From the Bamberg Gate Wéry looked out into the dawn. The night had been paling steadily for the last hour. Now the lines of the world could be seen again, colourless under the sky.
Some three hundred paces away across the field a long earthwork had been thrown up. Over the rim of the brown wall poked a line of gun-muzzles. He swung his field glass along the row, noting the size of the bore and the carriages – big pieces, all of them. He counted twelve. A similar work had been built to his left, opposite the north-east bastion. And there again there were heavy cannon, although from this angle he could not count them easily. Say, twelve again. Further to left and right more batteries had been constructed – field guns this time, he thought: six– and eight-pounders, ready to pepper the defences and bombard the town. But it was opposite the breach, his weakest point, that the enemy had deployed their greatest strength.
He brought his telescope back to focus on the siege guns. There was something almost peaceful about that cold row of heavy muzzles: those little black 'o's that cooed silently as he swept his glass along them. Death, they said. Death. There is nothing to do any more.
Here, then, was the reality of the message from Maximilian Jürich, which he had fed onto the fire last night. The Army of Germany had been reinforced with siege guns. Here they were. The message had not stopped them from coming. Nothing he or anyone else could have done would have stopped them. And nothing the city gunners had done last night had prevented them from taking position.
'That's where we were firing, over there,' said an officer. 'By the farm. You can see the ground's torn up with shot.'
'That's where the lights were,' someone answered him. 'We saw them.'
'Decoys, then. We've wasted a night's worth of powder, that's all.'
Only grumbles answered this.
'They've trenched the road, look.'
Wéry looked, and raised his glass again. Yes, there were low earthworks opposite the gate, further off, but still within midrange for the city guns. There was a battery of field guns there, and infantry. Further away still, a mass of cavalry – a regiment at least – was circling into position beside the road.
'They fear a sortie,' said a voice near him. That was the country gentleman from Zerbach.
'They don't fear it,' said another, gloomily. 'They just want to be ready for it if it comes.'
'Where's old Uhnen, anyway? Shouldn't he be here?'
'Ssh! Haven't you heard?'
The voices dropped to whispers. Wéry ignored them. Softly, he closed his telescope.
The contempt of it was staggering. He remembered, years ago, watching from a church tower in Mainz as the Prussians had begun to dig their siege lines. They had started well out of cannon shot from the walls, with long circling earthworks to protect their positions. They had pushed the garrison back in from the outer villages and works. And day after day they had dug their way forward, in zigzag trenches, to a line two to three hundred yards short of the main defences. They had sited their batteries on the heights and had begun the bombardment in earnest. And then they had dug forward again, aiming to build new battery sites within fifty paces of the walls, from which their guns could pound the defences at close range until they crumbled.
This enemy was bothering with none of that. Augereau knew the town was held not by twenty thousand regulars but by only a few thousand ill-trained militia. He had thrown his main batteries well forward, shrugging his shoulders at the risk of cannon shot from the walls. A single low bank of earth trailed backwards from each enemy position, presumably covering a shallow trench in which people and supplies could be brought forward in some shelter. As for preparations against a sortie . . .
'Guns ready, sir,' came the call from the bastion door, behind and below.
'Tell them to wait,' he murmured.
He measured the distances with his eye. The batteries were closer to the gate than to their reinforcements, certainly. A running man could be on them in minutes. But the field battery and the infantry dug in opposite the gate would have to be attacked as well. And that farm was a strong point. He would have to get a sizeable force out onto the road and formed up before the wall. If those cavalry closed in quickly . . .
How many would he lose if it went wrong? Practically the whole force. Four or five hundred. It would rip the guts out of the defence. And even if he overran the guns what could he do but spike them and blow up whatever powder they had brought forward? He would win a day, or two days at best, before the enemy made good what he had done.
This was the truth. You could dream of heroic deeds, imagine cunning attacks and ambushes, and win the war you constructed in your mind, with brilliance and with glory. But under the grey, real skies there was no answer to overwhelming force. As well shout at the wind.
