by Mike Carey
The pikemen served their purpose: if any of the townsmen had gathered stones they remained unthrown. The last of the victims to be taken – the burly grey-haired man, indicted as Matheus Vavra, innkeeper – struggled and yelled as he was dragged away, and almost succeeded in knocking down his captors. Klaes held his breath. But the man was subdued and tied up, fighting to the last, and his neighbours still looked on, their anger not quite reckless enough to overcome their caution.
Klaes tried not to focus as the whippings began again. He was sick to his soul of all of it: the over-reaction, the needless cruelty and the gross mismanagement of people who could have been their allies. They had tied the innkeeper to the botched frame, the one held together with ropes, and his struggles as Heinrich laid into him made the structure itself creak and groan. The mutterings of the watching crowd were turning to angry cries once more. Klaes glanced at August, expecting a general order to restore discipline – and saw the colonel in conversation with Sergeant Molebacher again. Deep in conversation. August had turned away from the floggings and was staring intently into the crowd at something indicated by the quartermaster. Klaes looked where Molebacher was pointing and saw two of the men who had put up the whipping frames: the master carpenter and his assistant. The colonel watched them for a moment and nodded to Molebacher, his expression grim.
More needless finger-pointing, Klaes thought in disgust. August had intended this day as a demonstration of the awful might of the empire, and the penalty for crossing it. If the people of Narutsin were less cowed than he had expected, that was hardly the fault of the carpenters.
As if to prove him wrong, the botched whipping frame began to sway, and one of its arms slid downwards, pulling the other two with it. The innkeeper screamed and kept on screaming. The surgeon came up at a run.
‘Get him down! You want his back to break?’
Lorenz’s yell was almost lost amid the howling of the Narutsiners. Vavra continued to roar with pain as he was taken down. Lorenz examined him briskly and announced that his shoulder was dislocated.
The floggings were suspended. As the innkeeper was carried off on a stretcher, his tormentor and both the others dropped their whips and ran to hold up the frame, which was threatening to collapse altogether. Tusimov stood in the midst of the shambles as if thunderstruck.
Colonel August did not wait for his lieutenant to recover himself. He snapped an order to Dietmar: in the mounting chaos, Klaes could not hear what he said, but Dietmar promptly left the field, taking Pabst with him. Then, to the shouts and catcalls of the townspeople and the appalled silence of his own men, the colonel strode out to face the crowd.
Klaes found himself admiring the man’s courage even as he wondered at his foolhardiness. But a moment later, like a clap of thunder, a cannon sounded, so close at hand that the smoke and the acrid smell of it came over the field at the same time. There was a shocked silence, and into that silence August spoke.
‘Cut both those men down, Lieutenant. Their punishment is suspended.’ Tusimov opened his mouth to protest. August silenced him with a gesture. ‘That frame is unsafe. Lieutenant Klaes, have it secured. Men of Narutsin, these neighbours of yours have received their sentence and will be released. But I must require your presence here for a while longer.’
A many-voiced sigh rose from the people before him. It was over. Klaes saw the fists unclench, the shoulders slump throughout the crowd, and felt a wave of relief of his own as he ran to follow his orders. He sent his six strongest men to help hold up the posts, and dispatched Janek, who was fast, to fetch more rope. After a moment’s thought he also pulled out young Leintz, who had never attended a flogging before and was pale and shaking, and sent him off at a more leisurely pace for tent pegs and a couple of mallets.
The colonel seemed to be delivering a lecture: on a citizen’s duty to his homeland, the importance of discipline and the responsibility of every man to stand up and be counted. Klaes suspected that no-one was listening, but it did not matter. He applied himself to the problem of the unstable frame, which it soon became clear was damaged beyond repair, no longer even securely attached to its base. With huge relief, he instructed his men to pull the monstrosity down. Neither of the other lieutenants had yet returned to his place, and the colonel was still haranguing the townspeople. Klaes took the opportunity to check on the state of the flogged men. Their treatment, and in particular that of Jakusch, had disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
The boy would likely recover, Sarai assured him, though of course he would be scarred. Of the others Puszin, who had received the most strokes, was in a bad way, but the rest, she thought, were in no present danger. The old man’s shoulder had been reset, and he was already sitting up and cursing. There was nothing else Klaes could do here. He looked around him at the camp followers nursing other women’s sons and husbands, and felt somehow ashamed.
He was on his way back to his post when the chaos returned.
The broken frame was down, he saw with satisfaction, and the men had begun to dismantle it. But next to them now were two artillerymen, wheeling a six-pounder on its carriage. Another cannon was already in place on the far side of the frames, facing the Narutsiners. And behind the townspeople a file of Pabst’s men was moving into position, bearing what must surely be every remaining pike in the store. Klaes stopped, aghast, as Dietmar strode past him to August’s side and spoke a few words in the colonel’s ear.
‘Now we are ready,’ August said. A ripple of unease ran through his audience: those at the front had already seen the arrival of the cannons. And suddenly the colonel’s manner had changed. He eyed the men and women before him with the cold fury he usually reserved for soldiers convicted of cowardice.
