Wéry sat at his desk in the barracks with his head in his hands. It was night. Before him, in the yellow light of a candle, lay a copy of the hurriedly-written report from the commanding officer of the dragoon squadron. He had read it three times. He knew every word that was in it. Now he was no longer reading but staring at the page.
Once, in a skirmish, he had seen a soldier's hat knocked from the man's head by a bullet. The man had simply stood, in line with his fellows, looking stupidly at it where it lay on the ground. Then, all of a sudden, he had sat down. He had remained there, with his limbs shaking, until an officer had come walking along the line to put the hat back on the man's head and tell him to stand up again.
Wéry knew how that soldier had felt. He felt the same now . . . By good fortune they were not inconvenienced, and only a coachman suffered injuries . . .
The dragoons had had a good day. A half-troop of French cavalry routed, prisoners taken, and ladies – one of them goddaughter of the Prince – rescued from distress. The squadron leader must hope for promotion for this. Certainly he wrote to make the most of his foresight in arranging patrols up to the border markers. But he was also careful to emphasize that the clash had taken place within the borders of Erzberg. He said so more than once, leading Wéry to suspect that he was in fact not quite sure on the point, and feared that it might lead to trouble.
Never, by God, never! thought Wéry. And if his word counted for anything, the dragoon would have his promotion and more. If anything had happened to her . . . (By good fortune they were not inconvenienced – what delicacy of phrase!) If anything had happened to her, he thought, he might have blown his brains out. Dear God – what had he been doing to involve them? What had he been doing?
How could he face her – even supposing she was willing to see him again?
But, he reminded himself, he had had nothing to do with her going. He would have begged her not to go, if he had known. And – and the danger she had fallen into had not been his making. Freelance banditry by the French was a common hazard of the roads these days, although it was unusual so far south.
Or could he be sure even of that? A half-troop, with no wagons, or at least none mentioned in the report. That was a scouting mission, not a foraging party. Probably it had been part of a larger force that had divided itself to cover a wider area. Heaven knew what they had been looking for. But yes, couriers to Erzberg could be a possibility. They knew Erzberg was hostile. And they knew too (because Lanard would have told them) that in Erzberg there was the man Wéry. They would have guessed what he did, and why.
And that was the truth. Whether he had asked her to go or not, whether they had been looking for her or not, he had made her a part of what he did. Against all the iron and powder of France, against that blind and savage will – how could he hope that she would not suffer, as Kranz had suffered, and some day he too must suffer, for what he was choosing to do? He could picture himself sitting here in this same room, with a report from the same man in front of him, except that this time the dragoons had arrived a half-hour too late to prevent rape or murder.
Yes, in the small hours he might indeed have turned to his pistol.
He sat and looked at the page. A bell in the city tolled eleven o'clock. He was still there when it tolled the quarter hour. A carriage rattled in the street and distant voices spoke in the barrack square. He knew that he should go to bed. Late nights and early mornings left him dazed and foggy, and he was due to see Bergesrode at dawn again the next day with the report that he had written about the Illuminati meeting in the Adelsheim house. But he did not think he could sleep.
Steps sounded on the steep wooden stair – more than one set of feet. He wondered wearily who it was. The sounds stopped at his door. There was a knock.
'Yes!' he groaned.
The orderly sergeant looked in. His face was wooden.
'Person to see you, sir,' he said, and withdrew.
It was her.
He jumped to his feet with an exclamation. His chair tumbled and clattered on the floor.
'I am sorry to disturb you,' she said.
In his astonishment he had to fight for words. 'Are – are you alone?'
'My maid is on the stair.'
She was tired – as tired as he was. It told in her voice.
'I – regret I have nowhere for you to sit,' said Wéry. 'Please, er . . . please take my chair.' He turned and fumbled for it. In his confusion, and the dim light, he felt very clumsy. 'Please sit,' he begged, and then recollecting himself, 'When did you arrive?'
'Thank you,' she said. 'We reached the house this afternoon. My mother supposes me to be resting, and has gone to Lady Jenz's. I must be back before she returns.'
'Indeed you should be resting,' exclaimed Wéry. 'I have read . . . such terrible things.'
'Thank you again,' she said. 'Indeed I have been much distressed. Yet I know it was nothing to what you and my brother and so many others must have seen. I have come with a message.'
A message?
Wéry almost sat down. Just in time he remembered that his chair was gone from behind him, and that she was sitting on it. He settled awkwardly on the edge of his desk. It put him above her, and also rather close.
'I fear it is not what you were hoping for,' she said, looking up into his face. 'It is from Ludwig Jürich. He says you must expect no more help from his house.'
