The peasant halted the cart, and Novak and I climbed up.
I sat beside the driver, while Novak sat behind us facing the other way. No one spoke a word, at least not that I could hear. An unpleasant feeling took hold of me. Whenever I feel uneasy I pay attention to the little things around me. This occupies first my attention and then my thoughts, and in a little while I stop feeling anything at all. Now, the little thing I had spied right away was the sack the peasant was holding on his lap: it was of leather, but old and worn. There was something inside it, something I couldn’t make out.
For a long time we rode along, and the only sounds were Novak and myself as we shifted in our seats. The fog lay thick and heavy.
If I were anyone else I would have assumed that the utter stillness was the work of the powers of darkness. As it was, I could only suspect the other side – so to speak.
I cleared my throat, just to have something to listen to. The fog seemed to be getting thicker and thicker, and the peasant seemed to be driving by memory alone, or else the oxen themselves were following a path they knew by heart, as the way could not be seen. At one point the fog began to shine. The sun must have been struggling to rise in the east, its rays illuminating the mists. Shortly thereafter the sun must have gone back down. And still I could hear no sound.
Our path was suddenly blocked by a small fortified gate. On either side stretched low defensive walls made of wooden palings, scarcely higher than a short man.
‘This is what they call the field line,’ said Novak. ‘It protects the Serbian town, the one outside Prince Eugene’s line.’
For no reason I could see or hear, the doors swung open. We passed through the gate. The fog was starting to fill with light again.
Just on the other side of the gate our way was blocked by a stream. The peasant urged the oxen forward, but they baulked at first. No sooner had the cart entered the water than we sank into the mud. And there we sat, not moving. The peasant shifted in his seat, not wanting to lash the oxen and not wanting to get down and lead them across. At last he made up his mind to step down. It was the moment I had been waiting for. As soon as he had his hands full with the oxen I grabbed the sack he had been holding. Quickly I undid the string and opened it.
Inside there was a cone of sugar.
I couldn’t resist, and I nibbled a bit off the top. The sugar was sweet, of course. No surprise there. I quickly tied it up again in the bag and put it back.
The peasant was still dealing with the oxen. Novak joined him, and by working together they were able to get the oxen moving and free the cart from the muck. When we reached the other bank the peasant and Novak climbed back into the cart.
We had not gone much further when Novak announced importantly, ‘We’re here.’
We jumped down from the cart, and the peasant vanished into the fog and the night.
‘A good man, that peasant,’ Novak said.
‘You know I loathe good people.’
‘But you’ll ride with them.’
‘I certainly will. I’ve got a sweet tooth for taking advantage of good people. This whole thing has left a most delightful taste in my mouth, in every sense of the word.’
9
I was exhausted, and I sat down on a good-sized rock beside the road. The rough surface was uncomfortable, but it was still better than squatting in the dust like a beggar. I’ve always thought you can tell the masters from the servants first and foremost by where they sit: the masters will always be sitting on something, no matter how uncomfortable, while the servants will always be sitting in something. Novak confirmed the rule once again, of course, and I looked down at him and asked, ‘Where are we now?’
‘Why, in Dedejsko Selo.’
‘Ah, yes. And how far from Kalemegdan?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure, master, but I reckon we’re an hour’s stiff walk from the gate we came out of.’
Too far then, I said to myself. We shouldn’t have come so far out of our way. I decided that the best thing was to have a rest, perhaps a bit of sleep, tired as I was, and then to make our way back to the Fortress of Kalemegdan. There had been no point in riding this far. The fog was slowly lifting. The moon’s false sheen was giving way to true and burning light. I don’t care for mornings, and I knew this one would be no exception. As I sat there thinking, I heard the sound of horses and loud voices.
‘Someone coming, master.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’ My keen sense of hearing had returned.
I looked around but could see nowhere to hide. By the frightened expression on my servant’s face, I could tell that he was faring no better. I drew my gun and said calmly, ‘If they’re bandits, we fight. If they’re gentlemen, I shall introduce myself.’
