They began moving out, but as they started to pass through Saint Konstantín’s Square, in front of the great onion-domed cathedral of the same name, suddenly an earthquake rocked the capital once again, rattling windows and nerves alike. While they paused, looking at each other and trying to gauge the strength of the temblor, a second, more severe jolt struck, cracking the statue of King Tamás at the center of the square. The bronze horse on which the dead king was mounted almost seemed to trot free from its moorings, causing the entire structure to slide sideways towards the royal party. King Kipriyán spurred Szürke just in time to avoid being impaled by the outstretched sword of Tamás, who crumbled into pieces when he finally hit the ground. Inside, as they could all see, the statue was rotten clean through with pale green rust.
“Is anyone hurt?” Kipriyán yelled over the din. “Report!”
A few moments later, after consulting with his aides, Prince Arkády spurred his horse into motion, broke free from the chaos, and rode quickly to his father from the other side. He glanced rapidly to his right, then to his left, trying to gauge some estimate of any additional damage they might have suffered.
“Sire,” he said, as he wheeled to a stop beside Kipriyán, “several men were cut by flying débris, and one horse went lame when he slipped on the rubble. Princess Arrhiána is sending physicians to treat the wounded, as well as workers to begin the clean-up.”
The king examined the expectant faces peering up at him, waiting for some direction.
“The Walküri have done their worst,” he shouted to the gathered throng, brandishing his sword and waving it over his head, “and they have utterly failed. Look around you. We are alive, we are well, we are strong, we are victorious! Let the jihad commence! Vive la Corynthe!” he added, using the Gallic dialect which was then the fashion of the nobility at court.
Raucous cheers rattled the eaves of the buildings surrounding the square, even more than the temblor had, and the spirits of the officers and their men, so low a few moments earlier, soared high above the dome of Saint Konstantín’s. Certain of victory, assured of God’s good will, King Kipriyán and his army marched west out of Paltyrrha, exiting at the Gate of Saint Ignatios, and being joined shortly thereafter by the thousands of soldiers waiting for them at Katonaí Field. Even trampling through the sticky mud, they made a grand sight, ranged row by row in perfect order, their spears reaching up into the sky to prod the very angels themselves into action.
The enterprise was finally launched!
CHAPTER SIX
“DON’T FORGET TO TURN THE OTHER CHEEK!”
Three miles west of the city of Paltyrrha, the Archpriest Athanasios was trying very hard to find a comfortable position for his numb posterior and aching thighs. The raggedy gray donkey called Dyskolos had certainly lived up to his name, being difficult, poky, and not at all inclined to obey a man of the cloth. Without any warning, he would suddenly speed up to a bone-jarring trot, bypassing all the men marching in line, who would encourage the evil beast with catcalls, insults, and laughter, and occasionally with jabs of their sharp spears. Then the beast would jerk to a complete stop, allowing the jeering foot soldiers to catch up and pass them again, while Athanasios, legs pumping and arms waving, angrily tried to spur the tyrant forward.
It had been a frustrating afternoon for the priest, inexperienced rider that he was, but he attempted to pass the time as profitably as he could by saying his daily prayers, and beseeching God’s benign intervention with their dangerous mission. But time and again he found himself distracted by having to attend to the reins, as he held on to his precarious seat.
On his fifth or sixth such run, Dyskolos tried a new maneuver, and succeeded in abruptly bucking Athanasios off over his head, straight into a large mud puddle. The startled priest found himself flat on his back and soaked through, struggling to regain his wind as he stared up at the vacuous face of his obstinate mount. Dyskolos smiled back with bared yellow teeth, having finally rid himself of his unwelcome burden. Then, floppy ears laid back, he stretched out his scrawny neck and shook his head, flinging foam into the priest’s face and jingling his bridle jauntily, and braying raucously a few times in unconcealed triumph.
Several soldiers of the Kosnicki Brigade, who were marching right next to them, almost fell over, they were laughing so hard.
“Now, father,” one of them yelled, “don’t forget to turn the other cheek!”
There were more hoots and guffaws.
“An ass in time saves nine!” another quipped.
The troops behind them began to bunch up as they watched the welcome spectacle of a cleric finally receiving his comeuppance.
Athanasios climbed shakily to his feet, then gazed down at his ruined cloak, his cheeks burning with the shame. He hated being humiliated like this. From the time he was a child, he had disliked being made the brunt of public ridicule or scorn.
“Hey, what’s going on here!” shouted the captain of the squad, riding over from the other side of the column.
He was a tall, amiable-looking man in his late thirties, clean-shaven save for a trim mustache, and neatly decked out with light chain mail, helmet and jaunty feather, and military cloak. His gear was beautifully polished, and he sat confidently astride a handsome bay, its shiny black mane and tail floating in the breeze. He gracefully dismounted, and gave the priest a hand, steadying him a bit as Athanasios tried to regain his composure.
“Sorry, father,” the officer said, “these rubes don’t know any better.”
He glared at the assembled soldiers, and vigorously waved them on.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” he yelled. “You! Get along over there. Come on, move it out!”
His men gradually sorted themselves into loose ranks again, and the column started forward.
The captain quickly grabbed Dyskolos’s reins to prevent him from running off, and handed them over to Athanasios, simultaneously inclining his head.
“Sir Maurin von Markstadt, Lord Ézion, at your service, father. You seem to be having a little trouble with your mount.”
The hieromonk looked upon his savior with immense gratitude.
“Oh, thank you so much, milord,” he said. “I’m the Archpriest Athanasios Hokhanêmsos.”
He shook his head in dismay, brushing futilely at his damp clothing.
“I must confess, I don’t really know what I’m doing wrong. They showed me how to control the beast, but Dyskolos is the devil himself.”
“Dyskolos, eh?” The officer snorted. “Oh, I’ve heard about that one. I think someone was trying to play a joke on you, father. This donkey’s a real ass.”
He cleared his throat as he swallowed a laugh.
“However,” the officer said, “we have our ways.”
Maurin led Athanasios and his mount off the crowded road and over to a nearby tree. He chose a small, supple limb, broke it off with his bare hands, then carefully stripped it with his knife. He whipped it experimentally through the air a couple of times.
“Yes, that’ll do nicely,” he muttered to himself.
Then he turned to the priest.
“Would you happen to have an old spare rag,” he said, “something