Fear and His Servant

by Mirjana Novakovic; Terence McEneny

  In a few dignified strides he made his way across the small clearing and vanished into the woods. He must have entered the mill while I was sleeping. But no matter how his appearance had startled and upset me, I tried to be reasonable and see that he must be a figment of my imagination. For Novak had not seen him, and he must therefore not be real. No one else had seen him either – not the first time, and not the second time, when the apparition had ridden alongside me.

  Vuk Isakovič had seen him, though, when we were returning to the city, no doubt about that, and he had been afraid. This time, talking away, he had noticed nothing. I hoped that no one but Isakovič and I would be subjected to the sight of him.

  And then I had a brilliant idea. What if the man in crimson was a vampire? It certainly made sense. From everything I’d heard vampires wouldn’t enter the city, and the man had conveniently disappeared just before the gates had opened. So there had been a point to all that talk of cities and walls I’d been hearing since my arrival. Hadn’t Schmettau mentioned, in one of his never-ending explanations, that the real purpose of cities was not to protect the inhabitants from marauding bandits but from the dead? Ramparts and water, the water in the moats, served as a barrier against visitors from beyond the grave. Belgrade could certainly count its blessings there. So, a vampire was preying on people in the mill, and here was the man in crimson. The peasants would describe vampires as being red with the blood of their victims, always wrapped in their burial shroud, and here was the man in crimson never without his cloak.

  If it were true, then Radetzky was already dead. The man in crimson was, in fact, Sava Savanović. And the dead truly were beginning to rise. The Last Judgement. The end of days. The end.

  But no. Not yet. Maybe there was a way to stop the vampires. They couldn’t enter the city. The ramparts would keep them at bay. Water! But how? Why couldn’t they? If I only knew I could destroy them. Pound the stake in. Stop the whole thing. Stop the twisted resurrection they heralded. Prevent the coming of the Antichrist and with it the coming of Christ himself.

  And, as these courageous thoughts went through my mind, I happened to look down again. The five men were still beneath the tree, carrying on a heated discussion. They couldn’t have seen the man in crimson. Again I could make out several words here and there.

  ‘Great ballad … Kosovo … seek … swore … white … heroes … white … for ever … never … white … white …’

  They were the very picture of conspirators. But who could they be plotting against, if not Austria? Perhaps they wanted to put the regent to death, which would explain the mention of Kosovo and heroes. I liked the idea of them doing the regent in. Lovely. Isakovič would look every bit the killer, all in white – a colour I’ve always hated – as he ran the Austrian Murad through with his magnificent Solingen sabre, a sword I watched him cradling like a child.

  I strained to hear. At times their voices were louder, and then I could make out certain words; other times, no doubt when they were in agreement, their voices remained low and practically inaudible. There was nothing to be done about it other than to hope for an argument to break out.

  And so, during one of their moments of general agreement about the need for the Serbian people to stick together, I looked back at the mill. And again there was something to see.

  This time it was Maria Augusta, Princess of Thurn and Taxis.

  3

  She was behind a tree, no doubt imagining herself to be cleverly concealed. I’d been watching the Serbs for some time, so she could easily have gone into the mill and come back out without my noticing. Or she might have just been standing there, in full sight of any of the people near by. It was becoming quite the little crowd.

  The foolish woman was waving at me. She’d spotted me. I tried to wave her away, but she just waved back. She obviously wasn’t worried about the five men under the tree, which could only mean one thing: they were connected to her in some way. But then, why would she be waving at me? Maybe it wasn’t me she was waving at. Maybe she was giving them sort of sign? She might have wanted to get rid of her lover. She must have suggested spending the night at the mill, and when Württemberg cleverly turned the offer down she’d made a deal with the Serbs to do him in.

  Or maybe she was trying to signal them that I was in the branches overhead. Fortunately, they didn’t notice. If they did notice, though, I was done for. Climbing this high would cost me my life. I held on tight.

