Book of the Night by Oliver Pötzsch
“Stop! Enough!”
It was Zoltan’s voice. For the first time since the battle had started, Lukas raised his head, gasping for breath, and regarded his surroundings. The three other menservants were also lying in the dirt, their sticks broken. Giovanni was bleeding from the forehead but could manage a smile. Jerome and Paulus were gripping their sticks, panting. Then Lukas noticed that a tense silence had settled over the mercenaries.
“You did far better than I expected,” Zoltan conceded. “It appears you are really able to fight. So then . . .” He hesitated.
“That means . . . we have been accepted?” Lukas managed to say, panting hard.
Zoltan grinned. “Why not? Our own menservants aren’t of much use to us now. They’ll be lucky if they can walk again in a few days. Will you take their places in the meantime, as a test, so to speak? And then we’ll see who stays, you or the others. Agreed?”
Lukas looked down at his beaten opponent, who, despite his wretched condition, glared back. His earlier helpless gaze had completely vanished.
“Don’t think for a minute you can push us out!” Kaspar whispered to him. “I’m going to kill you, kid, the first chance I get.”
“Well, if you’re going to do that, first you’ll have to stand up,” Lukas whispered back. He stared at the manservant with contempt, and Kaspar stared back for a while, furious, and then looked away. Lukas couldn’t help thinking of the treacherous Marek of the Blood Wolves or the Spanish mercenary in the forest around the castle, and all the farm boys who had enjoyed tormenting him when he was a child. All that was long ago, an eternity, it seemed.
Now he was a warrior.
He raised his head and looked the leader of the Black Musketeers straight in the eye.
“Agreed,” he said.
Zoltan pounded Lukas so firmly on his chest that he almost fell backward. The laughter of the huge man thundered across the clearing in the light of the campfire.
“Then welcome to the Musketeers! With us, you’ll ride straight to hell and beyond.”
XIV
It took only a few days for Lukas to realize that the life of a manservant was nothing like that of a soldier.
As the youngest in the regiment, the four comrades had to perform the most menial and strenuous jobs. They emptied the stinking latrine pits, took care of the horses, purchased worm-eaten meat and rotten vegetables from the traveling merchants, and every morning, they were the first to get up to stoke the fire and set the heavy cooking pot on the rusty trivet. Any slight delay was punished with extra shifts and more work.
“Damn, this isn’t what I thought life would be like as a feared Black Musketeer,” Paulus groaned while they dug up another latrine pit near the camp. “Digging holes in the ground for Zoltan’s butt! If this continues, I’m going to drown the next mercenary I see in his own excrement.”
“You mustn’t be so impatient,” Giovanni admonished him. “We’re still waiting for reinforcements from the Bavarian elector. When they arrive in Eger, we’ll attack the Swedes.” He grinned. “That will be the end of this cozy camp life.”
“Cozy camp life? Don’t make me laugh.” Jerome wiped the dirt from his forehead and thrust the spade deeper into the ground. “There’s not one pretty girl among the Musketeers, only a few old hags, and my shirt smells like a shroud.” He sighed. “Zoltan was telling the truth when he welcomed us. This is really how I imagine hell to be.”
Lukas, too, had finally reached the end of his rope. He hadn’t been able even once to leave the Musketeers’ camp in order to look around at other places in the huge army encampment. Where was Wallenstein’s headquarters? And those of his officers? Was the inquisitor Waldemar von Schönborn hiding out anywhere nearby? Above all, how could he learn more about his sister’s whereabouts? Those were all questions for which Lukas had no answer. But he knew only too well how to dig up a latrine for an entire regiment and groom a dozen mud-covered warhorses in record time.
At least the last few days had given him the chance to learn more about the legendary Black Musketeers—their vulgarity, drinking, and loud boasting had at first put him off, but then he observed them in their mock battles with the longsword, battle-ax, knife, and dagger. Each was a superb fighter. In addition, they knew how to handle the newer muskets—deadly firearms that were nearly six feet long, from which the Musketeers took their name. In battle, most of them fought on foot, man to man, and armed to the teeth. The black clothing made them almost invisible at night, and during the day, they recognized one another from some distance.
I wonder if my father also wore a black doublet like that, Lukas thought. Did he drink and laugh with these men? Or did he stay more or less in the background, like this silent fellow, Zoltan?
Since their first meeting, Lukas had spoken only a few words with the regiment commander and had always avoided telling Zoltan anything about his past. He didn’t want to be considered a pampered son of nobility, and besides, he couldn’t trust anyone. Lukas didn’t know if Waldemar von Schönborn was staying at the camp. He had to keep his presence a secret from the inquisitor.
“Turn around carefully,” Giovanni suddenly whispered, tearing Lukas from his musings. “I think there’s a lot of trouble coming our way.”
“Aha!” Paulus grumbled. “The four with the pimply faces. Evidently they’re able to get around again after our last little rendezvous.”
Lukas looked cautiously to the side and saw the four other menservants approaching. At first, the friends had been able to avoid them, especially since Karl, in particular, and fat Gottfried had barely been able to stand up after the stick fight. In the meantime, they seemed to have recovered. Their eyes flashed with naked hatred.
