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  Now there were only running men in front of him, streaming in every direction. And not only from the shattered centre. Those on the Turkish left were also pouring from the field, as were those on the right, abandoning their assault on the Serb division which had precipitated this extraordinary battle with its even more extraordinary result.

  Now it was a business of controlling his own men, who were pursuing the fleeing Turks, and also heading towards the now exposed town behind. The gates were open, and the Serb horsemen were making for the pillage they knew awaited them.

  “Bugler!” Berkeley shouted. “Sound the recall.”

  There was no response, and he swung round to look behind him. The bugler was gone.

  Lockwood was there. “He stopped one, sir.”

  “Then we’ll have to do it manually.”

  His horse was exhausted, and it took some time to bring his men back. But by then the battle was over. The Turks had fled, those who could. An enormous number were scattered on the ground, dead or dying. A far greater number had surrendered.

  “I estimate we have cut their army in two,” Petrovich said. His face was lined with powder marks, his uniform had been slashed; Berkeley supposed he hardly looked any better. But they had triumphed.

  *

  The war was effectively over, for on the same day as the Battle of Monastir, the Greeks overwhelmed the remaining Turkish forces in Macedonia at Venije. The survivors of Monastir fled to the fortress of Yannina, and were besieged there by Greek units. Other Greek units rushed on to Salonika, arriving there and taking possession only twenty-four hours before the Bulgarian army caught them up.

  “Oh, let them squabble,” General Putnik said. “We have Macedonia.”

  King Peter himself, very old and frail but wearing uniform and erect on his horse, came down to inspect his victorious troops and hand out medals. All the officers from regimental commanders up were so honoured, and the old monarch gave Berkeley a special handshake.

  “I have heard much of your cavalry charges,” he said. “You will have a brigade.”

  Now that the fighting appeared to be over, Berkeley was more interested in contacting London to find out what he was to do next; the war had ended far more quickly and decisively than anyone had anticipated, or, from his point of view, was really to be desired. Far from being at all weakened by the conflict, Serbia was now on a high, with an army which had gained what could be called a succession of great victories – even if against negligible opposition – and having just about doubled its territory by the acquisition of Macedonia. There were undoubtedly going to be a large number of hotheads, in the military and out of it, who would regard Austria as less of a threat and more of a target in these new circumstances.

  His application for leave was immediately granted; he was one of the heroes of the hour, but, having given Lockwood a position in the regiment he could not at the moment be considered a valet, and had to be left behind.

  Petrovich naturally supposed that Berkeley wished to return to Sabac, to see Caterina and the children. He did want to do that, but Athens was more urgent, and as he had to admit to himself, not entirely for political or military reasons. Besides, at the moment it was so very much closer, just over two hundred miles from Monastir, whereas Sabac was three.

  With the railways disrupted and people still in a state of some agitation, it took him a week to reach the Greek capital. Not that he wasn’t welcomed wherever he went; the Serbs were the heroes of the hour, as far as the Greeks went, and Berkeley, having bathed and shaved and changed into a new uniform, was the epitome of a dashing Serb cavalry officer, one of the men who had driven the Turks helter-skelter from Macedonia. And who would now assist the Greeks in their aim of obtaining some of Thrace from the Bulgarians? Certainly there were considerable anti-Bulgarian sentiments to be heard on every side, but were these people so limited in their vision that they would fight amongst themselves over the spoils with Turkey still a major power, and still in the field? Berkeley sincerely hoped he would not be required to take part in such a self-destructive process.

  Once in Athens, he returned to the Excelsior, where he was made even more welcome than on his previous visit. He bathed and changed and generally spruced himself up, then, wearing civilian clothes, called at the British Embassy.

  “Major Townsend?” Andrews was astounded. “We have been hearing the most amazing rumours.”

  “That I have been fighting for the Serbs?”

  “Indeed. Did London know about this?”

  “I think you had better ask London,” Berkeley suggested. “My wife is Serbian, you know. I felt I should do my bit.”

  “Yes,” Andrews said doubtfully. “Actually, our new military attaché is an acquaintance of yours. Colonel Smailes?”

  Berkeley hastily suppressed a frown. “Toby Smailes is in Greece?”

  “Or Thrace, or somewhere. He is with the Greek army. While he was here, however, he did ask if there was any means of getting in touch with you. He seemed quite anxious to do so. Well, I told him you would probably be in Sabac, and I believe he was meaning to go up there, when he was overtaken by the outbreak of war.”

  Berkeley was suddenly faced with a very difficult, and possibly dangerous, situation. Gorman had ordered him to join the Serb army. That had admittedly been several months ago, and while he had been with the cavalry, whether at Novi-Sad, Nish or in the field, it would not have been possible to contact him again. So, whatever had happened to change Gorman’s mind, it had been something so important he had deemed it necessary to send his own right-hand man to find him.