'Commander?'
He should fire on the batteries. No doubt there would be other targets during the day, as the enemy extended his works and brought supplies forward. But they would be pounding his guns. He must pound theirs – until they saw storming parties massing in forward positions. They won't do that in daylight. It will be tonight, or dawn tomorrow . . .
As he hesitated, a puff of smoke flew from the muzzle of the left-hand gun in the battery before him. A moment later, and almost together, came the crump of the shot and a small fountain of rubble rising lazily on the slope below the breach, a little to his left.
'Short,' said someone.
'Yes,' he said, and did not add but it's heavier than anything we've got.
'Ready?' he called over his shoulder, and then remembered that they had already told him they were.
'On the batteries, Commander?'
'Yes, I think . . . No, wait.'
There was movement down at the enemy battery. Men were clambering up onto the earthwork, lifting something pale, waving it . . .
'Flag of truce, sir.'
There it was, a great, dirty, grey rag, dancing in the field of his glass. His arms seemed to be trembling with tiredness. He could not steady his telescope. He lowered it, and squinted with his naked eye at the pale fleck in the distance.
Well, well. So there was indeed a chance after all. A chance to do something.
Now he must decide whether he would do it.
'Very good,' he said. 'Find something white to wave back.'
'Horsemen on the road, sir. Two of them.'
Did they know his mind so well already? They had not even waited for his signal.
'Very good,' he said again. 'Blindfold them and bring them up to the citadel. And pass the word to quarter commanders. There will be a conference at nine o'clock.'
'Nine o'clock, Commander?' That was still two hours away.
'It will do our unwelcome guests no harm to kick their heels for a while,' he said briskly. 'In the meantime, keep a sharp eye on those batteries. If they start building up their earthworks, give them a warning shot. And if they keep at it you hit them with everything we have.'
And he made his way off the platform, and slowly down the bastion steps, picking his way stiffly like an old, old man.
'Bah,' said Colonel Lanard, as his blindfold was removed in the courtyard of the Celesterburg. 'These hoods! When you are my prisoner, Wéry, I shall make you stand and wear one from dawn to noon. Perhaps then you will be more gentle.'
Beyond him, his stony-faced, grey-haired captain dismounted, exactly as he had done the day before.
'Forgive me,' said Wéry dryly. 'But your general continues to threaten the town, and I see no reason to relax my guard.'
'Do you not? Well, we shall see. May we go in?'
'I regret that it may be a little while yet before I am able to assemble my quarter commanders.'
'It is fortuitous. My orders are to speak with you alone in the first instance.'
Alone. Sometimes this Frenchman seemed to read his mind.
'Of course we can move to a full session after this,' said Lanard. 'But alone, to begin with. I must insist.'
'And if I refuse?'
'My orders are to return at once to our lines.'
'I see.' Wéry feigned a further hesitation. Then he shrugged. 'It will change nothing. But if you are willing to repeat yourself in front of my officers, I am amenable to it.'
'Bravo.'
They made their way up to the Prince's corridor and along to the antechamber once more. A few of the quarter commanders were already waiting outside the door. Their eyes were sullen, and bewildered. Why this delay? they asked. Why not just get on with it? None of them relished the thought of another fruitless parley, any more than a condemned man could wish to hear his death sentence read a second time.
All the same, he resented the way they looked at him. And that made it easier to brush them aside.
'I must beg your patience, gentlemen. The conference will not be held until nine. There is time for you to breakfast if you have not already done so.'
They left the officers and the stiff-faced French captain to stare at one another in the corridor and closed the door behind them. The antechamber was quiet, and in its emptiness it seemed very long. The full grey light of winter poured in from the windows. They sat. The scrape of their chairs was loud in the room.
'Well?' began Wéry.
Lanard was looking at the door of the inner chamber. There was something longing in his expression that was almost comical. But the door was shut fast in their faces, and he must have known better than to court another rebuff. He turned back to the table, rubbed his eyes and yawned hugely.
