Chapter 41
Frederick leaned well back in his saddle as the Persian warhorse galloped down the steep hill leading from the Ottoman camp, Kassandra’s piercing scream echoing in his mind.
He had heard it carrying from deep within the Grand Vizier’s tent just as he mounted and rode away.
The four Janissary guards riding with him had laughed coarsely, praising the prowess of their commander.
Frederick had tried to blot it out, to think of anything but what was happening to her, but he could not.
Dammit, man, you did what you had to do. It was either this, or your own skin. At least she lives.
Yet his reasoning did little to assuage his guilt, nor did the weight of the gold, hidden in the folds of his trousers, which pressed against his hip. He felt he was choking on guilt, drowning in it, even as he tried to force his mind back to his mission…delivering Halil’s letter to Mustapha.
Frederick eased up on the reins when he reached the bottom of the slope, and veered the stallion toward the rocky shore of the Danube. The Janissaries pulled up behind him, flanking his rear.
It was pitch-dark, the moon barely visible in the sky, a pale beacon hidden behind a thick bank of clouds.
A swirling fog was settling over the river, reaching out and blanketing the shoreline, making it difficult to pick a path through the rocks and hulking boulders.
It was even more difficult to sight the small boat they had upturned and secured beneath armloads of underbrush, the boat they would need to cross the river to the fortress.
Frederick knew it was close by, but with each passing moment he could see less and less.
The fog had become so dense, it obscured anything more than a few feet away.
He did not see the silent shadows crouching behind a mass of boulders until it was too late, could not even have guessed that a regiment of Imperial soldiers had been sent out along the Danube as advance scouts for the battle to come.
He and his Janissary guard passed unwittingly right through the midst of them, realizing their danger only when they were attacked with a swiftness that sent them sprawling from their saddles.
Three of the Janissaries died at once, quietly, neatly, their throats slit, their lifeblood staining the sandy soil.
The remaining guard was wounded, but not mortally, subdued by four silent soldiers.
Frederick fell hard upon the ground, a soldier immediately astride his chest while two others pinned him down.
The white turban was knocked from his head, the cold point of a dagger pressed beneath his chin, piercing the skin.
He looked up into the clouded sky, awaiting death.
Instead he heard a sharp intake of breath and a deep chuckle.
“Look at what we have here, Commander,” his captor muttered incredulously, peering at him in the dark. “Either this Turk had a blond, light-eyed mother, or I would swear he is no Turk at all!”
Another man drew close and bent over him, squinting closely at his face. He straightened, quickly voicing low-spoken commands. “Get this man to his feet at once. You three will accompany me back to the camp, while the others hold their position here until we return.”
A numbness washed over Frederick, a swift death denied him with these words. He could not believe how quickly fate had turned against him.
His deadly game had been well played for almost three years, and now suddenly he had lost, without even a fight, just as he had attained the wealth that would free him from his role as a spy.
That gold was useless to him now. It could not spare him from what lay ahead, a death far worse than anything he could imagine.
Frederick was pulled roughly to his feet, his hands bound with leather cord, a gag stuffed into his mouth.
He waited as a boat was brought from behind the rocks and slid across the gravel into the river.
A sharp push propelled him forward, and he stepped shakily into the rocking vessel, strong hands pushing him onto a planked seat.
“Perhaps you might explain to Prince Eugene why you wear the clothes of the enemy, lad,” the officer murmured tersely, settling behind him, a blade at his back.
After the men heaved the unconscious Janissary guard into the bottom of the boat, they pushed off from the shore and drifted silently downstream.
For fear any sound might bring the Turks down upon them, no oars touched the water until they reached the point where the Sava flowed into the Danube.
Then they rowed like hell against the conflicting currents, making straight for the Imperial camp.
Stefan stepped from Prince Eugene’s tent, the council of war having drawn to a close. It was already well past ten o’clock. The camp was hushed, still, but for the intermittent bursts of artillery fire near the Sava, the Turk’s remedy for holding them at bay, even during the night.