  Maria Augusta had stopped waving. But she might start up again any moment. I looked down again, and when I raised my eyes, I saw something halfway between myself and the princess. It was in the shadows cast by the moonlight among the dense trees, and I couldn’t quite make it out. Again I looked towards the princess, but she was gone. I looked back at the unknown figure, just in time to see it vanish into the woods.

  The place was getting as crowded as Hell.

  The princess must have been waving at the mysterious figure. I could let go of my conspiracy theories about assassinating Württemberg and concentrate on the theory that he was being cuckolded. Although it was an odd choice of place for a rendezvous, even by my standards.

  As for the Serbs, if they weren’t talking murder, what were they talking about? Whatever it was, it was obviously gripping enough to make them blind and deaf to all the members of the nobility and the undead running around the place.

  I felt I’d seen enough. All I had to do now was wait for the Serbs either to come to an agreement or have an argument and leave their spot under the oak tree. I was awfully tired. The men were still going on about ‘Kosovo’ and something ‘white’, which made me want to shout out ‘black’. After all, isn’t Kosovo dark ground for the Serbs?

  And then, of course, it occurred to me that the princess’s lover must be either Schmeticulous or Schmeddlesome. One of them had been missing from the room. If the Serbs would only get it over with and let me get back, then I could see who was left in the room. The two lovebirds would hardly be done before the Serbs.

  As it happened, it wasn’t long before the conspirators began to stand up. They exchanged a few more words as they stood there, then went their separate ways. Each one in a different direction. Vuk Isakovič headed off towards our hut.

  I had just started to climb down when a voice stopped me. The voice did not come from the ground. It came from on high. It came from above:

  ‘Where hast thou wandered, O morning star?

  Where oh where hast thou dallied?

  And dallied these three days bright?’

  It was a man’s voice, deep and powerful, yet tender as the softest damask. For a moment I thought it might be … But no. I thought it might be the voice of … But no. Impossible. There was nothing above but the moon and the stars. But from above came the response:

  ‘Oh wander and tarry did I

  In Bijograd-town of white,

  And filled my eyes with wonder …’

  It was a woman’s voice, high, perhaps a bit strong, but vulnerable and full of feeling. Again it sang out:

  ‘The Devil went down to Belgrade-town,

  And tricked the false commission,

  They all believe, but only one knows,

  If that one leaves …’

  And there the voice stopped. I peered up into the sky, trying to figure out what had just happened but saw only a dark cloud that had suddenly appeared. For a long time I looked up without hearing anything else from above. I hopped down and set off for the hut. From time to time I would stop and look up, but there was nothing, only more and more clouds gathering. Damned clouds! Cold and free, with no native land, no exile.

  I thought about the two voices I had heard. They’d been speaking the Ijekavian dialect, the speech of Bosnia and epic poetry and the Bible. Why? Everyone in ‘the white city’ of Belgrade and the surrounding areas spoke the Ekavian dialect. Was it to keep the right number of syllables in the metre? And what was the bit about leaving Belgrade supposed to mean? Of all the places for the vers
e to stop.

  Oh, I was fed up. It was all too much for one night. Nothing had gone according to plan. Just wait till I get my hands on that boy from Požarevac, I told myself.

  I could have gone back to see what had happened to Radetzky, but somehow I didn’t want to. I was cold. It’s always coldest just before the dawn. When I found out in the morning, at least I’d be able to look genuinely surprised.

  As quietly as I could I crept back into the hut. I counted the sleeping bodies. They were all there. The princess and her lover had made devilishly quick work of it, if I do say so myself. I went straight to my bed but could not fall asleep. The more I knew, the less I knew. And to think how innocently it had all begun: at a ball in Vienna a month before Belgrade.

  Some ten paces away from me stood a group of three Jesuits. They were keeping a close eye on everything that happened at the ball. Naturally, they wore enormous crucifixes on chains around their necks. One day, when faith has nearly faded away, thanks to me, the crosses will be even bigger. They’ll have to make them life-sized, which is nothing to sneeze at, if I remember correctly.

