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Book Two Chapter Seven
SEVEN
The Blind and the Ugly
25 June 930 – 17 January 936


I.
9 September 932

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Two Moravian soldiers, one younger and one older, sat cleaning their gear outside their tent in the war camp. The sun sparkled off the waters of the Ionian Sea off in the distance, reflecting a limpid, immaculate sapphirine sky. Even the beeches and oaks of these shores, trees familiar enough to the men of Moravia, bore their greens more intensely, more sweetly. Maybe it was the red roofs and white walls of the villas that set them off, or maybe it was the balmy breeze coming off the Middle Sea. But the atmosphere in the besiegers’ camp was a relaxed one.

‘Can’t wait until the city falls,’ the younger soldier said to the older. ‘Have you seen these Epirote girls? Long black curly hair down to their waists… perfect oval faces… I’m gonna get me one or two of them, along with a big jug of wine, and celebrate!’

The older one regarded him tolerantly. Lust was well and good for the young, and there would certainly be plenty of willing women about. ‘Might want to consider scrubbing your own hair first, Bořek,’ he said. ‘Not to mention washing your ass and balls. Greek women might like their animals, but they don’t want their men smelling like ‘em.’

Bořek had been idly scratching the offending member, and stopped himself with a laugh. ‘That’s true enough, Florián…’

Just then behind them they heard a telltale whistling sound. The camp commander himself emerged from his tent into the sunny air, taking wheezing breaths to calm himself and ease the tension in his lungs. A thin and wiry fellow, not unhandsome, with a neatly-trimmed black goatee, he still occasionally suffered from this problem of the lungs and throat. He also had an odd habit of watching for birds and beasts and rare flowers while on the march: sometimes taking time to draw out a folded parchment and sketch the things he saw with a spare bit of charcoal. Since they’d begun besieging Nikopolis, though, he’d been all business, but evidently the warmer and damper climate had not been salutary for his windpipe. After he’d gotten his breathing normal and under control, Pravoslav Rychnovský turned aside and approached the two men.

‘Report.’

‘All quiet, sir,’ Florián told Pravoslav. ‘The garrison can’t have much more fight left in ‘em. Based on the reckoning of the town watch that we’ve held, I’d say the city should be ours within a fortnight.’

‘And already making plans, I hear,’ Pravoslav turned a sly gaze to young Bořek. ‘But you’re still on watch and I need you both on alert. We’ll depend on you if they make a desperate move in that time.’

‘Understood, sir,’ Bořek said apologetically.

‘Good. I’m glad to hear that we’re squeezing them well. Keep a solid watch on our line and theirs.’

‘If I may ask, sir,’ Florián asked, ‘how’s the King faring?’

Pravoslav smiled. ‘Father’s better all the time, but not quite well enough to leave his bed yet, last I checked. Give him a couple of days and he’ll be up.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be glad not to have to drink that hog piss anymore.’

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‘Quite glad. But, strange as it might sound, that preparation turned out to be one of Frida’s better ideas. It’s been doing him good throughout his illness. I’ll have to thank her in person when we get home. The other thing that’s been doing him good is Hrabě Kochan.’

‘That toady?’ laughed Florián. ‘I’ve never understood that about the King. After seven months of constant fawning attention I’d be sick of him. He’s always struck me as an empty-headed flatterer.’

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‘Not so,’ Bořek dared to contradict his elder. ‘Kochan is indeed very close to the king, but he’s never been one to curry favours. In fact, much the other way around! It’s supposed to be secret, but in my camp some of the common levy from Žatec told me that the Hrabě has been paying out of his own pockets for our provisions. That’s why we’ve been eating so well through the summer – we certainly haven’t been getting any more out of these villas!’

‘I should well hope not,’ Pravoslav declared. ‘Dauidēs gave us his plea not to do any harm to the estates here, and the King has made that plea a firm order. The Basileios relies on their support if he’s to maintain his rule over the Eastern Empire after this war with Doukissa Theoktistē is done.’

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‘Who cares what that donkey-face thinks?’ asked Bořek with a laugh. Noting Pravoslav’s darkening glower – all the more threatening for its rarity – he hastened to add, ‘Not that I would dare countermand an order from King Bohodar.’

‘Is it so, milord?’ asked Florián. ‘About Kochan, I mean.’

Pravoslav, his face returning to its wonted placidity, shrugged eloquently. ‘I can neither deny nor confirm Bořek’s tale. I will say, though, that silver has been rather tight of late, and we’re grateful from support from any quarter. Father was even forced to sell off some of Great-Grandfather’s collection of obscure tomes to pay for this little expedition. Rather a shame. I had my eye on one of those myself…’

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‘Probably better off sold,’ Florián crossed himself. ‘The old knieža was always a bit… odd, wasn’t he? Mucking about with old books and candles and incense… Dangerous powers beyond any of us to know.’

At that point, the horns blew from the centre of the camp.

‘The King! The King emerges!’

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And there indeed was Boško, standing in the sunlit awning of his tent, back erect and head high. Even though he was thin and drawn from his long illness, he was nonetheless clearly glad to be up and on his feet again and walking in the light. Pravoslav loped to his side and flung his arms around his father’s shoulders.

‘It’s good to see you well again, ocko,’ Pravoslav said.

‘It’s good to be well again, Slávek,’ he said, taking in a breath of Greek air through his grateful and blessedly-clear nose.

Pravoslav asked him: ‘Have you sent word home? Will Radko be joining us here?’

Boško shook his head. ‘No. I’m afraid he will not.’

The elder son was dismayed. ‘Whyever not? He’s come of age now! He should be by my side!’

‘I felt that his prayers would be of greater aid to us than his sword-arm,’ Boško noted wryly. ‘I left instruction for him to withdraw from the world and enter the cœnobitical life. I’ve received word back that he has accepted to enter a cell of Christian brothers near Břevnov.’

‘That wasn’t well done, Father,’ Pravoslav remonstrated. ‘Even if you didn’t want to put him at bodily risk here in the army, he could still have been of use keeping the books! You know the troubles we’ve been having with money, and he was always a dab hand with figures – half again as good at it as Hrabě Petr! With Slavníkov gone—’

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That’s not for you to decide, not till you have sons of your own,’ Boško chided his son. ‘Besides, he went there willing! He always has been drawn to the Church and the life of prayer. Would you bring him back from that calling?’

Pravoslav hung his head. ‘No, ocko.’

‘I thought not,’ Boško said. ‘Besides, I think this may have been the best way to keep Radko out of your mother’s hair. I’d rather not go back to those two bickering over theology at the dinner table.’

Pravoslav let out a dry chuckle. He still wasn’t happy about Radko being sent to a cloister, but he’d have to learn to live with it. Grudgingly, he had to admit that his younger brother was well-suited to such a life.

‘You’re not going to ask after someone else at home?’ asked Boško.

No answer.

‘Your wife misses you, you know. Terribly. She says as much in her letters. She feels quite desolate without you near, and wishes you back.’

‘She’s too kind,’ Pravoslav muttered.

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‘Nonsense,’ Boško clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Marija treasures the father of her two daughters, and another that you burdened her womb with ere you left! She has the sense to know a good man when she sees one. Would that I had as wise a son when it came to women…’

The alternate praise and censure raised Pravoslav’s hackles, but he kept still. It was true that Marija was more than just a pretty face: she treated him well, kept him company, did everything a wife ought to do for her husband and more. But he didn’t love her. She was too chatty, too… domestic. Again, unbidden, the image flashed through Pravoslav’s mind—a wild beauty with a strong jaw and determined cornflower eyes looking out over the valley of Nitra, brushing back one long golden braid from around her ear…

Noting the far-off look in his son’s eye, Boško took a different tactic, and took his son by the shoulders. ‘Focus, now. I hear from Kochan that the city is about to fall. Have you inspected the lines?’

‘Yes, Father. The men in each camp are keeping watch at regular times, and keeping their equipment ready for a possible sortie…’
 
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II.
23 November 932

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‘Thoukydidēs?’ asked Pravoslav on approaching his father’s hammock. He noted the book his father was holding in his hands. ‘A History of the Peloponnesian War?’

‘Reading about the action around Naxos,’ his father explained.

‘Ah,’ Pravoslav mouthed understandingly. ‘Any inspiration so far?’

Boško heaved a sigh as his hammock swung. The two of them were rocking in the lower hull, as the lapping of the waves all around the two-decker Greek dromōn bore them to the same island the historian was describing in the book. The night shift would soon be over, and the sun would be rising from behind Ionia. Before this day was out, they would either hold the main island victorious… or they would be, quite literally, sunk.

‘None of the positive kind,’ he grimaced. ‘This island is both a critical chokepoint – a natural wintering ground for the Hellenes – and something of an a high-priority target. We’ll have to be careful to avoid the Athenians’ mistakes in setting up camp in exposed locations if we decide to hold here for the season. Now that the severané under that blind woman have taken advantage of this civil strife to make an incursion of their own…’

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‘That’s assuming we can even hope to win a naval battle,’ Pravoslav remarked dryly. ‘Moravians aren’t well-suited to the water.’

‘You seem to be handling it well enough.’

‘Only because you took me to see babička!’ Then he laughed. ‘Can you imagine what Radko would make of this voyage? He wouldn’t be able to hold his lunch down.’

Boško grimaced. ‘Haven’t spotted any leviathans yet, have you?’

‘None this time,’ Pravoslav shrugged. ‘Saw a couple of dolphins at one point.’

‘Mm.’ Boško wasn’t as concerned as Pravoslav was about their chances. Dauidēs had seen fit to furnish the Moravian army not only with a suitable number of his ships but also with seasoned sailors, drawn from the Epirote regions, to ferry them to Naxos. And if he was right in his suspicions, the ballistas on these ships would largely be used for tossing lines. In that event, the Moravians would fight between ships as they would do on land.

The Moravian-rented Greek ships had piloted their way around the Peloponnēsos and ably made their way into the Kyklades from the southwest, between Adamas and Folegandros. The notoriously treacherous Ægean winds and currents had spared them, for the most part – or perhaps it was simply the case that the Hellene sailors who knew the sea better understood how to skirt or sail through them.

As Boško and Pravoslav made their way abovedecks, dawn had broken already. The firmament was a backlit sapphire in cabochon cut, the midnight hues fleeing and scattering their way westward, being replaced by a pure and cloudless limpid blue. The sea beneath them was likewise sheer in its immaculate beauty, a fine and pure aquamarine, gemstone-clear enough that the sand sloping down from the shallows where the Kyklades erupted forth in pinnacles of emerald and marble, could be seen sinking away many fathoms down. Schools of fish began to move, visible beneath them as the waters were warmed by the light. Said islands lay upon the horizon all around them, lazily until their peaks began to ascend, their western edges still black but their eastern ones lit brilliantly by the as-yet-unseen sky-chariot.

To their northeast lay their destination. The island itself could be seen now: the tallest and most energetic jut among these smaller forms, with a smaller one seated directly opposite.

‘That’s Naxos,’ said one of the sailors to one of the Moravian soldiery, whom Boško knew to be Bořek. ‘And the island across the way? That’s Paros. We’re going between them, and around to the harbour behind, on the northwest side of the bigger island.’

‘No kidding,’ Bořek replied, awed. ‘How is it you know your way among all these islands?’

‘How is it you know your way among the hills and mountains of your country? For us it’s the same way. All of these islands are landmarks to us as well as to our pilots, from youth.’

‘You say that’s Paros?’

‘Yes. Paros is very important among the Kyklades. Some of our finest, purest white marble comes from the quarries on that island. Many of the temples and churches in Hellas are built from Parian marble, and on the island itself is the Basilica of One Hundred Doors. Sometimes, when I come to visit my kin out here, we go to the lagoons on Paros to bathe. The rocks shelter the inlets from the winds and currents, so the water is always clear and safe…’

The sailor, it waxed clear to Boško, was as happy to regale Bořek as the latter was to listen. A storyteller loves a responsive audience, and so the Moravian youngster proved. He asked about each of the surrounding islands in turn, and the sailor – whose name was Dēmētrios - was more than happy to regale him on each subject. Boško smiled to see it.

The sun was up now, and they drew their ships through the strait between Naxos and Paros. As they rounded the small jut of land which bore the Monastery of Saint Prokopios – the patron saint of his younger brother – the sails of the Kykladian fleet hove into view. They were already getting under way, and were forming up the line to make ready for ship-to-ship combat. Boško sent up a prayer, the same which he had heard his brother say each night in his youth:

Thy holy martyr Prokopios, O Lord, through his suffering hath received from Thee, O God, a crown incorruptible. For, having Thy strength, he laid low his enemies and shattered the impotent presumption of devils. Through his intercessions, save our souls!

As the ships of the Moravians rounded the jut and saw clearly the sails of the enemy, a volley of missiles from the deck-mounted ballistrai went up from the Naxian line. It was unclear if they were stones or bolts as they neared, but the loud peals that accompanied their flight and the trails of smoke issuing from behind them made clear what they were.

Greek fire!’ Pravoslav yelled.

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One of the fearsome devices descended and smashed against an adjacent ship to the commanders’. The shattering of clay was followed by a sound as though of a hundred indrawn breaths – then silence – and then a mighty roar of hot yellow flame cascaded over the hull. Outwards from where it struck, massive billows of orange plasma encircled in black smoke blasted over the water, and spread like a shadow which burned even after it struck.

The sailors on the burning ship, those who had survived the blast, were busy bringing out bags of sand and pouring it over the flaming liquid to quench it – for water was of no use. Meanwhile, the sailors on Boško’s ship pulled and pushed frantically to steer their own ship around the tainted, flaming patch of sea, joined by similar ones where other pots of Greek fire had smashed against the surface of the water, and were forced to break formation. Pravoslav shouted commands to arm their own ballistrai and return fire – although they had none of the incendiary on board and had to make do with stones and heavy bolts. The battle for the Isle of Naxos had begun.

Boško began shouting orders to send signals to the other ships. Instead of forming up a horizontal line of battle to exchange artillery fire, he ordered the ships on the bow side to turn hard to starboard and ram the enemy line. The ships on the starboard side were to wait on the southern side of the jut until signalled. Boško’s own command ship continued to drift to the side, still firing its ballistrai and onagers off the starboard side as often as it could, until it could join the flank to its bow, now the left of this battle-line, and complete the charge.

The captains of the right of the fleet waited patiently for the signal from the command ship as the Naxians continued to shoot pots of Greek fire at the oncoming ships. Having a narrower profile, however, the Moravian left had become harder to hit precisely – even though a ‘near miss’ with a pot of Greek fire could potentially be as devastating as a direct hit. The Naxians began to ready their sifōn weaponry as the first ships of the circling Moravian left closed the distance. Blasts of burning liquid erupted from the bows of the Naxian ships, engulfing the first of the Moravian ships in a frontal attack. But the bold sailors of that ship maintained ramming speed even as their prow disintegrated into flames. With a howl of dismay and a colossal crunching of wood, the flaming Moravian ship ploughed straight into the sifōn ship on the Naxian right. Now the Greek fire was as much their problem as the Moravians’.

