The Golden Portifor - 24. Chapter 24

Karl Wollherz excavated the pocket of his blue waistcoat. It was the second day of the great march of the army of the Catholic League. He pulled out and scrutinised a scrap of paper he had borrowed from his master’s document case, on which he had written in his own painful hand the lines of prophecy Wilchin had brought back from his visit to the dark islands in the land of Faërie:

There will be a day of greatness and glory for all four of you boys, and it is coming hard upon you. For the fourth a dark eclipse will follow soon unless first you three lie and so give up your honour, and then tell the truth and embrace dishonour.

He and Andreas had resumed their place in the column with their lord Serge, who swore that in future he wouldn’t let them out of his sight. He had also been asking them some pointed questions about their part in the Battle of Sebenico. It was known that Boromeo had taken the pasha’s horsetail standard, now on its way with him to Vienna and Strelsau as a trophy of victory. But the question of who had taken the pasha himself was unresolved.

‘It was chaos, sir,’ Andreas told him. ‘He might have just fallen off his horse. Didn’t see nuffing.’

‘Me neither,’ Karl seconded. ‘Could have been anyone, sir. Point is, he surrendered to my lord your brother, sir.’

‘The pasha said otherwise when I took his statement for the council.’

‘Really? S’that right?’ the boys chorused, their expressions radiating innocent amazement.

‘His French is quite good. And his account of the battle is full of odd details. Mostly he blames his own men, though he can’t account for why such experienced soldiers panicked in the face of so weak an enemy.’ The boys just shrugged in response.

‘We gave up our honour alright,’ Karl had grumbled to Andreas as they sat around last night’s campfire. ‘If you’d let the other boys tell the truth, they’d have known it was you led the charge and took the pasha prisoner. They’d have made you an officer maybe and you’d have got a lot of the money Boro’s going to get.’

Andreas laughed. ‘Don’t be jealous for me, Karlo. Can yer see me as an officer?’

‘Well yeah, I can. It was you won that victory. You was just so brave and brilliant.’

Andreas looked kindly into the earnest face of his friend, and shook his head. ‘So? That prophecy said that if we don’t keep our mouths shut about it really bad things will happen, and they’ll happen to Boro, who’s now our good mate and a Conduit kid. So no argument, right?’ But he took and squeezed Karl’s hand to take the sting out of the rebuke. It was squeezed back hard.

***

The march from Sebenico back to Fiume was a weary one. By the end of the first week supplies were low and sickness growing amongst the infantry regiments. The horses too were finding it hard going with the poor forage available. In the end Prince Henry was forced to call a halt at the village of Klada, where the imperial authorities had scraped together the resources for a meagre supply depot. The prince found letters awaiting him, as they were once more on the imperial post road.

Serge was summoned to his lodgings, and the prince flourished a wad of letters. ‘His Imperial Majesty congratulates the army of the League on the victory of Sebenico. He does however temper his joy with alarm at the descent of the Pasha Mehmed on the coast of Istria. A Venetian galley squadron which tried to oppose the Turks has been sunk and the city of Pola has been stormed and sacked; a severe blow to the Republic. And now Mehmed marches on Trieste, which much concerns the Emperor Leopold since it is one of his own cities. Unless he recalls the Army of Lombardy and concedes this year’s Italian campaign to the French, we are the only force capable of preventing the pillage of Carniola.’

‘What are you proposing, sire?’

‘We must resume our march. Pushing our men to the limit it will be eight days yet before we can reach Trieste, and I won’t answer for the state of the army which will arrive. I have despatched letters to Laibach as Vicar General to call out the province’s militia, such as it is, to meet us at a muster at Diwatsch. I have no idea what will turn up. My best hope is that Trieste will better resist Mehmed’s assault than did Pola, which will give us time to gather our strength. What d’you know of the place, Phoebus?’

‘Trieste is a walled city on a steep hillside descending to the sea, sire. My notes before we left on this campaign tell me it has a powerful hill-top fortress of San Giusto, a place of great strength on its inland side, which could not I think be stormed with any ease. But it is plunder that the pasha wants, I assume, so that won’t concern him. The city and port below the fortress will be his target and they have only their medieval walls and a fosse. I fear they may be as vulnerable to a determined escalade as were the fortifications of Pola.’