Except for the continuous guard posted around the camp, most of the soldiers were catching a few precious hours rest, which was also his plan. Three o’clock in the morning, when the camp would rouse to make final preparations for battle, would come swiftly enough.
He drew in a great breath of the damp night air, murmuring a prayer of thanks for the heavy fog that blanketed the camp and the surrounding countryside.
He could barely see the lighted windows of the fortress high above Belgrade.
Hopefully the fog would hold to serve as their ally and shield in the dark hours before morning.
Stefan turned and strode toward his own tent, his mind working over the events of past hours, the council of war, the lengthy discussions, planning a course of attack, on and on.
Yet one event stood at the forefront of his thoughts.
He shook his head, still astounded. He could hardly believe that Count Frederick Althann, the court fop, was a spy for Sultan Achmet.
It had been the most incredible scene. They had all been gathered about a large oaken table, Prince Eugene and every commander save one plotting the battle that would commence well before dawn.
Prince Eugene had already discussed with them his decision to launch a surprise attack against the Ottoman lines.
The long siege and the constant bombardment had taken a heavy toll on his forces, in both manpower and morale, until the Imperial army was on the verge of collapse.
Believing his hand to be forced, he had to choose between retreat, hardly an option for the brilliant general, or striking out in a daring retaliation, despite the heavy odds against them.
He had opted for retaliation, with the full support of his commanders.
At the height of their discussions, they had been suddenly interrupted by a commotion outside the tent.
The commander of the regiment that had been sent to scout the Ottoman camp had burst in, followed by a retinue of soldiers, two bedraggled prisoners in their midst. One of them was a Turk, slumped between his guards, his shoulder bloodied and his right arm hanging uselessly by his side, and the other was Count Althann, dressed as a Turkish officer.
A stunned silence had fallen while the commander grimly recounted how he had captured the prisoners, then he handed Prince Eugene a letter that had been found on the Count.
An aide familiar with the Turkish language was summoned, the general’s expression darkening as the young lieutenant read it aloud.
Never had Stefan heard more overbearing confidence than was expressed in that letter. It elicited a terse response from Prince Eugene.
“This letter shall be Halil Pasha’s undoing,” he murmured, his dark gaze falling on every man in the tent.
“His misplaced confidence proves once and for all that we must make a stand. It will be the last thing he expects. Cowards? The Grand Vizier will soon know the meaning of the word when his soldiers are routed and scattered in retreat, his tents razed to the ground!”
If ever there had been evidence to condemn a man as a spy, and a traitor, it was that letter.
Yet through the reading, Count Althann remained aloof, silent, with a studied dignity, as if that was the only weapon remaining to him.
It was clear to everyone that he was hardly the preening fop he had played at court, an ingenious role he had devised to cover a far more dangerous pursuit.
At last, after refusing to answer any questions, he had been dragged away for torture along with the Turkish soldier captured with him.
His death—as for all spies, impalement on a sharpened stake driven into the earth—would come later, after they had gotten any useful information from him that might help them in the battle the next morning.
Stefan sighed heavily. That had been several hours ago. No doubt by now Frederick hardly resembled the same man. Torture was a cruel, but necessary evil in wartime. The information he had given to the Turks had already cost hundreds of Austrian lives, a price he would pay with his own.
Stefan slowed his pace as he drew closer to his tent, recalling the piercing look Frederick had shot at him before he was hauled away. A strange chill had coursed through him, but why, he had no clue.
“Commander von Furstenberg!”
Stefan wheeled at the agitated cry, but he saw no one through the damp mists. He turned back, continuing toward his tent.
“Commander…von Furstenberg! I must…speak with you!” the voice called again, and this time when Stefan turned, he saw a dark form running toward him, taking shape in the mists.
He recognized the captain of the prison tent, where not only the prisoners but also unruly and undisciplined soldiers were being held.
“What is it, man?” Stefan asked as the burly captain drew up alongside him, panting as he fought to catch his breath.
“I just came…from Prince Eugene’s…tent,” he gasped, bending down and resting his hands on his thighs, his chest heaving. “His aide…said you had left only a moment ago.”