“Well, just look at this,” hissed Kaspar, who still had a shining black-and-blue eye from the blows Lukas gave him. He was pointing at the freshly cleaned latrine pit. “The little pups are shoveling their own grave. So much the better. Then we won’t have to do it.”
“Watch your mouth if you want to keep your teeth,” Paulus replied. He was the only one of the four friends taller than Kaspar. He picked up his shovel and waved it threateningly in his big hands. “We have no quarrel with you, and it also wasn’t our wish to fight you—so leave us alone.”
“Calm down, brother,” said Kaspar, raising his hand. “We just wanted to make you a fair offer. Just listen, it’s very simple. We’ll forget what happened between us, and in return, pack up your things and leave by morning, or—”
“Or what?” Jerome responded.
“Otherwise, I’d recommend that one of you is always standing guard at night.” Kaspar bared his rapacious teeth. “Or it could be that you don’t wake up.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Giovanni snarled. “Everyone would know you had something to do with it. Zoltan would make short work of any cutthroats in his own regiment.”
Kaspar seemed to be considering this. “Is that your final answer? Think it over. That’s our last and only offer.”
He signaled to his three friends, and with one final smirk, they turned to leave.
“Hey, Kaspar!” Paulus called after them. “Nice black eye you have. Goes very well with your pimples. And, Gottfried, your ass is fatter than the one on Wallenstein’s horse!”
When the menservants had disappeared, Lukas looked around anxiously. “Do you think they’re serious?
Jerome waved him off. “Oh, they’re just talking nonsense. A little brawl? I can imagine that. But murder? They don’t dare try that.”
Giovanni frowned. “It’s possible. In any case, we’d better be careful.” With a sigh, he thrust his spade into the ground. “Now let’s just finish shoveling this damned hole before Zoltan makes us dig up all the other latrines as a punishment.”
A week would go by before they were able to leave, but finally the Bavarian soldiers caught up with them, and the enormous army marched off together toward Franconia to engage the Swedes.
Like a monstrous, fat caterpillar, Wallenstein’s a
Wherever they went, they found abandoned villages—both people and livestock had fled. Lukas quickly learned that even here in friendly territory, the soldiers were regarded not as friends, but as enemies. Individual units spread out to the nearby towns and villages to steal grain, meat, and wine—contributions, they called it, but for the villagers it was simply theft—and left them to starve.
In the evening, when they sat around the campfire, the soldiers told stories about the war. Some had done nothing but fight all their lives and were proud to be members of the Black Musketeers, a regiment that for hundreds of years produced the best soldiers. They had fought even back in the times of the knights, before muskets were used, always beholden to the sovereign who offered the best pay. Sometimes it seemed to Lukas that Zoltan watched the boys closely on these evenings, as if searching for something in his memory.
Or someone, Lukas thought.
He still didn’t dare to ask the commander about his father, since he had no idea if Schönborn might be somewhere nearby. To find out, he’d have to briefly leave the Musketeers regiment, but there was much too much work here for him to do that.
His chance came as a surprise after about two weeks on the march. Zoltan himself ordered Lukas to come to his tent that evening. At first Lukas thought he had done something wrong, but Zoltan got right to the point. He was holding a sealed letter in his hand, which he gave to Lukas.
“This is a report for the commander in chief of the army,” he said abruptly. “It must be brought to him as quickly as possible. You will do that for me. Do you know how to ride?”
Lukas nodded silently, hoping that Zoltan didn’t notice how he was trembling with excitement.
“Then you can ask Wanja to give you a horse from the stable,” said the commander, who had already turned to work on another message and was no longer paying attention to Lukas. “If you leave immediately, you should be back in one hour, or two at most. Wallenstein’s barracks are south of the main road, around three miles from here. Did you understand everything?”
“You . . . you mean I should personally hand the letter to the great general?” Lukas replied.
Zoltan looked up and smiled. “Of course not. I hardly believe that Wallenstein has time for a simple servant like you. You will hand over the letter at the entrance to the barracks. And Lukas”—the commander looked at him sternly—“don’t do anything stupid. I chose you from the servants because . . .” He hesitated briefly. “Because I trust you. But if this letter doesn’t arrive or the seal is broken, I’ll skin you alive. Understand?”
It was now the middle of summer, and the evening sun cast its warm light over the surrounding vineyards. For the first time in a long while, Lukas felt lighthearted and happy. His worries seemed only half as bad as he trotted along on his horse. He could scarcely believe how lucky he was. He might soon learn more about Schönborn and Elsa! Even if he didn’t meet Wallenstein personally, at least he would be close to him. And surely he’d think of something when he got there.
After about half an hour, Lukas saw on his left the standards of the supreme army command flying atop a little hill—a red lion on a blue background, Wallenstein’s coat of arms. Lukas dismounted and led his horse to a circle of small tents where several guards armed with halberds were on patrol.
“What do you want?” growled one of the soldiers.
Lukas replied briefly and produced the sealed letter.
“I’ll deliver the message for you,” the soldier replied gruffly. “Hand it over.”
