When the Mongolian engineers began to build their arena, mercenaries, fighting men, traveling merchants, and other vagabonds summoned by Onghwe Khan’s challenge reclaimed the ruins of Hünern.
Invariably, the first structures rebuilt after the sacking of a city were one or more churches. The dead must receive absolution before they could be interred, and the survivors—in the absence of strong battlements and armed soldiers—had only their faith to protect them. A house of prayer meant they had not been abandoned; within the sanctuary of the church, they could open their hearts in prayer and hope to be sustained.
Inevitably, an assortment of dilapidated taverns followed, because laying stone and raising walls—especially those of a church—was thirsty work. In the absence of salvation, what else could a man do but drown the pernicious voices that whispered incessantly of one’s coming damnation? If God had abandoned you, what use was prayer? Drink was better.
In Dietrich’s opinion, the closest approximation of a real drinking house in Hünern was a battered, slant-roofed shanty with only two real walls, two tables, a few benches, and a handful of wobbly stools. Known as The Frogs—after the amphibians that hid in the cracked rubble and called to one another in high peeps and groans at dusk—the tavern was permanent enough to warrant a staff of three.
If God had abandoned his Church and his Faithful, at least He had left them a place that served real ale and not the horse’s piss the Mongols guzzled. A few hours in the afternoon at The Frogs quenched both thirst and burning soul.
Dominus custodiat introitum meum et exitum meum, he thought, hoisting his dented tankard. Foam slopped over his arm and onto the floor. Sanctuary is all we have ever sought. I will confess to this blasphemy, Dietrich assented after he quaffed half the contents of his flagon, the next time I am in Rome.
Dietrich had brought a full squad with him to The Frogs this afternoon. Usually he was only accompanied by Burchard and Sigeberht—he never left the Livonian compound without his bodyguards—but the incident at the bridge required the Livonian Order to show its strength. Rumors needed to be silenced; the people needed to see the power and presence of his knights. They needed to be reminded.
The man who ran the tavern, a Hungarian with a whistling voice and a tongue that he couldn’t keep fully in his mouth, had managed to acquire an oak chair—a heavy piece with a tall back, much like a lord’s seat at the head of the table. He allowed no one else to sit in it, and he always made a fuss when Dietrich showed up, running a rag over the seat and arms before letting the Livonian Grandmaster sit, asking him several times if he was comfortable enough, providing him a barrel on which to rest his tankard.
Gratitude and obedience. At The Frogs, the relationship between a knight and the people was clearly understood.
Dietrich and a company of Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae—nearly a dozen knights and twice that number of men-at-arms—had arrived in Hünern the first week of June, to establish their presence among the Western fighting orders at the Mongolian Circus.
Dietrich had at first considered taking over the church, but after a brief examination of the field of tents and flimsy shelters huddling close to the walls of the church, he opted for a more defensible location. On the southern verge of the camp, near a muddy pasture—a field of tenacious grass poking up through the mud and ash—he found a barn with half a roof. The occupants, a band of squatters, mostly elderly or crippled, had taken one look at the host of warriors with their white surcoats and red markings, and fled.
In that rout, one gray-bearded old man with a bloody stump for an arm had passed quite close to Dietrich and roundly cursed him. Dietrich had turned aside and let him live. The smell of gangrene would have haunted his sword.
Since then, more of the Livonian Order had arrived, doubling the number of knights. They overflowed the barn, and Dietrich had set his men to erecting a rudimentary perimeter. The walls wouldn’t stop a halfhearted attack from the Mongol host camped to the east, but they would present deterrent enough to thieves and scavengers. The small compound was a haven for his order within the pustulant chaos of the carrion eaters who trailed after every invading army.
The Mongolian army was dispersed in many camps to the east, the largest occupying a great Romanlike square-beamed fort. Mongols and their lackeys were a permanent presence that no one would entirely forget, but by virtue of their number and their organized encampment, the Livonians found themselves the recipients of a certain largesse from the Christian population of Hünern.
Gratitude and obedience. From the people to the knights who protected them. For the knights, such behavior was demanded of them by the men they served—kings and popes.
For more than thirty years, the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae had crusaded on behalf of the Bishop of Riga, cleansing the trade routes and converting the pagan tribes who were scattered throughout Livonia. The Pope had even taken notice of their work, calling upon them to bring Christ to the Novgorodian lands. But the order had been abandoned by God. The pagan tribes had realized they shared an enemy and, putting aside their petty differences, had fallen together into a large host. They had attacked Master Volquin’s army at Schaulen, and over the course of a night and day, the pagan army decimated the order. The Livonian Brothers of the Sword fled, and would have vanished utterly if the Pope had not granted them refuge in the ranks of the Teutonic Knights.
Was it better to survive as subjects of another master than to be scattered and lost? At first, many of Dietrich’s brothers would have said sanctuary was preferred, but after wearing the Teutonic cross for a few years, they began to chafe under their new banner. What was the cost of their salvation? Some wondered if they would ever truly find God again.