The sacrifice of the lead ship had not been in vain. The Naxian line had had to break away from the sifōn ship to avoid exploding into flames themselves, where they were caught by the following Moravians in pursuit. The ballistrai lowered, but this time they fired hooks with heavy lines attached, and the oarsmen began steering heavily toward their targets. Yelling, the Moravian soldiery leapt from the balustrades of their own ships onto those of the Naxian enemy, and began fighting as though on land, with axes and spears. The command ship was the last to join in this fray, but by no means the least.

The befouled lagoon, billowing with black flames and patches of burning oil and the skeletons of the burned ships, suddenly rang with the sound of war-horns. Pravoslav already had his hand on the pommel of his sword and was ready to leap over, when he felt, rather than heard, the passing of a long wooden shaft hurled from the Naxian deck. He didn’t have to hear the sickening sound of its head embedding itself in flesh to know that it had struck home.

Dēmētrios!’ howled Bořek behind him.

Pravoslav turned his shaggy black head back. The Naxian spear had indeed caught the storytelling sailor through the chest, and blood was trickling from the mouth that had only minutes ago been so voluble in relating the history of these islands. Bořek let out a howl of outrage and grief as he flung himself from the balustrade of his own ship onto the Naxian, his axe raised above his head like a berserker. As soon as he landed he began laying about him with it, severing Naxian limbs and heads amid a flurry of flashing axe-blade, gleaming steel soon dimmed with gore, of which Pravoslav would never have thought the youngster capable.

Pravoslav joined him on the Naxian deck, and waded his way through the bodies and weapons of the Naxian soldiers and sailors onboard, until he found the skipper and held him at sword-point, telling him to surrender the vessel.

The war-horns had been the signal to the ships of the Moravian right to come out of reserve into the open. It was a simple task for them now to avoid the patches of burning oil on the surface of the water, and come around Saint Prokopios with their ballistrai already firing into the Naxian left. A hail of stones and bolts smashed into the Naxian decks. Facing a double assault and now exhausted of their incendiary devices, the Naxian line collapsed in disarray. The Moravian troops were now moving freely among the Naxian ships, taking each one in turn from the Naxian right. Soon Boško and Pravoslav were standing on the prow of the Naxian command vessel, with the captive stratēgos Bartholomaios, who served the Doux of Kyklades, bound and kneeling before them on the deck.

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Of the Naxian fleet, 47 ships were captured. A single craft with two surviving men had broken through the Moravian line and fled northward. The battle of Naxos was won. But not without cost – after the battle was over, Bořek went to seek out Dēmētrios, and bore his body ashore for burial.

Taking the city would take a longer time. But Boško skirted the port town and made his way uphill and inland toward the western slope of the island, where stood the grand Basilica of Saint Dēmētrios, a great domed wonder of a church, wrought entirely of the fine translucent Parian stone. The king went meekly up to the door, crossed himself and bowed three times, and sought permission from the metropolitan to enter. He was granted it. Crossing the floor of the nave, kissing the icon of Saint Dēmētrios in the centre, he made his way toward the icon of the Holy Theotokos on the left side of the Church, and stood in silent contemplation there for a long while, silently giving thanks for the day’s victory, and prayers for the dead. He exchanged several words with the metropolitan on his way out.

‘Well?’ asked Pravoslav. Boško sighed.

‘He says there should be no impediment, burying here a true and dutiful sailor who died in battle, and who bore the name of the patron saint,’ Boško answered him. ‘As for the others… well, let us hope. We’ve blockaded the harbour, and the city will not hold out long without trade.’

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‘Bořek and Florián will want to come pay their respects.’

‘I’m sure.’

Boško breathed a heavy sigh and looked out down over the sea. North and west. Pravoslav knew exactly what lay there – and what was on his father’s mind. His focus was needed here, though. Pravoslav began turning a plan over in his mind.
 
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III.
From a letter
The eighth day of March, in the eighth indiction of the 6443rd year of the world

To my wise and righteous Jôchaveda, my beloved auntie and bedmate Blažena, your doting nephew and husband Bohodar, who is the younger of that name, sends his greeting and deepest regard.

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Blažena: my heart, which has always belonged to you alone, wrung itself with pains when you told me of your recent illness. My flower, you must take care of yourself! If nothing else, please speak with Frida and take whatever advice or medicines she gives to you, however unpalatable. Her treatments did help me throughout my own recent malady, and helped me regain my fluid balance. Together with this letter I am enclosing an earth-apple root (which the locals call mandragoras) from Crete, a valuable medical herb which I obtained at some expense. Please be very careful with this! Worn as an amulet it is greatly powerful in warding disease, or if shredded and taken in very small doses it can be good for calming the nerves and numbing pain, but if taken in large quantities it leads to convulsions and madness. I hope that it is of service to you!

On the other hand, it was with great joy that I received the news of our latest grandson’s birth, Zbislava’s son. You tell me his name is Zdravomil? Well, I do pray that his health will be good and his temper mild. And it will be the better if he might grow tall as his father does. What are his features like? What does his voice sound like? I have so many questions about our grandson. But they may be answered when I return, as I promise you I shall—soon. We have ably done our duty by the Emperor Dauidēs and captured two of his wayward vassals, and I am anxious to be on the road north back to you.

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My love, it pains me to add to your worries in any way. But you must understand how great a comfort it is to me, as it has been ever since my youth, for me to unburden to you the secrets and worries of my heart, and to have a sensible and sympathetic ear to listen. Now, I imagine, you’d tell me to cut through all the syrupy nonsense and tell you what’s on my mind. And, dear, you would be right.

Leading an army from land, to sea, and back to land is a difficult task, but it is more tedious than one might suspect – though, given your own upbringing in Grandfather’s camp, I suspect you know this better than I. There is as much milling and waiting and sleeping at ports overseeing the correct order of transport as there is movement. Every bit as important to an army as the men and weapons, are the supply wagons (or ships) that follow behind it. And it is important for a commander to know exactly how many days of supply he and his men will have left, otherwise the men will suffer starvation and disease and begin to entertain thoughts of desertion or mutiny. So imagine my surprise when Pravoslav—our Slávek, of all men!—began giving me estimates of our supply that were so conservative, so sparing, so squeamish as to be downright false.

When giving me his report for how many supplies we had and how many wagons we would need to rent for their transport, I noticed two things. One: he had given me an estimate of our total supply that I knew to be short by a couple of tonnes. That alone would not arouse my suspicions, since I know our son to be a careful sort, and more apt to err on the side of caution. Better to underestimate what we have for rations than to overestimate it. But then I saw that he had hired three whole wagons that were enough to store those two missing tonnes. Has he been deceiving me? I never remember teaching him this kind of duplicity, and I know you would abhor it in any of our children.

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I thought to engage him in some conversation about this in his tent. I brought with me a backgammon board and a couple of bowls for a drink, but when I got there, he made haste to hide from me a scrap of paper that he had on him. Again my suspicions were aroused, but I did not wish to offend by voicing them aloud to him. I retired back to my own tent. Dearest one, did I do well? Am I right to worry about this?

Blažena—it is now two days since I last wrote. Please do not trouble yourself over Pravoslav’s strange behaviour: his reasons for it were innocent, even touching! He had indeed been hiding part of our supply from me… but the purpose, I soon discovered, was so that he and the men could throw a feast in my honour! Pravoslav and Kochan had been brewing this up between them, aided by Kochan’s man Bořek and his elderly comrade Florián.

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They had prepared lamb šâwarma with flatbread and a yoghurt sauce, fried balls of minced meat and flour and spices called kibbeh, veal prepared with fennel, chicken with saffron and Greek spices, a dish of marinated fish that the Greeks call savoro, cuttlefish grilled with almonds, quail pie, stuffed aubergines, chickpeas with sesame and lemon, leeks, grilled mushrooms, stewed quinces, apple fritters, cheesecake, koptoplakous with honey and crushed pistachio nuts, and many more dishes besides – too many for me to name! Atop this, they had prepared ten amphoræ of the finest savatiano wine! It rather amazes me that our army was able to hide all of this from me. Clearly I must be more vigilant… And yet I did enjoy myself at the feast, I confess, and I cannot help but admire the planning and forethought that our son put into this gesture, and the discipline it took to keep it all secret.

Dearest Blažena, like a string plucked from my heart I miss the sound of your laughter, the sound sense of your rede, the wrinkle of your nose, the warmth of your fathom. I long to embrace you again. I pray God that this letter will not be long reaching you, and that I may not be long in following it. Until that time, recover in health, and bide my return as I bide it.

Your devoted slave,

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IV.
6 June 934

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How did we get into this mess?

The Moravian troops had been in high spirits as they emerged from the battlefield at Koilada outside Larisa. The staid courage of the heavily-armoured zbrojnošov and of the bold spear-bearers who fought alongside them managed to cover the losses of the skirmishers from the enemy horsemen. Yet another of the rebels against the rule of the Basileios Dauidēs was broken under the Moravian line, and the victory had the Moravians feeling heady as they headed back northward.

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Now all was turned bitter. Unfortunately, as they had been crossing the river Marica running through the south of the Bulgarian march on their way north, they had been ambushed. In the midst of the coniferous forest on the northern bank, a small band of Northmen adventurers had been lying in wait for them.

There were few of them at first. Several arrows and throwing-axes had come flying out of the dark growth, and it didn’t take long for Pravoslav to see that they were but few, sparse and lightly armoured. Hrabě Kochan, leading the Moravian right flank, having landed and disembarked first, formed up a sturdy shield-wall behind which the main force could take shelter against the severané and their harassment. Then they could move out in force of numbers.

It wasn’t until Bohodar mladší had disembarked nearly all of his main force from the calms of the Marica that it dawned on him that they had landed in a trap. These scouts and skirmishers had been a lure, meant to engage the advance flank and draw the whole of the Moravian force across the river and into the open. What he hadn’t expected was that the entirety of Silja Áskellsdottir’s army of Northmen would come pouring out of the woods with their shields lapping in front of them, aiming to surround the Moravian force and push them all back into the river.

They were trapped – Boško could see that all too clearly. Each way forward into the woods was blocked, and the Moravians were outnumbered three-to-one at least.

‘Is this the end of our line?’ asked Boško of himself, looking aside to Pravoslav.

‘Not yet,’ his son answered. ‘Keep a level head. Keep calm. There is a way out of this…’

But the Northmen line was pressing forward inexorably. Silja wasn’t fool enough to send out the bear-skins with their giant axes, not when she could conserve her forces and win a decisive victory merely by pushing with brute force against the Moravian shield-wall with hers. Even Pravoslav could see how deadly the trap was that they had fallen into. There was nearly no chance that any Rychnovský man still in the world would be alive to tell of it by the end of the day.

However, Silje’s caution gave Kochan an opening that he hadn’t been expecting. The Northmen’s left flank was still mostly skirmishers and archers: Kochan’s zbrojnošov had a clear advantage. He ordered his line to make a swift plunge forward, and the lightweight Northmen line faltered for an instant and began falling back. Kochan took advantage of the momentary weakness in the Northman deployment to form a new line of battle, forming a semicircle around the Moravian riverboats. As Boško saw what he was doing, dread gripped his heart. Kochan was going to sacrifice his entire flank – four hundred men – in order to give the rest of them time to take to the ships.

‘No, Kochan! No! Don’t do it!’

‘My King,’ Kochan shouted back, ‘it is done! You and Pravoslav must live, for the sake of our homeland!’

‘Not without you! Not without you, my dear friend!’

Board! Don’t be a fool!’

And with that, Kochan barked the order to push forward. The Northmen, seeing their main quarry break for the retreat, sent back their archers to unleash a volley of arrows on the landing. But the quick action by Kochan had already broken through. The Northman line collapsed in the middle – but that was no good tidings for the zbrojnošov under Žatec’s command. The berserkers had come.

In their drug-induced frenzy, the towering bear-skin warriors howled and whirled their long blades and axes about them, felling even the advancing shield-bearers in Kochan’s line. Boško watched in horror as the youngster from Žatec of whom he had grown fond, Bořek, had his arm shattered and then his head struck clean from his body by one of the towering heathen madmen. But there was no time to grieve.

‘Form up! Form up!’ Kochan was shouting.

Pravoslav was calmly, but quickly, giving orders to the main force to shield themselves, board, make fast the oars and get under way. Already three Moravian ships had steered out into open water and cleared the Northmen archers’ range. He signalled to his father to do the same, but Boško was torn. He could not simply leave Kochan alone to face his death in such a way! He could still do something to help. He gripped the hilt of his sword in his hand and strode forward to where Kochan stood, lunging forward into the hopeless fight against the berserkers.

Pravoslav looked to one of the elder soldiers with a sigh of exasperation. ‘Get my father.’

‘Sir!’

It was Florián. The seasoned veteran waded among the retreating forces, under the shields which still guarded against the deadly hail from the air, and made a beeline for his liege lord’s side. Pravoslav continued to direct men to their ships. Seven of the riverboats were gone. Now eight. Half of their surviving forces had now retreated to safety on the southern side of the river. Although the whistle of shafts in flight and the thuds of their impact upon the wooden boards they held up still cracked through the air, the unflappable crown prince of Veľká Morava would not be dissuaded from his task.

The king, on the other hand, was still swinging his sword and plunging forward in an attempt to reach his best friend and confidant – the man who was now sacrificing himself to get the rest of the Moravians away safe. He had taken the head of one berserker, whose attention had been turned elsewhere, and ran his blade through the chest of another who had taken notice of him a thought’s breadth too late. Soon he was at Kochan’s side, laughing madly as he guarded his Bohemian vassal’s back amid a growing pile of bodies – both severán and Slav. But the battle was truly hopeless now. King and retainer were now nearly isolated amidst an enemy that was pressing in on all sides.

But soon a space cleared behind them. One soldier, wielding a long spear, was managing to hold off enemies from both sides in order to get the two noblemen back behind the dwindling Moravian line.

‘Sire! You must flee!’

The momentary confusion Boško suffered was costly. A berserker axe smashed heavily into Kochan’s helmet with a sickening crunch, and the Bohemian crumpled nerveless to the ground. Boško let out a yell and ran his sword through Kochan’s attacker’s throat, snapping open his windpipe in a spurting arc of gore. Then Boško knelt at his fallen vassal’s side, and tried to drag him back by gripping him under the arms. Scrambling backwards with the limp Kochan in tow, Boško got beneath the sweep of Florián’s spear and dragged Kochan to safety behind a solid row of Moravian boots and greaves. But not before he saw a stray arrow close its deadly arc and catch Florián squarely in the chest. The old veteran kept lunging and sweeping even thus mortally wounded, but two more arrows joined the first, and he sank to his knees.