'Pardon me,' he said affably, when he had finished.
'I fear you have not slept well, Colonel,' said Wéry woodenly.
'And no doubt you are beautifully rested,' said Lanard. 'But I have spent many hours with my general overnight. He is not at all pleased with you, I fear. Nevertheless, there came a time towards morning when he was more ready to hear what I had to say.'
'And?'
'Well, you have observed our preparations for yourself . . .'
Wéry leaned back in his chair and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. It seemed a long way above his head. Chains of tiny gilt scrollwork adorned the edges of the ceiling and curled around the hooks that held the chandeliers. Some hand had done that, labouring with great care for many days. In all the times he had visited this room he had never seen it before.
'. . . To tell the truth, I think my general has not yet made up his mind how to proceed. He may choose to dig his way in from our current position. Or he may choose simply to lean against your fence and see if it falls over. Much may depend on how your gunners do. So far we would judge that they are willing, but perhaps not so very accurate. Even when we give them something to aim at . . .'
'I am not disposed to listen to threats this morning,' Wéry murmured.
'Of course you are not. But I am not threatening you. I merely review facts of which we are both aware.'
'Very well. Proceed if you must.'
'Well, then. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a week's time, we shall have topped your barricade. So. We understand you mean to fight through the town. We judge that you are capable of it. You see how your reputation has spread, Wéry. And I dare say that your people will continue to fight until you yourself are knocked over. After which it will indeed be all over. But consider. Your men are farmers, burghers, housewives with rolling pins, perhaps. Very soon we will know the ground as well as you. You must lose four or five for every one you kill of ours . . .'
'Less, perhaps.'
'I do not think so. But what I am sent to say to you is that you have a responsibility . . .'
The light creak of a door opening interrupted him. He looked over his shoulder. Wéry sat up. It was not the door to the passage outside. It was one of the big leaves that opened onto the Prince's chamber.
'I beg your pardon, gentlemen,' said Maria von Adelsheim. 'But I wish to join you.'
'Ah,' said Lanard, evidently perplexed.
Wéry looked at her. His first feeling was a simple leap of joy that she was there. But immediately it mixed with other things. I wish to join you. That was a command, not a request. This was an Imperial Knight, he thought. She must be almost the very last one at liberty in Erzberg. What was he to say? I am afraid it is impossible. It was impossible to say that to her. But if she stayed . . .
At the sight of her he felt, strengthening within him, his resolve to do what he was planning to do. She was herself: one of the few good things that had happened to him since he had left Brabant all those years ago. Yet she was not only herself. In her eyes and face and thoughts he could see all the people of the city of Erzberg, huddled under their roofs, waiting for the fire.
'I do not know that my orders . . .' said Lanard. He stopped, and looked at Wéry.
'What were you doing in there?' Wéry asked.
'Waiting,' she said. 'I had heard there would be a conference, so I came down. I would like to sit with you. I shall say nothing, I promise.'
'Of course,' he said.
Lanard shrugged. Then, elaborately, he rose to his feet, until Maria had made her way around to take the chair beside Wéry. Wéry supposed that he should have risen too. Really, he was too tired to remember everything. But he was acutely conscious of the rustle of borrowed silk as she took her place near, so near beside him.
And then, under the table, he felt her hand take his own.
Lanard sat, colouring slightly, and cleared his throat. He focused his eyes on Wéry.
'We were speaking of the likely course of events once we force our way into the town. And we need not quibble over figures. You know very well what sort of price the city will have to pay. Do you dispute it?'
'No.'
'Good. But the price need not be so dear. In the satchel of Capitaine Rouche I have the terms I spoke of yesterday. I can set them before you. In essence they are that a garrison shall be installed and that the government of the town shall pass to a council of senior inhabitants, who will conduct their administration in consultation 'with the garrison commander. Of course there will also need to be contributions made to the maintenance of the Army of Germany. Of course this is not what the townspeople would necessarily wish. Yet offered the choice between this and a massacre, I imagine that they would choose it?'
