Chapter 38
Stefan shielded his eyes from the late afternoon sun, his narrowed gaze sweeping the wide perimeter of the Imperial camp.
Prince Eugene had picked their strategic position carefully, the camp stretching out across the barren plain lying just south of Belgrade, along the Sava River, which intersected with the Danube.
Both rivers had been closed off to all water traffic since the siege had begun more than seven weeks ago, cutting off any possibility that food, ammunition, or fresh water would reach either the city or the fortress overlooking it.
Yet still the siege dragged on, fully a month longer than Prince Eugene and his commanders had anticipated.
They had already surmised Mustapha Pasha and his Janissary garrison knew well in advance of their plan to attack Belgrade.
No doubt the work of a well informed spy, Stefan considered grimly. Traitor! May he rot in hell!
The Turks had obviously prepared for a lengthy siege.
It seemed their supply of ammunition was inexhaustible.
A steady barrage of fire from the cannons surrounding the fortress had prevented the Imperial army from drawing any closer, virtually holding them hostage on the banks of the Sava.
Time was slipping away, lives were being lost, and still they could get no closer to the fortress, their every attempt to storm the city thwarted by the deadly fire.
Already the first week of August had come and gone, and here they sat under the vicious sun, baking in heat that had dropped many a man.
Now, to compound their desperate situation, Halil Pasha had arrived a few days ago from Constantinople, come to rescue the garrison from the Imperialists.
He had brought with him a field army twice the size of their own, setting up his colorful tents on a high plateau to the east of the city.
His artillery had soon joined in the barrage, and Prince Eugene had been forced to move the camp back several hundred feet to escape the worst of this new threat.
“Damn!” Stefan cursed, raging at his feelings of impotence.
Before Halil Pasha had marched upon Belgrade, he and his cavalry had managed to make some successful forays near the city under cover of darkness, overtaking a few outlying regiments of Janissaries camped on the other side of the Sava.
Yet these efforts had brought them no closer to their goal of capturing the fortress, a prospect that seemed more remote with each passing day.
Something had to be done, and soon, or the Imperial army would find itself retreating toward Vienna in defeat.
Stefan wheeled around suddenly to face the small group of officers standing to his left.
“See that the men are prepared to ride out again this evening across the Sava,” he barked, taking them wholly by surprise.
“I’ll not sit by while these Turks gloat around their fires wondering what became of their fierce enemy. ”
“Yes, Commander!” they answered as if with one voice, exchanging shaken looks as Stefan stormed into his tent. Each man hurried off in a different direction to do his bidding, no doubt wondering what had happened to the stoic commander they knew from previous campaigns.
Stefan strode over to his cot and sat down heavily, running his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. The shadowed coolness of the tent soothed his temper somewhat and he began to think more rationally.
He knew he couldn’t send his men out without express orders from Prince Eugene, orders he had been denied since the arrival of Halil Pasha’s forces. If there was to be an attack, it must be a concerted one, infantry and cavalry combined to break the Ottoman lines.
What was happening to him? Stefan wondered. Yet even as he asked himself, he knew the answer.
He had not been the same since Kassandra’s disappearance. He had become relentless, like a man possessed, driving his men as hard as he drove himself.
“No, she is not dead! She cannot be dead!” Stefan whispered passionately, rising from the cot to pace about the tent. They had found no body, no clothing, nothing of Kassandra’s.
The last letter he had received from Isabel, written only three weeks ago, had stated as much.
It had been delivered by swift courier along with the rest of the post for Prince Eugene.
Trembling, Stefan had held it in his hand, until at last he had ripped it open, reading desperately with his heart in his throat.
After another exhaustive search, nothing had been found. And until that day—God help him if it ever came!—he would not believe that Kassandra was dead.
Stefan sat down on the wooden chair set near the cot, his arms resting on his elbows, his head in his hands.
He had never felt so desolate, so haunted, in all his life, hardly the trait a soldier would wish for in his commander. Perhaps he should relinquish his leadership, rather than endanger the lives of his men from lack of good judgment—
“Commander von Furstenberg!”
Stefan started, looking up at the young lieutenant standing at the entrance to his tent.
“Yes?”
“Prince Eugene has called a council of war. You are requested to come to his tent at sundown. The general also requests you command your men to begin preparations for battle.” Then he was gone, the flap falling back into place.
A council of war. Prepare for battle. Those were the words he had been waiting to hear for weeks…
Studied excitement gripped Stefan, clearing his mind of any self-doubt.
Years of battle-honed instinct took over, racing through his blood, his emotions receding into the background.
He knew they would assail him again in a quiet moment—when he slept, when he dreamed of Kassandra—but for now, there was much to be done.
Halil Pasha waved his hand irritably, silencing the loud bickering among his assembled generals. His piercing black eyes settled on one after the other, the expression on his narrow, olive-skinned face brooking no argument.
“The Imperialists are cowards,” he murmured in a low, commanding voice.
“They would sooner retreat than attack. It is clear they have felt the strength of our superior numbers, striking cold fear into their hearts. We shall see them tear down their camp within the week, and set out for the safety of Vienna.”