Boško dragged Kochan up the ramp to the nearest waiting ship, and tried to jostle and slap him awake, but to no avail. The entire side of Kochan’s face was drenched in blood; his helmet had taken a long, deep gash, as had the head beneath it. Several splinters of bare bone showed beneath Kochan’s dark hair.

‘Lord Christ, have mercy. Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy,’ Boško grimaced. ‘Don’t leave us. Kochan, snap out of it. Don’t leave us, Kochan!’

The count was still breathing, but it was ragged and uneven. Boško looked up in bewilderment, and saw the grim and horrible sight of Moravian bodies and body parts floating and drifting in the water all around them – by the dozens, the hundreds. The Northmen had now won the whole of the north bank – Boško could tell it from the hideous hoarse hails of victory they were letting up. Northmen were indeed beginning to board the empty ships to further their pursuit of the retreating enemy. Those that they hadn’t ripped asunder or trampled underfoot, they had driven into the water, were some were still flailing and gasping helplessly, crying with failing breath for aid from the riverboats that were now pulling away. But well Boško knew they couldn’t return for any man, however pitiable his drowning throes.

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Kochan hadn’t been alone either. Many who had made it the boats were lying flat and bleeding out, missing limbs or nursing wounds from axe or arrow or spear. But the grim focus of their fellows on the oars was not to tend to the wounded, but to get clear of the Northmen’s reach by river – not an easy task considering how these ship-goers fared naturally.

Now that there was a lull in the action, however, Boško had enough time for regret and for self-recrimination. He had not been careful enough in landing the bank opposite. Having tasted of nothing but victory for the past months, he had gotten too cocksure. He ought to have sent scouts along the riverbank first to sight for enemy activity. He ought to have kept his men on the boats until he was sure that the advance flank had the situation well in hand. But it was too late for that now. Bořek had been killed. Florián had been killed. And Kochan…

Boško looked down at his fallen friend, still struggling for his life against the ancient enemy, and fighting for each and every breath he took. He would have to get him back to Moravia somehow. And the Basileios would have to continue to fight his two wars absent a Moravian support force – now half of what it had been, and diminished in ability even within that half. Such was the grim mood that clouded the Moravian armies all the way back to Adrianopolis… and from there, home.



Coda.
17 January 936

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In his state of unconsciousness, who could tell whether Kochan could feel anything in his last days? But for Boško, watching his friend succumb to his crushing head wound and slip away from him by degrees over the following two months and more was nothing less than an agony of the spirit, made worse by the knowledge that it was the king’s own fault that Kochan had come to such harm. He gave up the ghost on the twenty-ninth of October.

Bohodar’s and Blažena’s youngest daughter Slavena had come of age in the six years he’d been gone, and she was soon married off to the younger son, named Aristarchos, of the doux of Thrakēsiōn in Asia Minor – strengthening the ties between Moravia and the Byzantines yet further.

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Although Pravoslav had not been particularly eager to return to his wife, the same could not be said at all for Marija. Beaming and doting did the chipper young White Croat fall upon her returning husband, showering him with every attention a young woman in love could do whether he wanted it or not. Evidently Slávek had not objected too much to being handled thus, because the clear signs of pregnancy came upon Marija but two months after their arrival home… and seven months after that she had given birth to a daughter named Vyšemíra.

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The Moravian defeat on the Marica at the hands of the Northmen had been devastating; and the beaten Moravians returned home without laurels, without feasting, without the blowing of triumphant horns. But: the victories that they had won earlier on in the war, in Epirus and in the Kyklades, had turned the tide of Dauidēs’s fight in the other themes. The sweet savour in the Northmen’s mouths was short-lived. Dauidēs fell upon them with the same wrath they had visited upon the Moravians, and obliterated the Northmen Army utterly. Silja Áskellsdóttir was forced into a surrender on terms far more bitter than the Moravians had suffered. In addition, the Œcumenical Patriarch himself had sent to the Moravian king a considerable gift of money: a token appreciation for having protected the Empire. But all of that would not bring Kochan back, and was poor recompense for his loss.

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Thus ends the Greek campaign. The Moravians have proven themselves a good ally to the Basileus, but not without paying a high price. The king's certainly reluctant to embark on another campaign after that bitter experience.
 
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Look what happens when the life comes at full-power. One moment of inability (it took two months, pheew), and all the top stories pile up without a chance to comment, naturally have to resort to only the button of the like. That is not satisfactory to appreciate the magnificence over here, of course.

Let this be the remedy for all those missed moments (at least for Book I; for now).


[Written from Ánkyra; 26 May. – Ed.]
And even though we are well into Asia, and our holy destination draws ever nearer, I long more and more for home, and still more for your warm embrace.
What a home that must be; you were in 10. century Ánkyra, Bohyasha, and still writing letters missing home. Certainly the circumstances did not help, but could have at least visited the ruins of the bath. Not that would be a place of sight in that age, though.


‘It’s a wedding-feast,’ he told her. ‘Maybe we could keep celebrating on our own… just the two of us?’

Mechthild broke into a grin. ‘I like the way you think, my knieža.’
The irritatingly nervous nature of the chapter is saved with this ending. Well, at least they have each other. Kudos.


Troubles on the Northern Border
Very, very good opening, remarkable structure for the act, boosting the curiosity to further read it through, as it succeeds in grasping the reader immediately.


‘But what if it does?’ came Blažena’s in response. ‘I didn’t for one moment believe that old man’s ramblings at first, but after one daughter born with a deformed foot, and another with a deformed spine, I can’t help but worry…’

‘There is nothing wrong with our son,’ Boško answered her. ‘You heard Winfrida – there are no visible deformities upon him.’
Cannot decide on this one, as these genius-duo slowly walk their way into understanding the mechanics of modern anatomy and genetics. Oh wait, Bohodar was the scholar, not these two. Sigh.

... but the chapter involves multiple arcs, and the inevitable happens...

Despite his and Světoslava’s very best efforts at taking care of her with various soups and herbal remedies, Mechthild dwindled and slipped away from him before his eyes, until the black day came the following month when she no longer breathed.
This is a remorseful moment to comment. Left the like being out of time before, but there is nothing else to say other than, Farewell, Hilda. Then comes the silence.


‘At once, my Queen.’
However, life does not care about such sentiments, and goes on without any pause, as madness does not conform to the needs of a mourning reader. Kudos.


I will not ask to be introduced as a knieža. No. But as a slovoľubec – a lover of words? Yes, that might be acceptable…
Yes, you were, Bohyasha. Farewell, now the words end.



‘F—for his having shown treasonable cowardice, for having forsaken his comrades in battle, for his having caused the Battle of Glogówek to be lost and, subsequently, the Silesian lands to the Crown, and for his having defied the will of God and betrayed his Queen, by official decree, Radomír Rychnovský’s remains have b—been exhumed from the episcopal cemetery and buried without ceremony at an unmarked roadside. A—also: his name will be stricken henceforth from all commemorations for the honoured dead, in damnatio memoriæ.’
[1]
Now, Bohodar slovoľubec was what the medievals like to call a “good ruler”. He upheld the law, but was merciful to criminals.
[2]

-Incoming transmission-
Notes of an affiliated (and mad) student

One cannot be satisfied by anything as long as being a ruler, that is a monarch, and everybody is a betrayer for the one who assumes the power over others-
No ruler can be considered as a good example compared to the others, because for a monarch to reign, everyone else has to be a subject, so the history is written through their victories and tragedies, while the subjects live and die heinously for their needs of-
The nature of this view on such a subject would incur criticism by its anachronistic reasons, but the betrayal of the Bohodar in person is justifiable as long as the betrayed Bratromila is a queen, a monarch, therefore providing the complete reason-
Scratch that- Surely Bratromila was a maddened persona with her isolation and-
Scratch that- Bohodar was in deep remorse, that is why he could not moderate the situation for his-
Scratch that- Sht. I will fail this course. It is non-technical, and I wasn't even enrolled! Sht. I need a beer.
End of the 'Notes of an affiliated (and mad) student'. Retrieved from the public archives of Archeo-Library, 11 April 2258, unknown origin, possibly 21. century ce, Earth.
-End of transmission-


 
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Thus ends the Greek campaign. The Moravians have proven themselves a good ally to the Basileus, but not without paying a high price. The king's certainly reluctant to embark on another campaign after that bitter experience.

Indeed. However, with that many allies and a few past accounts to settle, he won't have a choice. And the prices will get higher...


Look what happens when the life comes at full-power. One moment of inability (it took two months, pheew), and all the top stories pile up without a chance to comment, naturally have to resort to only the button of the like. That is not satisfactory to appreciate the magnificence over here, of course.

Let this be the remedy for all those missed moments (at least for Book I; for now).


gandalf-frodo.gif

'filcat, I'm glad you're back!'
What a home that must be; you were in 10. century Ánkyra, Bohyasha, and still writing letters missing home. Certainly the circumstances did not help, but could have at least visited the ruins of the bath. Not that would be a place of sight in that age, though.
The irritatingly nervous nature of the chapter is saved with this ending. Well, at least they have each other. Kudos.
This is a remorseful moment to comment. Left the like being out of time before, but there is nothing else to say other than, Farewell, Hilda. Then comes the silence.

However, life does not care about such sentiments, and goes on without any pause, as madness does not conform to the needs of a mourning reader. Kudos.

Rather a shocker that the dynamic between Bohodar and Mechthild worked as well as it did. They were similar enough to make the relationship work, but different enough people to keep it interesting. Saint Methodius clearly pushed the young knieža in the right direction.

Not all of my rulers have been so lucky. (I hinted at a handful of the luckier ones in one of my interludes, I think.) A couple of them, like Pravoslav, fell for the wrong person too early, and it caused... problems later. A couple of others married women who were manifestly ill-suited to them, and that also caused... problems.

Cannot decide on this one, as these genius-duo slowly walk their way into understanding the mechanics of modern anatomy and genetics. Oh wait, Bohodar was the scholar, not these two. Sigh.

... but the chapter involves multiple arcs, and the inevitable happens...

Sigh, indeed. This is one of those relationships that resulted from a mistake I made during gameplay, and which I was forced to just roll with. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on your point of view, Blažena and Boško also had that similar-but-not-too-similar dynamic that just clicked. (Both just and both temperate - but one of them a sharp-tongued devil's advocate and the other of them a natural mediator.)

But homozygosity and recessive alleles are realities regardless of beliefs or ignorance, so... yeah. Kids all have various genetic problems of varying degrees of severity.

Very, very good opening, remarkable structure for the act, boosting the curiosity to further read it through, as it succeeds in grasping the reader immediately.

Thank you, sir! But this is one of those slow-burn setups that's going to take until well into The Thin Wedge of Europe to pay off in full.

Yes, you were, Bohyasha. Farewell, now the words end.

For him, yes. But for Moravia? Assuredly not!

-Incoming transmission-
Notes of an affiliated (and mad) student

One cannot be satisfied by anything as long as being a ruler, that is a monarch, and everybody is a betrayer for the one who assumes the power over others-
No ruler can be considered as a good example compared to the others, because for a monarch to reign, everyone else has to be a subject, so the history is written through their victories and tragedies, while the subjects live and die heinously for their needs of-
The nature of this view on such a subject would incur criticism by its anachronistic reasons, but the betrayal of the Bohodar in person is justifiable as long as the betrayed Bratromila is a queen, a monarch, therefore providing the complete reason-
Scratch that- Surely Bratromila was a maddened persona with her isolation and-
Scratch that- Bohodar was in deep remorse, that is why he could not moderate the situation for his-
Scratch that- Sht. I will fail this course. It is non-technical, and I wasn't even enrolled! Sht. I need a beer.
End of the 'Notes of an affiliated (and mad) student'. Retrieved from the public archives of Archeo-Library, 11 April 2258, unknown origin, possibly 21. century ce, Earth.
-End of transmission-

'Hey, Vasilii Vasil'evich!'

'What is it, Danya?'

The graduate student snapped off his omnivisor and expanded the 'Notes of an affiliated (and mad) student' into the virtual workspace in front of him so the professor could see it. 'ArkhBiblio returned this commentary on one of the old 21st-century USMA lectures on Viking Age Moravia. Useful citation for your publication on historiosophical tendencies after the "postmodernist" turn?'

'Mm. A student wrote this?'

'That's what in the archival tags. No name given.'

'I see. Well, yes, this line of criticism was indeed one of the trends at the time, particularly when confronted with a scholar like this Grebeníček who clearly conformed to older, right-Hegelian ideas about organicism of societies and the crucial place of the hero in history. Might be a good example of such critique.'

'... Vasilii Vasil'evich?'

'It's possible to take several views of the Olomouc-Nitra split. Was the knyaz Bohodar a traitor, or a grieving father who'd been pushed too far? Was Bratromila within her rights, or was she descending into madness? We only know what the later Moravian historians have written about the conflict, and they were largely Orthodox Christians operating under the lens that Bohodar's victories were the will of God. On the other hand, Catholic historians were not particularly eager to defend a proven adulteress whose rule was an ineffectual bookend to the rule of the earlier Mojmírovci.'

'And what do you think?'

'... I think our Great Russia would not exist, if not for the Rychnovských. We may thank God for the good that He brought out of Bohodar's acts, even if they were treasonous.'

'That seems a bit convenient...'
 
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(enter part deux - time for the missing comments for Book II)

Pravoslav nodded energetically. ‘Uh-huh! It was tan all over, and had a long black nose, and had huge red eyes—!’
This chapter hits the magnificent degree (universal filcat-o-metre) so fast that one can only analyse its vortices left in the wake flow by a particle image velocimetre to grasp the quality of it. A hotwire would do, too, but that takes too much time to finish the control volume.
Kudos.


‘You’ve complimented my “impressive physical shape” before. I enjoyed it. Don’t overstay the welcome.’
No business is like Blažena business. If only she could show this serious attitude when choosing her partner, unfortunately genius can only be used as a sarcasm when referring the duo.


‘Bulgars! What are the Bulgars doing here?’
They are delivering the will of Tangra, Chlothar. Though they must be full-blown cross-bearers by that age. Still, once a nomad, always a nomad (well, until finding juicy grasslands to graze and a nice castle to sleep in).

His mother, Queen Bratromila, had succumbed to her wounds. Having lost a leg and an eye, and her body being broken into the bargain, she had given up the ghost into the hands of whatever power would claim her.
The last breath of the old days, now lingers in the sky of forever, with the memories faraway, but the story continues without mercy, already began the new age of the descendants. Farewell, Queen.


’(...)You could name yourself king, couldn’t you?’
Yep, that's what it takes. All one needs a couple of subjects to support it, as well as a couple of clergy. Err... a handful of army would be also necessary. And a banner. A castle, too.
Well, come to think of it, proclaiming to be monarch seems tiresome.