The prince growled something inarticulate and paced the room. Eventually he picked up another letter. ‘My royal father remonstrates with me in the most severe terms about the countess of Vesterborg. It seems he was willing to overlook the existence of Ulrica and her place in my bed while we pretended I slept alone, but not now she has been made visible. I am to understand that the matter of my marriage is now of a matter of urgency, and I am to prepare to receive instruction on the matter. I will be presented by the Council of State with a list of potential brides from the acceptable Catholic houses of Europe, that is, those other than the houses of Bourbon and Habsburg. He will not have my marriage directly align Ruritania with either of the warring houses of our day.’

‘We knew it had to come eventually, sire.’

The prince threw the letter to the floor. ‘No doubt, Phoebus, you are thinking I brought this upon myself.’

‘I would not ...’

‘Don’t deny it.’

‘As you say, your royal highness. However there is this. Your father can only have written that letter before the news of Sebenico reached him. The victory of Sebenico tilts the moral balance a little towards you. Defeat the Turks before Trieste, sire, and it will tilt rather more. You’ll be a hero of Christendom and basking in the sunshine of imperial favour. Your father may well find it politic to defer to your wishes on the matter of who sleeps in your bed as a result. Or so we can hope.’

‘So I fight for my lady love,’ the prince observed grimly. ‘How very chivalric of me. It’ll certainly charm Rica that her knight is climbing over the bodies of infidels so as to claim her hand.’

***

Boromeo von Tarlenheim arrived at Engelngasse at midday on the feast of St George, a Wednesday, ten days after leaving Sebenico. He trotted a weary Onyx into the familiar yard. His mount snorted and twitched his ears. Onyx recognised and approved of the berth to which he had returned, with its happy memories of his introduction to Queen Brunhild’s benign rule over her equine people. With a groan, Boromeo dismounted to hand the reins to Gottlieb, who wandered open-mouthed out of what appeared to be a brand new stable, built on a larger scale than its predecessor, with an upper storey on which tilers were still at work.

‘Sir, my lord! You’re back?’

‘So it seems,’ Boromeo replied. ‘Is Master Lisku here? I have letters from my brother, and I must report to the Hofburg.’

The man himself appeared out of the house as Boromeo was speaking. ‘My lord Boromeo! Welcome. We weren’t expecting you. The newssheets announced the victory in Dalmatia yesterday. Were you there? Do you have despatches?’

Boromeo gave a nod and said ‘I must change before appearing at the court. Do you have my brother’s blue waist sash, the one with the gold fringe? Also his captain’s gorget.’

‘Why yes, sir. But ...’

‘The point is, Master Lisku, that I come back a captain of the Prinzengarde, and must appear before the king properly dressed.’

‘Dear me, sir. Then ... what part did you play in the victory?’

Boromeo permitted himself a grin. ‘I was the commander in the field, as it happens. Now, here are letters from my brother explaining things, and a letter of credit from the quartermaster general of the army of the League which I want you to take down immediately to Herr Simon Ashkenaz in Judengasse. The funds are to be deposited in my name. But please to get those items I asked for, and heat up some water so I can wash the road off me before I head downhill. Is there a mount I can borrow? My poor Onyx needs resting.’

Jan Lisku stared at the transformed Boromeo von Tarlenheim, no longer the hesitant, self-absorbed and resentful adolescent that left Strelsau. Though still gangling in build and somewhat spotty, he was now a straight-backed and confident youth who resembled his elder brother rather more than he previously had. As the boy turned to enter the house he observed ‘Master Jan, perhaps you can contact your buyer in Strelfurt. I’ll be needing to acquire a stable of my own, it seems.’

Ninety minutes later, a properly-attired captain of the Prinzengarde presented himself at the Kitchen Gate of the Hofburg and asked for Colonel Deploige, the constable. The officer arrived some ten minutes later. He stared at the youthful officer with curiosity. ‘Do I know you, sir?’

Boromeo saluted. ‘Captain the Freiherr Boromeo von Tarlenheim of the Prinzengarde, sir. I bear despatches of victory from His Royal Highness the Crown Prince, and here also I have the standard of the defeated Turkish general to present to His Majesty.’ His heart swelling with pride, he removed the packet from its satchel. The letters on parchment bore the gold seal of the Vicar General of the Empire and, as was traditional, were garlanded with a wreath of laurel.

