On the morning of the twelfth of November, the able-bodied men of the town of Narutsin were drummed out of their beds at sunrise and escorted to the parade ground outside the temporary barracks at the mansion of Pokoj, to witness the punishment of their townsmen for the crimes of riot, public disorder and mutiny against the legitimate orders of a military representative of Her Imperial Highness, Maria Theresa.
The charge sheet had been drawn up by Lieutenant Klaes, on August’s dictation, but it was read out that morning, loudly and with relish despite some stumbling over the longer words, by Lieutenant Tusimov. Klaes himself was in disgrace, placed at the very end of the row of officers and given no active part in the proceedings. He much preferred it that way. He had made clear his objection to this day’s work, and could not now withdraw it even if he’d wished to. And damaging as the show of insubordination might well be to his career, he could not persuade himself that he was in the wrong. Because of his neat hand, or perhaps simply to humble him further, he had been tasked with recording the offence and its sentencing in every sorry particular, and the job had given him ample time for self-reproach—but his chief regret was that he had ever reported the affair in the first place. He doubted whether Colonel August had the authority he claimed to punish the townspeople. He was far from sure that mutiny was even an offence among civilians. And now, watching the little parade of convicted men led out to receive their punishment, he wished himself a thousand miles from Pokoj.
A soldier facing the lash would be allowed to keep his shirt on until the last minute, when he was accorded the respect of being allowed to remove it himself. The Narutsiners, knowing nothing of military protocol, had been forcibly stripped before leaving their makeshift prison. They shivered in the chilly morning air. From where he stood, just to the left of the whipping frames and at a right angle to the crowd, Klaes could see that Jakusch Weichorek was struggling to hold back tears. The prisoners’ fellow townsmen stood in ragged rows in the centre of the parade field, flanked on each side by soldiers.
As the condemned men were led towards them they let out a collective groan, which splintered into mutterings. A woman’s voice called out, “Shame! Shame on you!” and the sergeant nearest her hammered his pike on the ground with a cry for silence. Klaes was momentarily stunned: there were women present! But of course there were, he reminded himself. Over at the edge of the field, where Lorenz the surgeon sat with his stretchers and his buckets of water, a small group of the camp followers had come to watch. Harpies, he thought bitterly. But their faces were as pale and distracted as those of the villagers, and Sarai had brought her bag of remedies.
The whipping frames looked even uglier in the low, pale sunlight, the crude triangles now staked in place by extra beams which propped them up like parodies of an artist’s easels. Only two had been properly joined; the third, erected in haste last night as the light began to fade, had its three beams crossed at the top like a giant bonfire, and lashed together with stout ropes. Word had it that the carpenter and his assistant had abandoned the work, leaving unskilled men to finish the job. August had only noticed the dereliction at sunrise: he had scowled, Private Leintz reported, till his eyebrows met in the middle, but seeing that it was too late to remedy, had said nothing. Perhaps by now the colonel had declared that this too was a punishable offence—Klaes would not have been surprised.
The prisoners were halted in front of the frames. Seeing them above him Jakusch let out an involuntary cry, which was answered by a hiss of shock and outrage from the crowd. Klaes steeled himself. Anything he said, any plea he might make for the boy, would do no good. But to his amazement the stolid Lieutenant Pabst was moved to protest.
“Colonel, that one’s only a lad! He can’t be more than fifteen. Do you not think, sir, that in this instance—”
“He is seventeen, and a man,” August said. His eyes never left the group of prisoners. “Return to your place, Lieutenant.”
The old man saluted and did as he was told.
The boy would be sixteen in December, Klaes recalled. He had broken bread with the family not a month ago, and had thought the son was forward for his age. In the front rank of the Narutsiners Meister Weichorek stood, utterly motionless. For the first time Klaes saw that Dame Weichorek was beside him. She was dry-eyed and held herself as still as her husband.
Lieutenant Tusimov was to oversee the floggings. He barked an order, and three drummers stepped forward: Edek, Renke and Heinrich, beefy men who had done this work before. Others were waiting to take over from them when they tired. Cunel, the corporal in charge of the equipment stores, carried out the whips, each in its separate bag. Tusimov waited until each was in place; then, swelled with his own importance, he placed himself before the prisoners and barked out a name.