  But what could have happened?

  “When do you expect Colonel Smailes back?” he asked.

  “It’s impossible to say. I imagine as soon as things settle down. Will you remain in Athens?”

  “I cannot do that. I am on leave from the army and must rejoin my command.”

  “Then where may Colonel Smailes find you, when he does return?”

  “I don’t know that either, dammit. If he wishes to see me urgently enough, tell him to go to Sabac, where I am sure he will be welcomed by my wife, and wait there. I should be able to get home in a month or so.”

  Andrews looked more doubtful yet. But he said, “I will do so. It may be more useful, however, for him to stay with our new man in Belgrade. He is a friend of yours: Harvey Braddock.”

  Berkeley could not believe his ears. “Harvey Braddock is the consul in Belgrade?”

  “That is correct. He took up his post a month ago. Did he not contact you?”

  “No, he did not. He could not, as I was with my regiment in the north.” Berkeley hesitated. But he was entitled to ask after an old friend. “Did Mrs Braddock accompany him?”

  “Yes, she did. But he sent her back here when the crisis worsened.”

  “You mean she is in Athens?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “I feel I should call.”

  “Of course. I will give you the address.”

  At least, he thought, his journey had not been entirely wasted. And it might still be possible to obtain more.

  “I shall need the use of your code room again.”

  Andrews raised his eyes to heaven.

  Berkeley sent: War over. Am promoted brigadier. Please advise on acceptance.

  He reckoned it was best not to indicate he knew anything about Smailes’ appointment, which would leave the ball squarely in Gorman’s court.

  “I’m staying at the Excelsior, as before,” he told Andrews. “Will you let me have the reply to that the moment it comes in.”

  Andrews made a face. There was, Berkeley noted, no invitation to lunch this time.

  But there was also no chance of a reply being received for several hours. He went to the address Andrews had given him.

  The door of the apartment was opened by a maid.

  “Mrs Braddock in?” he asked.

  “Berkeley!?” Julia had been within earshot. “Oh, Berkeley.” She hurried forward, the
n checked. “Thank you, Irene.”

  The maid gave a little curtsey and withdrew, casting Berkeley a curious glance; her mistress’s pleasure at the visitor was unmistakeable.

  Julia held his hands and drew him into the small withdrawing room. “I was so afraid . . . They told me you were fighting with the Serbs.”

  “I didn’t have too much choice.”

  “But you survived.”

  “I usually do.” He glanced at the doorway, but the maid had disappeared. He took Julia in his arms, kissed her again and again. “I’ve even been promoted, I’m a brigadier.”

  “Oh, Berkeley!” She held him close. “I got Harvey posted to Belgrade.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Then I sent a message to Sabac asking if I could visit, but there was no reply.”

  He nodded. “I was with the army.”

  “But your wife . . .”

  “Oh, I think she received the message. As to what she made of it . . . No doubt I shall find out when I go home.”

  “And then Harvey sent me down here to be safe. He thought the Serbs would be smashed and the Turks would overrun the country.”

  “He never was much of a military man,” Berkeley said.

  “Now he wants me back.”

  “Ah,” Berkeley said. “When?”

  “I was going to leave tomorrow. He says there are trains running.”

  “There are. This couldn’t have worked out better. We’ll go together.”

  She gazed into his eyes. “And? You said the war might last for years.”

  He kissed her. “So I’m not much of a military man either, I suppose. The Turks didn’t put up much of a show.”

  “But with the war over . . .”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Everything was happening too quickly. He was virtually promised to two women, and what women! Julia was everything he could and did love, and want; and was married to another man. Caterina was everything any man could want, physically, but they no longer loved each other. And she was capable of bearing the most terrible hatreds. She could also kill.

  But Julia could know nothing of that. Or of how dependent he was upon a satisfactory reply from London.

  “What do you want me to do?” Julia asked.

  “Get rid of the maid,” he suggested.

  *

  They went out to eat. It was a bleak late November day with rain sweeping in from the Aegean Sea, but inside the restaurant it was snug, and the mood jolly; all of Greece was celebrating.

  “You’d think the war was over,” Julia remarked.

  “Well, it is, from their point of view. Even more from the Serb point of view. They’ve got what they want.”

  “But the Bulgarians are still fighting, aren’t they?”

  “Well, they want everything that’s left of Turkey in Europe.”

  “Will they get it?”

  “It looks so at the moment.”

  “Won’t that make them the strongest Balkan power?”

  “They already are the strongest Balkan power. It will increase their strength, certainly. But it should also satisfy them. Let’s talk about us.”

  “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  “I think,” he said, “that you should let me sort out my side of the equation first. I would really like an amicable parting from Caterina, and you must understand that I would like to have both access to and some say in the upbringing of my children.”

  “Will she agree to that?”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I am her sole source of income. I think we should be able to sort something out.”