‘No, no, no. I haven’t said anything about forgiving you yet,’
Of course. There is no way to be forgiven by Blažena so soon.


But I think if you approach him directly and talk to him yourself about your concerns, you’ll find he listens to reason. If after talking with him you still think he’s not all on the table, come back to me and we’ll see it sorted.’
-
‘She’s too kind,’ Pravoslav muttered.
Hmmm. These plots somehow hint sinister arcs to cast upon them, but that's only a guess. Though the guess is heavy on suspecting wild consequences for the case of Pravoslav.


‘Thoukydidēs?’ asked Pravoslav on approaching his father’s hammock. He noted the book his father was holding in his hands. ‘A History of the Peloponnesian War?’

‘Reading about the action around Naxos,’ his father explained.

‘Ah,’ Pravoslav mouthed understandingly. ‘Any inspiration so far?’
Oh sure, if one wants to know about the exact number ships of the Achaeans, sure go ahead, read Thoukydidēs. It will greatly help the war efforts, sure, why not. Heh.


They had prepared lamb šâwarma with flatbread and a yoghurt sauce, fried balls of minced meat and flour and spices called kibbeh, veal prepared with fennel, chicken with saffron and Greek spices, a dish of marinated fish that the Greeks call savoro, cuttlefish grilled with almonds, quail pie, stuffed aubergines, chickpeas with sesame and lemon, leeks, grilled mushrooms, stewed quinces, apple fritters, cheesecake, koptoplakous with honey and crushed pistachio nuts, and many more dishes besides – too many for me to name! Atop this, they had prepared ten amphoræ of the finest savatiano wine!
The divine beauty of lists, the list of everything. Kudos.


In his state of unconsciousness, who could tell whether Kochan could feel anything in his last days?
Kings, emperors, khans, krals, sultans, padishahs, ceasars, kaisers, tsars, shahs, rajas, huangdis, tennos, rulers enjoy the victory, as their subjects die. Farewell, Kochan.
 
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This chapter hits the magnificent degree (universal filcat-o-metre) so fast that one can only analyse its vortices left in the wake flow by a particle image velocimetre to grasp the quality of it. A hotwire would do, too, but that takes too much time to finish the control volume.

Many thanks, @filcat!

No business is like Blažena business. If only she could show this serious attitude when choosing her partner, unfortunately genius can only be used as a sarcasm when referring the duo.

Of course. There is no way to be forgiven by Blažena so soon.

Blažena is fun to write. (Cynics usually are.)

They are delivering the will of Tangra, Chlothar. Though they must be full-blown cross-bearers by that age. Still, once a nomad, always a nomad (well, until finding juicy grasslands to graze and a nice castle to sleep in).

As the Law of Heavy Metal demands!


The last breath of the old days, now lingers in the sky of forever, with the memories faraway, but the story continues without mercy, already began the new age of the descendants. Farewell, Queen.

Bratromila will be missed. Gameplay-wise, though, what a pain in my rear. I try to cover for all of her mistakes only for her to stab me in the back. :(

Yep, that's what it takes. All one needs a couple of subjects to support it, as well as a couple of clergy. Err... a handful of army would be also necessary. And a banner. A castle, too.
Well, come to think of it, proclaiming to be monarch seems tiresome.

Costly, certainly. Although 500 gold for a title like that does seem rather a bargain!

Hmmm. These plots somehow hint sinister arcs to cast upon them, but that's only a guess. Though the guess is heavy on suspecting wild consequences for the case of Pravoslav.

Heh.

Will say no more.

Oh sure, if one wants to know about the exact number ships of the Achaeans, sure go ahead, read Thoukydidēs. It will greatly help the war efforts, sure, why not. Heh.

Certainly Boško has not been my most-influenced-by-Thoukydidēs character in this game, by any stretch.
 
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Book Two Chapter Eight
EIGHT
Silesia Gone Over
28 September 936 – 20 May 940


I.
The Battle of Kroměříž
5 July 937 – 19 July 937

‘Hold out, he says. Hold out, hold out, hold out. It’s getting a bit wearing.’

‘Quit grumbling, Jaroslav.’ Pravoslav gave his cousin a wry quirk of the lips. ‘In this case it happens to be good advice. There’s no sense throwing a perfectly good army away on an imprudent attack. Besides, not only is babuška bringing her hirdmen from England, but so is Nikola of the Vlachs, the Komēs of Paphlagonia, the Doux of Thrakēsiōn and even the Eastern Emperor himself.’

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‘Won’t be any good if both the Eastern and Western Emperors show up on our side, and we don’t have any holdouts left. Opava has already been taken, and our own town is beset on all sides by the enemy. What good are all the armies of the known world to us if they’re 200 leagues away when Olomouc falls? Or when payday comes for these dogs?’

Pravoslav laughed at that. ‘These “dogs” are well worth the asking price. You’ll see.’

‘Mm. Good thing that Přemysl, Markvart and Tvrdomil ponied up for them, then. But given that cost, my standards aren’t going to be lax.’

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‘Neither are theirs.’

The Wojsko Psa – the ‘Company of the Dog’ – were a free brotherhood of horsemen from the Pomeranian plains, who had answered the summons from Kráľ Bohodar when he had declared the war to liberate Silesia from its heathen overlord. The Wojsko Psa were all believers in the Slavic rod themselves, but there was little love lost between Silesian and Pomeranian. Besides, money was money, and well did the Pomeranians know that the ‘word of Moravia is silver’. Jaroslav moved off, but he hadn’t been gone long before the Captain of the Wojsko Psa himself appeared: a grizzled old veteran from Kujawa named Świętosław. His mop of stringy grey hair shook around a round face with a pointed beard, and the deep lines in his face were set grimly.

‘What word, Świętosław?’ asked Pravoslav.

‘None good,’ said the Pole. ‘Scouts reported back. There is smoke rising from the city of Olomouc, and the besieging army is at least 2,500 strong. And there’s another Polish force very near the same size standing between us and Olomouc.’

Pravoslav sighed and looked around the field. They were not, in fact, that far upstream from Velehrad, very near Hodonín. The Moravian Army along with the Wojsko Psa were encamped on a broad sandy heath on the Morava’s left bank, sparsely tufted with sun-scorched grass and the occasional slender poplar nourishing its roots from the summer water.

‘So… you’d say 4,500 men?’

‘Roughly.’

Pravoslav let out a low whistle. The most they had been able to muster had been 3,200 or so, and once all the Moravian levies were gathered the force would be about 3,600. Not strong enough yet to venture an attack.

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‘If I may make a suggestion, sir,’ Świętosław offered, ‘I know these Poles we face. They are not well trained, and their leader is a dullard. They have few horses, and unless the Silesians have a pair of loaded dice I’m not aware of, they won’t be adding any themselves. On the other hand, our riders are fresh, keen and ready for battle. If you want a victory, I would advise moving swiftly.’

Pravoslav chuckled despite himself. Both Jaroslav and Świętosław offering the same advice? This was indeed a fine day. But even so, his father’s orders still stood.

‘I don’t like the numbers you reported. On an open field with armies arrayed in line, numbers matter.’

‘And you’re thinking to fight them in the open,’ Świętosław finished his thought. ‘Good strategy. Riders can manœuvre more freely and you can make best use of them where the enemy can’t.’

‘But I need a solid line of footmen to hold the centre while your riders harry the flanks.’

‘Solid? You already have “solid”,’ Świętosław countered. ‘If your men can’t hold the centre while mine get to work, then you have a discipline problem. My men are trained and ready for this action.’

‘Be that as it may,’ he told the Pole, ‘we will still have to hold at least until the Englishmen arrive. It’s not that I doubt your men’s training or ability. But I’d be making your job easier if I had the width to hold the Poles in place for you to skewer.’

‘Don’t worry about that. My men can handle it. You see this as a numbers problem; I see it as a timing problem. You aren’t going to get another chance like this to choose where you engage. Advise your father to take it.’ But his attention was drawn by one of his men, going about with his mail unlaced. ‘Hold, squire! Is that how you treat your ring-coat, you slovenly worm? You’re asking to get run through like that!’

Although Świętosław was tough as nails and not one for niceties, and had the reputation of being a bit of a martinet – as just now – his men still thought him fair, and trusted him with their lives. That trust had already made its impression on Pravoslav, even if it hadn’t yet for his cousin, and it lent a weight to his advice that it wouldn’t otherwise have had. Truth be told, though, Pravoslav did see Świętosław’s point. If they marched northward now, they could meet the Poles near Kroměříž, where there were flat plains and broad open spaces aplenty, and where they would have a decided tactical advantage even if they didn’t have the numbers.

Pravoslav was just about to head to his father’s tent to suggest this course of action himself, when a single rider approached the Moravian camp, bearing the colours of his grandmother’s arms. Pravoslav turned from his stride to face the new arrival. As soon as he recognised the fair beard on the man, the crown prince broke into a broad grin and quickened his stride boldly.

Str‎ýko Prokop!!’

Hǽl beó þú, bróþor-sunu!’ Pravoslav’s fair-avised uncle greeted him with evident cheer and relief. Uncle and nephew embraced each other about the shoulders and gave each other the kiss of greeting. ‘I bring word from your grandmother… as well as six hundred men for your father’s undertaking. I saw his banner over the camp – would you take me to him?’

