Morbus Dei: The Sign of Aries. Matthias Bauer

continued: ‘Gamelin is riding southwards at this moment with a handful of mercenaries. Overtake him and kill him and all his–freight.’

      ‘The Frenchman by all means, but tell me, haven’t we already freed enough sick from their suffering?’ asked Wolff, pointedly.

      ‘Indeed, but who knows who they might infect!’ said Sovino, going towards the window and gazing out. ‘It would simply be too bad if we had to shut down every house of pleasure in Vienna for everyone knows that they’re hives of the most appalling diseases. As a preventative measure, you understand.’

      Wolff understood only too well. He grinned cynically and saluted the Mayor and Sovino.

      ‘I want you to put together a group of a dozen or so trusty men to ride with you. You’ll be given further instructions tomorrow morning before you decamp,’ added Sovino, not turning away from the window.

      With that Wolff was dismissed. He walked out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, but instead of walking away he remained behind it and, seeing there was no guard around, bent his head and listened.

      ‘May I ask why you don’t settle the matter yourself?’ Tepser asked Sovino.

      ‘That’s not something that need concern you. My instructions are of a quite different nature,’ retorted Sovino, in a slightly irritated tone.

      He began to elaborate and what Wolff now overheard was most disconcerting and confirmed his first impressions of Sovino.

      Suddenly footsteps echoed down the corridor. Wolff darted away from the door and walked off as two men from the Black Guard came towards him. Ignoring their greeting, he passed quickly by.

      XI

      Gamelin was dozing when he suddenly woke with a start. The carriage had stopped without warning and he could hear shouts and the bleating of sheep.

      He opened the door and climbed down the two wrought-iron steps. The glare of the sunlight made him squint and he needed a moment before he could take in what was going on: up ahead was a flock of about three dozen sheep blocking the road and a farmer who was obviously in no hurry to herd them out of the way.

      A mercenary dismounted and went towards the farmer, his weapon at the ready. As if on command, the farmer started bawling madly at his sheep and whacking them on their hindquarters.

      Gamelin looked around. A few people had come out of the nearby cottages, curious to see what was going on, some appallingly ragged, others grossly disfigured and all of them filthy, he noticed. His displeasure grew as he saw one of them trying to peep behind the tarpaulin of one of the waggons before a violent kick from one of the guards sent him rocketing into the dirt.

      All at once it occurred to Gamelin that the further south they went along St James’s Way, the more attention they would attract. Rumours would start spreading and there would be more chance of their being stopped by an Austrian patrol.

      Behind them lay the plains sweeping towards Vienna and in front of them the densely forested massif of the Alps. It would cost them time, reflected Gamelin, but from now on they would keep off the beaten track whenever possible as they made their way over the Semmering.

      He motioned to the leader of the mercenaries and told him his thoughts. The latter nodded, spurred his horse and cut through the flock of bleating sheep like Moses through the Red Sea.

      Gamelin disappeared into his carriage and the convoy set off again. Four mercenaries hurriedly grabbed a sheep each–that would do nicely for their evening meal.

      Catching a glimpse of the passing landscape, Elisabeth recognized Semmering, through which she had passed only a few weeks ago–or was it years?–on the way to Vienna.

      Beside her sat the young mercenary, staring aghast at the black veins on his hand.

      ‘You’ll get used to them,’ she whispered.

      ‘I can’t imagine how,’ retorted the man, without a trace of a French accent.

      ‘I’m Elisabeth.’

      The young man looked doubtfully at her, then he seemed to get a hold of himself. ‘Alain’.

      ‘Where are you from?’

      ‘Châteaudun.’

      Elisabeth stared blankly at him.

      ‘In France.’

      She nodded. ‘You’ve no trace of an accent.’

      ‘My father thought it was important to speak the language of the people you want to conquer,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘But it hasn’t got me very far!’

      ‘Well, without it, you wouldn’t be able to speak to me!’ retorted Elisabeth mockingly. And all at once she had an idea.

      ‘Johann!’ The Prussian was shouting his head off but there was no answer. ‘Johann! For crying out loud!’

      The rider in front of him reined his horse to a stop. Dust from the road stung the Prussian’s eyes. He brought his own horse to a halt and stared furiously at Johann. ‘For heaven’s sake, you’re going to wreck all our horses,’ he cried.

      Johann remained calm. ‘Then we’ll just have to buy new ones. We’re running out of time.’

      ‘We’re not. You are. Or it at least that’s what you think. How far do you think a convoy can get in one day anyway?’ asked the Prussian, not expecting an answer. ’We will catch up with them, you know, believe me.’

      Johann took a few deep breaths. He knew deep down that the Prussian was right. His horse snorted and he patted its neck and looked around. Hans and Karl came galloping up, their faces covered in dust, with Markus behind them, looking like a giant on his diminutive horse. All the horses were on the point of exhaustion.

      ‘If you’re trying to get rid of our nags then why don’t you just shoot them and have done with it instead of running them to death in that miserable way!’ exclaimed Karl.

      Johann was gazing towards the horizon and the towers of orange clouds in the evening sunlight and their shadows on the land. A storm was brewing. ‘We’ll stop at the next lodge’ he said.

      ‘Hallelujah!’ shouted Hans. ‘Another hour on that the nag and my arse would be as numb as the heart of a Turkish harem guard.’

      ‘What do you know about Turkish harem guards?’ laughed Karl, but Hans made no reply.

      The rain was pouring down relentlessly on the roof of the little lodge in Ebraichsdorf. Johann, the Prussian, Markus, Hans and Karl were seated at a rough-planed table. The oil lamps cast a flickering light and there were earthenware pitchers dotted about on the floor and tables to catch the rainwater coming in through the leaky roof.

      The landlord, who was cook, chambermaid and stable boy rolled into one, came in and placed a pot of steaming soup on the table. By the look of him, the grub won’t be up to much, thought Johann, as he watched the emaciated little man laying out wooden plates and spoons.

      ‘I w-w-wish the g-g-gentlemen G-G-Guten–’ stammered the landlord, finishing his sentence with a salute and rushing out of the room again.

      ‘He’s got bats in the belfry,’ remarked Karl.

      Mark sniffed the pot. ‘Well, I’ve had worse, that’s for sure!’

      ‘Right then,’ said the Prussian, ladling out soup to each of them. But before he could pick up his spoon, Johann had already got to his feet.

      ‘I would like to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your support,’ he exclaimed, taking a deep breath. ‘You know that you can leave anytime you like with no hard feelings. You too, Markus. Thank you.’

      ‘Well, if I’d known that,’ joked Karl, but Hans nudged him in the side. ‘I’ll say one thing,’ Karl continued. ‘We started this whole thing together and we’ll finish it together!’

      The others banged the handles of their spoons on the table in agreement.

      The