Two years after the Battle of Schaulen, Dietrich had been summoned to Rome for a private audience with Gregory IX. The meeting had occurred during a time when His Eminence and the Holy Roman Emperor had not been at each other’s throats, before the supreme Pontiff had fallen ill. Dietrich did not know why the Pope had granted him an audience, but held out a dim hope that the Pope was going to offer him—and the remnants of his order—a commission to lead a new crusade to the Levant.
The Pope, however, had had other plans.
God has not abandoned anyone, least of all those who are willing to fight and die for Him, Gregory IX had said during Dietrich’s first audience with the Pope after being elected Heermeister of the Livonian Order. His design is too vast and too subtle for us to comprehend. All we need to trouble ourselves with is faith and obedience; in return, He will grant us not only eternal life in Heaven but also eternal life in this world. All He asks in return is that you serve Us.
I do serve, Dietrich had replied. My duty and my life are devoted to the Church.
Not enough. Clutching the gold keys of his office, the Pope had offered his left hand to Dietrich. On his finger was a gold ring, and its seal was a fragmented Greek letter, an omega cleaved in twain by a stick—or a fasces, an old Roman weapon used by the lictors. You must serve Us, the Pope had reiterated.
Dietrich had pressed his lips to the ring and had been shocked to find it cold. The Pope’s fingers were like ice, his palm stiff and waxy—as if he were already dead.
Dominus custodiet te, the Pope had blessed him. Dominus protectio tua super manum laevum tuum.
The Lord will protect you.
The servingwoman appeared at his elbow, rousing him from his reminiscence, the pitcher of beer perched on her wide hip. “More, Heermeister?” she asked in German.
Dietrich grunted and raised his tankard. She poured adroitly, and the foam rose to the edge of the tankard but didn’t slop over. Her movement was supple and simple, the sort of deftness that came with practice. Was she married to the Hungarian tavern master, or was she his daughter? He glanced up, his gaze lingering on her breasts.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Flore,” she replied, her eyes downcast. “Flore di Mantua, Heermeister.”
Italian, he
thought, taking another look at her shape. “That’s enough, Flore,” he said. “For now.” She gave him a short bow, and he watched her walk away, considering how he might spend the evening once he was done parading his men around Hünern.
As Flore stopped to refill the cup of a bearded man with a wide mouth, Dietrich let his gaze move on, reexamining the other patrons of The Frogs: a sad assortment of drunk mercenaries; a few priests, more interested in drinking than tending to their flock (though Dietrich couldn’t blame them); a trio of Italian merchants, loudly telling lies about the bulk of their cargo; several groups of vagabonds and ruffians who clutched their cheap mugs as if they were the most precious possessions they owned.
Worthless wretches. He lifted the tankard, inhaling the slightly acrid scent of the ale. He watched Flore laugh at something the bearded man said; she pushed hair back from her face and cocked her hip flirtatiously.
Dietrich grimaced as he drank. All you had to do was show some gratitude in return for our protection.
The incident at the bridge still galled him. Two of his knights had been summarily beaten by a single opponent. One said it was a Mongolian; the other man argued it had been someone else—one of the other Easterners who were part of the Khan’s menagerie of fighting men. Either way, the soldiers’ mission had been simple: escort the priest to the Shield-Brethren chapter house, look suitably menacing along the way to advertise their strength, and return. The soldiers had opted to not take their shields and to ride a few of the more swaybacked nags the order had at its disposal—decisions that, in retrospect, were ill-advised.
During his interrogation of the pair, one of them—Tomas, a Curonian—had tried to plead his case, but Dietrich hadn’t been interested. A swift backhand to the mouth had been enough to silence the man’s whining.
The very reason you were unhorsed and beaten by a lone man with a stick, Dietrich had explained very precisely, was because you failed to properly equip yourself.
Tomas had not been at Schaulen. Had he been, Dietrich was fairly certain he would have been killed in the enemy’s first sortie. Probably while looking for his shield.
And the priest—Father Pius—appeared to have grown a backbone in the interim. In contrast to his obsequiousness prior to the skirmish, he had become taciturn and closemouthed—as if the Livonian Grandmaster’s foul mood no longer frightened him. Pius remembered more of the incident than he let on, but the priest was only too quick to lay hands on his cross when faced with Dietrich’s ire. Qui custodit mandatum custodit animam suam, the priest had said, pointing to the same symbol on Dietrich’s surcoat. A man’s soul was only secure as long as he observed the commandments of the Lord.
Testis falsus non erit impunitus. There had been some satisfaction in watching the priest’s reaction when he had quoted the other half of that biblical proverb—he that speaks falsely imperils his soul—but the implied threat hadn’t loosened the man’s tongue.
Dietrich knew he should have taken the first note from the priest, and some of the fury directed at his defeated knights stemmed from his own failure. Still, the more he thought about the situation, a process assisted by several flagons of beer, the more he started to see how both notes falling into the hands of the Shield-Brethren might be less of a catastrophe than it seemed. The conflicting notes, should God deem it so, might even be an opportunity.
Discord and confusion among one’s enemies was always a primary goal of any successful strategy, and if the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae had managed to get their hands on both letters, it was very likely they suffered more confusion than insight from these missives. The Korean’s letter was innocent enough—nothing more than a request for a meeting—but the false letter claimed that the Mongols had killed their missing champion.