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‘Gladly,’ Pravoslav clapped his uncle again on the shoulders. ‘Six hundred men! That will be a relief to him, I’m sure.’ And to me, he thought to himself, though not as many as I would have hoped. Still: 4,200 against 4,500 is a better roll of the bones than 3,600 against 4,500. Maybe I can take Jaroslav’s and Świętosław’s rede and join my voice to theirs after all.

~~~
Boško sat in his tent, brooding. He had been doing that a lot over the past three years, since Kochan had sacrificed himself and his men to allow him to escape that field of slaughter on the northern bank of the Marica. He had heard from men who had gone missing an eye or an arm or a leg, that for years afterward they would suffer itching or aches in the member they had lost. It was like that for Boško now. Kochan’s absence ached now more than it ever had. He missed his wise friend’s advice dearly, and recalled how far he had stepped outside his own credulous nature to warn him of the possible threat from the East Franks. Now Pravoslav and Jaroslav had taken on most of his duties and pledges, but they had not filled, and could not fill his shoes.

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The death of Kochan troubled him for another reason. The memory of another death, also at the hands of the severané, awakened in Boško the sense of a duty which had sat with him since his youth, lurking long below the surface and which he now felt himself called upon to fulfil. The conversion of Moravia and the Bohemian lands under Boško’s sway had been completed. But his father’s body lay in some nameless roadside pit, outside the pale, his soul’s fate in question. The loss of Silesia had been affixed to his account, and he had been branded traitor and coward. His good name, his honour, had been besmirched by the Mojmírovci. Though Boško had no doubts himself about his father’s æternal rest, only in battle could his memory be redeemed in the eyes of men. Though Radomír’s son now held the title of Kraľ, truth be told, it had not sat easily with him. As long as Silesia lay in heathen hands, and as long as his father’s good name was in question, he would not be able to rest easy.

It was then that Pravoslav and Prokop came into his tent. When Boško looked up, Prokop gave a warm smile and told him:

‘Hello, brother.’

Boško stood and crossed the tent to embrace Prokop with an equal warmth and affection. Although his mother’s contribution in manpower would be modest in comparison to those of his other allies – Dauidēs, Nikola, Stephanos and Alexandros – nonetheless in moral terms, Hilda sending Prokop to him was a boon greater than all such levies combined.

‘God be praised! It’s good to see you, Prokop!’

‘And you. I came to deliver the men and arms you asked for in person.’

Boško gave his younger brother a fond c-c. ‘Business already? That won’t do! Sit down – have a bowl of ale. How is Mother faring? And Copsi?’

‘Both well, although Mother is showing her age. I did bring Copsi with me: I left him in charge of the Bedanford regiment while I came to deliver our fealty. Brother…’ Prokop hesitated a thought before going on. ‘… I know what it is you’re trying to do. I didn’t know Father as well as you, but I know what his death and the desecration of his grave have meant for our family. And so does Mother. She wants Silesia retaken, for her own sake as much as Father’s. She still feels a sense of guilt over… what happened.’

Boško’s face fell. ‘I know it. And I’m sorry to impose such a burden on you both.’

‘Ah-ah!’ Prokop set down his bowl of ale and shook his head bracingly. ‘Don’t be. I’m here because I belong at your side in this fight. I will not hear it otherwise from you, brother, whether that crown sits on your head or not! I, Copsi, and the six hundred we brought with us!’

‘I only hope that we can take Silesia back without too much loss of life.’

Prokop took in a breath and gave his brother a heady grin. ‘Well, getting the Empire of the East on your side was no mean feat, along with some of his more powerful generals! This ought to make the severané think twice before joining the war on the heathens’ side.’

It was at this point that Pravoslav smoothly inserted himself into the conversation.

‘Speaking of which: what Grandmother sent brings our total force to 4,200. In terms of raw numbers, we’re nearly an even match now for the Poles and the Silesians combined. If we can deploy the Wojsko Psa tactically on an open field of battle, we should be able to get a solid leg up on them. I don’t know what Jaroslav and Świętosław have told you yet, but the stars have aligned so that they agree with each other. And, as it happens, I do as well. We should move out at once and march on the Poles before we lose the edge.’

Boško looked to his brother. ‘Do you agree?’

‘Any time you’re ready, I am,’ Prokop told his brother stoutly.

‘Well, it seems I’m to be outvoted by all of my kinsmen, as well as the captain of my hired riders. Very well. On the morrow: rozbiť tábor. Sťahujeme sa.

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~~~

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In the dawning light of morning, three days after this conference, Boško looked out over the broad flat countryside – all fallow fields with not a tree or a shrub in sight, except for the ominous giant’s shadow on the horizon that would surely be an oak or a beech. The light of dawn was peeking up over the soft slope of sunburnt heath-covered hill to the west, flinging its first red-tinted shafts across its shadow.

Even in this early light, the gleam of helms and blades and greaves and the rims of shields in the distance across the fields was unmistakeable to Boško and Pravoslav, who by this time had seen battle over and over again. They set themselves grimly in a line in three sections, and marched forward. Świętosław merely had to give a gloved hand-signal to each of his two packs of ‘dogs’, and the horsemen of the left galloped out first, followed at some length by the right.

The hoarse shouts of the heathen Poles rang out across the field, and Boško raised his own spear in answer. The battle-cry of three thousand Moravians and Bohemians sounded in unison: ‘Za údolím!’

Boško watched as the Pomeranian horsemen of the left swooped down from the gentle hillside at full gallop on the enemy, who were forced to turn from the front to avoid being completely run down. The first pass struck the Polish line on its side, striking down a few before turning aside and making ready from a distance for another pass. A flight of arrows followed, but the ‘dogs’ were ready for them: the round shields of the riders in the rear came up overhead while their horses bore them at an angle to the rest of their cohort. Clearly this was a manœuvre they had long practised.

The Moravian infantry line, though it was still shorter than the Polish one, made use of the time to close the distance. The clash came heavy and hard as it always did, with the crunch of metal clashing and wood splintering and snapping, the heaves and grunts of the two bodies of armed men as they wrestled to get the other to give ground. And now Boško began to feel the pressure of having met a larger force of infantry and archers with his smaller one. The enemy was beginning to flank them on the right.

But that was when the other pack of Pomeranian horsemen came riding in full tilt, and crashed into the Polish line from the rear of their left. Another line of men went down, even as the horsemen of the left under Świętosław’s command rode down the line of archers to the rear. It was then that Pravoslav let out a roar of triumph, as the zbrojnošov from Hradec broke through the line. Boško watched from where he stood in the thick of the fighting, as he saw his son’s swordmaster and his own vassal Tas square off with one of the champions in the Polish ranks. The hulking Pole had height and reach on his side, but clearly he had not taken into account Tas’s degree of skill or deft handling of both shield and blade. Twice Tas got under the Pole’s guard and drew blood, and the Pole was forced to stagger backward in among his own ranks, nursing his wounds.

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The Silesian main force which had been besieging Olomouc had gotten word of their Polish rearguard’s engagement, and had turned their attention from the city to this field outside Kroměříž. Already they were shoring up the rear and preventing Tas’s men’s offensive from turning into a total rout. The Silesian spearmen were even doing a passable job holding off further horse charges from the ‘dogs’. It was already too late, however. The Polish line had crumbled in several places, and the Silesians could not get to the fore quickly enough to prevent many of their comrades from being crushed in the maul.

The Silesians slowed them down and prevented Świętosław’s men from riding them down completely. They also provided some cover for an orderly retreat, but the battle was already decidedly lost. The Moravians held the field, and the Silesians were already moving off, back to the north and east, toward Opava. Boško’s men gave chase, cutting down numerous Poles and Silesians as they fled.

‘We’ve beaten them,’ Pravoslav remarked with his usual sang-froid, ‘but we shouldn’t rest easy yet. We haven’t yet seen one-quarter of their strength. This war will go on for some time, I fear.’

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With Olomouc freed from the siege, investing in the dogs already seems to be worth it. This battle may not have won the war, but it certainly won both morale and enough time for further allies to reinforce the Moravians' side.

It is time to win back the honour lost through the queen's misguided actions.
 
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With Olomouc freed from the siege, investing in the dogs already seems to be worth it. This battle may not have won the war, but it certainly won both morale and enough time for further allies to reinforce the Moravians' side.

It is time to win back the honour lost through the queen's misguided actions.

Ohhh yes. The dogs were well worth it, both for the MAA counter and for the commander stats.

As for the war for Silesia, it's going to get a LOT messier...
 
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II.
The Battle of Žilina
10 November 937 – 1 February 938

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Boško put the paper down next to him on his bedroll with a heavy sigh. The long nightly gloom of late November was hurting his mood again, and although he had been waiting a long time for this letter, the news it contained from his wife did nothing to help.

Ocko?’ asked Pravoslav, concerned. ‘What is it? I thought you’d be glad to hear from Mamka.’

Boško closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘If it were ordinary tidings, it would be. Your mother’s wit and her love are the only things which keep me going these nights. But—there, you may read it for yourself.’

Pravoslav took the letter from his father and scanned it quickly in the candlelight. Then his jaw dropped.

‘When—?’

‘Back in early November, from the sound of it,’ Boško’s shoulders hunched, as though he was bearing the weight of the world on them. He crossed himself before saying heavily: ‘She had her faults, sure. But she was a good woman. I pray she finds rest. May God forgive her sins.’

Gospodi pomiluj,’ Pravoslav muttered in dismay, crossing himself as well. ‘Found slumped face-forward at the table over a bowl of wine. This will be hard on Mother: she always looked up to Teta Viera. But it’s got to be just as hard on you. I know you two respected each other as well.’

Boško let out a long breath. ‘We did. I shall go to her grave once this war is over to pay respects.’

‘… Will you be alright?’

‘Thank you, Slávek. She’s in God’s hands now. I’ll be well.’

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Pravoslav straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and left his father in the tent to be alone with his thoughts. A light crust of snow lay over the ground, crunching beneath his feet, and dusted the silent fir branches. Most of the men here were likewise sensibly huddling in the warmth of their tents or in the open around campfires. Pravoslav’s breath hung before him in the biting air. Though he had half expected the cold to cramp his lungs and constrict his windpipe, on the contrary he found the chill salutary for both. He enjoyed the calm as the Silesian winter around Nisa spread its silence thickly from the mountain slopes down through the valleys.

But it was not long before the silence was – not so much broken, but rumpled and slid aside fabric-like – by the dull thudding of hoofbeats. Pravoslav perked his ears. One horse, one rider, moving at speed. What could it portend?

Pravoslav, turning his shaggy black head, soon saw amidst the bare black branches of the trees under snow, the dark form of a horse at rapid gallop approaching their camp. As horse and rider came out into the open, Pravoslav marked at once the heraldic device that belonged to his grandmother, Hilda! And then as the rider himself came into view, his heart gave another jolt. It was Copsige – his younger uncle on his mother’s side. And he looked as though he had been run thoroughly ragged. More than that, his head had clearly been bloodied some while, as a black crust had formed along one side of his scalp, and his eyes seemed oddly unfocussed. Pravoslav ran up to him.

Copsige not so much lit down as slumped off his horse, and his nephew – elder than he by four years and more – caught him beneath the arms and helped him gently to the ground, while signalling for one of the other men in the camp to see to the horse.

‘Copsi! Uncle Copsi! Oh, God – talk to me! What happened to you?’

‘Pravoslav,’ Copsi gasped through his thin sandy-brown beard. ‘Thank God it’s you! I have a message—I’ve come to tell you—’

‘Shh! Still your tongue, uncle. Let’s get you to a fire, get you warm, get you something to drink and get that head looked at. Then you can talk.’

All of that was seen to. Soon Copsige’s head was bandaged well, he had a bowl of ale in hand, and his feet and hands were warming by a fire with Pravoslav and Boško both in attendance. Copsige looked sheepishly to Boško and spoke:

‘I am sorry for stumbling in upon you like this, brother. I was ambushed on the road some ways back. Silesian scouts didn’t want me to make it here.’

‘Well, I’m glad you are here,’ Bohodar the Younger said warmly, gripping his young brother tightly by the shoulder. In his mind, Copsi would always be the rambunctious little boy showing him around his mother’s estate. Yet here he was, an adult with a beard now, looking very grave indeed and staring into the fire. Copsi gave a wry chuckle, and said:

‘It’s all gone wrong. We were too late. Ælfræd led us on to Tešín, thinking there were only about a thousand Silesians standing just over the march in your lands. He didn’t account for the eight hundred more that Miłobrat had waiting in reserve. We held on too long in siege, and soon a force twice as large as we were ready to fend was swooping down on us from two sides. Ælfræd took the only road left to him, southward and across into the Mojmírov lands. But now he’s holed up in the Malá Fatras with no way out. It’s only a matter of time before Miłobrat makes an engagement of it, and then…’

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Copsi shook his head grimly. Father and son shared a look on either side of him.

‘And what of Prokop? How fares our brother?’ asked the king.

‘I know not,’ Copsige owned frankly. ‘I hope he’s well. But he was in Ælfræd’s camp with the rest when I was sent here. He’s more experienced in arms than I am, but I’m the better rider.’

Bohodar grimaced. Copsige had faced him down with a wretched dilemma. If they marched off to aid Ælfræd, who was caught in such a hopeless corner, they would lose Nisa. And by the time they got there, the battle might already have been joined and lost. On the other hand, if they stayed to take Nisa, Boško stood likely to lose his mother’s best commander and his middle brother both. That wasn’t something he could do. Even if it was only an uncertain chance, in Boško’s kindly heart there was no real choice to be made.

‘Well, we’ll see for ourselves, won’t we?’ Boško murmured to his youngest brother. ‘Slávek, see to it that the soldiers are ready to muster as soon as they can be up and ready. And Copsi, I’ll ask you to hang in with us a while longer. We’ll make sure you make the ride in comfort this time. God willing, we’ll make it in time.’

~~~

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The clash of spears echoed again and again off the snow-bound mountain slopes as the two lines of soldiers, Silesian and English, met. Ælfræd shouted to them:

‘Forward! Forward, you bastards! Drive the heathen down!’

‘There’s too many of them,’ grunted one of the housecarls further forward in the fray.

Although the Bedfordian troops held a patch of ground on the slope with no easier way up than the one against which they stood, the more numerous Silesians of Miłobrat continued their upward push, and the English line was beginning to give ground. Boots and foot-wrappings left lengthening backward skids in the snow as the men of Bedanford were surrounded on their mountainside hillock.

‘Ælfræd,’ Prokop shouted back as he held up his corner, straining with exertion and sweating despite the cold as Silesian spear-tips wedged in between the cracks of the shields all around him, ‘we can’t hold out much longer!’

‘We have to,’ Ælfræd said grimly. ‘I only hope your kid brother managed to break the ring and get our message to the Moravians in time.’

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The half-ring of the Silesians was pushing in harder. But in the distance there sounded the blare of a solitary war-horn afar off, faint as yet, but echoing off the mountain slopes with a clarity that couldn’t be mistaken.

‘The dogs!’ Prokop laughed. ‘The dogs of Pomerania have come!’

Another blare of the war-horn, closer this time. And over the mountain slope opposite appeared two hundred Pomeranian steeds with their riders, forming up a line of charge. Prokop laughed harder, almost hysterical in his sheer relief. The perfect position for a mounted assault, and one which Miłobrat could not have foreseen!

The triumphal shouts on the Silesian side turned to alarm as the heathen line reformed itself on the right flank to face the cavalry charge. But the Wojsko Psa had already begun their descent, and were cascading down the slope in an avalanche of thundering hooves.

Among the horsemen the colours of the burgomaster Slavibor could be seen to fly, and Slavibor himself had levelled a spear at the head of the charge.

‘Wit! Form up that line! Don’t let them take our flank!’ Miłobrat shouted.

But it was too late – the horses were upon them now. The crash against the Silesian line struck like thunder, with the dark-bearded Slavibor’s mouth agape in a blood-curdling shriek. Shafts of wood and metal struck through cowering Silesians’ shields, through ring-mails and into flesh, sending sprays of red gore flying out across the slope, staining the snow. As the Silesian flank faltered, the iron-shod hooves of the horses rose and cracked against skulls, snapping shoulders and ribcages in a vicious maul, rising above the enraged snorts of the war horses and the shrieks and gurgles of the dying as bodies and body parts went rolling down the snowy slope. Heathen pummeled heathen into the frozen earth in the unholy fury of the wild dogs.

Slavibor himself, red in tooth and eye, sighted Wit in his colours among the maul, and let out another unearthly howl, charging with his horse and lance levelled straight for the nobleman. Wit tried to get out of the way, but panicked Silesians stood on every side of him, blocking his way. Slavibor caught the nobleman under the shoulder and pinned him to the kolovrat-emblazoned shield of one of the Silesians behind him. He left his spear in the wounded man, unsheathed his sword and was about to land the killing blow when his horse spooked and sent him off downhill after one wing of Silesians in open flight. Wit had survived, but far from unscathed.

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Ælfræd was still grinning at his unexpected salvation by a band of heathen when another war horn sounded from the mountainside opposite. Brightly lit by the waning sun in the west, the banner of the Vlachs – a golden eagle bearing a three-bar cross within its beak upon a gules field, with a star and moon shining upon it from above – showed above the crest. There stood Nikola, despot of the Vlachs. With him came the Thracesians, forming a united line against the Silesians’ left flank.

Miłobrat had thought himself clever to have caught the Bedfordians in a trap. But in the end, the trap was closed upon him. The king of the Moravians and the Wojsko Psa had devastated his right flank, and now the Vlachs and the Thracesian Greeks were pressing in on his left. He had no choice but to give way, and now it was the English pressing forward downhill at long last!

‘Prokop! Prokop, we have come! Oh brother—where are you?’

Boško and Copsige waded across the line of battle toward the beleaguered Bedfordian formation, both of them calling for the brother for whose sake they had come. They came to where the commander was at last, and asked of Ælfræd:

‘Have you seen our brother?’

The Mercian hung his head sadly. ‘The last I saw of him, he was trying to shore up the right flank. I haven’t seen him for the last hour, though.’

The two brothers rushed toward where the right flank had been, and began looking through the pile of bodies strewn about the slope, with hafts and arrow shafts sticking out of the mangle. And then Copsige caught sight of a familiar wisp of fair beard sticking up skyward beneath an English helm. With a cry he made his way over to where Prokop lay. It appeared that Prokop had suffered from grave wounds and loss of blood, and he was not conscious—but he was breathing.

‘Boško, help me!’ cried Copsige as he tried to move his fallen brother. A tear was sliding down his cheek as he lifted him by the greaved ankles.

Boško picked his way across the snowy battleground and took Prokop up under the shoulders, bringing him back safely behind the Bedfordian banner. They laid him out on a clean roll next a fire that had been lately lit. Boško’s face was grim.

‘What have I done?’ he murmured. ‘Prokop – I am so sorry! Please live. I am not sure how I could live with myself losing another kinsman and friend to a war I declared.’

‘Don’t speak so,’ Copsige chided his older brother. ‘Don’t question that God sees and sorts all. Prokop will pull through. And so will you. We have won the day here.’

But the costs of these victories kept mounting.

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III.
The Battle of Opava
14 April 9383 May 938

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The grievous wound that his brother had suffered in the battle of the Malá Fatra Mountains had sent Boško into a grim and dark mood. He was done being baited by Miłobrat and his Silesians. He would ride that bastard to earth and run him through himself if he could do so. He kept his army on the move and made sure that Miłobrat’s had no time to breathe or rest until he could draw him out into another engagement. His one comfort was that Miłobrat of Lesser Poland was now under attack from Gardomír, the chieftain of Nether Silesia. But that action was well to the north of them, and there was no call for either Miłobrat or Boško to move northward to engage.

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It was on the nineteenth of March that a herald from Constantinople arrived with a missive to Bohodar the Younger. The herald was, in fact, a monk of the schema, and his black cowl was drawn up over his head, so that only a long saturnine nose and his full beard of dark curls were visible. He rode on a simple pack animal, but the saddle-bags on either side of the animal he rode were filled to bulging with a cargo that was clearly heavy – nearly as heavy as the monk himself.

‘The peace of Lord Jesus Christ be upon you, o King,’ the monk bowed low. ‘I am come to you with a message from the City. Would you incline your ear?’

Bohodar returned the monk’s bow and indeed asked to kiss his hand. When he had done so, he inquired of the holy man: ‘What news from the City?’