‘Your neighbours have been released, their punishments reduced out of consideration for their injuries,’ he said. ‘As long as no ringleader was identified, all were condemned to suffer the same. But the investigations of my men have uncovered the instigator of this attack – and moreover it has been found that this was not the last outrage he intended to perpetrate. This man thought, no doubt, to show himself a tearing young blade by flouting the edict of his archduchess and heaping scorn upon his motherland. He will learn today of the consequences which follow such actions.’ August’s voice rose to a roar. ‘Bring out Anton Hanslo, the carpenter.’
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then many voices spoke at once. Among them all, the carpenter’s assistant stood stricken and unbelieving. He made no move at all until two of the soldiers laid hands on him; then he cried out and struggled as he was dragged before the monstrous frames.
‘What have I done?’ he cried. ‘What am I meant to have done?’
August himself read out the charge, raising his voice over the man’s protests.
‘That you did, on the eighth of November, maliciously and with seditious intent incite riot and rebellion among your fellow citizens, to the destruction of good order and the great injury of loyal upholders of the empire—’
‘I never did such a thing! Who’s accusing me?’
‘You were overheard in the very act, by a man in whom I place absolute trust,’ August said with finality. ‘Your sentence is one hundred lashes.’
At this there was uproar among the watchers. A shrill voice rose above the chaos: Drozde.
‘It’s not true! I know this man. He’s done work for you. He never spoke harm to anyone!’
No-one heeded her. The colonel did not even look in the woman’s direction. Molebacher, who was holding one of Hanslo’s arms, shot her a brief glance; Klaes could have sworn the quartermaster was smiling. He bent down and said something low in the prisoner’s ear, which seemed to strike the man even through his terror and confusion: he twisted to look at Molebacher, his face still whiter than before.
Up until this point the carpenter had been mostly obscured from Klaes’s view by the men who held him. The motion allowed Klaes a clear glimpse of his face for the first time, and he started violently as he
realised that he had seen him before. He broke from the line of officers and strode forward to where Colonel August stood.
‘Sir.’ Klaes had to yell to make himself heard over the shouts of the crowd. ‘I saw the fight, and this man was not involved. He even intervened to separate the two sides.’
August fixed him with an icy stare. ‘To your place, Klaes,’ he said. The malice in his tone brooked no argument.
The crowd’s yelling had intensified. Suddenly a man burst out of it, ducking beneath the arm of the corporal who moved to bar his way, and took hold of Molebacher. It was the old carpenter, who had been standing beside Hanslo.
‘Leave him be, for God’s sake!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you hear? He’s a good lad. He’s no conspirator. Not a man here’ll say otherwise.’
The corporal he had eluded reached him and hauled him back so violently that he stumbled. The soldier pushed the old man to the ground and had drawn back his foot for a kick when Klaes intervened.
‘That will do,’ he snapped. And when the corporal did not retreat at once, Klaes roared at the man with a fury he had not known was in him.
‘I said leave him! Now!’
He helped the carpenter to his feet and led him back to the edge of the crowd of watchers. Behind them, Hanslo shouted and struggled as he was tied to the frame. Klaes felt the old man beside him shaking as Molebacher took up the whip.
There were regulations to govern flogging, as with all aspects of army life: it was meant to hurt but not to maim. Molebacher ignored the rule. Hanslo’s screams sounded above the noise of the crowd. The quartermaster struck savagely and relentlessly, as tireless as a man threshing grain. By twenty strokes the young man’s back was masked with blood; by twenty-five his cries had grown faint. When they stopped altogether Tusimov called for the surgeon with his bucket of water.
Hanslo twitched and groaned as the water hit him, and Molebacher stepped forward once more, shaking his head when Heinrich offered to relieve him. But after half a dozen strokes Lorenz intervened again.
‘He’s losing too much blood,’ the surgeon said. ‘Any more and I won’t answer for him.’
Before Tusimov could reply, Molebacher addressed the lieutenant himself.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but this man’s done treachery, and he’s not had half his sentence yet. We need to make an example of him!’
Tusimov hesitated. And Molebacher, taking that for consent, rushed at his victim and rained blows on him, no longer waiting for the lieutenant’s count.
‘Stop him!’ the surgeon shouted, his voice thin against the tumult. Klaes, barely aware of what he was doing, had already run forward again, followed by the carpenter and a dozen other men from the crowd. He and Tusimov together pulled the quartermaster away and Tusimov held him, while Molebacher glared at Klaes like a demon.
Hanslo was no longer moving. Edek and Heinrich cut him down, then stood by uncertainly as the orderlies and camp followers laid him face down on a stretcher. Drozde was one of the helpers again. Her companion, a big red-armed woman, gave the soldiers an evil stare, but the gypsy never looked up from the stretcher, where the blood welling from the man’s back showed there was still some life in him.
August stepped forward into the sudden silence. The other lieutenants, even Tusimov, had returned to their places behind the colonel, and Klaes knew he should join them. But the old carpenter, who had shuddered in sympathy with each blow inflicted on his assistant, sagged forward as the young man was carried away, and Klaes was now obliged to hold him by the arm to prevent him falling.