  She held his hand. “I am so very sorry.”

  “About what?”

  She flushed. “So disrupting your life.”

  “I think it was going to happen anyway. You just happen to be the catalyst.”

  “And what do I do, in the meantime? To be so close, in Belgrade . . .”

  “I will let you know what is happening, as soon as I know what is happening.”

  “Between you and Caterina?”

  “There are other matters involved.”

  “Which you cannot discuss with me.”

  He smiled. “Back to square one, eh?”

  She toyed with her glass. “Harvey told me that it is supposed in the Embassy that you are a spy.”

  “Did he, now?”

  “Something else you cannot admit to me.”

  “Would you expect me to?”

  She raised her head. “Perhaps. If you truly loved me. If we are going to destroy two marriages and cause a great scandal, just to be together.”

  “I must turn the coin over, Julia. I would expect you not to ask, to trust me, absolutely . . . if we are going to destroy two marriages and cause a great scandal, just to be together.”

  They gazed at each other.

  “I should be getting back,” she said.

  “But you would rather I did not accompany you.”

  “I think we both need to do a lot of thinking,” she said.

  After so many years, he thought, we still need to think? But he didn’t say it. “Will I see you on the train, tomorrow?”

  “I shall look forward to it.”

  The Assignment

  So, where do we go from here? Berkeley wondered as he returned to the hotel, to find Andrews seated in the lobby.

  “This came, almost by return,” the secretary remarked, holding out the envelope.

  “Thank you.” Berkeley took it.

  As usual, Andrews hesitated, face twisting. “I suppose it is nothing the ambassador should know?”

  “If it is, I am sure London will inform him,” Berkeley said.

  “One day, Major Townsend . . . Oh, I forgot, you are a colonel now, in the Serb army.”

  “No, no, Mr Andrews, I am now a brigadier-general in the Serb army. Thank you.”

  Andrews left, and Berkeley went up to his room, locked the door, slit the envelope and got out his code book.

  Gorman had written:

  Imperative you contact Smailes at earliest possible moment. Understand he has left Embassy to join Greek army in hopes of finding you. Follow and find. Take your instructions from him, as if from me. This is a vitally important matter. G.

  Berkeley considered the transcript for several seconds, then struck a match and burnt it. He leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling for several more minutes. Gorman’s orders had been clear and precise: follow and find, but once again the general was underestimating just how large and complicated the Balkan Peninsular was. Yet he had received a definite order, and there was no doubt that he could find Smailes, and very quickly, simply by going to Salonika.

  And thus foregoing the pleasure of Julia’s company on the journey up to Belgrade, with all the promise of what might come after.

  The alternative was to cut his links with the British army, and thus with Britain. As a Serbian brigadier, he no longer needed his English pay. But he would never be able to bring himself to do that; quite apart from his oath, it would mean he would never be able to go home.

  Besides, it would mean tying himself irrevocably to Caterina for the rest of his life, and that he could not contemplate.

  He considered sending a message to Julia, decided against it. Whether he told her he could not come with her, or just didn’t turn up at the railway station, she would take it in the same way. That was something else the future would have to take care of. He hired two remounts, and left for Salonika.

  *

  This was a journey of some 200 miles, relatively simple, as the road followed the coast for the most part, past places famous in history or legend, such as the pass of Thermopylae, and the towering, snow-clad heights of Mount Olympus. But it still took Berkeley more than a week. Technically, he supposed he was absent without leave from the Serb army, but he didn’t think anyone was going to take that too seriously in the case of a brigadier who was also a hero.

  Salonika itself was nearly as old as Athens;
it had been founded by Alexander the Great and named after one of his sisters. In the more than two thousand years since then it had undergone more vicissitudes than most Balkan cities, having been sacked on several occasions, the most terrible being the massacre of the inhabitants by Sultan Murad in 1430. Immediately preceding the outbreak of the recent war it had been the headquarters of the Young Turk movement which was now dominating Constantinople.

  Salonika’s importance lay in its position, at the head of the Gulf of Thermaikos. It had a harbour to equal Piraeus, and in fact was more sheltered. The town itself sprawled over a succession of foothills in a most attractive fashion; even if the evidence of the recent conflict was everywhere, with burned-out farms, trampled fields, and some wrecked houses in the city itself. But the Greek flag flew proudly from the famous White Tower. The inhabitants, who appeared to be a mixture of every nationality in the peninsular, seemed somewhat uncertain of themselves, as well they might be, Berkeley supposed, but they raised a cheer at the sight of a Serbian general, however oddly travelling without either staff or servant. There was not a Turk in sight.

  He reported to the military headquarters in the town, where he was welcomed by General Athenaikos. “You come from General Putnik?” the Greek asked.

  “No, sir, this is a private visit.”

  “Ah. But you will observe, eh?”

  “Are the Turks still close?”