‘O King, the word of your righteous struggle against the forces of darkness and ignorance has reached those of us in the Imperial City. His All-Holiness Tourkotoúrios has sent me to you with a humble gift in Christ’s name, to assist you in these affairs. It is, of course, His All-Holiness’s wish that the bloodshed end swiftly, and that the enlightenment of the One True Faith will spread with equal speed amidst the barbarian lands.’

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Boško nodded respectfully as the monk handed his saddle-bags over to the soldiery, who flung open the leather flaps. The early spring sunlight leapt in joyful bounces from the glittering bounty within them: the eyes of the Slavs widened as they fell upon solid heaps of nomismata, gleaming with the unmistakeable rich yellow glow of the precious metal from which they had been but freshly struck. Fragments of red and green and blue among them, glancing off the facets of precious beryl and corundum, hinted that the Œcumenical Patriarch had been generous not only in coin but also in jewels.

The king knelt before the monk. ‘I am not worthy of so great a gift; but I accept it in gratitude and in the assurance that it shall be put to the uses His All-Holiness wills.’

The monk gave the sign of the cross and lay his hand on the king’s head. ‘Then, may his blessing go with you also, and may your travails be light. Yet the Lord tells us that those who live by the sword must die by the sword—and that is as true for kings and emperors as it is for vassals and servants. Take care of yourself, o King Bohodar. God keep you, and spare a prayer for me, a sinner.’

The gold and gemstones that had been sent to him by the Œcumenical Patriarch had arrived most timely, since Boško had invited into his camp a group of Thuringian mercenaries calling themselves the Frîbłottan or ‘Free Blades’. He had meant these mercenaries, suited as they were to forest warfare, to supplement the Wojsko Psa. However, there had already been reports of fights between the Dogs and the Blades, which did not bode well for their cooperation. Hopefully what the Patriarch had provided, would serve as a useful ‘carrot’ for the Blades.

He summoned the leader of the Frîbłottan, a stout, choleric, fastidious-looking Teuton by the name of Nordbrecht. Althought they were of an age, Nordbrecht’s steel-grey hair and clipped beard contrasted with Świętosław’s lanky mop of white and untrimmed chinstrap. He snapped a sharp salute to Boško, who opened a hand to the Thuringian.

‘I have heard there have been several… incidents between your men and the Wojsko Psa,’ Boško rebuked the mercenary captain sharply. ‘I will warn you only once: I will not have such unruly and undisciplined behaviour within my camp. Is that understood?’

Nordbrecht bristled visibly, but answered: ‘Understood, lord King. There shall be no more incidents. However, we have not yet reached an agreement with regard to the term of service…’

‘You may consider that agreement reached, as of now.’ Boško’s voice became calm, and he had two of his men-at-arms bring forward the saddlebags left by the Constantinopolitan monk. They opened the saddlebags for the German captain, who eyed the contents with evident avarice. ‘This should be more than enough to cover the terms we discussed, I am sure.’

The Thuringian harrumphed. ‘Yes. Well. I shall ensure that my men are kept well out of the way of the Company of the Dog. You have my assurances for the good behaviour of all of my men, and we shall indeed commit ourselves to your righteous cause.’

‘Good. You already know of our plans to march on the enemy in the forests by Opava. I expect your men to keep up the pace.’

‘And keep up we shall,’ Nordbrecht answered happily. ‘Miłobrat won’t know what hit him.’

As it turned out, Miłobrat had backed himself into a corner. He couldn’t make good enough time through the wooded forests of Opava, and soon found himself in a blind valley on the slopes of Mount Praděd. But he made the best use of the terrain all the same, and scattered his forces throughout the woods, giving particular place to the archers.

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As Boško entered the woods with his men and with his two bands of hired blades, he soon understood that he had made the right choice in hiring Nordbrecht and his Thuringians. These were men who knew the forests like the backs of their hands, and were well accustomed to fighting in them. Against archers in the woods, they had their shields ready, and were at all times ready to use those shields which God had provided to them in the form of the trees that were busy sending forth bright yellow-green buds. The whizzing of arrows, and their thuds into wood, made themselves heard in the air. This was no battle in the open – there would be no lines of battle, no bold charges. The fighting here was reliant on surprise, stealth and the quicker brutality of single combat. But the clashing of blades and the rise of cries resounded throughout the wood.

Nordbrecht and his men used silent hand signals combined with whistles to send orders and direct men forward, back or off to the flanks. The Frîbłottan thus were able to catch many of the Silesian archers off-guard and despatch them without much trouble. But the footmen were another tale: they had wised up to the Thuringians’ tactics and begun moving in groups of three, so that even if the Thuringian got a drop on them, he would still be facing two fresh bodies after losing the element of surprise. Nordbrecht gave a sharp, rising whistle and circled his hand up. The Thuringians who had been fanning out into the woods drew together again into a larger group to await new orders.

But in so doing they had let slip a crucial opportunity. Jaroslav Rychnovský saw it first, and let out a shout. The core of Miłobrat’s men-at-arms had broken through after Nordbrecht had pulled his men back, and were making a break around Boško’s rear lines. Miłobrat had evidently given over the fight as lost, having been hounded this long by the Moravian king. Trapped and baited like a cornered bear, Miłobrat had taken the only opportunity that offered to a man desperate of his own survival and freedom, and slipped the noose that Boško had strung for him.

‘My liege!’ Jaroslav cried. ‘He’s on the run!’

‘Stop him!’ Boško cried. ‘Fetch him down if you must!’

And that was when the Wojsko Psa sprang into action. The Pomeranian riders picked their way out of the woods and broke into gallop once they reached the open. But this time Miłobrat had learned his lesson! His men-at-arms formed a tight rearguard, and held shields and spears fast and firm against the oncoming horsemen. Two charges from Świętosław’s men reached their lines and were repulsed before they were near to reaching another thicket of forest and safe from further cavalry charges. And then another moment that caused Boško’s stomach to lurch.

Tas Přemyslovec, his loyal and dependable hrabě, made a third desperate attempt to breach the retreating line with a handful of horsemen, even though Świętosław had already turned and was heading back to Boško’s position.

The desperate last-stand charge against the retreating heathen prince was a doomed one, but Boško looked on in horror as one of the well-seated spear-points caught Tas behind the shield and struck him straight in the chest. His body jerked unnaturally from the impact. Even from this distance, the Moravian king could see that the spear-head that emerged from Tas’s body had been stained with his blood. Tas’s horse, a well-trained animal, backed up and out of reach of the weapons of the foe, and bore his wounded master back with the rest of the horsemen toward the Moravian line. He didn’t make it there atop his horse, but slumped forward and fell from his saddle when he was within twenty yards.

Pravoslav had not uttered a word or a cry when he had seen his trusted master fall, but his face blanched and he loped forward with urgency, such that he was the first to reach him. Pravoslav and Jaroslav together bore him up and back to safety.

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Boško never forgot the sight, later that week, when he visited the tents of the sick and injured in the camp. He saw Tas, pale from the loss of blood, laid out next to Prokop who was in similar condition. Both men were being given every attention from leech and priest that could be spared, but neither Tas nor Prokop had possession of their senses as yet, and they clung but tenuously to life and dignity in their present state. The king crossed himself, allowed a single tear to escape his eyes, and kissed each loyal man on the forehead. Was it sorrow? Was it gratitude? Was it contrition? And was it worth it?

‘Ocko,’ Pravoslav told him, ‘may I have a word with you? Alone, out of earshot?’

His tone was grave. Boško nodded to his son, and went outside the tent. Once they were beyond any possibility of eavesdropping, Pravoslav told him the news.

‘Father… Miłobrat has been captured.’

Boško’s face froze. ‘Who has him?’

‘Gardomír,’ Pravoslav said simply.

Boško gave the ground a sharp, angry kick. His rage simmered under his breath. ‘After all we’ve suffered? After everything we’ve sacrificed? For Gardomír simply to swoop in and—! Is all of this for naught? Has God turned His back on us?’

‘That’s not all,’ Pravoslav said. ‘King Nikola has abandoned us, as has the Count of the Paphlagonians. They have turned their troops to the south and are marching in haste back toward the Greek lands.’

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What?!’ Boško gave his son the shocked look of a man who had just been stabbed.

‘We would do best to retreat to a place of safety and regroup,’ Pravoslav told his father calmly, though the grim set to his mouth bespoke his own feelings and doubts. ‘All may not be lost yet. Father – do not despair!’

But both Tas and Prokop were now lying grievously wounded, their lives hanging by threads, mere breaths away from doom. Now he was facing the troops, fresh and overwhelming in number, of the heathens of Lower Silesia. And now Boško was fighting for Silesia and for his father’s honour without the support of the Vlachs or of the Greeks. If there was hope at all, he was having trouble seeing it.

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Winning the battles at a high cost (these Moravians are clearly adepts of leading their men from the front), only for another heathen vulture to sweep in and seize the prize of victory - things definitely could have gone better.

But after that high cost, with the endorsement of the church, there's no turning back.
 
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Winning the battles at a high cost (these Moravians are clearly adepts of leading their men from the front), only for another heathen vulture to sweep in and seize the prize of victory - things definitely could have gone better.

But after that high cost, with the endorsement of the church, there's no turning back.

Indeed! Yeah, I wasn't happy to see the AI take the prize after all the fighting I did. Had to keep going on, though it did cost me...
 
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IV.
The Battle at the Gates of Velehrad
25 April 93912 May 939

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Boško knelt in front of the stone stacek that stood before him in the snow. Everything was still grey yet in the pre-dawn light, but he did not want to be seen here by anyone else. He knelt and he wept. Great wrenching tears.

His brother was gone. And Boško was at fault. And he knew it.

Prokop had succumbed in his sleep, never having awakened. And now, here in the foothills of the Novohradské hory in the last gasp of winter, he had been laid to rest beneath this simple monument: a cross carved thickly and roughly out of the local stone, inscribed simply with his name. At least, unlike their father, Boško knew where he lay.

This war had all gone wrong. His half-brother Copsige had taken to holding nightly vigils, kneeling each night in prayer, rope in hand and the kyrie constantly upon his tongue. Gardomír had taken Miłobrat’s place in the war, and he had done so with a vengeance the likes of which the Moravians had never yet seen. Not only Opava now, but Přerov as well, and now even Olomouc, was beset by armies numbering over ten thousand. And in their ungodly fury, they were leaving not one village unmolested, not one household unplundered, not one stalk of grass standing erect. Boško could never hope to defeat such a force on his own. Count Tas was still struggling for his life in the tents for the sick. And his own allies, King Nikola of the Vlachs among them, had abandoned him in his hour of need.

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But that was not the worst of it. In declaring this war for Silesia, he had brought this fate down upon himself, upon his kin – Prokop most notably now – and upon his whole land and country. He couldn’t remember the last night he hadn’t stood wide awake, or broken with nightmares. He was facing utter defeat and ruin at the hands of the heathen. Was this a punishment upon him for his sins? Was God indeed sending down this chastisement upon him for his hubris? Was this a divine comeuppance for uncovering the nakedness of his father’s sister, for lying with her in incestuous union?

Such was the darkness that took his thoughts these days. He heaved a deep and trembling sigh, turning his head to look out eastward over the ranging hilltops, the black treetops and the snowbound bare slopes, and out toward where he knew Olomouc lay. The thought of ten thousand Poles ransacking his beloved homeland and laying waste to every town and village that lay in their path made him sick to his stomach. What would happen if Olomouc surrendered? What would happen to his children? What would happen – he dared not think of it – to his beloved Blažena?

He turned forward again, touched his fingers to his forehead, and then to his breast, and then to his left and then his right shoulder, kissing his fingers and placing them reverently on the stone before him. Even if God was chastising him… even though his brother was dead… there was nothing he could do now but push forward. Prokop would have told him that there was nothing else to be done. Indeed, his brother had fallen defending a hopeless position against a superior foe. Who was Boško to flinch away when his brother had held the line? Still, his heart was heavy with the burden of many cares. He had a country to save from his own folly.

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He spent some further moments kneeling in the snow before his brother’s grave, and it was then that Pravoslav and Jaroslav approached him, both in full mail, along with two other men.

Ocko,’ Pravoslav addressed him. ‘We have news for you.’

Boško’s shoulders went rigid, as he braced himself for whatever his son would tell him. But it was one of the men who stepped forward, his thin black moustache and beard dipping apologetically.

‘Lord Moravia,’ spoke the King of the Vlachs, ‘I apologise for having taken off southward without giving you due notice. Our armies were badly in need of rearmament and resupply, and we were facing a general mutiny if we did not. But we have brought our armies back to you – myself and Komēs Stephanos – with fresh recruits, provisions and materiel. I pray you will forgive us.’

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Boško, not being a resentful or vengeful man, welcomed Nikola back into his fold – and Stephanos beside him as well – with open arms. ‘Your arrival couldn’t be more timely, given what we face in the east.’

‘Well then,’ the pleasantly-surprised Nikola answered Boško returned the fellow ruler’s fathom, ‘I’d better inform you that isn’t the only good news, in that event. The Eastern Emperor has also mobilised. He’s sending over 5,000 soldiers and kataphraktoi northward to join us.’

‘You could have told me that from the start,’ Boško said shrewdly.

‘I could have, but then I wasn’t quite sure yet of the welcome we would receive.’

‘You don’t know the heart you’ve put back in me, Nik,’ Boško told him. ‘With what troops we have here, and yours and Stephanos’s, as well as the Eastern Romans… we may in fact stand a chance.’