  The sun hit me straight in the eyes whenever I looked up at the three crosses. I could get no closer to the summit of Golgotha: an entire centurion’s detachment was guarding the site of the crucifixion. I could only look up, into the burning sun of Nisan, shining as if it were an entirely different month in the Jewish calendar – I forget all their names. It seemed as if the crosses and the crucified figures were ablaze. Several times I looked away. A great crowd of people pressed ahead of me, some of them quite tall – most likely from another province. The Jews could scarcely see a thing. I had to stand on my tip-toes. The whole thing was dull, but I still had to be there. To do what I could, to rescue him, to prolong his agony. For there was still a chance that Pontius Pilate might change his mind and pardon him, have him brought down from the cross. A chance that he might not die and come back from the dead. True, the procurator had twice refused to see me. I hadn’t even made it past the first sentry. I elbowed my way through the crowd. I knew that the Magdalene would be there, probably close by. And so she was.

  ‘What are you after now?’ she cried.

  ‘Listen, it’s not too late. Here’s some vinegar mixed with gall, give it to the soldiers for him to drink. He won’t take it from me, but he might take it from you. You’re a woman. He understands your frailty. He has a weakness for you himself.’

  ‘Why would you help him?’ Her black eyes flashed. That’s how she was before Fishmouth took her heart: full of fire.

  ‘Come now,’ I said. ‘Put me out of your mind. It’s him you should be thinking of. I’m going back to Pilate, there may still be hope.’

  ‘But why you?’

  ‘There’s no one else.’

  ‘I won’t do it,’ she said shrilly. There was no point in trying to persuade her. I could see that. She wasn’t one for debates. Hadn’t we had our times together in the taverns of Jerusalem, the olive groves and healing springs? The days would draw to a close; the nights lay open. Sometimes her soul would slip my grasp; her body never did.

  I had been waiting for Fishmouth. Weeks, new moons, I couldn’t complain. Rome had no need of me; Jerusalem was preparing for my foe. She had a terrible temper. Everything had to be her way or else. Never have I been so indulgent. That’s why I hated her and loved her all the more. It brought back memories, that flash of fire in her, like three years earlier.

  I gave the vinegar to an old woman. The soldier merely nodded without saying a word. He wetted a rag. Stuck it on the end of a lance. And held it up to Fishmouth’s lips. The legionary had to raise the lance high above his head, that’s how tall the cross stood.

  I drew closer to the Jesuits without attracting attention to myself. I was approaching them from behind and couldn’t tell for sure who was speaking, but it didn’t really matter. As I might have guessed, they were gossiping.

  ‘Everyone in Belgrade knows …’

  ‘Won’t be long before it gets out in Vienna.’

  ‘More’s the pity. If His Imperial Majesty should learn of what’s been happening there he might replace the ecclesiastical authorities – meaning us.’

  ‘And put the Franciscans in charge of the Belgrade parish.’

  ‘Which we cannot allow.’

  ‘So then, we must find a way to restore the peace.’

  ‘How do you propose to go about it, my dear count?’

  ‘I am related to the princess. I shall use all of my influence, both as count and as bishop.’

  Aha, so one of them was Bishop-Count of Thurn and Valsassina. The German nobility sometimes had two surnames: one for the family and the other for their lands. Where was Valsassina? I didn’t know, but I’d been wanting to meet the fellow for some time now.

  I joined the three churchmen.

  ‘Your Grace and Excellency, I am honoured to meet the Bishop-Count of Thurn and Valsassina. I am Count Otto von Hausburg.’

  The long face, with its Spanish pedigree and Moorish blood, twisted itself into something known at the English court as a ‘smile’. In the German princedoms and southern lands, this would be considered a disagreeable spasm. I twisted my own features in much the same way. The bishop-count’s face twitched again, which I took as a sign of satisfaction with our similarity. I bowed and kissed his ring-bedecked hand. His diamonds outnumbered his years, and since he was quite young, there couldn’t have been more than thirty of them.