‘My God! So you come from the Army of the League in Dalmatia. My boy, welcome. You will be shown to His Majesty, if not directly. Such a meeting must happen in state in the Great Chamber before the court. Wait in the Guard Room till you’re sent for, sir. And you are a captain ...?’

‘A promotion on the battlefield, sir.’

‘Then, young man, you must have quite the story to tell. I cannot wait to hear it. Your father I expect will be most proud.’

Boromeo allowed himself to fall into irony, adding under his breath ‘... and much surprised.’

***

Within two days’ march of Diwatsch on the third Sunday after Easter, messengers reached the Army of the Catholic League from Vienna and Laibach. Serge, riding with the Prinzengarde, was called forward to the prince’s side. Two white-coated Austrian officers were with Prince Henry, one being a gold-sashed colonel whose delicate good looks and slight build Serge recognised at once. The prince observed to Serge ‘You’ll know this gentleman, I believe.’

Serge saluted the colonel with some pleasure, for he was Prince Franz Karl of Auersperg, the youngest brother of his aunt, the Countess Catherine. He had travelled to several family events at Tarlenheim. ‘Well met, kinsman,’ Serge greeted him.

‘Sergius! I didn’t think to see you in these circumstances. It’s been a while, and you’ve shot up since I saw you last. I wasn’t home when you called at Auersperg before the campaign. But I’ve ridden hard to get back from Vienna during the present emergency.’

‘Prince Franz brings himself but not much other good news,’ Prince Henry observed.

‘Indeed,’ the prince regretfully agreed. ‘I’ve not a great deal of good to report. My brother managed to raise some militia from the province, and marched them hard for Trieste to reinforce the garrison, but they encountered a Turkish force when in sight of the city and were repulsed with heavy casualties. The city is now invested and the Pasha Mehmed is digging trenches.

‘The good news is that three regular battalions are within the walls, and their firepower will make an escalade perilous for the Turk without a close bombardment first, and that will take time to bring to bear. The provincial militia is licking its wounds, and my brother’s been gathering munitions and supplies. He brought down two batteries from Laibach and has put the militia camp at Diwatsch in some sort of defence, for Turkish raiders are scouring the countryside around Trieste for supplies, and also for captives to ransom or enslave. You’ve arrived just in time, royal highness, for my brother is in effect besieged in his camp.’

Prince Henry shook his head. ‘We’re not soon enough I fear, prince. We have underestimated this Turk from the beginning. Now here he is ravaging the land within a day’s ride of Laibach, scouring the coasts of the Adriatic with impunity and putting the Emperor’s war against the French in suspense. What do we know of his strength?’

‘It’s difficult to say. You’d have thought he would lack cavalry, as he transported his army by sea, but he’s had a chance to ravage Istria and take what beasts he could find. It may be also that, with the seas cleared of any opposition for the moment, his transports have had a chance to ship further mounts and fodder from his base in Antivari. Our militia certainly found more sipahis in the field against them than they could cope with. As for infantry, we can estimate that he may have at least 10,000 war-hardened janissaries from Constantinople as well as provincial levies from Albania and Bosnia. He has landed heavy guns from his ships. They can be heard pounding the walls of Trieste even from as far away as the camp at Diwatsch. What field artillery he may have is not possible to say. How about your own strength, sire?’

‘The march has taken its toll of the army. Rations have been tight but just about tolerable thanks to the victory of Sebenico and the preservation of our supply train. The battle also provided us with a very welcome reinforcement of horses. But the red flux has struck the column since we left Karlobag and there are too many soldiers marching with broken shoes and some with none at all. We left hospitals and convents full of the sick when we departed Fiume yesterday. Nonetheless, weakened though we may be we still field some seventeen thousand horse and foot, and we’re not short of powder and shot. We have a respectable fifty-four guns to deploy.’

The Austrian prince gave a nod. ‘I shall ride with you to Diwatsch, the road’s too dangerous to attempt a return otherwise; I was lucky enough to get out when I did. The artillery was engaged when I left, not that it’ll do much good against the swarm of sipahis closing the road, a poor target for cannon balls and never close enough for shot.’