“Jan Puszin, bootmaker. That you did, two days since, maliciously insult and feloniously strike an officer of the empire, and did inflict on said officer bleeding and contusions.” Edek and Renke took hold of the unfortunate man, one by each arm. Renke could hardly restrain his smile, and Klaes suddenly noticed the bruises on the private’s face. “Fifty lashes,” Tusimov intoned.
Klaes bit back an exclamation. A general gasp rose around him, and some of his own men began to murmur in protest. Fifty lashes was an extreme penalty even for a serving soldier, but the town magistrates’ courts imposed an absolute limit of thirty, kept down by custom to twenty-nine, so fearful were they of exceeding that number by mistake. Puszin cried out and began to struggle, but the two privates held him fast. They hustled him to the nearest of the frames and tied his hands above his head; splayed his legs to fasten an ankle to each upright.
Tusimov was already calling out the next name as they worked. Choltitz and Heinrich grasped the arms of Sivet Ulsner, who seemed paralysed with terror, and carried him to the next triangle, his feet not quite touching the ground. The last to be taken was Jakusch Weichorek, who was condemned to only thirty lashes, “on account of his youth,” Tusimov said piously. The boy began to shake as Renke and Edek came for him. Dame Weichorek gave a single harsh sob but then fell silent, grasping her husband’s arm. Tusimov gave the order to begin, and the three drummers took up their whips. The lieutenant, feeling every eye upon him, waited a moment longer as if, Klaes felt, he expected a drum roll to accompany him. Finally, with an almost audible breath, he began the count, and the men struck in unison.
Klaes had attended several floggings, and had hardened himself to them. It did not do for an officer to turn faint when an offender was disciplined, no matter how distasteful he found the spectacle. But this was beyond anything he had experienced before. Soldiers were schooled to watch their comrades’ punishments in silence, but the townspeople had had no such training. As the first blows fell, the cries of the afflicted men were mingled with shouts from their neighbours.
“Courage, man!”
“Give them no cries!”
“How do you say that, blockhead? It’s not you they’re beating!”
This last was from a woman, and the cries and wails of the women grew louder as the floggings continued. For all their shouts for silence and banging of their pikes, the sergeants could not shush them now.
“Shame, shame!”
“He’s just a boy! You’re killing him!”
“SEVEN!” Tusimov roared, and Edek, perhaps startled, lashed Jakusch so violently that the frame rattled. The boy screamed, and blood began to seep from several of the welts on his back all together. The surgeon stepped forward, raising a hand, and all the whippings stopped while he inspected the damage.
The intervention did what the sergeants’ orders could not: a silence fell, broken by the boy’s sobs and the intermittent groans of the other two sufferers. One of the men still awaiting punishment had fallen to the ground: a medical orderly was reviving him with a bucket of water, while the other two had been allowed to sit. They had both been fitted with leg irons, Klaes saw, though neither seemed in any state to flee. One, a stocky grey-haired man, was muttering obscenities with all the fervour of prayer. The other seemed to be praying in good earnest, his head lowered and his lips moving in silence.
Lorenz gave a cursory glance at the backs of the two older men and stepped back, motioning to Tusimov to continue. A deep groan arose from the crowd. Tusimov nodded in turn to the lashers, took up his stance and swelled his chest again.
“Eight!”
Klaes thought that Edek tried to hold back for the next strokes, as if ashamed that he had done his victim so much damage all at once. It made no difference. The boy shrieked and writhed at every impact, and the watchers cried out with him. Dame Weichorek, white to the lips, had let go of her husband’s arm and stood without touching him, twisting her hands together. She had not joined in the wails and imprecations of the other women but fixed her gaze immovably on her son’s bleeding back, as if willing him strength or insensibility.
At the nineteenth stroke Jakusch fell silent. Lorenz inspected him and shook his head.
“He’s fainted, sir. You must lay off.”
“Get some water,” Tusimov said impatiently. “That’ll revive him.”