He was searching Wéry's face as he spoke. Wéry gave no sign. The Frenchman's voice seemed to be coming from increasingly far away. The only real thing in the world was the touch of the woman's hand, lying in his own under the table.
'Bof!' exclaimed Lanard, after waiting for a reply. 'Maybe there are indeed fanatics in the town, Commander! Yet it is not a town of fanatics. And the point is, that they do not have this choice. Fate has given the choice to you, to make for them . . .'
Wéry sighed. The arguments of yesterday – whose was the choice, whose the responsibility for the coming deaths – lumbered into his mind. But he must not allow himself to be distracted. And he must not – must not – fall into another rage. Not now.
'. . . The men of the garrison will be disarmed and may return home. The officers will be required to give their parole, but they too will be released once that is done. A few will be held, of whom you, I fear, will be one. But you need not be anxious. We plan a gentle captivity for you. It would even be possible – I am authorized to say this – for you to be accompanied while you are our guest by any who are dear to you.'
A sudden, involuntary pressure from the hand within his own! He thought, too that she caught her breath softly. But her grip relaxed at once. After a moment, he felt her other hand come across to cover his.
Whatever you do, he remembered her saying. Whatever. Oh God, and he had clung to her as she said it! He almost wished, now, that she would speak. But he knew that she would not. She had promised that she would not, just as she had promised last night that she would be close to him, whatever he did. All that she had to say, she had now said. Whatever you do.
And also: There are still innocent people in the city.
Lanard's eyes were on them. After a moment he added carefully, 'Habits of thought change slowly, even in the territories administered by the French Republic. But I should have said that with us, a union between a former aristocrat and someone of a different station is now rather less unthinkable than perhaps it is here. Especially if both are strangers and guests of the state.'
And now he was silent. He was waiting for his reply. Wéry stirred.
'You have finished your blandishments, Colonel?'
Lanard frowned. 'I have finished, yes – for the time being.'
'And you suppose I will submit to them?'
'That,' said Lanard, 'is up to you and you only.'
'Then permit me to say that you should not have uttered those last remarks. Until you did, I had intended to surrender the town.'
Lanard looked up sharply. The hand on his did not stir. Whatever you do, said the touch of her skin upon his own.
'Commander . . .' Lanard began.
'I may yet surrender the town,' said Wéry slowly, fighting the anger that had risen in his throat. 'But I have two conditions.'
'Let me hear them.'
'First, that you put your bribes back in your pocket. I will go to Paris in chains if need be. But my second condition is that once in Paris I shall be permitted to address the houses of the Legislature. There are words I must unsay. And then I will have more to say to them yet. After that you may do with me as you will.'
Silence, and the low murmur of men in the passageway beyond the door.
'Ah,' said Lanard softly. 'Ah, I see.'
And he leaned back and looked at the ceiling. 'You will choose death in a prison, or perhaps on the guillotine. And you will go to it with your words ringing in the ears of Paris. I see.'
'I have words that I must unsay,' Wéry repeated.
He glanced at the woman at his side. His look would have said to her: I am sorry. I could wish . . . But she had closed her eyes. Her mouth was shut, firmly, as if she were in pain but would not speak.
'I think that I must refuse,' said Lanard at last.
'Then . . .' said Wéry.
'No. Before you pass the word to your batteries, Commander, you must allow me to explain. I understand what you would do. You wish to spare those you are responsible for. This is the action of a sane man. But you would also remain true to your cause. This is the action of one who would be thought of with honour. Alas, it is mere pride and delusion. There is no possibility that what you ask will be permitted.
'If I return to my general with your request, he will either lose his temper and begin the assault at once, or he will indeed agree your terms and send you in chains to Paris, knowing, as I know and as you should know, that the Legislature, the Directory or whoever you will, will not in fact hear you when you come. At best some clerk may be told to take your statement and some one or two persons may read it out of curiosity. That is all that will happen to the words of Wéry.'
Wéry drew a long breath. Beside him, the eyes of Maria were still closed.
