. Taymoor held up his hand for silence. Only their breathing and the dripping of water could be heard. Taymoor straightened his head, and Pierre realized that there was other noise coming from somewhere. He listened intently. It sounded like the moaning of many people. The noise was coming through a gap in the wall. Taymoor signaled for the group to keep moving, putting his fingers to his mouth to emphasize the need for caution. They passed the gap. Pierre could see that they were well away from the fortress. Its black walls could be faintly seen in the distance. He was looking out from a dark lane. A streetway was full of people. They were not moving, and the chanting noise was coming from them. Taymoor paused to study the scene. The guards stopped with him. The people were lit yellow by the flaming torches that some of them held. They swayed with their chanting. Taymoor grimaced and pushed forward the closest guard. They hurried. The sounds of explosions carried to them. Pierre looked back, trying to see more of what the tumult was.
The group stopped. The passageway had ended. Next to them where pipes that dribbled muck into the ancient street. The smell of the sea came to them. Taymoor motioned for the guards to stay in the darkness of the passageway and went into the street to look. “I am not a smart man,” Ernest said, “but I am sure that there is something mad happening here. If you ask me, there is an uprising, and our friend the Ottoman is on the wrong side of it. What do you think?”
“Hmm,” Pierre answered vaguely and squatted to watch Taymoor. “That is a good thing then. If the locals are fighting the Ottomans, we will be set free, right?”
“If we play this well, I think you are right.”
Taymoor lifted his nose as if he were sniffing, doglike. There was shouting, and the sky was lit by explosions in the distance. He signaled to the rest, and they were shoved with the truncheons of the guards. They formed the order of Taymoor at the front and guards on either side and behind. The street was of hard dirt, and the windows of the houses on each side were all closed, most with boards. Taymoor made sure that they were bunched up again. There were three guardsmen. Pierre thought that there had been four. Taymoor, too, seemed confused. He kept his voice low but issued urgent instructions to the guards. They hustled along the street. They were traveling downslope. The smell of the sea came to them through the gaps in the buildings.
A window opened, and the group was yelled after. Another yell echoed the first. One of the guards yelled back, but Taymoor quickly hushed him. The street was not lit. High buildings were on each side, creating a murky scene. Something landed in front of them and bounced into the gutter. It was a stone that had been thrown. A guard grunted as he was thwacked on the boot. Something whistled past Pierre’s ear. A window opened, and foul water was spilled down onto the group. Ernest had put his arm up, but it did not stop the brown muck splashing across his head. A ball smacked into the little man’s chest. He felt at the spot it had hit and reached to pick it up. “It’s an onion, I think,” he said. Taymoor gesticulated for them to move. One of the guards stumbled as he was hit by a stone but recovered to knock Pierre forward.
A skinny man, maybe a boy, sprinted out of the gloom and clouted one of the guards with a piece of wood. Before they could react, he was gone. The guard felt at his head and then looked at his bloody fingers. Taymoor cursed as he always did. More people were ahead and behind. A guard tripped and fell to the ground. They were chased by the hollers of the people behind. Taymoor ran into a side street. It dropped steeply, and they could see the sea and the docks below. He was collided into by one of the locals, and sprawled onto the street. There was only one guard left to watch Pierre and Ernest, and he was distracted by more of the locals coming out of the shadows. He held up his truncheon and threatened to hit one of the locals who waved a stick back at him.
“Quick, this is our chance,” Ernest said and kicked at the back of the leg of the guard. He fell forward awkwardly, allowing the skinny local to swipe at his head with a stick.
Pierre’s sleeve was pulled by the little man.
“Run, let’s run,” Ernest said.
“No, you cannot go.” It was Taymoor shouting at them from a half-standing position as he wrestled with one of the locals. “You will not make it.” He pushed down the head of the local, thrust his knee into the body, and freed himself from the wrestle, but he was too far away to stop them.
Pierre ducked under the swinging stick of a local. The attacker was off balance and fell away, and they careered down the slope. “How do we let them know not to attack us?” Pierre gasped.
“I don’t know. Do we surrender? If they know that we are prisoners of the Ottomans for sure, they will not bother us.” Ernest puffed back.
Ahead of them a large group blocked the street. They could see that they had come from the main road that led to the Ottoman fortress. “Slow down,” Pierre said and grabbed Ernest’s jacket. The fortress in the background was burning. It lit the scene like a bonfire. The crowd in front of them was thick. They had been seen, and the mob moved steadily toward them. Behind them as well there were locals stalking toward them with their sticks held high. Taymoor could not be seen.
“Ah, damn, look at that,” Ernest said.
The group in front had moved into a clear view, illuminated by the fires. Their faces looked as if they had escaped from hell, contorted with rage to look nonhuman. They had skeletal bodies, dressed in torn rags, and wildly gesticulating arms as if they had lost control. Pierre’s attention was seized by what they were holding. Some held cleavers that dripped blood, and others brandished torn human limbs as if they were trophies. “I don’t know if these people would be friendly to us,” he said.