***

The Army of the League approached the besieged camp at Diwatsch on Tuesday 29 April 1692. The Polish cavalry brigade had pushed forward and encountered sipahi pickets at a hamlet called Freudenthal the previous evening. They had engaged and driven them off, and though they could not reach the lines of the Carinthian militia in the dark they sent up red rockets to signal the approach of relief, and the troops in Diwatsch let off a cannonade in answer as reassurance that they resisted still. The next morning the Turks had withdrawn, and the blockade of the Prince of Auersperg’s force had been lifted. Serge rode with the generals into the fortified village in the early morning to cheers from the garrison, to find Prince Johann Ferdinand awaiting Henry of Ruritania with his officers outside the village church.

The prince, a portly man in a wig as tall as any Serge had ever seen Willi sporting, made his bow to Prince Henry. The prince courteously dismounted and took the hand of the Austrian, who declared ‘Your royal highness is a most welcome sight.’

‘If only my arrival had been sooner. As vicar general of his imperial majesty, may I commend your serene highness for so valiantly closing the road to any further Turkish incursions into Carniola,’ Prince Henry replied.

Civilities performed, the generals convened a council of war in the bare upper chamber of a castellated refuge tower next to the church, from which pews had been brought to seat them. Serge assumed his role as military secretary, setting out his writing case. It had been brought to him by an unobtrusive Andreas Wittig, who was in attendance as his master’s groom. The adolescent boy knelt up in front of Serge so his back could be used as a makeshift desk. Andreas’s ears and eyes were however fully alert to the personalities and proceedings going on around him.

Prince Henry sat brooding as he listened to the opinions around the room. There were two principal views. For once Dudley and Tedorovic were in agreement that the army should move cautiously in column to feel out the enemy’s strength and dispositions. The Polish brigadier, Szaran, was however fierce in his eagerness to engage.

‘My lords!’ he stood and declared. ‘I know this enemy. The great Sobieski time and again has proved that they’re fond of a stratagem of feint, but failing that will sit in fortified camps and wait out the campaign. Their cavalry is superior, but their staff work and organisation is outstandingly poor. When a disciplined and well-ordered force marches directly on them, they often react slowly and cannot engage to good effect, especially when the opponent is strong in artillery and infantry of the quality we possess here. March straight upon them in order of battle as soon as the land permits. That is my advice.’

Eventually, Prince Henry indicated that he wanted silence. ‘Now gentlemen,’ he announced to some puzzlement, ‘there is one opinion that has not been heard, as its author is not here to give it.’ He smiled to himself before continuing. ‘And that is the view of Prince Eugene of Savoy, a commander whom I have learned to honour, and whose reputation is known to all present and indeed to all Europe. I am quite sure he would applaud General Szaran were he here. And I am of the same mind.

‘This Pasha Mehmed is a general of some real capacity, as we have learned to our cost, yet the greatest architect cannot build cathedrals from mud and straw. He may well be able to enthuse his men and have taught them to fear as much as trust him. But it is my view that in the situation that he is in, he has no choice but to engage us directly in the field when we approach the siege lines of Trieste, otherwise he will be himself besieged and indeed trapped between sea and hills. And then the weaknesses of his army will become his downfall, as its strengths have been ours.’

‘But sire,’ Dudley interjected, ‘this may be true, but we don’t fully know his army’s strength or his capacities in the field. We may be walking into another web of his deceit.’

The prince shrugged. ‘Then sir, just as Prince Eugene has proved again and again, we must think on our feet and strike hard. And that is what we will do. Now sirs, Major von Tarlenheim and I have pored over his map case. We march this afternoon for the plain east of Trieste, where we will seek an open battle. I do not think it is an engagement Mehmed can refuse, for otherwise he must retreat to his ships and suffer a reverse that he may be unwilling to tolerate, especially if he believes he has the better of us in numbers.

‘Aufensberg and Szaran will command the cavalry division, which will marshal behind our right wing as a reserve. Dudley will command the centre and Marcovic the right wing. Tedorovic will have the left wing, which will be constituted of the Glottenburg battalions. The artillery will be deployed between the battalions, as is the Swedish practice and I believe also that of the army of Glottenburg. When we hit them, it will be with all the firepower we have, and the cavalry must be ready to exploit the first repulse. Now gentlemen, the regimental chaplains will say a solemn mass at midday each for their units and we ourselves will hear it below in the church of St Anthony.’