“But that Savoyard, Prince Eugene, is unpredictable, Your Grace,” one of the generals protested weakly in the face of such firm resolve. He looked nervously at his peers, then back at Halil. “We cannot forget Peterwardein, or Temesvar, last summer—”
“Enough!” Halil rose from his cross-legged position upon the carpeted floor to stand in their midst. “There shall be no more discussion, no argument. It has been decided. We shall continue the heavy bombardment, deterring any movement on their part toward the fortress. We have nothing to fear from these infidels. Belgrade is ours, and shall remain so.”
Halil turned his back on them and strode to where a slave was kneeling, head bent, eyes downcast, holding up a silver bowl of cool water.
Dipping his hands, he washed them, a signal to his generals that their war council was at an end.
One by one they rose, bowing at the waist, then left the ornate tent, their flowing caftans rustling.
Halil dried his hands on a soft linen towel offered to him by another slave, then tossed it upon the floor. It was quickly retrieved, and the two slaves crept silently away.
“Send in the spy,” Halil commanded to his ever-present Chief Eunuch, an onyx-skinned man towering well over six feet tall and of immense girth, who had been in charge of his harem for many years.
Even in war, a powerful man traveled with his wives, his concubines.
The sensory pleasures of life could not be denied because of conflict.
“Yes, Sire,” the Chief Eunuch murmured in his strange half-tenor voice, his slippered feet belying his bulk as he padded across the thick silk carpets to the guarded entrance to the tent. Curved scimitars were drawn aside, allowing him to pass.
Halil settled himself on a raised sofa, arranging the brocaded pillows comfortably behind his back. He waited, a soft breeze swirling from waving goose feather fans.
A quizzical smile lit his full lips as he remembered Count Althann’s words of a few days ago: “It is only my wish to remind you, Sire, of a special gift I have brought for you from Vienna.”
“Ah, the Englishwoman,” Halil had answered softly, trying to conjure an image of her in his mind.
Count Althann had first mentioned her when he had arrived in Constantinople. How had he described her? Oh, yes. He had said she was very beautiful, like a white goddess, with skin of finest cream, hair the color of fire, and eyes of purest amethyst, like crystalline violet pools.
Virgin? he had inquired. No, Sire, not a virgin, but Halil had only shrugged. It was no matter to him. Virgins could be difficult, prone to shedding tears. They brought him little pleasure. It was a woman skilled at lovemaking who stirred his blood.
“I have not forgotten her, Count,” he had continued, his interest piqued. Yet their conversation had been interrupted by one of his generals, and he had not thought of her again.
Until now.
Perhaps it was time he summoned this “goddess” from the fortress, he mused.
He certainly felt the need of some diversion to break the monotony of this campaign. It was more of a stalemate, until the Imperialists turned and fled, he thought confidently, rubbing his pointed beard, black as jet. Yes, a sensuous diversion, an Englishwoman, no less! His first…
“Count Frederick Althann, Your Grace,” the Chief Eunuch announced before gliding back to stand near the tented wall. He wrapped his thick arms about his barrel chest, a look of watchful attention on his broad face, all-seeing, all-hearing, ready to serve his master with his very life if need be.
Halil looked up, shrewdly studying the tall blond man as he entered.
He hated spies. They were vermin, maggots, feeding upon deceit and avarice, the glint of gold reflected in their eyes.
Yet they were a necessary evil, and this one had virtually ensured him a victory over the hated Austrians, with his timely information.
Now Count Althann had a gift for him as well.
Truly he was a man who knew how to please his benefactors.
“Your Grace,” Frederick said, bowing low, his hand to his chest.
“I wish to see this gift you have spoken so much about,” Halil demanded before Frederick had even straightened.
Frederick inhaled softly. “As it pleases you, Your Grace.” So the Grand Vizier had finally voiced a summons, he thought fleetingly.
He had begun to wonder if Kassandra might end up with that disgusting pig, Mustapha, after all.
At least with this man her worth would be truly recognized and she would be treated accordingly, some small consolation for the treachery he had inflicted upon her.
“Take several soldiers with you and travel with great caution,” Halil ordered. “I will not have you, or your gift, falling into the hands of the infidels.” He dismissed him with a curt nod. “Now go.”
Frederick winced as he turned and strode from the tent. She would not fall into Stefan’s hands, he amended darkly. There was no chance of that happening.
The Imperialists had been completely held down at their camp for the past week, the heavy bombardment discouraging any troop movement, even routine patrols along the Sava.
Besides, to reach the secret entrance at the base of the fortress, he and Kassandra would be skirting the Danube, far from any Austrian river blockade.
He had done it many times already, carrying messages from Halil to Mustapha.
If he had not been entirely confident that this campaign would fall to the Ottomans’ favor, he would never have left Kassandra in Belgrade, he thought, hoisting himself atop a magnificent Persian warhorse and kicking it into a gallop, four mounted guards thundering close behind him.
He would have gone on with her to Constantinople, hindrance or not, and deposited her in a harem there. He was no fool!