“I am instructed to deliver it personally to the general,” Lukas stressed, and tried to look desperate. “If I don’t, the commander will rip my head off, as sure as I am standing here.”
The guard sighed. “All right then, boy. Leave your horse here and come along.”
With relief, Lukas tied the horse alongside some others and followed the soldier. He had achieved what he wanted! Within the ring of tents stood a massive, rough-hewn barracks. Lukas stopped in amazement. It appeared that Wallenstein’s soldiers built a new house for their general every evening. But then Lukas noticed that four wheels were attached to the building’s wooden foundation. Evidently, it was some sort of wagon that could be turned into a house very quickly. Here, too, guards were on patrol.
“You’re in the right place,” said his guide, pointing to the standard flying next to the barracks. “So don’t worry, you’ve carried out your order.”
He took the letter from Lukas and went to the front of the building, where he knocked gently. Someone replied, and he entered.
That was the moment Lukas had been waiting for. He looked around carefully, then, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, strolled around to the back of the barracks, where no guards were posted. Some tiny windows, not any larger than loopholes, were set in the back wall. It had become so dark that Lukas would be hard to see by any soldier walking by.
After one last glance in both directions, he sneaked up to one of the windows and peered inside. In the flickering light of a lantern, a few men were sitting around a large round table covered with maps. The guard was just delivering the letter and took his leave with a final, deep bow. Judging from their dress, the other men were all high-ranking officers. One of them was older and extremely gaunt. With his thin goatee, a face that shone almost yellow in the lantern light, and eyes that flashed impatiently, he radiated an aura of overbearing severity.
“If the Swedish king thinks he can sneak away and hide like a rat in his hole, then we’ll have to catch him beforehand,” the older man said in a rasping voice. He unfolded the letter and briefly examined its contents. “Now listen to this. Our dear Zoltan has sent us this report,” he murmured. “His agents also report that King Gustav Adolf is heading for the free city of Nürnberg to await reinforcements there. We must therefore get ready to leave as quickly as possible and go there ourselves first thing in the morning, gentlemen! Deliver this message to your regiments.”
Lukas was stunned. The man who had just spoken was clearly Wallenstein himself. But Lukas could not recognize the familiar face of the grand inquisitor Waldemar von Schönborn among the other attendees. That was probably too much to hope. Dietmar von Scherendingen had told him that Schönborn was Wallenstein’s father confessor. Where would such a high-ranking cleric be staying in the army encampment?
Or was the old sword master perhaps mistaken? Lukas wondered. What if—
“Oh-ho, who do we have here? It seems I’ve got my hands on the newest Swedish spy.”
Lukas’s blood froze as someone grabbed him by the collar and roughly pulled him away from the window. Scared to death, he found himself looking into the face of a young man with a stylishly twirled goatee. He wore the cape of a nobleman and beneath that a robe that appeared clerical. Lukas considered kicking the man in the shins and trying to escape, but then he changed his mind. Guards were on patrol all around him. It was very likely he’d get caught, and then something much worse, probably put to death.
“Ex . . . excuse me, sir,” he managed to say, trying to sound as innocent as possible. “I just wanted to see the great General Wallenstein for once with my own eyes. My friends say he wears a doublet of gold.”
The man grinned and loosened his grip a bit on Lukas’s collar. “And does he wear a golden doublet?”
Lukas shook his head. “No, sir, but he looks like a very powerful man.”
“Above all, a very, very strict man,” the other replied. “Don’t you think so? What do you think he’d do with a young lad eavesdropping on one of his secret conferences?”
“Please, my lord!” Lukas shed a few tears, which was not especially difficult for him in view of how terrified he was. “Don’t tur
“Hmm . . .” The man twirled his waxed beard and stared at Lukas for a long time. He was about thirty years old, but his confident appearance made him look a few years older. The most threatening thing about him was his penetrating black eyes that seemed to bore right into Lukas’s soul. “There is something strange about you, I can feel it,” he finally said. “But still your deepest soul remains hidden from me. Extremely interesting. What’s your name?”
“Lukas,” he replied, trembling, still feeling the man’s gaze under his skin, like probing fingers. “I’m . . . a servant in the Black Musketeers regiment sent here to deliver a message.”
“Aha.” The man nodded. “From the Musketeers, you say? I had no idea that these swordsmen have children like you in their ranks.”
“As I said, I’m only a servant there,” Lukas replied, breaking out in a cold sweat. “I dig holes for the latrines, comb the horses, things like that . . . In wartime, I beat the drums.”
“And you’re the first to die in the front line.” The man sighed. “Children shouldn’t be allowed in battle. It’s dreadful for each of you lads.”
In any case, he seemed to have accepted Lukas’s explanation and released his grip while continuing to look him over.
“What sign were you born under?” he asked suddenly.
Lukas looked at him. “Eh . . . sign? I . . . don’t understand—”
“I’d guess Leo,” the man interrupted. “Leo or Sagittarius. With Gemini ascendant, or Virgo . . . That would explain some of the mystery. Or . . .” When he saw Lukas’s confused expression, he laughed. “Excuse me, that’s a hobby of mine. My name is Giovanni Battista Senno. I am Wallenstein’s astrologer and read the stars for him.”