‘As the Devil or as Otto von Hausburg?’ my servant asked.
‘Don’t be stupid! Even if I did introduce myself as the Devil, who would believe me? They’d think I was out of my mind. It’s happened before, as you know perfectly well. I can’t stand it when you play the fool.’
The riders were nearly upon us, and it was clear that these were no hajduks. They wore armour and wigs, leaving no doubt that they were, in fact, Austrians, and noble ones at that. I slipped my gun back under my cloak.
The middle horseman, unlike his companions, had no wig. He wore his hair very short, his head nearly shaved. He had the neck of a bull and hands so massive he could easily have felled a horse with them. From his appearance, he had clearly dressed in haste or without care. He was well fattened, but muscular. Only when he had reached us did I notice the scar that stretched from his left ear to the top of his head. He was not particularly young – perhaps fifty years old.
On his left rode an old man. Neither the blackness of his wig nor the straightness of his posture could conceal his age. Everything he wore was spotless and shining, and a mantle of noble crimson hung over the back of his horse, brushing the ground.
The third horseman, on the right of the man with the scar, was young, barely twenty years old. He had a great black moustachio and I knew at once that he was a Serb. He wore the uniform of an Oberkapitän.
These three were followed by some ten others, all well-armed, while bringing up the rear were horse-drawn covered wagons.
The riders halted at a signal from the middle horseman. He looked at me for some time then said, ‘You are the Devil himself.’
You said it, I thought. But aloud I said, ‘The Devil indeed. I am Otto von Hausburg.’
‘You can’t fool me. And you seem to be in a tight spot. Hardly to be expected of the Devil. But then, you’re no stranger to me.’
‘I am to be addressed as Count.’
He laughed heartily then called out, ‘A horse for the Devil!’
‘And his servant,’ I added.
‘The Devil and his apprentice. Horses, and make it quick!’
He did not introduce himself. None of them introduced themselves. Such behaviour is the mark of either the extremely self-confident or the extremely insecure. The latter are ashamed of their own names – that is, they consider themselves unworthy of having a name at all – while the former simply assume that everyone already knows who they are.
I was given a mare to ride and managed with some difficulty. Apparently the horse was unaccustomed to being ridden, and made this point rather clear. We all set off – me struggling to keep the mare in line, the others without any trouble.
As we rode towards Belgrade and left Dedejsko Selo behind, I wondered about the identity of this man and his curious retinue. He must be a nobleman of some sort, as was the man in crimson. It occurred to me that the best way to find out was to drop Baron Schmidlin’s name then see how the conversation developed. I spoke up. ‘Yesterday, when I was speaking with Baron Schmidlin …’
‘Oh, talking to Schmidlin, were you?’ interrupted the man with the scar. ‘He must have told you never, ever to refer to me as head of the administration, but as Regent of Serbia.’
So, this was Alexan
der of Württemberg, Regent of Serbia, great com mander under Prince Eugene of Savoy and husband to that wonderful woman, that long-suffering soul.
‘Schmidlin’s an ass,’ I said with pleasure.
‘Yes,’ laughed Württemberg, ‘but don’t even think of mentioning the word administration in my title.’
I said nothing. But how very galling it could be, the behaviour I had to put up with sometimes. And from human beings. Do people not read books, the New Testament? Does it not say quite clearly that I am Prince of this World? Doesn’t that come straight from the Old Fishmouth Himself, that vile Jew, and from that other vile Jew, Paul? People don’t believe the words of their own faith. Here was this petty bureaucrat instructing me – me, mind you, ruler of this world and all it holds – on the finer points of addressing him. On one side, the lord of all the world; on the other, a head of administration.
‘Your Highness, Lord Regent of Serbia, was the hunt a success?’ I asked just to pass the time.