‘That’s the idea.’

~~~

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As the Polish and Silesian heathen had marched on Olomouc, the Queen and her entourage had fled southward toward the second ‘king’s seat’ in Velehrad. It had rankled Blažena to run like this, but the town provost himself as well as the rest of the court had insisted upon it. But now even Velehrad was beset by the many thousands of heathen troops, hell-bent on destruction. From here there would be no more running.

Blažena might be a woman, but she had been raised to lead men. And she had personally taken to organising the defences of the crown jewel of Veľká Morava with every ounce of nerve and stubbornness she had in her. She knew the weapons, the defences, the siege equipment, and the store of supplies that the town had to hold out against the fury of the heathen, however hopeless such a stand was. However alien it was to her sceptical nature—she had to keep faith. And if there was one person, one power, in which she had faith… it was that of her nephew. It wasn’t until he was absent, and she felt that absence keenly, that she knew how deeply she needed him, and had always needed him.

The memories of him kept coming back to her. When she had gone to the plum tree and sat with that serious red-haired little boy – to offer him not false comforts but a listening ear. When she had taken her nephew to the abandoned shed to practise kissing, delighting in forbidden touch. When he had brought her back, as her husband, to that same shed to make slow steamy love to her in the sweet dewy summer grass. When she had blown up at the naïf for sending Pravoslav off into the waiting snares of that conniving Mojmírová minx. And when he had stood beside her to welcome Marija Kobilić to Olomouc. And now she was here, clad in her own mail, watching the wall in the pre-dawn grey and gazing bleakly down at the deep formations of the enemy with their kolovrat-emblazoned shields below.

But then she saw the rear ranks begin to stir. Blažena rubbed her eyes, thinking it had to be a trick of the light. But no… there was definite movement out there. The rear guard of the Poles was moving to fend off an attack! But from where?

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The blare of a distant war-horn keened on the edge of her hearing. And that’s when she saw the shifts of the light on the misty horizon, the trails of dust left by what could only be the charge of a veteran corps of riders. It was the Wojsko Psa – the Pomeranian Dogs, with their lances couched for deadly impact! Blažena let out a cry of delight despite herself – her husband had arrived!

The charge had arrived boldly, and had crashed headlong into the unprepared rear of the Polish armies. But the Dogs had given way to the Blades of the Thuringii behind them, and the cold efficient ruthlessness with which Nordbrecht had taken advantage of the confusion was admirable to see. The rear line went down completely beneath the German hirelings’ onslaught. Though she couldn’t see it from the wall, Nordbrecht himself was on the front lines in the dwindling night, reveling with an evil glint in his eye in the marauding slaughter. A Thuringian bred and born for plunder, pillage, burning and flames, Nordbrecht was eager to shed the blood of man and beast and give these Poles just what they were asking for… up close and personal. The beating of his heart echoed the pounding of the war-drums, and he let out a blood-curdling shriek as he swung his axe again and again into the faces of his enemies. And beside him the Thuringian Helferich was fighting with equal savagery, and even managed to trample down one of the enemy champions in his rage. Such was the fury of the Teuton that even the Moravians who were fighting alongside him baulked at his aggression.

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But the jubilation was short-lived. Three thousand more Polish troops had arrived on the field from the east, and had already taken up position behind the Moravian lines. Boško was trapped between a two-pronged assault. Even worse, some Polish riders had escaped the ring and were breaking off northward. Even Blažena watching from the walls understood what that meant. Gardomír’s main force – five thousand men – would be bending their steps southward to join this fray.

‘Archers, at the ready!’ Blažena ordered. ‘If they stray too close to the gates, loose your arrows! You—watchmen! Ready the anti-siege weaponry!’

She didn’t know how effective that would be, but it would be something. This battle for her country’s fate and her own was taking place right below her at the very gates of Velehrad, and she would not sit idle while it unfolded in front of her.

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Several contingents of Greek kataphraktoi began to ride in, and started harrying the Poles on the rearguard, hemming them in. But the Poles were too many by now. Even without the main force, there were over four thousand of the foe on the field, and fewer than three thousand of Moravia’s allies. The Poles had the advantage of position, and the Moravians were left split fighting in two directions outward. And still worse: the main Silesian siege force had arrived, and now the Moravians were completely surrounded. Blažena peered out into the rising dust and din of battle to see where her husband’s vane was flying, and whether he was still alive or not.

Yes—there he was! Together with a tight gathering of his zbrojnošov and champions. But he was hard-pressed. Boško was there, but he was stooped… he was holding up his shield and dragging behind it, so it appeared, one of his kinsmen in mail. It looked like Ostromír! His helm was broken and he was covered with blood. But he was gotten to safety, and there went Boško again to the front, against the closing shields of his enemies.

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Against her own better judgement, Blažena herself stood atop the Velehrad town wall and raised the red vane of Moravia against the brightening western sky. Amidst the fight below, she singled out Boško where he was fighting, and silently willed it that he might look up and behold her.

And so he did. Boško caught sight of his magnificent wife standing tall upon the ramparts, her iron-grey braids looped around her ears and her firm chin jutting straight forward. The king of Moravia took heart and rejoined the fight with new spirit at the sight of his aunt and beloved – as a pilot might do at the sudden sight of the pole star in a cloudy night sky. He struck forward with a new vengeance, and kept the line together with his own shield in the fore. The Moravians and their Greek and English allies were not going under – not though they were less than five thousand and now arrayed against more than eight thousand!

And then the wonder that turned the tide. Around from the south wall, the emblem of King Nikola appeared, with four thousand Vlach riders and archers with him! Arrows flew thick in swarm down upon the Silesian troops, who – caught unawares by them – fell in great numbers. And the Vlach riders made pass after pass, thinning the ranks that remained. Boško couldn’t help himself. He laughed long and hard in his relief. It couldn’t be said that the battle before the Velehrad gates had yet been won, but at least now the Moravians had a fighting chance!

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‘Let the king himself come forth!’ roared a Polish voice in the din. ‘Let Lord Moravia have single combat with this chieftain! And then we shall see whether Rod or whether the crucified Jew carries the day!’

‘No,’ answered a voice beside Boško. ‘Here is your opponent!’

It was Pravoslav, his trimmed black beard jutting forward proudly as he strode forward into the clear where the Poles had made space. An awed hush fell over the field and the fighting subsided as the crown prince of Moravia with his round shield and his long blade took his place in the ring. Answering him was a high-born Pole, fair of hair and beard, and standing about a hand taller than Pravoslav.

‘So!’ the Polish chieftain sneered. ‘It’s not the King but the King’s son who has the stomach to face Trojden one-on-one? One or the other, Rod will not abandon me this day. Say your prayers, boy.’

Pravoslav calmly levelled his blade at Trojden, and then banged it on the metal rim of his shield. Turning it in his hand and gripping firmly, he began to step in a circle around the Pole. The single combat had begun. Now it would be seen, whether or not the training that the still-unconscious hrabě Tas Přemyslovec had given the prince had borne any fruit.

The flurry of strikes that Trojden aimed at Pravoslav’s head, shoulders, thighs and upper arms were deftly executed, and for a heart-wrenching moment as he watched, Boško feared they had connected. But no – Pravoslav still stood, his shield up and his sword held ready behind it. The Polish chieftain was bigger, stronger, longer-armed, and he had more breath in him than the asthmatic prince who was fighting him. But Pravoslav’s dark eyes burned with concentration and he did not give one step to his opponent. Instead, he calmly took his opponent’s measure and made several close cuts of his own that suddenly seemed to put Trojden on the defensive.

Unbidden, the words of the Psalmist came to Boško’s lips. ‘Though the Lord be high, yet hath He respect unto the lowly: but the proud he knoweth afar off. Though I walk in the midst of trouble, thou wilt revive me: thou shalt stretch forth thine hand against the wrath of mine enemies, and thy right hand shall save me…

If only he could have known it, his wife on the ramparts was at the same moment uttering a rare prayer of her own as their son fought for his life and for Moravia’s honour. If there was ever a moment where the will of God might be shown for Boško and Blažena, for Radomír wherever he lay, for Velehrad, for the whole of the Moravian land – this was that moment.

Boško gave a sharp gasp. Blood was trickling down Pravoslav’s cheek! He had taken a heavy blow to the face, and was shaking his head in an attempt to draw up his concentration again. Trojden was bearing down on him and forcing him back to the edge of the ring on the Polish side – yea even against the very shields of the enemy. But Pravoslav wasn’t done yet. Placing one foot carefully beside the other and working his way to the side, he fended off blow after blow with no worse injury to himself. Trojden’s breath was beginning to show as well, now. His attacks came harder and faster, but he was clearly beginning to tire. Even so, Boško craned his neck to try to see his son, but he was hidden entirely behind the bulk of the Polish chieftain.

But suddenly Trojden checked in his step, as though hesitating, or shocked by something. Boško wondered why he didn’t move. He couldn’t see what he was doing. But then he caught a glint in the light underneath Trojden’s helm. The end of a blade, gleaming ruby with blood, protruded from the back of the Polish chieftain’s neck. And then, hardly daring to believe his own vision, Boško beheld the proud Polish chieftain’s shoulders droop and the strength leave his knees and back. Pravoslav withdrew his deadly blade from Trojden’s neck, and the Polish chieftain slumped lifeless to the ground like a split sack of grain.

God had indeed given a sign. At the very gates of Velehrad, the Moravians had been vindicated.

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Seeing one of their chieftains fall in single combat, the Poles lost heart. The Vlachs were able to join up with the Moravian and Greek lines by the middle, and the Polish troops began beating the retreat before the Moravians could recoup and give chase. But give chase they did. Boško waded into the ring and found his exhausted son, who was wheezing and still bleeding on his cheek, but relieved to have his life yet. The Moravian king raised his sword and gave a cry aloud: ‘Za údolím!’

And eight thousand voices answered him – Moravian, Greek, English and Vlach: ‘Za údolím!
 
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V.
The Battle of Dvůr-Chvojno
2 April 940 – 20 May 940

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The following six months after the battle at the gates of Velehrad were spent chasing the remaining Polish raiders out of the Moravian lands and attempting to restore what they had taken to the towns and villages they had plundered. But Gardomír and his allies for the most part moved away into the north of the country and began to harry the lands of the Češi as the winter began to set in. In particular the lands which had once sworn fealty to Kochan were hit hard by the raiders, but they even went so far as to strike at Praha. There was little that Boško could do at this distance but send a modest sum of silver to the faithful of the town to help them rebuild.

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As the weather began to thaw, the rivers to melt and the ground to soften, however, Boško began to move his armies northwest into Hradec. Despite the defeat they had been handed at Velehrad, the armies of Gardomír were still over eight thousand strong, and not to be underestimated. And so the Moravian king led them roundabout through the backcountry, to approach Hradec from the west. The spring mud made the travel difficult, and the zbrojnošov complained about the march.

‘This isn’t good,’ Jaroslav complained to his kinsman. ‘The march is taking too much of our time on the road, and the griping of the men isn’t helping matters.’

‘It can’t be helped,’ Pravoslav answered, wheezing a bit as he squelched through the spring mud. ‘We need to break up Gardomír’s formation somehow, and we can’t do that unless we come at them from a direction they don’t expect.’

‘The element of surprise?’ Jaroslav raised a quizzical brow. ‘We’re going to lose that – our approach will be too slow. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Gardomír already knew we were here.’

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They broke clear from the forest just west of Hradec six days later, and happened upon a small detachment of some thousand Poles. Their commander, however, was little more than a child, beardless and with a pudding-bowl haircut. He had little control over his men, who broke formation and fled after two hours of engagement. They managed to capture alive a Polish volkhv yclept Mačko, and one of the enemy champions who gave his name as Nitrabor. They fled into the northeast, and Boško gave the order to break off pursuit and let them run. Their main quarry lay elsewhere.

‘A distraction,’ Jaroslav grimaced. ‘What sort of fools does Gardomír take us for?’

‘We’ll soon find out, won’t we?’ answered Pravoslav.

The Moravian army, its allies and hirelings, all marched southeast from the outskirts of Hradec, up into the rolling, greening hills toward the village of Chvojno. The village, which was built along a bare earthen crossroads, was deserted as the Moravian army passed through: the people of Chvojno had all fled into the hills to evade the wrath of the Poles and Silesians as they moved through. Yet the village itself remained untouched. Had they lost the trail?

Hardly. The combined Polish-Silesian force under Gardomír was lying in wait on the edge of the wood lying northeast of the town, and they were able to watch the oncoming Moravians as they entered the village and pick their time to engage. And so they did.

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One of the Polish chieftains, Aleksander, moved forward with his troops as the archers in the shade of the wood behind them nocked their bows and loosed a flight of arrows into the village, before the Moravians had time to arrange their line. Shields came up too late, and many Moravians fell under the volley. Pravoslav at once began shouting orders to the rear line to answer in kind as Jaroslav took charge of the zbrojnošov at the front. Nordbrecht had already taken his division on the left into the field and was charging up the gentle slope with the Blades. The brutal clash sounded.

The Moravians had the clear advantage of numbers, and three thousand troops supplied by Emperor Dauidēs made themselves more than useful when they arrived on the right flank. Gradually, painfully, the roll of battle swept uphill and forced the Poles and Silesians back into the wood. But they had a few more tricks up their sleeves.

Two thousand Silesians joined Aleksander from the rear, led by Krystyn—the impetuous, golden-bearded young son and heir of Gardomír. When he saw the standard of Upper Silesia in the field, Boško cried aloud to Pravoslav:

‘Take him! Take him! If we can take him, this war and Silesia are ours!’

Pravoslav left the archers under command and waded forward into the fray alongside the Thuringian Blades. Looking across the field, he saw Aleksander’s main banner lean in toward the right, where the Greek soldiers were still pressing in, led by an Armenian commander named Vetam. But Pravoslav had a more important and pressing goal.

The Blades had been stopped in their tracks on the hillside, but were holding steady. Pravoslav led a handful of zbrojnošov out around their rear, northward into the spruce and birch lining that clearing. Having done so undetected, he gave the signal, and they all leapt out into the open.

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Their timing couldn’t possibly have been better. As they launched their attack, Pravoslav saw Aleksander’s vane go down underneath a charge by the Greek kataphraktoi. It looked as though the Polish war-leader himself had been trampled down in the failing line – though it appeared that the Doux of Dalmatia had also been bloodily unhorsed and mangled in that scrap. The rest of the Poles and Silesians were thrown into disarray, and some of them began fleeing back past the Moravian crown prince into the forest. But Pravoslav had only one goal, and he soon managed to reach him amid the chaotic break. Krystyn himself was before him, and Pravoslav engaged him in combat with the blade.

The Silesian boy held himself fairly well, but Pravoslav’s skill with the blade – honed as it was by the aid of the injured Count Tas now recuperating back in Olomouc – was far superior. That became evident in no long time, as Krystyn made two costly missteps and lost control of his footing and his blade. Pravoslav lunged, twisted, and wrenched the blade out of Krystyn’s hands. It went flying off out over the ground, coming to rest at the roots of a nearby spruce. Pravoslav held the tip of his blade at the neck of Gardomír’s son, who put his empty hands in the air in a clear gesture of surrender.

‘I have him!’ Pravoslav shouted out to the Blades. Krystyn was handed back to them as the remainder of the heathen soldiers melted into the wood.

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~~~​

Three days afterward, the proud, yellow-bearded Gardomír himself strode into the Moravian camp, accompanied by four of his boldest men-at-arms. The watch officer had admitted him once he’d made it known he’d come to parley for his son’s freedom, and Boško, along with Pravoslav, Jaroslav, Nordbrecht and Świętosław, was there to greet him.

‘Well met, Gardomír,’ the Moravian king offered his hand. Gardomír, cross-armed, did not take it.

‘You are holding my son,’ the Silesian chieftain jutted his chin.

‘We are,’ Boško answered him. ‘He has been well-treated. Bring him.’

Jaroslav hauled forth the humbled, defeated and captured Krystyn. His hands were not bound, and he had suffered no injury save that to his pride. The father bristled at seeing his son thus, but approved of the manner of his treatment.

‘How may I receive him back from you?’ asked Gardomír.

‘Fair is fair, as even the followers of Rod know,’ Boško told Gardomír. ‘In return for my release of your son, you shall release my father – or rather, his good name. All of the lands which were lost to Queen Bratromila in your wars against her, those will be returned to me in exchange for your son’s life.’

Gardomír ground his teeth. ‘Fair is fair’, but this Moravian king was clearly pressing his advantage to the full. Still… without a son to inherit after his own death, what good was land to Gardomír, even so much as Upper Silesia? The Silesian chieftain gave the slightest incline of his head, and bit out: ‘Agreed.’

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After a formal agreement was written up and witnessed between the two rulers, and then handed back to Boško for safekeeping, then the Moravian king inclined his head and signalled Jaroslav to release Krystyn back into his father’s care. Gardomír, Krystyn and the Silesian men-at-arms thereupon withdrew.

‘Now, to other business,’ Boško murmured to himself. Aloud, though, he called: ‘Bring me my grandsons, Zdravomil and Vitemir. Also, bring Alvydas iš Kulmas before me.’

The messengers were sent at once. Returning to Chvojno, where the king was still encamped, they brought Zdravomil, Vitemír and Alvydas before Boško, who regarded them with great solemnity.

‘My kinsmen, and my guest. You are among the first to bear witness to this wonderful news: that the Silesian marchlands are once again in the hands of Great Moravia. Speaking for myself, it is enough to know that God has vindicated my long-suffering and much-maligned father, and cleared his name of the charge of cowardice forever in the eyes of our people. For you three, however: with new lands come new titles, and I entrust them to your names. Zdravomil, step forward.’

The sandy-haired seven-year-old trod timidly forward toward his grandfather the king. Boško had drawn the sword of his office and held it hilt-forward to the young boy, who laid his hand upon it. The king then took the seven-year-old’s humble oaths swearing everlasting loyalty to Boško and to his descendants – Pravoslav chief among them. Boško then took the sword back and touched the pommel first to Zdravomil’s forehead, then his chest, and then each shoulder in turn.

‘Rise, Zdravomil Rychnovský, hrabě of Břeh!’

The awed seven-year-old stood, and kissed the pommel of the sword which was offered to him, bowing and withdrawing. Then it was Vitemír’s turn to be called forward. The fearless dark-haired four-year-old trotted forward in gleeful imitation of his older cousin, and made the same oaths in his lisping child’s voice that Zdravomil had. At last Boško crossed his sword-hilt over Vitemír as well.

‘Rise, Vitemír Rychnovský, hrabě of Těšín.’

And then it was Alvydas’s turn. The homely-looking, stringy-haired Prussian had been fidgeting as he knelt, and it was with barely decent haste that the young man knelt to receive his own fief from the hands of the king. He rushed his way through the oaths, eager to be done with the ritual. At last Boško crossed him and intoned:

‘Rise, Alvydas iš Kulmas, hrabě of Bytom.’

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Alvydas kissed the king’s sword-hilt and withdrew. At last the ceremonies were over. And then the king turned to Pravoslav and told him:

‘Send word to Olomouc. I will be calling a hunt on my return there, and also declaring a general amnesty for all who have been taken prisoner in this war, both high-born and low-born. Not one prisoner should be left within the walls of Olomouc – see to it.’

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‘I shall, Father,’ Pravoslav bowed. He didn’t know whether he himself would be so generous in his father’s place, but he well understood his father’s relief that it was all over now.

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Heh.
Will say no more.
Hmmm.

Somehow missed this one below:
‘That was when Radomír the Terrible was ruling. (...)‘
...which prompts a still-shot of a figure, sitting on a rugged throne, brows knitted down; the screen slowly zooms-in towards the calm but the monstrous fury pouring from the eyes, with The Beast (Jóhann Gunnar Jóhannsson, soundtrack from Sicario, 2015) in the background playing.


Gospodi pomiluj,’ Pravoslav muttered in dismay, crossing himself as well. ‘Found slumped face-forward at the table over a bowl of wine. This will be hard on Mother: she always looked up to Teta Viera
Farewell, Viera. ‘Suozi suozi Viera! Guota magadla Viera… Iz, slâf in ruowa, Muoti ist bî, Fatti ist ouh bî, Vierilîn.’ (for the late comers: B.I, Ch.3)


‘What have I done?’ he murmured. ‘Prokop – I am so sorry! Please live. I am not sure how I could live with myself losing another kinsman and friend to a war I declared.’
Yes Boško, what have thou done?


(...) but he well understood his father’s relief that it was all over now.
Finally, the horror is over, and -


(Your friendly watchdog from fact-checkers of fictional lores cuts in abruptly:
Contesting to the -

Your friendly nerdic defender of the fictional lores jumps in immediately:
You again! I warned you, do not interfere for your frivolous objections! Have you forgotten your outrageous scandal for lion rampant or?

Friendly watchdog insists, while looking at its adversary threateningly:
I want to point out that the latest chapters lack the threadmarks again; they are necessary especially for the new readAARs.

Nerdic defender looks confused, then proceeds with an unwilling affirmation, yet fights back for the winning punch:
In that case, I would concur, but that is a stylistic choice of the publication; if you would check it more carefully, the last two chapters are with multiple parts, and they are exempted from the threadmark system, whereas their initial parts are already labelled as chapters seven and eight.

Friendly watchdog yields:
Fine. I yield. Though the scandal that you accused me of, that was not me, but the epic fail of the boss. You and I; we are not done.

Nerdic defender boasts:
Any time, any where, any AAR, I am ready to defend everything against you.

Friendly watchdog turns its back, walks away:
We will meet again; and you are free to try.

It is now clear, that the animosity between the two former friends Friendly watchdog and Nerdic defender has evolved into a war, which will resume forever, until all will be consumed by it)
 
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Book Two Chapter Nine
NINE
Unto the Remission of Sins
21 May 942 – 19 September 942

‘Brother? May I come in?’

‘Absolutely.’

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Boško looked to see his half-brother Copsige enter the room. It was still a bit disconcerting to the King of Moravia to see this young scion of his mother’s bearing in his monastic paraman and cassock, and the way the candlelight reflected off his neatly-bearded face, grave as it was, made him look for a moment almost like the pale ghost of the brother they had both lost. But this impression was fleeting.

‘I bring news. It will likely not surprise you.’

Not good news, then.

Copsige sighed, before crossing himself. ‘Mother is dead. Died in her sleep, peacefully, two months ago. She wanted me to give you this.’

From his cassock Copsige produced a folded, slightly crinkled piece of vellum and handed it to Boško. It was sealed. Without even having to touch the dark red wax, Boško knew what it was and what it contained.

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‘Mother was… grateful, that her husband’s name and honour were avenged,’ Copsige spoke – though in a carefully-dispassionate tone that suggested a struggle to put behind him all struggles for good name, honour and earthly vengeance. ‘She doesn’t blame you at all for Prokop’s death, and she would not have you blame yourself either. No more so would I.’

‘That is easier said than done,’ Boško said wryly. ‘My sins weigh heavily upon me. And some of them, I cannot easily be absolved from.’

‘I will pray for you all the same.’

Boško regarded his younger brother fondly. How like Prokop—and yet how unlike he was! He had no doubt at all in his mind that Copsige would take to his monastic vocation with every ounce of his formidable spirit, and still less that Copsige would pray for him with every fibre of his heart. He knew from experience that Copsige was a fighter, and he would fight all the fiercer now that his fight was against the old man and against the demons.

‘I thank you.’

‘If that is all, then, I must be getting back to the monastery for Vespers.’

‘God go with you,’ Boško bade his brother.

The door closed, and Boško was left alone once more. Hilda… he hadn’t been particularly close to his mother, and he was a bit distressed that her death didn’t bother him more. But her death did push him closer to a determination he had been building toward ever since the end of the Silesian war. With a sigh, he drew out from the stack of papers on his desk a map of the Mediterranean basin, with a route sketched out coming down out of the Carpathians, and around the eastern edge of the Middle Sea to Jerusalem.