***

It was one o’clock on Wednesday and the streets and lanes of the village of Diwatsch were teeming with soldiers in Ruritanian blue, Glottenburger green and Austrian white as they marched to their places in the road column. Drums and shrill fifes were loudly accompanying the bustle with their rousing music.

Serge had a difficult decision to make about his two servants. They sat their mounts awaiting his instruction. Finally he sighed.

‘My dears, this is what is going to happen. Karl, you will take my bags and papers and await the result of the battle here at Diwatsch, and if you hear things have gone badly you’ll take them immediately to Laibach to my lord Strelsau. You’re growing fast, my lads, so you’ll know that I and Willi are lovers and let’s not have any polite evasions, since I know you see the results of it in my bed. There’s letters there from me he must have, and also others for my brother Boromeo, for if I don’t survive tomorrow he’ll be the heir of Olmusch.’

He noticed the tears in the eyes of Karl and looked away to Andreas. The boy now was nearly fourteen: well-grown, compact, broad-shouldered and strong. ‘Andreas, I will take you into battle with me. You’ll assume the full uniform of the Prinzengarde, including buff coat, a cuirass and gauntlets, and join me with Prince Henry’s staff to act as a despatch rider. You may put a primed pair of my pistols in your saddle holsters, and you have that old sword you picked up too. I don’t underestimate the danger this will place you in. You’re not a sworn soldier and haven’t taken the king’s token, so it’s up to you. Are you willing to do this as my friend, not as my servant?’

The boy’s eyes were burning with eagerness. ‘Aye sir,’ he replied confidently in his throaty adolescent tenor. ‘Won’t be me first battle after all. Did well out of that last one.’ He grinned and patted the heavy purse in his coat pocket, jingling with gold.

‘Very well,’ Serge went on. ‘Come here, Karl.’ The boy walked Brunhild to his lord’s side and Serge leaned from the saddle to embrace the boy, bless him in Rothenian, and kiss him. Then Serge with a farewell rode back up the column to join Prince Henry, leaving Karl to say his own farewell to his friend and comrade.

Karl looked mournfully in his face. ‘Yer knows this’ll take Brunhild out of the battle,’ he commented, ‘and not just me. Oh Ando, I don’t want to say goodbye.’

‘Got to go, Karlo,’ he replied. ‘I got me sword, which’ll improve me chances.’

‘Won’t stop a cannon ball taking off yer head,’ Karl commented gloomily. Then he dismounted and Andreas did too. They embraced hard. Before Karl moved back from Andreas he closed mouths with his friend and kissed him longer and harder than he had ever done before. When he slowly broke off he looked hard into Andreas’s eyes. ‘I loves yer Ando, I really does and I always has. Dunno what I’ll do if yer dies.’

His friend contemplated him for a moment with a slight frown, and then said with a quick grin, ‘If I cops it, yer can come looking for me on Wilchin’s islands in Faërie. Maybe She will let us meet up there one last time. Here, take me purse. It’s all I got to leave yer, and I do gladly. You’re the closest to me of anyone in the world, my only family and my brother.’ Then he took Karl’s cheeks between his hands and repeated the long kiss on his mouth with deliberation. ‘We’ll talk more of this, right?’ he said as they separated.

***

It was a more than an afternoon’s march from Diwatsch to Trieste, and with only a narrow hill road for half of it. But since the night would catch them on the road in any case Prince Henry did not push the pace. The cavalry deployed into the surrounding country and picked its way along side valleys and through woods. Serge and he had fixed on the village of Basovizza as the centre of their line.

Henry and his staff came out of woods and hills as the sun was going down on the Wednesday. The life company of the Prinzengarde jingled behind Prince Henry as his escort, the prince’s banner uncased and displayed as a sign he was seeking battle. Polish armoured hussars were out ahead of him as they met the first Turkish opposition at Basovizza. The village was empty of its inhabitants and several gutted houses were smoking. A company of heavily armed sipahis were ready to dispute the passage with the Poles, who without orders charged directly on the Turkish picket. From where he sat his horse, Serge could hear the clash of swords and the screams of horses. The melee surged up the village street and into the dim fields beyond. The prince directed his life company to ride forward in support, unship their carbines and ensure the possession of the village. There was a crackle of gunfire, and the Polish captain eventually trotted back and saluted the prince.