Dame Weichorek made a small sound in her throat and moved forward, but Sergeant Kluzak stepped smartly in front of her, and her husband held her back. The surgeon gestured to an orderly, who ran forward with a bucket. The boy twitched once as the cold water hit him, then hung from his bonds as limp as before. His breeches were soaked red; the cuts on his back, revealed by the washing, began to ooze afresh.
“Sorry, sir,” the surgeon said. He addressed August. “I can’t answer for his safety.”
“Cut him down,” the colonel ordered. His face was impassive: Klaes could not tell if the man felt relief or reluctance. Tusimov, on the other hand, was nearly dancing with frustration.
There was a pause in the proceedings while Jakusch was released from his bonds. Klaes saw with approval that Edek did not let the boy drop, but held him over his shoulder while two of the camp followers ran up to free his feet. The surgeon and the two women laid the boy face down on a stretcher and carried him to the far side of the parade ground, out of sight of the watching crowd. One of the women was Drozde, her face set in a furious scowl.
Dame Weichorek craned after her son until he was out of sight, but August’s orders had been clear: the citizens of Narutsin were to watch the punishments through to the end, and the sergeants would not allow her to go to him.
Tusimov ordered the lashers to be replaced and the whips to be cleaned before continuing: the sight of the clotted blood and tissue being washed from the long strips of leather caused one Narutsiner to vomit noisily, forcing a further delay. And when the floggings resumed, Ulsner fainted after another six lashes. Tusimov left him hanging on the frame, still dripping blood and water, while Choltitz continued to flog the unfortunate Puszin, to the accompaniment of growing unrest from the crowd. The surgeon released Puszin after thirty-six strokes, to Tusimov’s obvious dissatisfaction.
But the mood of the townspeople was changing. Jakusch’s suffering had drawn sobs and cries from the women, but there were no sobs now, and no one called out as the two men were cut down. Instead they murmured to each other. A few had bent down: Klaes guessed they were scanning the ground for stones or anything else that might be thrown. He cast a quick glance at his fellow lieutenants, but Pabst merely looked sick and weary, and Dietmar was eyeing the men still marked for punishment, as if estimating how long they might last. August, though, had noticed. He gestured to the sergeants guarding the prisoners and summoned one over to him: Molebacher. August spoke a few quiet words to the quartermaster, who nodded self-importantly and went off at a trot. Klaes watched as he made the rounds of the pike-bearing sergeants and directed them into a line between the townspeople and the whipping triangles, weapons menacingly at the ready as the remaining three men were charged and taken to the frames.
The pikemen served their purpose: if any of the townsmen had gathered stones, they remained unthrown. The last of the victims to be taken—the burly grey-haired man, indicted as Matheus Vavra, innkeeper—struggled and yelled as he was dragged away, and almost succeeded in knocking down his captors. Klaes held his breath. But the man was subdued and tied up, fighting to the last, and his neighbours still looked on, their anger not quite reckless enough to overcome their caution.
Klaes tried not to focus as the whippings began again. He was sick to his soul of all of it: the overreaction, the needless cruelty and the gross mismanagement of people who could have been their allies. They had tied the innkeeper to the botched frame, the one held together with ropes, and his struggles as Heinrich laid into him made the structure itself creak and groan. The mutterings of the watching crowd were turning to angry cries once more. Klaes glanced at August, expecting a general order to restore discipline—and saw the colonel in conversation with Sergeant Molebacher again. Deep in conversation. August had turned away from the floggings and was staring intently into the crowd at something indicated by the quartermaster. Klaes looked where Molebacher was pointing and saw two of the men who had put up the whipping frames: the master carpenter and his assistant. The colonel watched them for a moment and nodded to Molebacher, his expression grim.
More needless finger-pointing, Klaes thought in disgust. August had intended this day as a demonstration of the awful might of the empire, and the penalty for crossing it. If the people of Narutsin were less cowed than he had expected, that was hardly the fault of the carpenters.
As if to prove him wrong, the botched whipping frame began to sway, and one of its arms slid downwards, pulling the other two with it. The innkeeper screamed and kept on screaming. The surgeon came up at a run.
“Get him down! You want his back to break?”
Lorenz’s yell was almost lost amid the howling of the Narutsiners. Vavra continued to roar with pain as he was taken down. Lorenz examined him briskly and announced that his shoulder was dislocated.