‘I’m not satisfied.’ Then he began to speak, at great length, about the trifling events of his hunts as if they were veritable battles, with the fate of kingdoms hanging in the balance. Many kings and princes have I known, many high rulers, in many lands and many times, and I find them to have one thing in common: they all consider their personal matters and amusements to be the most important things in the world; they all imagine their hobbies, their hunts, their amorous escapades and dances to be ever so important, to be taken ever so seriously. At the same time, they show considerably less effort and concern when it comes to ruling their lands and people.
He went on talking, but I wasn’t listening. And, as I had nothing better to keep my mind occupied, I naturally began to follow the conversation between the Serb horseman and one of the other soldiers. They were speaking of the victory at Belgrade in 1716. The Serb with the moustache was explaining.
‘The fortress had to be taken before Turkish reinforcements could get there. As quick as we could, we set up a pontoon bridge across the Danube, and do you know who the first man across was? Our glorious prince, Regent of Serbia, Alexander of Württemberg. Then we headed towards Vračar and laid out the first line of attack. Blast after blast, we kept up a barrage from every cannon we had, and once we even managed to hit a powder magazine in the lower town. Our engineers had planned out the assault on the walls. When you take a city the battle almost always goes the same way: you keep firing the cannon until you breach the walls. Meanwhile, the infantry is filling in the defensive ditches with earth, loose stone – anything they can shovel up.’
‘But isn’t the point,’ I said, ‘to get through the gates?’
‘Not very often, not very often at all. It’s best to keep the gates as they are, best to take them intact. Normally the gatehouse will have its own detachment. And an army can get into a city just as well through any old hole in the wall,’ he responded.
‘But even when you blast an opening in the wall, doesn’t the defender simply double his forces on the spot?’
‘Sir, you are apparently not familiar with siegecraft. The prevailing custom, you see, is to offer the city a chance to surrender, once its walls have been breached. If they accept, the city is not sacked, and the defenders even have the right to leave the city under armed guard.’
‘And you offered such terms to the Turks?’
‘No, our artillery never made a scratch in the walls.’
‘Then how did you take Belgrade?’
‘The reinforcements sent by Halil Pasha had reached Belgrade, but they were unable to enter the city because Mustapha Pasha Čelić, commander of the Fortress of Kalemegdan, had ordered all the bridges destroyed to prevent his own army from fleeing. Halil Pasha dug in at Ekmekluk. We locked forces on the field at Mali Mokri Lug, 16 August, just after midnight.’
‘Mali Mokri Lug?’
‘Yes, that’s the name of the village. We broke through their ranks with our first charge, at least our right flank did. Then the Turkish cavalry seemed to rise from the dead, and they nearly turned the battle around. At that moment a thick fog fell all around us, making it impossible to see. We stood there, waiting, as did the Turks. Our generals all wanted to wait out the fog until morning then strike at first light, but Prince Eugene of Savoy ordered us to attack immediately. In the fog our flanks got separated. The Turks quickly realized what was happening, but then Prince Eugene himself and his second line charged into battle and fought all the way through to the second Turkish line. The only thing that saved us was his incredible courage. If only you could have seen the man, charging through the darkness and fog against the Turks. The same Eugene of Savoy who was turned down by Louis XIV of France as being too short for military service. There never was a man to match Prince Eugene! Our very own regent fought in the same battle. In Vienna the wagging tongues say he is under Prince Eugene’s special protection, but in that battle he received the wound you see on his head at the hands of a janissary. If that’s what you can expect from special protection, you can keep it. Evil tongues have done more damage to our regent than enemy hands and sabres. We killed fifteen thousand Turkish soldiers, took their entire camp, and Halil Pasha retreated and didn’t stop running until Niš. Mustapha Pasha Čelić was still refusing to surrender the city, and we beat him again. Two days later the commander of the Fortress of Kalemegdan signed the surrender of the city. That’s why the fortress itself was never taken. We beat the Turks outside the fortress. Under the terms of surrender the city’s garrison and any surviving Turks were allowed to leave for Ottoman lands with their women and children and whatever bags and weapons they could carry on their shoulders and tie around their waists. They went to Niš.’