‘Sire, we drove them into the fields, but we know their game. There was a full regiment in line waiting to slaughter us, but we stopped, engaged them with pistols and then retired on the village, which is now in our hands.’

As the infantry regiments began to arrive and deploy as the centre of the battle line on either side of Basovizza, the prince pointed out to Serge the rumble of guns and the sullen glare in the darkening sky over the distant black mass of the hill of San Giusto six miles ahead of them. Every now and then there was a red spark in the blackness as the fortress’s guns fired down on the Turkish lines. The city still resisted it seemed, and they were in time.

The army camped in its battle lines. The prince spent a large part of the night walking with Serge from regiment to regiment in a black cloak, addressing and joking with the men and officers around their campfires. He even made it to the south end and met a reassuringly enthusiastic welcome from the Glottenburger musketeers on the left wing.

‘You know, sire,’ Serge commented, rather cheekily for him, ‘it’s a pity you’re so illiterate. This all has a Shakespearean resonance.’

‘Hmm? He’s English isn’t he? Writes plays. I know that.’

‘He died at the beginning of the century. But he wrote a rather fine drama on the life of King Henry V of England.’

‘A great country,’ his prince commented. ‘They had lots of kings called Henry.’

‘Come off it, your royal highness, stop playing the ignoramus. I know you have copious notes on his great victory over the French at Agincourt. What I’m saying is that you’ve just copied the scene where the king tours his army the night before the battle, offering his men, as Shakespeare puts it, “A little touch of Harry in the night”.’

‘Henry V did it incognito.’

‘Hah! I knew you’d read it.’

‘Maybe. Fortunately there’s a French translation in the royal library. I intend one day also to beat the stuffing out of the French, so it seemed relevant to my education. Just you watch. But first the Pasha Mehmed. I have a great curiosity to meet the man in person on the field. I imagine he’ll be paunchy, indulged and bloated, just like that odious Selim Bey I have no doubt.’

***

The village had a church with a square tower which had an upper chamber, and there Prince Henry and Serge wrapped themselves in their cloaks for a few hours’ sleep. It ended just as the first dim light in the east behind them heralded the dawn, for a great roar of horns and thunder of drums broke out from across the fields, where the light revealed that the Turks had drawn up their lines during the night. It also turned the clouds of smoke rising from besieged Trieste purple against the lightening sky behind.

Shouts of command and trumpet calls from below roused the army of the League. The prince was soon staring intently at the scene before the village with his telescope. There was a scuffle of feet on the stairs and General Dudley appeared, followed by a party of Prince Henry’s adjutants.

‘Dudley,’ he commanded, ‘kindly have your guns open up. It’s time to test their strength in artillery now they’ve obligingly lined up for us. You men, take each one of the prepared orders for our right and left wings and get them to the generals commanding as fast as you can. I want a cannonade all along the line to test the range. Now, what direction’s the wind in?’

‘Light land breeze from the east, sire,’ Dudley replied.

‘Excellent. It’ll send a bank of smoke straight into their faces. Could not be better. Looks like the winds have changed allegiance in my favour, eh?’ He laughed. ‘I see they are in force in front of us. Take this glass and tell me what you see in their line before the batteries open up, the nature of the troops and so on. Make notes, my lord Sergius.’

The general gazed down from the tower and reported. ‘They’ve placed chevaux de frise along their line, sire. They’ve also made some trenches, as is their wont, but they’re likely to be ineffectual. In front of us is their main strength, their janissary corps, very numerous, their artillery to the fore. On their wings are what I imagine are their levies, and what looks like unhorsed Tartars in companies. They have regiments of sipahis drawn up on either wing. Sire, they have the advantage in numbers, with one exception. We have decidedly more horse. Most unusual in a battle with the Turks.’

At that the artillery opened up along the League’s line with a deafening roar. A pause and then the roar was continuous as each gun reloaded and fired at will. Serge was peering from one of the lancets when with a crash the tower rocked as return fire began and a heavy ball shattered itself on the thick wall below him.

‘Damn it all to hell,’ Dudley swore in English. ‘That was no field piece. They’ve dragged some of their ships’ guns inland.’