The floggings were suspended. As the innkeeper was carried off on a stretcher, his tormentor and both the others dropped their whips and ran to hold up the frame, which was threatening to collapse altogether. Tusimov stood in the midst of the shambles as if thunderstruck.
Colonel August did not wait for his lieutenant to recover himself. He snapped an order to Dietmar: in the mounting chaos, Klaes could not hear what he said, but Dietmar promptly left the field, taking Pabst with him. Then, to the shouts and catcalls of the townspeople and the appalled silence of his own men, the colonel strode out to face the crowd.
Klaes found himself admiring the man’s courage even as he wondered at his foolhardiness. But a moment later, like a clap of thunder, a cannon sounded, so close at hand that the smoke and the acrid smell of it came over the field at the same time. There was a shocked silence, and into that silence August spoke.
“Cut both those men down, Lieutenant. Their punishment is suspended.” Tusimov opened his mouth to protest. August silenced him with a gesture. “That frame is unsafe. Lieutenant Klaes, have it secured. Men of Narutsin, these neighbours of yours have received their sentence and will be released. But I must require your presence here for a while longer.”
A many-voiced sigh rose from the people before him. It was over. Klaes saw the fists unclench, the shoulders slump throughout the crowd, and felt a wave of relief of his own as he ran to follow his orders. He sent his six strongest men to help hold up the posts, and dispatched Janek, who was fast, to fetch more rope. After a moment’s thought he also pulled out young Leintz, who had never attended a flogging before and was pale and shaking, and sent him off at a more leisurely pace for tent pegs and a couple of mallets.
The colonel seemed to be delivering a lecture: on a citizen’s duty to his homeland, the importance of discipline and the responsibility of every man to stand up and be counted. Klaes suspected that no one was listening, but it did not matter. He applied himself to the problem of the unstable frame, which it soon became clear was damaged beyond repair, no longer even securely attached to its base. With huge relief, he instructed his men to pull the monstrosity down. Neither of the other lieutenants had yet returned to his place, and the colonel was still haranguing the townspeople. Klaes took the opportunity to check on the state of the flogged men. Their treatment, and in particular that of Jakusch, had disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
The boy would likely recover, Sarai assured him, though of course he would be scarred. Of the others, Puszin, who had received the most strokes, was in a bad way, but the rest, she thought, were in no present danger. The old man’s shoulder had been reset, and he was already sitting up and cursing. There was nothing else Klaes could do here. He looked around him at the camp followers nursing other women’s sons and husbands, and felt somehow ashamed.
He was on his way back to his post when the chaos returned.
The broken frame was down, he saw with satisfaction, and the men had begun to dismantle it. But next to them now were two artillerymen, wheeling a six-pounder on its carriage. Another cannon was already in place on the far side of the frames, facing the Narutsiners. And behind the townspeople a file of Pabst’s men was moving into position, bearing what must surely be every remaining pike in the store. Klaes stopped, aghast, as Dietmar strode past him to August’s side and spoke a few words in the colonel’s ear.
“Now we are ready,” August said. A ripple of unease ran through his audience: those at the front had already seen the arrival of the cannons. And suddenly the colonel’s manner had changed. He eyed the men and women before him with the cold fury he usually reserved for soldiers convicted of cowardice.
“Your neighbours have been released, their punishments reduced out of consideration for their injuries,” he said. “As long as no ringleader was identified, all were condemned to suffer the same. But the investigations of my men have uncovered the instigator of this attack—and moreover it has been found that this was not the last outrage he intended to perpetrate. This man thought, no doubt, to show himself a tearing young blade by flouting the edict of his archduchess and heaping scorn upon his motherland. He will learn today of the consequences which follow such actions.” August’s voice rose to a roar. “Bring out Anton Hanslo, the carpenter.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then many voices spoke at once. Among them all, the carpenter’s assistant stood stricken and unbelieving. He made no move at all until two of the soldiers laid hands on him; then he cried out and struggled as he was dragged before the monstrous frames.
“What have I done?” he cried. “What am I meant to have done?”
August himself read out the charge, raising his voice over the man’s protests.