~~~

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Boško began preparing his journey together with a small band of fellow-pilgrims. His wife had come forward to bid him farewell, though not much needed to be said between them – they had already said a long, tender and thoroughly agreeable goodbye all throughout the previous night. Pravoslav and Marija were there as well, with their brood. He packed his provisions and his silver together in saddlebags on the back of a small beast-of-burden, as well as his bedroll and teld. It was then that he noticed his grandson – Pravoslav’s and Marija’s son Radomír, who was second in line for the throne – come up to where his beast of burden was.

‘I see two saddlebags here,’ the fetching little nine-year-old said. ‘Where is your third?’

‘Third?’ asked the king. The nine-year-old regarded his grandfather with deep gravity.

‘Every pilgrim,’ Radomír intoned, ‘must have three bags. This is what your rider Ladislav told me. One bag is for silver, the second is for patience, and the third is for faith.’

‘You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Ladislav, haven’t you?’ Boško ruffled his grandson’s dark hair.

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‘Yes, a bit,’ Radomír admitted with a slight smile. It was true, Boško had to admit – in the time that he’d been back home from the Silesian war, he had noticed that Radomír had become much better at waiting for things – even as important as dinner – without complaint and without losing interest. Evidently Ladislav, who had distinguished himself in the Silesian war with his ability to take the opportune moment, was having a salutary influence on the young boy.

‘That one is for my silver, and the other for my patience,’ the king answered. ‘My faith I keep about me, on my person. Remember what Our Lord Christ said: if a man has faith only as small as a mustard seed, he might move mountains with it.’

Boško gave Radomír a hug and a kiss on the forehead, and made the sign of the Cross upon it. Radomír returned to his father’s side and looked on as his grandfather set out upon the southward road.

Boško’s route took him southward through the Pannonian lands to join the well-travelled Jerusalem Road, and then through the land of the Serbs and the Bulgarians, before it entered the Eastern Empire and continued through Alexandroupolē into Asia Minor. Their journey was uneventful, until one night at a pilgrims’ wayhouse just outside the Pannonian town of Ráb, Boško overheard a group of Germans laughing and joking amongst themselves. One of them was telling a raucous story, and he happened to hear the name of his own country dropped in among his jibes. He came over to them.

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‘And what is so amusing, sir?’

The storytelling German turned to him with a smirk. ‘Oh, we were just having a bit of fun over that aunt-swiving dunce of a king in the country to the north of here, Moravia. Perhaps you’ve been there?’

‘Oh, I may have done,’ Boško said cheerily, pulling out a seat near the storyteller and sitting in it. ‘But please – do tell me more about this King of Moravia.’

‘Well,’ said the German, ‘of late he started a hare-brained war with the Poles that he very nearly lost, and would have done so utterly had it not been for a stalwart band of Thuringians who joined him for pay. But his foolishness goes back much further than that! From what I hear, he even let a ring of our East Frankish spies be established within the walls of his own capital! You see, he—’

The storyteller had only now realised the hush that had fallen over his hitherto appreciative audience. No laughter greeted him now, but they kept glancing sideways at the newcomer who was listening with rapt attention. Boško reflected that he would have to keep a tighter watch on the merchants’ quarter, but that wasn’t the only enjoyment he was getting out of the evening. The look on the German storyteller’s face was utterly priceless. He stammered to a halt as it finally dawned on him who the newcomer must be. Ráb was, after all, on the crossroads of the Jerusalem Road coming south from Moravia.

‘Do go on,’ Boško said with ominous mildness, his jaw resting on the backs of his hands atop the chair back. ‘You’ve got me… intrigued.’

‘I—ah, well, you see, I—that is—well—’

‘Mm. Cat got your tongue, eh? I’m sure it will come back to you. I beg your pardons for my interruption, gentlemen, and say a prayer for me, a sinner.’

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There was audible relief from the gathered group of German pilgrims as Boško stood from his seat and left. There wasn’t much more jollity from that group, but Boško felt much better for it. He set out from that wayhouse somehow much lightened in heart. His enemies had confessed his sins before the world, and had deflated all his pretensions to righteousness and holiness, and for that he thanked them. As he set out, he reflected that an enemy could be a better friend to him than a flatterer. After Boško had passed through Alexandroupolē and into Asia Minor, however, God sent upon him more enemies.

‘Give us all of your silver, and your goods,’ the lead ruffian demanded. At this point they were on a rather unguarded stretch of the pilgrims’ road, and it was evident that this band of masterless men had found a suitable position from which to prey upon those bearing silver to Jerusalem.

‘No silver for you, but steel!’ Boško drew his blade at once and attacked the lead ruffian, knocking him clean from his horse. The other bandits swooped down upon him and chased him on horseback off the road, as the other members of the pilgrim caravan moved to defend themselves as well. Boško managed to unhorse two of his pursuers, but the third of them caught him with his curved blade, giving him a heavy gash across the thigh. Boško kept on riding and fighting through the searing agony of the wound, but the loss of blood he was suffering soon caused him to become light-headed. The triumphant bandit raised his blade above his head and was about to strike the killing blow when an arrow struck him through the throat from the direction of the pilgrim caravan. The bowman had saved Boško’s life.

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Unfortunately, Boško’s wound had to go untreated until they reached the next town. It became red and inflamed on the way, and he was no longer able to put any weight on his leg, or even to mount a horse. The bowman who had rescued him, remembering his brave stand against the ruffians and moreso taking pity upon him, anointed him with oil and washed his wound with wine, before wrapping it up in a clean linen cloth. And his fellow-pilgrims offered to rent a carriage to carry him the rest of the way to his goal. Boško could not help but be thankful, and submitted himself to their ministrations.

And so Boško was carted around behind a two-horse team, and helped down by his fellow-pilgrims to visit the Mount of Olives, the Temple Mount, the Church of the Holy Dormition of the Mother of God, and of course the Holy Sepulchre. At each place, Boško struggled to prostrate himself, and offered up his pain as prayer to God. At last he was borne into the Cathedral, made a full confession of his lifelong sins, and made his prayers together with the others hearing the Divine Liturgy. When the Patriarch himself descended to deliver the Gifts to the injured Boško, he took them with humble gratitude, and received the Patriarch’s blessing with awe and wonder.

~~~

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Upon his return to Moravia, the king was a much humbled man. Blažena received him with all the warm affection and tender concern of a devoted wife, but Boško took her aside to speak to her alone. From that time on, although he kissed her and held her as he had hitherto, he did not uncover her nakedness or approach her at night for coupling. Although it was not entirely to Blažena’s liking, she respected and loved Boško too much to refuse his request of her. And thus, although they still shared between them all the affection and tenderness of lovers intimate and amorous lifelong, for the rest of their earthly lives they did not lie together in a carnal fashion.

As for Boško’s wound, although the sore swelling and necroticism of the flesh had left him, the injury to his flesh persisted. Though able to walk, he was not able to put his weight fully upon his left leg anymore. But he gave thanks to God for the pain he continued to bear, and besought of his Creator that his suffering might in some measure continue to cleanse and purify him.

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