‘I see,’ I said.
‘And now we’ve built an even stronger fortress, one that no one will ever be able to conquer,’ he concluded through his moustache.
Someone began reciting in Classical Greek: ‘Sing, O muse, of Achilles and his wrath, son to Peleus / Whose fury on Achaean heads a thousand woes did wreak …’ The same voice continued, ‘Is there any city that has ever withstood a siege?’
I turned around, but the only figure directly behind me was the man with the crimson cloak, and the set of his lips implied that he had not spoken at all. He didn’t seem like the type with nothing to say, however. Indeed, he looked like someone who has quite a lot to say but who is keeping his mouth shut in order to seem serious and grand. People often imagine that silence is a sign of weighty decision-making or profound meditation on the meaning of life. Which it is.
‘Are you happy now that you’ve freed your land from the Turks?’ I asked the moustachioed Serb in his own language. He was obviously surprised that I could speak Serbian. His eyes widened. To avoid answering right away he took out a bag of tobacco and began to stuff his pipe, a Turkish chibouk. His horse was well-trained, and the Serb didn’t spill much tobacco. He was a dab hand at it.
‘What’s it like in Hell?’ came the question from the regent instead of an answer from the Serb.
I replied. ‘In Hell it is cold, and the sun warms it not. Further north than north itself lies Hell. And everlasting night is there, a starless, moonless night …’
‘Unholy sir, I’m a mercenary. As far as I’m concerned, the best side is the one that’s paying the most,’ said the man with the moustache.
‘… a mantling blackness wraps around it,’ I continued, ‘and never any light, no, never a gladdening ray shall fall on those who dwell there.’
‘Dark,’ the regent concluded.
‘Right, can’t see a thing,’ I retorted.
‘Not much of a punishment then if there’s nothing to see,’ Württemberg said wisely.
‘Your Highness, King of Serbia, just knowing is more than enough; one needn’t actually see it.’
‘But most people are bloody fools and only know what they see,’ continued the indomitable administrator.
‘We don’t get that sort in Hell.’
‘Ah,’ Württemberg said, then
fell silent.
Here was my chance to continue the conversation with the moustachio. ‘What’s your name then, young hero?’
‘Vuk Isakovič, unholy sir.’
As the words left his mouth, the man in the crimson cloak frowned at him, almost angrily, as if the young man had revealed a secret meant to be guarded from strange ears. Isakovič flinched and sped his horse forward; he dropped back again, but so that the man in crimson was now between us. It was obvious that Isakovič was no longer allowed to speak to me. I wondered what sort of power the other man must command if Vuk Isakovič feared him more than me.
We reached the little river and the gate in the low wooden walls. We were about to enter the Serbian town. One of the soldiers called out, the door swung open and we forded the stream and galloped through the gateway.
Novak rode alongside to speak to me.
‘Why are you talking to that captain? He’s getting fat on the blood of his own people. He steals from the Serbs and gives to the Austrians, and all the while he’s lining his own pockets. And why ask him if he’s glad the land is free from the Turks?’ Novak seemed to think that Isakovič had hesitated to answer for some other reason, and not just because of the man in crimson.
‘Well, why not?’ I said, playing innocent.
‘Of course he’s glad, now he can get back to thieving. Under the Turks he wouldn’t have been able to.’
‘And what about you? Are you happy that Serbia has been liberated from the Turks?’
‘That’s a hard question to answer.’
‘Oh? How so?’
‘Because it all depends on what you’re expecting.’
‘Expecting? Serbia’s been under Austrian rule for a good twenty years now, and it was under the Turks for quite a bit longer,’ I said.
‘That’s not what I meant. It’s like this: if you’re expecting the worst, or something only a bit better than the worst, you’ll be happy with whatever actually comes along. But if you were hoping for the best, anything that falls even a bit short will seem terrible.’
Fear and His Servant Page 5