“That you did, on the eighth of November, maliciously and with seditious intent incite riot and rebellion among your fellow citizens, to the destruction of good order and the great injury of loyal upholders of the empire—”
“I never did such a thing! Who’s accusing me?”
“You were overheard in the very act, by a man in whom I place absolute trust,” August said with finality. “Your sentence is one hundred lashes.”
At this there was uproar among the watchers. A shrill voice rose above the chaos: Drozde.
“It’s not true! I know this man. He’s done work for you. He never spoke harm to anyone!”
No one heeded her. The colonel did not even look in the woman’s direction. Molebacher, who was holding one of Hanslo’s arms, shot her a brief glance; Klaes could have sworn the quartermaster was smiling. He bent down and said something low in the prisoner’s ear, which seemed to strike the man even through his terror and confusion: he twisted to look at Molebacher, his face still whiter than before.
Up until this point the carpenter had been mostly obscured from Klaes’s view by the men who held him. The motion allowed Klaes a clear glimpse of his face for the first time, and he started violently as he realised that he had seen him before. He broke from the line of officers and strode forward to where Colonel August stood.
“Sir.” Klaes had to yell to make himself heard over the shouts of the crowd. “I saw the fight, and this man was not involved. He even intervened to separate the two sides.”
August fixed him with an icy stare. “To your place, Klaes,” he said. The malice in his tone brooked no argument. The crowd’s yelling had intensified. Suddenly a man burst out of it, ducking beneath the arm of the corporal who moved to bar his way, and took hold of Molebacher. It was the old carpenter, who had been standing beside Hanslo.
”Leave him be, for God’s sake!” he shouted. “Don’t you hear? He’s a good lad. He’s no conspirator. Not a man here’ll say otherwise.”
The corporal he had eluded reached him and hauled him back so violently that he stumbled. The soldier pushed the old man to the ground and had drawn back his foot for a kick when Klaes intervened.
“That will do,” he snapped. And when the corporal did not retreat at once, Klaes roared at the man with a fury he had not known was in him.
“I said leave him! Now!”
He helped the carpenter to his feet and led him back to the edge of the crowd of watchers. Behind them, Hanslo shouted and struggled as he was tied to the frame. Klaes felt the old man beside him shaking as Molebacher took up the whip.
There were regulations to govern flogging, as with all aspects of army life: it was meant to hurt but not to maim. Molebacher ignored the rule. Hanslo’s screams sounded above the noise of the crowd. The quartermaster struck savagely and relentlessly, as tireless as a man threshing grain. By twenty strokes the young man’s back was masked with blood; by twenty-five his cries had grown faint. When they stopped altogether Tusimov called for the surgeon with his bucket of water.
Hanslo twitched and groaned as the water hit him, and Molebacher stepped forward once more, shaking his head when Heinrich offered to relieve him. But after half a dozen strokes Lorenz intervened again.
“He’s losing too much blood,” the surgeon said. “Any more and I won’t answer for him.”
Before Tusimov could reply, Molebacher addressed the lieutenant himself.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but this man’s done treachery, and he’s not had half his sentence yet. We need to make an example of him!”
Tusimov hesitated. And Molebacher, taking that for consent, rushed at his victim and rained blows on him, no longer waiting for the lieutenant’s count.
“Stop him!” the surgeon shouted, his voice thin against the tumult. Klaes, barely aware of what he was doing, had already run forward again, followed by the carpenter and a dozen other men from the crowd. He and Tusimov together pulled the quartermaster away and Tusimov held him, while Molebacher glared at Klaes like a demon.
Hanslo was no longer moving. Edek and Heinrich cut him down, then stood by uncertainly as the orderlies and camp followers laid him face down on a stretcher. Drozde was one of the helpers again. Her companion, a big red-armed woman, gave the soldiers an evil stare, but the gypsy never looked up from the stretcher, where the blood welling from the man’s back showed there was still some life in him.
August stepped forward into the sudden silence. The other lieutenants, even Tusimov, had returned to their places behind the colonel, and Klaes knew he should join them. But the old carpenter, who had shuddered in sympathy with each blow inflicted on his assistant, sagged forward as the young man was carried away, and Klaes was now obliged to hold him by the arm to prevent him falling.