'I do not ask much in exchange for a city,' he said. 'It is strange that we should break down over a few words.'
'You are mistaken. You ask more than I can offer. Even great men, in their hearts, would rather let a thousand die in a distant land than spend twenty minutes hearing that they are wrong. My masters for the present are not great but little. Eh, Wéry. I have in my pockets proposals for a pension for you, if you surrender the city. I should not advise you to take it, mind you, because the Republic has some difficulty paying its pensions at present. If we come to that, you should insist on a grant of land – perhaps even the return of your old estate in Brabant. Also I have some idea to what level it may be possible to reduce the demands my general wishes to impose upon the city. All this we can talk about . . .
'But first you must choose. If you insist on remaining pure, then between us we will kill the city. If you wish to save the city, you must consent to humble yourself – perhaps even to be a little bit corrupt. You should not fear this. To be corrupt is, after all, merely to be human, as I have said to you before.'
So they would give him nothing. All the things he felt, all the things he would say – they would not hear them. And if he surrendered now, no one would remember what he had stood for. A night's futile cannonading – it would not be worth a single line in Augereau's despatches to Paris. His words would have to be written in blood, or they would not be read at all. They must be written in the blood of the innocent.
Maria had opened her eyes. He looked into them, and she looked back.
In her face he found at last the strength to let go.
'Very well,' he said, and bowed his head. 'We will spare the city.'
'Colonel, I am delighted,' said the Frenchman.
Wéry frowned at the table. It was over. He had decided. He felt . . . No, to his surprise he did not feel uncomfortable with his decision. And suddenly there were so many things to think about. The terms . . .
He gripped her hand, hard, and felt her fingers answer his.
'It will be necessary to know what size your garrison would be,' he said.
'That will be for us to say. You may be assured it will not be bigger than we need. We do not have so many soldiers that we can leave a full brigade in idleness.'
'The levy,' he asked. 'How much?'
'The paper says four million livres. I suspect we shall not settle for less than three and a half millions. But how much is collected – it is always another matter, and one neither you nor I can control.'
'You mentioned requisitions.'
'The usual things. A thousand head of cattle. Five hundred horses. Five hundred mules or donkeys. Five hundred wagons. Leather, cloth, iron, copper. The church and cathedral bells must be surrendered to be melted down . . .'
'They have gone.'
'I thought they would have done. Ah, nails, straps, buckles – Rouche has the list. I cannot remember it all.'
'I shall need to confer with my officers.'
'I am sure they will do as you suggest. Particularly if you suggest to them that it is not worth losing their lives after all.'
Bergesrode would resist, Wéry thought. Bergesrode would resist to the last man, if he could. He and his fanatics would barricade themselves into the cathedral. He would have to be forestalled . . .
Maria, and Brabant. I am corrupt.
Corrupt. But – after all – what of it? Even sanity had its price.
'Another matter,' he said. 'I am charged with the custody of certain people in the citadel. What of them?'
'It depends who they are. These are political enemies of your Prince?'
'Yes. One of them is the Canon Steinau-Zoll, who took your testimony last season. There is also the Canon Rother-Konisrat, the Baron von und zu Löhm . . .'
Lanard shrugged. 'Of course we would examine the list. But I could not predict what we would do. If you wish your prisoners to be released, Colonel, you must do it yourself. And before we enter the town.'
'Very well . . .' Wéry leaned forward. His eyes were on the polish of the table, and his heart in the touch of the woman's hands. He heard himself say, 'Then I would ask you to wait in another part of the palace while I assemble my commanders.'
And while he arranged for the arrest of Bergesrode. There must be one last act of tyranny. He would have to be quick.
'Of course. But, Colonel . . .'
Wéry looked up.
'I wish that you would smile a little, when you have saved your soul.'
Maybe he did smile a little, then. And her hands pressed warmly upon his.
'That is better,' said Lanard. His eyes slid sideways to the door of the inner room. 'And perhaps – before your conference begins – perhaps we may all be admitted to Paradise, now?'