The shredded clothes on the torn limbs were the purple of the guards and the dark green of the prisoners, which meant that they were indifferent to whom they killed and ripped apart. The mob seethed toward Pierre and Ernest without hesitation. The two pulled each other so that they were holding. Pierre clutched Ernest’s collar. They edged backward. They could hear the angry cries from the mob.
A loose head was fixed on top of a pike, and its dead eyes grotesquely ogled them. The street behind was filled with more of the murderers. On one side of the street were walls, and the other a steep drop to the water. They were not able to run. Pierre’s shaking legs would not carry him if they could. “This is going to be ugly,” Ernest said.
An eager man ran out of the mob and slashed his cleaver menacingly at them as if practicing his death strikes. Another one was behind him and raced him to be the first. They arrived together in front of them. Ernest held up his fists. Pierre lifted his arm, maybe to take the blow of what was coming but also to shield his eyes from seeing. The cries from the mob sharpened and rose to a bloodthirsty crescendo.
Pierre looked between his fingers. A skin-and-bone face was looking at him with foul intent, the red-soaked cleaver poised. He closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do. His fingers tightened on the collar of the little man. There was a crack and the clang of the cleaver falling to the ground. And another bang. The cries abruptly ceased. Pierre opened his eyes. Two of the locals were motionless on the ground. The cleavers had been dropped. Ernest still stood with his fists balled, but now his mouth was also open.
Pierre looked behind. Taymoor held a pistol with both his hands. He had a firing stance with legs apart and braced. He fired another rapid set of shots into the mob, and more bodies fell. “We go this way, come,
” he said. The mob had stopped and was silent. “There is madness here,” he added and fired more shots. He lowered the pistol and with a steady hand loaded bullets. The mob watched him without care for those of them who had been shot and were either lying, not moving, or buckling with a wound. They were not scared but not advancing either. They seemed to be watching in awe.
More shots came from Taymoor. He had fired on the men that had been behind them. Some bodies were stretched out. “This way,” he barked. He ran with his head toward them. They followed him, stepping over the bloody bodies. There were stone steps, which Pierre had not seen before, that took them to a lower level. The mob did not follow. They were running next to rickety-looking moored boats, most of them with nervous eyes on board watching them while they felt gaff hooks. Taymoor turned them along a wooden pier. Pierre looked back. There were some torches coming after them. The boats that they passed were wrecked or sunken. They reached the end of the pier and looked at inky-black water.
“They are coming,” Ernest said, looking down the pier.
Taymoor pulled a hand held lamp from his jacket, turned it on, and started waving it above his head toward the sea. Some of the murderers were cautiously moving onto the pier, their meat cleavers restless in their hands. Taymoor pulled Pierre’s arm, slapped the lamp into it, and grunted for him to keep waving it. The Ottoman then took a few steps down the pier, knelt on one knee, aimed his pistol by holding it close to his face, and started shooting. Pierre waved the lamp but he could not see anything out in the blackness of the ocean. He heard cursing from the Ottoman. He turned to see that Taymoor was counting bullets in one hand. There were only a few remaining. The murderers were thickening at the start of the pier.
“We are trapped.” Ernest stated the obvious.
Taymoor loaded the bullets, carefully fingering each one. Then he aimed like a professional but did not fire. He took a quick look at Pierre. “Wave the light. Your life depends on it.”
Pierre looked across the water. His arm was exhausted. Ernest’s heavy breathing could be heard next to him. The sound of the mob seemed to get closer. He did not want to look. A shot came from Taymoor. The Ottoman was careful with his bullets. He was forced to turn by the desperate breathing of Ernest. The mob had nearly reached them, only a wild swing of a cleaver away. They moved without passion and instead had a silent desire to kill. Taymoor fired again. One of them fell. The others indifferently kept moving forward.
Out of the black, a small boat emerged. It moved quickly toward them like an arrow without moving the water. Three soldiers wearing dark uniforms and pointing rifles were at its front. It banged into the pier. One of the men put a foot on the pier, balanced himself, and fired his rifle. Taymoor ducked under the fire and barked orders at the men. Pierre and Ernest stepped onto the boat without the need for any instruction. All three soldiers fired into the mob. Taymoor leaped onto the boat, and it was pushed away from the pier.
Pierre looked over his shoulder at the pier. It was crowded with bodies, but the mob kept surging as if it had no fear. The distance to the pier quickly lengthened, and the mob could do nothing but stare at them with empty eyes. Pierre and Ernest settled on a bench. Taymoor sat across from them still holding his smoking pistol. They sat quietly, except for the heavy breathing. The boat glided into open water.
“What happened here?” Ernest asked.
Taymoor lifted an eye to look at the little man.
“The rebels are crazy,” the Ottoman answered after taking moments to contemplate. “A death cult, you would call them.”
Ernest made a sharp whistle. “Sounds bad.”
“They are … I have seen too many of them,” the Ottoman said flatly, as if speaking to himself.
“Where are we, anyway?”