He drew breath. 'I – see. Did he say anything more?'
'He knew I had come to see if I could bring you what you wanted. But he – he fears for his house, and the people in it. He says he is under suspicion.'
'I see,' said Wéry digesting this.
She seemed to have been expecting some rebuke, or at least disappointment, for she said,'I almost decided to stay, nonetheless. But I was given something and I assumed it was what you wanted. He said it was for you.'
'He?'
'One of the servants. It must have come from Maximilian Jürich, but I did not know that.' She took from a bag a tattered sheet of parchment and spread it on the desk for him. The haunted face of Christ rolled its eyes at the low ceiling.
'I see he has sent you one of these already,' she sighed, indicating the picture on the wall behind Wéry. 'He is mad, of course. I did not realize that he knew you.'
Wéry stared at the painting. For a long moment he could not speak. Then he said: 'He is not mad. Well, I do not think he is.'
'He paints this face, again and again. Nothing else.'
'Yes, it weighs on him. This face . . . There was a man, you see. One of his own men, when he was with the republican militia during the siege of Mainz. Maximilian had him arrested, and shot by firing squad. I do not even know why – perhaps he thought the man would betray us to the French. I saw the body afterwards, when I was waiting to cross the river. It was lying against the palace wall with the lice crawling out of its clothes . . .'
He touched the painting with the tip of his finger.
'This is the face of that man.'
It lay on the desk, rolling its dying eyes in the gloom. It was real. It had come at last.
'It is what I needed,' he said hoarsely. 'I am most truly grateful.'
She frowned at it. Plainly she could not see how it could be so important. She said, 'Well, I am glad, then,' in a voice that had no gladness in it.
'You should rest,' said Wéry.
'I cannot rest without forgetting,' she said. 'And I do not think I can forget.'
She rose to her feet. He copied her.
'Lady Maria,' he said formally. 'I have said I am grateful. I cannot truly express how grateful I am. But I beg you to believe me that had I guessed what you would do or the risk you would run, I should not have suffered you to do it. Indeed I have slept poorly for many nights, thinking of you. And I wish . . .'
Something in his tone had caught her attention. She looked at him.
'I wish to say . . .' he stammered. 'How much – how much I admire you. I have feelings for you that I find it difficult to express. It is surprising but . . . I have to tell you this. I do not know that I can ask you . . . I mean, you are . . .'
He flushed. There were no words that could tell her what she was in his thoughts.
'You must not say such things,' she said.
'I must not. And yet also I must.'
She gave a weary gesture with her hand, and he fell silent.
'I must go. Sir, you have helped us, but it will do no good to talk any more.'
'Yes,' he sighed and looked at the floor.
'All that I ask is that as little should be said of our journey as possible. My mother is already angry with both Anna and myself. The more she hears gossip of it, the worse it 'will be.'
He cleared his throat, fighting for composure. 'I shall do whatever I can. I will . . . May I see you to your carriage?'
'I think . . . Thank you, but it is better not.'
It was a quarter to midnight. Wéry lifted his head from his hands and groaned.
Work, he thought. Work was the remedy.
He lit another candle, and placed both candles close to the paper on the desk. He rose, took the other picture from the wall and set it on the desk beside the new one. Then he drew from a drawer a curved reading-glass. He looked at the two pictures, side by side. The anguished faces of the man on the cross writhed before him. With a dull heart he placed the reading-glass on the new picture and bent over it. The face of the dead Christ swelled from the canvas, blotting out the memory of the face that had left the room.
He had to look beyond the suffering. That was the secret. As if he were a general or a prince, he had to look past it. He had to look at the detail of the background beyond.
It had changed. Where the old picture had shown a general receiving his orders, there was now only empty middle distance. The town, with the camp around it, was still there – painted rather larger than it had been in the previous picture. And the river was still busy with boats crossing. Probably there was some significance in the detail here, but he could not see it at once.
To the left of the face there were also changes. The picture of the Roman soldier stepping across the river had been replaced with a group of figures. The Roman was still there. He had his sword drawn and raised to strike. Moving the glass directly over him and peering closely, Wéry could see the letters at his belt: A d A – the Armée d'Allemagne.
Kneeling before the Roman, with his head bowed for the blow, was a man in a bishop's robes and cap. On the robes of the bishop were a pattern of lions, like the lions on the arms of the Prince-Bishop of Erzberg.
A number of other figures stood by, watching impassively. One wore an Emperor's crown. Another had an Elector's cap and the blue and white diamonds of Bavaria, Erzberg's largest German neighbour. And among them was a figure with two faces, holding an hourglass: the Roman god Janus.