The colonel looked a little rattled, Klaes thought: his demonstration had not gone as planned. But his voice was as strong as ever as he addressed the crowd.
“All the prisoners will be released to their friends once they can walk. Be warned that the same punishment awaits anyone who is found to have shielded these men from justice, and anyone who foments discord in the future, of any kind whatsoever.”
He raised an arm, and the artillerymen accompanying the two cannons each saluted and raised his gun’s muzzle to point directly into the crowd. The men with pikes already surrounded them on all sides. August was as good as the puppet woman at setting up a piece of theatre, Klaes thought, though he had nothing but contempt for his audience. He swept them with a final, baleful stare and gave his last order in a tone of weary disgust.
“Now go back to your homes. And if you care for your own peace and safety, stay there.”
He turned on his heel and left, followed by the three older lieutenants. The pikemen and the cannons stayed where they were, in a menacing ring around the townspeople. Klaes stayed too: the colonel had not looked at him nor summoned him, and he was glad of the excuse to avoid his fellow officers’ company for a little longer.
Drozde was running for bandages when she found her way blocked by Molebacher. Dark spatters still marked his clothes. She took an instinctive step backwards: just now the thought of touching him was unbearable.
“Didn’t see you back there,” he said. There was something strange in his expression. His eyes were glazed, whether from exhaustion or fury Drozde could not tell, and his jaw worked as though he were trying to swallow something too large for him. But his tone was one of heavy joviality. “Entertainment’s over; I need you in the kitchen.”
It took a moment before she could trust herself to speak clearly. “Go fuck yourself.”
Molebacher was so dumbfounded it might have been comical at another time. He opened his mouth to protest, but Drozde interrupted him. All her rage and horror went into the shout.
“And get used to it! Because you won’t be fucking me any more!”
Some of the women were heading their way, carrying cloths and basins. Drozde ran towards them, leaving Molebacher standing behind her, and she did not look back.
They had cleaned Hanslo’s back as best they could, but his beautiful skin was welted and clotted with blood. Sarai had shown Drozde what salve to use, and she spread it on his wounds with more gentleness than she had ever shown in lovemaking. Sometimes he would wince and moan at the contact; she welcomed it as a sign of life, but each time she raised her hand and would not touch him again till he had quieted. Some of the wounds still bled; the surgeon had warned them to leave those alone, only putting on fresh dressings as the old ones were soaked through. The pile of bloodied bandages lay beside her now, uncollected. Libush had seen the way Drozde looked at the hurt man. She had withdrawn without asking any questions, and kept the others away too.
There was no caress Drozde could give that would not hurt him further, but when she had tended him all she could, she took hold of his hand and crouched on the ground beside him so she could see his face. After an age he gave a deep groan and his eyelids flickered. She had hoped he would be glad to see her, but all she could read in his expression was fear and pain.
“No one will hurt you any more,” she told him. But he was not calmed. He spoke to her without breath to form the words. She laid her head down by his to catch the whisper.
“Drozde . . . that man . . .”
His eyes flickered beyond her, back to the parade ground. “The man who beat you,” she said.
His eyes stilled, looked into hers again. “Yes, I know him.”
His lips moved again, but no sound came out. There was nothing she could do to hold on to him.
“He thought I was his, the sack of shit,” she said. “Trust me, he won’t lay a finger on me, not ever again. I’m done with him.” Her voice was too loud, and not quite steady, but she had to tell him before he fainted again. “Only get well, Anton. Get better, and I’ll come to you whenever you like.”
He heard her. No one in such pain could smile, but his face relaxed and he moved his head in a sort of nod. Then his eyes closed again, as though the lids were too heavy to support.
She pressed his hand, and thought she could feel an answering pressure. But his eyes never opened, and she would not wake him to feel more pain. After a while the surgeon came by: he looked again at Anton’s wounds, held a feather to his lips and shook his head.
She stayed with him for some time longer. His hand was still warm in hers, and from this angle he was unscarred, as beautiful as ever. When his chest and face grew cold she went to fetch the others, to tell them there was a body to lay out.