“This is the island of Socatra. It is part of the empire, but … well … you have seen.” He looked at his pistol. “No trouble now. The navy sent a ship. We will be on it soon. We will not stop again. Next will be Konstantinople.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
He could not read the words. He would wear glasses, but they fell off when he leaned forward. The volume felt important, as if centuries old. He tried to fit it back into where he had taken it from. He could smell that this library was important and rarely disturbed. It made his own seem paltry. His heart panged with a desire to be closer to the peacefulness that books bestowed on him. There were, no doubt, books stored in the library that not only recounted history but were history. On the higher shelves, he could make out scrolls sticking out and bulky codices underneath. He longed to be younger and climb to pull them out, even though they had the precarious look of not being disturbed for a long time.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting.” A person had entered.
“Of no concern. A wonderful place to be kept waiting.” He turned to see who it was. “Let me compliment you on this splendid collection.”
The man was impeccable. He could see this even from a distance. As the man came closer, Carsten confirmed that he was a perfect example of having a care for appearance, from clothes to hair to the gleam of one’s skin. He was truly of the ruling class. When he came close enough, the strong, curved nose could be admired, likewise the thin mustache and a tuft of hair that sprung from his head like a shark fin. He was strongly built and smelled of the outdoors, dogs, and horses. He approached Carsten with a confidential chuckle. “Mister Carsten Cheval. It has been twenty years since we last met. I was young, only recently finished from university and you were … well … you were old even then.”
“And you are Harry Habsburg. I am amazed. You are as strapping a man as I have seen.” He wore a tawny-colored suit and a bold-brown thickly knotted tie, the type of attire that would never be worn by a businessman. “I am grateful for the meeting.”
“There is no need for that. It is my pleasure. There is much to talk about. Yours is the type of mind that is a warehouse of useful knowledge and experience – ha, to rival a library.” He flourished his arms like a stage actor. “As a point, in this very hour, I have come from a stinging debate in regard to bimetallism. In this state this is a topic of passionate discussion. A man of your experience would have sought-after views on this matter.”
“I am not sure. It is the perennial debate. It has not been worth the effort to take a side.”
“Ah, I see. Please sit down,” Harry said and ushered Carsten to two opulent armchairs in a corner of the great room. “Nonetheless, your views would still be of the highest currency, even more so as you guard them so vigilantly.”
“I am happy to discuss any matter at length with you, but there is some urgency to my visit.”
“I know, I know, I am a reader of the dailies.” He imperiously crossed his leg over his knee. “Please go ahead.”
“I have utilized your banking services for many years – decades, in fact. You may be aware of this, or you may not. I am not sure of your involvement in the banking arrangements of your enterprise.”
Harry politely raised his hand. “I am not aware of exact details. As you understand, our bank’s chief specialty is secrecy. No doubt this is why you have utilized the service. There would only be one man or two in the organization who would know of your custom.”
“I have asked to meet because what I request is sensitive and at the same time needs to be expediated. I have found from past experience that when dealing with matters of this nature, it is wise to speak directly to the man in charge.”
Harry leaned forward and thoughtfully rubbed his chin.
“I have a secret account with your bank. I am in an urgent need to access this account and have moneys liberated as I direct. I am aware of what the usual arrangements are and that these are a long process. However, I trust that as a long-standing client, there is the ability to forgo usual protocols.”
“Ah.” Harry sighed and retained his jovial tone. “I feared you would request th
is.”
Carsten frowned. “That surprises me.”
“It is not the assets. Let me assure you of that – we have incredible liquidity. The problem is that I have received a dispatch from the Councillors’ Office of the Forum of the Metropolis. This was a strongly worded document and made it crystal clear that any business dealings with you would have severe repercussions.”
“Are you jesting? The Forum of the Metropolis has no jurisdiction in your state. That letter is meaningless, and the Councillors’ Office is nothing but a collection of wooden-headed councillors.”
“Ah, yes, true. We are a separate state. But we exist under a shadow. A three-hour drive along the coastline, and you will find the Metropolis. We cannot ignore this.”
“Of course, you should ignore it. You would not be a banker if you did not.”
“Dear Carsten.” He laughed as though recounting a story at a pleasant lunch. “You have enemies everywhere.”
“Do not concern yourself with my affairs or meritless accusations of corrupt politicians. Instead, let us make arrangements for the repatriation of my assets.”
“I can’t let you have your money, Carsten.”
Carsten instinctively looked to his side. Normally Rovis would be there and, without prompting, would unleash a tirade toward whoever they were negotiating against. He was only allowed to go alone into the library, and now it was obvious why. He remined silent.
So did Harry Habsburg. He looked across the room as though his mind had wandered to fox or duck hunting.
“This is most unlike the Habsburgs,” Carsten eventually said. “You are not at the whim of the Metropolis.”
“You are quite right in saying that. If you know the history of the name, which you no doubt do, it would be known that we do not bow before anyone or anything. The history of New Europa is a testament to that. We were the bulwark against the Ottomans for centuries. And then the first to envision New Europa.”