Dietrich knew the Shield-Brethren weren’t fools—unlike some of his men. They would see the second letter as the inflammatory lie that it was, but it would cast doubt on the first one, simply because it offered so little. Even if they wanted to ignore both, they could not afford to. After the First Crusade, they had retreated to their remote fortress—like a mortally wounded animal that crawls off to die. Cutting themselves off from the civilized world, they became more and more insular, fading into dusty obscurity. Even here, they set themselves apart from the rest of Christendom, hiding out in the ruined monastery north of Legnica. Like lepers.
The confusion of the letters would only serve to remind them of their self-imposed exile. They didn’t know what was going on in the camp around Hünern. They had no tactical advantage; their actions were going to be reactions, and while their martial art may be wound around ideals of humility and patience, they had fought in enough battles to know the army that was always on the defensive was rarely the victor.
Once, the slightest mention of the Shield-Brethren had been enough to cause a commander to reconsider his plan of attack. The sight of an armored troop of knights had sent more than one army fleeing. A single warrior would have been more than a match for a barbarous stick wielder; attacking two would have been a fool’s errand.
Dietrich chuckled as he regarded the few sips left in his tankard. That’s what they’ve become—diseased lepers, hiding out in the shadows, afraid to show their faces.
Mollified, he finished his beer and banged his tankard on the table. One more, he decided, and the woman too.
4
Prisons within Prisons
AS HE APPROACHED the Khagan’s private quarters, Gansukh considered how he was going to talk his way past the guards. He doubted Ögedei would see him if he simply walked up and asked to be presented to the Khagan. It was quite possible that Ögedei’s reaction might be less restrained than it had been at the dinner celebration, though the lingering bruises on the young man’s face spoke otherwise. It had been several days since he had presented the cup to Ögedei, and he had bided his time before attempting to seek the Khagan’s audience once more. He felt he was making progress in his efforts to curb Ögedei’s drinking, but he was still cautious. The Khagan was not unlike a wounded mountain lion.
The two guards outside the Khagan’s chambers looked even more nervous than he did. They stared past him, refusing to acknowledge his presence, and Gansukh paused, his conviction wavering.
“I...” He cleared his throat. Tell them what you want, he thought. Do not spin a story. “I need to see the Khagan.”
Neither guard replied. The one on the left rested his hand on the hilt of his scimitar, while the other blinked several times and licked his lips. Being ignored is better than being assaulted.
Their behavior was odd, though; he would have expected them to take joy in telling him that the Khagan had expressly commanded them to treat him like this, like a worm not worthy of notice. After a month at court, he knew well the delight the Imperial Guard took in reminding visitors of their lower station.
“I have an important—”
He was cut off by a loud wail from inside the room. At first, he thought he had imagined the sound because the guards did not react, but then he caught the nervous twitch of their eyes—toward the door, at him, and then back to the empty hallway.
“Sounds like someone in pain,” Gansukh said. “Shouldn’t we investigate?”
The lip-licker’s tongue darted several times, and he glanced at Gansukh, then intercepted a hard stare from his companion. “The Khagan is not to be disturbed,” he said gruffly, as if none of them had heard the scream from within the room.
He’s afraid.
The shriek again rent the quiet hallway. Gansukh looked between the guards, whose decorum was fraying rapidly. This time, they refused to meet his eyes.
“I think that’s the Khagan,” Gansukh said.
“No it isn’t,” the man on the left said. The other guard nodded fervent agreement. He wanted to appear stern and threatening, but the slackness of his jaw only made his face quiver, defeating his attempt to appear menacing. “We have strict orders,” the left-hand guard continued. “We are not to enter, nor are
we to allow anyone else to do so.”
“Is that wise?” Gansukh stepped closer to the door, and while both guards tensed, neither took action to stop him. “Is that what you are going to tell Master Chucai when he finds out that the Khagan has...impaled himself on a dagger or slipped and broken bones...or something worse...?” Gansukh leaned in toward the door and cupped his hand to his ear, almost enjoying himself, pretending to listen intently for any noise from the suite. “He could be dead...”
“He’s not dead,” the second guard said doubtfully, his face pale and damp.
“No, no. Of course not. I was just suggesting that it was possible such a calamity had occurred,” Gansukh replied. Moving his hands slowly so as to not alarm them, he innocently indicated the door. “But we don’t really know, do we? Are you going to take responsibility for the Khagan’s death, if indeed that is what has happened and he bleeds out while you stand here? Is that the sort of Mongol you are? The kind who follows orders blindly without ever thinking for himself? Maybe you should be thinking that this situation has changed...”
With a muttered oath, the left-hand guard stepped aside. “You check,” he snapped at Gansukh. “It is your head she will take. Not mine.”
She. Gansukh pretended to not have heard the guard’s slip, and he inclined his head as his hand found the latch of the door. “I accept the responsibility,” he said. “May the Blue Wolf take pity on me.” Before the guards could change their minds—or locate their courage—he opened the door a crack and slipped through.