Janus: January. The Army of Germany will strike at the Bishop in January.
January was already on them. But the left side, Maximilian had said, would be for the interpretation. The facts would be on the right. And Wéry could find nothing there that was new.
He swept the reading glass over the right hand side of the picture again. Hills, trees, bushes, and the town in the distance with the camp around it and the river beyond. All was as before. He placed the glass over the camp and peered down at the enlarged, distorted image. He counted the tents. Seven, as before. And horses and cannons . . .
Wait! The cannons!
There were four shown, lined in a row before the tents. In the previous picture there had only been three. He re-centred the glass on the fourth and peered closely.
It was shown larger than the others. A tiny figure of a man had been painted in by one wheel to make that clear. This was not a field gun. This was a siege weapon.
So that was it. Fact: The Army at Wetzlar is being reinforced with siege guns. Interpretation: They are preparing to strike at the Bishop in January.
This, these two sentences, was the message. This was what he had bought, at the price of Balcke-Horneswerden's honour, and his own.
This was what Maximilian and Hartmann – yes, and the unwilling Ludwig, and his wife, and Maria too – had risked so much to bring to him.
Now he must decide whether he believed it.
He sat back and rubbed his aching eyes.
There were so many drawbacks to this form of communication. Details might be missed, or misinterpreted. A page full of writing would have told him more. But even writing could only get him so far. He could not question the written page, demand more details, or check his understanding of the meaning. And a page of writing, even in cipher, would have betrayed itself to the enemy if ever it fell into their hands – as this one nearly had. This was a far better disguise. They will see only the head, Maximilian had promised him. And indeed they would. It was Maximilian's device, and Maximilian's way. The dead man from the streets of Mainz. The man whose face Maximilian carried in his head every moment of his day, whom he had had shot by his own men, and whose innocence, by this means, he proclaimed to all the world. No, he was not mad. Not quite.
The Army of Wetzlar has been reinforced with siege guns. It was exactly the sort of thing that Hartmann, travelling up and down the Rhine, would be able to find out. Getting guns that size across the Rhine could not be done easily. Covered barges, gathered at night, loading . . . No. Even then there would be too much movement, business, noise. The crews and barges must come from somewhere. Man them with soldiers, and still the soldiers would talk. Take it as fact.
The interpretation was another matter. Wéry remembered bitterly how he, how everyone in Erzberg – had mistaken the news of the return of Hoche to Germany. So there were siege guns at Wetzlar. Why should they be intended for Erzberg?
Well, who else might they be intended for? Frankfurt was garrisoned by the Emperor. They would not strike at Frankfurt so soon after the peace. Indeed, if they had wanted Frankfurt they would have made the Emperor abandon it to them, just as he had abandoned Mainz.
If they meant to march north, or east, into the lands dominated by Prussia, they would have to reinforce Wetzlar with more than just a siege train.
But Erzberg, now. The walls were breached. But they would know from Lanard that the breaches were small and could be repaired. Erzberg, with its motley army, its control of the Vater crossings, and its position in the heart of Germany. They had what they needed, if it came to that. Had they a motive, now that d'Erles had fled? But only they would know what motive would be sufficient.
And there was corroboration of a sort, if they were patrolling down to the Erzberg borders. That was the sort of action that discouraged spying and patrolling in the other direction. Certainly it would be harder for him to confirm the presence of siege guns at Wetzlar if the roads were alive with French patrols. It might mean more lives lost – more of his own people. And yet he must try, and they must try. The double faces of Christ groaned soundlessly on the desk before him.
Outside a bell tolled the quarter hour. Midnight had come and gone and he had not been aware. And now he had a report to write, which must be ready before his meeting with Bergesrode tomorrow morning. He must write it carefully. He pushed the two paintings aside, found pen and paper, and set them before him. But before he began he remembered something else.
Taking a small lever from a draw, he bent down over a floorboard before the hearth. The nails that held it were loose. It came up easily. Beneath it, wrapped in canvas, were concealed the reports and papers he considered most valuable, or most dangerous. On the top of the pile was his own report to Bergesrode, strung together from his recollections of Uhnen's drunken ramble, and from meetings with officers of the police. It was short, because he had had so little to put in it. And it began baldly: 'On the night of 13 October notable members of the Canon Rother-Konisrat's party attended a gathering at the house of the Knight von Adelsheim . . .'
He removed it, wrapped the others back into their sack, and replaced the board. Then he made up the fire in the little hearth.
With shaking fingers, he fed his report to the flames.