  ‘I leave soon for Belgrade.’ I don’t know why I said this. I must have had a presentiment.

  ‘My son,’ asked the bishop. ‘what has the Good Lord appointed for you in Belgrade?’

  Mad as a hatter.

  ‘Nothing, Your Grace. I fear it’s the other one at work.’

  ‘Surely not, my son?’

  ‘The court at Vienna is all astir with the latest news.’

  ‘Oh!’ was the only answer the bishop-count made. He wasn’t sure how much I knew, and he didn’t want to say anything else. I bowed once more and glided away.

  4

  I woke up feeling tired from the uncomfortable bed. It was a dark morning with black clouds hanging low. The sky seemed to have been blotted out. I stepped outside, where I was greeted by breakfast and Baron Schmidlin. He bowed. ‘How did you sleep, Your Highness?’

  ‘Very poorly, Baron.’

  ‘Ah, let us hope that this business will soon be over and that we shall be on the way to Belgrade within the hour.’

  ‘Let us hope so,’ I answered without believing what I was saying. I had no hope at all.

  We were joined by Count Schmettau. ‘Have you noticed that here in the country it feels colder than in the city, and yet also warmer than in the city – that one feels everything more strongly than in the city. The city does away with the sense of difference.’

  ‘I should think it’s nature that the city does away with.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right, Princess,’ he laughed, ‘but you must know that people move from the country to the city and not the other way round.’

  ‘And where do they go from the cities?’ asked the poor simple baron. Schmettau suddenly stiffened, as if he had seen a ghost. He made an awful face and pinched his nose as if there were a nasty smell.

  ‘From the cities, Baron? There is only one place left to go after the cities: to the madhouse.’

  ‘How very reassuring,’ said the baron rather foolishly, for lack of anything else to say.

  ‘You find that reassuring, do you, Baron?’ asked Schmettau accusingly.

  ‘Well, I don’t know …’ Schmidlin stammered.

  ‘You’re a country-born man, meant for nature, aren’t you? You’ve got everything you could ask for right here, all your favourites: beer, women, food to stuff your face with … And then there’s always your diskrecija –’

  I had to interrupt Schmettau. ‘Discretion? What do you mean? What could be discreet about the countryside?’

  ‘Oh, Princess! “Discretion” ha
s a new meaning for our beloved administration – nothing to do with polite society or with being unobtrusive and inconspicuous. Rather, it’s the cost of being unobtrusive and inconspicuous. And of polite society, if you like. Diskrecija is bribery. Bribes, my dear Princess. Bribes that Schmidlin takes from the Serbs to keep them politely and unobtrusively informed of everything that goes on at your husband’s court. Goings-on that aren’t inconspicuous at all, much less fit for polite society, as we all know quite well,’ said Schmettau.

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ I exclaimed, although I believed every word.

  ‘Rubbish!’ shouted Schmidlin, the first time I had ever heard him raise his voice. ‘Rubbish! Rubbish! I’m the one paying the Serbs to report back to me everything that happens at the metropolitan’s court. And all of my discretions, sir, are on the books, all accounted for – who, when, how much and for what. You know that perfectly well. But that doesn’t suit your purposes. You’d rather have everyone be just as low and crooked as that little man you –’

  Schmettau had seized Schmidlin by the windpipe and was throttling him. The baron was gasping for air, and for a moment I had to step out of character as a princess: I struck Schmettau a blow across the head. That brought him to his senses. He released the baron. He turned towards me, bowed and went off to the hut.

  ‘Thank you, Your Highness, you saved my life,’ said the baron.

  I don’t know why we didn’t go directly to the mill, but we seemed to be waiting for someone or something. I paced back and forth. Schmettau sat on a three-legged stool in front of the hut. Beside him sat Vuk Isakovič and Novak with another man I didn’t know. In the middle I saw tiles for playing the Chinese game of mah-jong. When I was a little girl the Thurn and Taxis couriers once brought me a beautiful box of tiles covered in Chinese characters.

  What were you saying?