CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
The plain between the medieval walls of Vienna and the heights of Semmering Mountain was littered with the pavilions of the Ottoman and allied forces. The awesome sight of their tents, makeshift lean-tos, and hastily constructed corrals sat in mute silence throughout the day—the only sound, the flap of canvas, the intermittent clank of armor carried upon the breeze. At night, the valley was lit by thousands of kitchen fires, raucous singing and the boom of war-drums. Zapolya’s scouts, secreted into Vienna more than two years previous, crept from the city to deliver their reports.
“The city is quiet as its residual inhabitants and garrisons wait in fear and distress. After Ferdinand fled to the safety of his brother, a seventy-year-old soldier by the name of Nicholas G