‘Most enterprising of them, but it was a lucky shot. With the smoke drifting towards them, they cannot range or sight their guns,’ the prince pronounced. ‘Serge, get yourself up to General von Aufensberg in the woods with the cavalry reserve. We have our opening. His orders are that when our artillery slackens our line will begin a general advance. Our left flank will be left exposed and endangered, alas. But he is to ignore all that and to ride upon them. He will crush their right if he is prompt and God wills it. Their horse on that wing is too few to prevent him. Once broken, he can turn their line. Dudley, my dear fellow, you have your orders. Destroy those damned janissaries in front of us. God be with you. Serge, you’ll find me on the left with Tedorovic, where the danger is. I shall take my Prinzengarde with me. Now gentlemen, to business.’

Serge mounted Erebus and called Andreas to ride with him. He galloped north out of the village behind the Ruritanian lines and up onto a wooded hill, which the cavalry reserve had under Prince Henry’s instruction utilised to cover and mask its strength. Nonetheless they were above the smoke bank and so had been observed and guns had opened up on them. Cannonballs had crashed through the trees and Serge had to pick his way past the mutilated remains of a file of dragoons who had got in the way of an unlucky shot. General Aufensberg was with his staff scanning the field.

‘My lord Sergius. Can’t see a damned thing through this smoke. What news?’

Serge quickly sketched out the lay of the field and conveyed the orders from the prince. The general nodded. ‘His Royal Highness has taken the daring path. So it is with the young. Well, well. When our guns cease their fire and we see the blue and green lines disappear into the smoke, we will make our charge. Chevaux de frise in front of their infantry you say? Much to be avoided. The sipahis on the right won’t be so defended, for their pasha clearly thinks to take our line in both flanks. He’s learned tactics from books as it seems to me. That was Gustavus Adolphus’s preferred tactic and in his day a good one. But young Eugene of Savoy makes a point of unpredictability, and to follow his way may be our saving. Will you join our ride, sir?’

‘No, general. God speed. I must get back to Prince Henry. Come Andreas.’

***

Serge and Andreas were passing to the rear of Basovizza as the artillery fire began to slacken. Drums beat and officers and sergeants passed to the front of the files. Serge paused. The bloodied bodies of groaning wounded were being carried past him to the rear by drummer boys and other orderlies. But from what he could tell, casualties as yet had not been heavy, though that was plainly about to change. He urged Erebus on.

The sun was a pale disk in a smoke-filled sky. The grey smoke drifted eastward as the League’s artillery fire ceased and the lines of Ruritanian infantry marched into it to the music of drums and fifes. Every now and then Turkish balls howled overhead and could be glimpsed ripping through the smoke cloud. He tried not to think of what they might do to him, if they were directed lower and with more intelligence. Then as Serge looked another sort of crackling fire opened up and flares of orange glowed through the smoke to his right. In the thinning cloud near him, regiments were opening up a volley fire on an unseen enemy. Muffled screams and oaths could be heard in the distance, and hoarse cries of what he recognised as the Mussulman invocation, Allahu Akbar.

He hesitated which way to go, until the shifting bank revealed white-uniformed men on horseback to his left, which he thought must be the Prinzengarde, so he headed in that direction. But what he found were Glottenburger artillerymen moving and manoeuvring their pieces. ‘Which way is the general?’ he cried in Rothenian to the captain, who was cursing his men to prime their pieces before the sipahis were upon them. A broken company of Glottenburgers without officer or sergeant fled into the battery’s position, one throwing aside his musket as he tried to get past.

Serge blocked them with Erebus and beat them back with his drawn sword. He found Andreas beside him seconding his efforts with some effectiveness. ‘In ranks, damn your eyes!’ he screamed at them, and they responded to the Rothenian command, forming two ranks, their bayonets a sharp fence.

‘Load! Front rank kneel!’ he ordered.

Andreas took the end of the line opposite Serge and he saw the boy had drawn his sword. Something odd about the sight registered on him, but he didn’t have time to think about it. What he did notice was that the panic had vanished from the routed company. Their eyes now were fierce and their faces set in determination. Was Serge that impressive a presence? He thought not.

A wall of riders emerged from the mist heading for the guns. ‘By ranks! Fire!’ Serge commanded, and horses fell and men tumbled from their saddles as volley fire began. Then two of the Glottenburger pieces fired hailshot, and there was nothing in front of them but screaming horses and dead or wounded sipahis, swept away by a hurricane of lead.