The colonel looked a little rattled, Klaes thought: his demonstration had not gone as planned. But his voice was as strong as ever as he addressed the crowd.
‘All the prisoners will be released to their friends once they can walk. Be warned that the same punishment awaits anyone who is found to have shielded these men from justice, and anyone who foments discord in the future, of any kind whatsoever.’
He raised an arm, and the artillerymen accompanying the two cannons each saluted and raised his gun’s muzzle to point directly into the crowd. The men with pikes already surrounded them on all sides. August was as good as the puppet woman at setting up a piece of theatre, Klaes thought, though he had nothing but contempt for his audience. He swept them with a final, baleful stare and gave his last order in a tone of weary disgust.
‘Now go back to your homes. And if you care for your own peace and safety, stay there.’
He turned on his heel and left, followed by the three older lieutenants. The pikemen and the cannons stayed where they were, in a menacing ring around the townspeople. Klaes stayed too: the colonel had not looked at him nor summoned him, and he was glad of the excuse to avoid his fellow officers’ company for a little longer.
Drozde was running for bandages when she found her way blocked by Molebacher. Dark spatters still marked his clothes. She took an instinctive step backwards: just now the thought of touching him was unbearable.
‘Didn’t see you back there,’ he said. There was something strange in his expression. His eyes were glazed, whether from exhaustion or fury Drozde could not tell, and his jaw worked as though he were trying to swallow something too large for him. But his tone was one of heavy joviality. ‘Entertainment’s over; I need you in the kitchen.’
It took a moment before she could trust herself to speak clearly. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
Molebacher was so dumbfounded it might have been comical at another time. He opened his mouth to protest, but Drozde interrupted him. All her rage and horror went into the shout.
‘And get used to it! Because you won’t be fucking me any more!’
Some of the women were heading their way, carrying cloths and basins. Drozde ran towards them, leaving Molebacher standing behind her, and she did not look back.
They had cleaned Hanslo’s back as best they could, but his beautiful skin was welted and clotted with blood. Sarai had shown Drozde what salve to use, and she spread it on his wounds with more gentleness than she had ever shown in lovemaking. Sometimes he would wince and moan at the contact; she welcomed it as a sign of life, but each time she raised her hand and would not touch him again till he had quieted. Some of the wounds still bled; the surgeon had warned them to leave those alone, only putting on fresh dressings as the old ones were soaked through. The pile of bloodied bandages lay beside her now, uncollected. Libush had seen the way Drozde looked at the hurt man. She had withdrawn without asking any questions, and kept the others away too.
There was no caress Drozde could give that would not hurt him further, but when she had tended him all she could, she took hold of his hand and crouched on the ground beside him so she could see his face. After an age he gave a deep groan and his eyelids flickered. She had hoped he would be glad to see her, but all she could read in his expression was fear and pain.
‘No one will hurt you any more,’ she told him. But he was not calmed. He spoke to her without breath to form the words. She laid her head down by his to catch the whisper.
‘Drozde … that man …’
His eyes flickered beyond her, back to the parade ground.
‘The man who beat you,’ she said.
His eyes stilled, looked into hers again.
‘Yes, I know him.’
His lips moved again, but no sound came out. There was nothing she could do to hold on to him.
‘He thought I was his, the sack of shit,’ she said. ‘Trust me, he won’t lay a finger on me, not ever again. I’m done with him.’ Her voice was too loud, and not quite steady, but she had to tell him before he fainted again. ‘Only get well, Anton. Get better, and I’ll come to you whenever you like.’
He heard her. No-one in such pain could smile, but his face relaxed and he moved his head in a sort of nod. Then his eyes closed again, as though the lids were too heavy to support.
She pressed his hand, and thought she could feel an answering pressure. But his eyes never opened, and she would not wake him to feel
more pain. After a while the surgeon came by: he looked again at Anton’s wounds, held a feather to his lips and shook his head.
She stayed with him for some time longer. His hand was still warm in hers, and from this angle he was unscarred, as beautiful as ever. When his chest and face grew cold she went to fetch the others, to tell them there was a body to lay out.
28
Having done their damage, the whipping frames could be dismantled. Klaes, with the carpenter still leaning heavily on his arm, could not oversee the work himself, but he had to be doing something. He called over Sergeant Frydek and tasked him with taking down the remaining two structures. The sergeant received the order with what looked like relief, and in a very few minutes had assembled two teams of men, some of them noticeably pale and gulping, to begin removing the traces of their commander’s display of justice.
The townspeople paid them no attention. Many seemed stunned; some of the women had begun keening. A number of the men were still watching the departing backs of August and his lieutenants with angry looks that quickly became angry words and gestures. Jursitizky, in charge of the larger cannon, had his men raise the muzzle to point directly at the troublemakers, but the threat was not enough to still their resentment: a furious buzz of protest broke out, and a stone flew past Klaes’s head and landed near one of the cannons.
Dame Weichorek wheeled in an instant and seized the thrower by an ear. ‘As God is my witness, Pieter Hessel, you make another move and my husband will have you in the stocks! All of you! Put your stones down and go home!’