‘Well done, men! Reload!’

The smoke shredded further and now Serge could see he was at the north end of the left wing of the army, which was beset like a sea wall struck by storm waves. In some places the combat with the Turkish levies was hand to hand. It seemed he and Andreas had thwarted a Sipahi flanking charge on the line General Tedorovic was attempting to hold.

‘Lieutenant, get your guns to open on that Turkish battalion passing us,’ he ordered. ‘You men, volleys into their flank.’

He turned. A growing thunder caused the ground to shake beneath him.

‘My lord!’ called Andreas. ‘It’s the Prinzengarde!’

Serge looked to see a glorious sight close upon them. A line of cuirassiers was bearing down on the Turkish flank, swords drawn. At their head was Prince Henry, his hat and wig lost and his red hair glowing in the sun. Alongside him was Major Barkozy bearing the prince’s banner, the red lion on gold with the silver dragon of Mittenheim displayed on a green escutcheon. ‘God and Henry the Lion!’ was the shout from the troops thundering past.

Serge and Andreas together spurred after the cuirassiers as they crashed into the Turkish flank. Then they were in amongst a melee as the first line of the Turks broke, but a second line charged in upon them. Serge whirled Erebus and chopped down at the faces beneath him. One soldier lunged at him with a spear but he pulled one of his pistols from his left-hand holster and blew away the man’s face. The Prinzengarde pressed forward and Glottenburger musketeers ran along with them. Serge looked around for Andreas or Prince Henry, but could see neither.

Then a troop of armoured horsemen under a great red silk banner were in amongst them, and he found himself hard pressed. His second pistol shot took the banner bearer in the arm and the man dropped it. Serge was a skilful rider and had trained Erebus to kick out with his rear legs. He felt the concussion as Erebus connected with a horse behind them and its rider tumbled. He caught sight of silk, gold, and rich arabesqued armour. Serge slid off Erebus and a slap on its flank sent his stallion out of danger. He had a senior Turkish officer at his mercy, it seemed.

However, the man was already up and didn’t seem to accept Serge’s understanding of the situation. He had drawn his gilded sabre and Serge at last found himself fencing in earnest, not helped by his heavy thigh boots and the nature of the ground. The man was fit, talented and cool, and Serge began to retreat. What was worse, his opponent’s bodyguard had rallied and was racing up to their lord’s rescue.

Backing from one perilous cut, Serge felt a sudden heavy blow to his right arm. Initially it was painless but his sword dropped from his nerveless fingers and he stood defenceless. A stray musket ball had broken his arm. His opponent gave him an oddly merry grin from under his visor, saluted him with his sabre and lunged for his throat. Serge threw himself backward to evade the stroke, and fell hard on his backside. As the sword went up for the final killing cut, it came down and clashed with a blade that had appeared between his enemy and himself.

It was Andreas Wittig. ‘Behind me, my lord!’ the boy cried and fearlessly, and to Serge’s eyes suicidally, the boy pressed on the Turk, and not just him but several other armoured cavalrymen who had come up in his support. And then, incredibly, Andreas attacked, his sword glowing with an uncanny light that was not reflected sunlight as he met blows, turned balletically to evade others, and one by one despatched the grown men in front of him: one spraying blood from a sliced jugular; another skewered through his breastplate, which seemed as effective as paper; the third simply decapitated, his head springing from a neck which jetted blood into the air. And finally, he had their commander on the ground, his glowing sword at the man’s throat. ‘Je me rends!’ the Turk shouted, and for good measure ‘Ich gebe auf!’ Which was just as well, as that phrase at least Andreas understood.

Serge struggled to his feet, his useless arm hanging at his right side. With his left hand he pulled off the man’s helmet, and to his astonishment found the smooth and handsome face of a teenage boy no older than himself looking back. ‘Qui es tu?’ he demanded.

‘Le prince Mehmed, capitain général de l’armée de la Porte Sublime et gouverneur du Bosnie,’ came the stunning reply.

‘Are you alright, Andreas?’ he asked the boy, who was standing next to him, his sword now lifeless and drooping in his hand.

Andreas’s cheeks were wet with tears and he sobbed as he choked out ‘That’ll teach the bastards for killing our Jennet.’