Under the Free Sun – Chapter 3

The day after the sacrifice, Svarun ordered all the warriors to rest. He commanded the slaughter of fattened oxen and a whole flock of sheep for a feast and celebration. Ljubinica brought joyful girls from the settlement, who served the warriors, pouring mead into horns and glasses, singing, and dancing all day in great joy.

In the midst of the camp, Radovan, the minstrel, sat on an oak log. He was known everywhere but had no home. He traveled from tribe to tribe among the Antes, playing his lute and singing heroic songs, composing verses, and telling merry stories. He had been to the Baltic Sea, spent three winters in Byzantium, and was now headed back there. He had heard from merchants who came to the Huns for fur and horses that Constantinople was preparing for grand festivities this winter. During such times, barbarians flocked to Byzantium from all directions. They were drifters, hungry for bread and entertainment, who knew well that the rich nobles needed them. They proclaimed their glory on the streets, shouted in the circus, shaped public opinion in taverns and slums. They lived like birds fed by a generous hand from a high window.

Radovan sat in the middle of the camp, striking joyful tunes on his lute. He was wrapped in a long robe, tied at the waist with a white hemp rope. Never had he worn a belt with a sword. His wealth was his lute, and it was also his weapon. He boasted that the Byzantines had once captured him, thinking he was a spy. Even Emperor Justinian was interested in him and had him brought before him.

“I came with my lute,” he would tell, “before Justinian. I tell you, Perun is no more magnificent than this emperor. I was dazzled as if looking at the sun while half-drunk. The emperor asked, ‘For whom do you spy? Where is your homeland?’

‘I am honest and righteous, and I believe in Christ!’ I replied.

The youths laughed at him.

‘I believe in Christ,’ I said, crossing myself.

‘Your homeland,’ demanded Justinian.

‘I am a Slav, peaceful and humble!’

‘A Slav! Then you must be a spy for those barbarians who plunder our land.’

‘No, by Christ, I am not that Slav. I come from the northern sea, playing the lute, comforting people worldwide. My hand has never grasped a sword.’

‘Play your lute!’ And I played. Justinian’s heart melted like lamb fat on a spit. He said, ‘You are honest, as honest as your strings. Go your way!’

I left. But I learned that Empress Theodora herself had heard my lute. She secretly lifted the curtain and looked at me, saying to herself, ‘What a handsome man, this Radovan!'”

He looked proudly at the girls around him, who laughed loudly. Radovan struck the strings again, and they began a joyful dance.

The next morning, after the feast had ended, Svarun sent out skilled young men to scout. He ordered them to return by evening and report on the movements of Hilbudius’s army. He was convinced that the Byzantines would cross the Danube before winter to gather plunder for their fortress. He decided to ambush them. He ordered everyone to sharpen their axes, spears, and swords. The archers had to practice all day, shooting arrows at pumpkins mounted on stakes.

Among the scouts was Iztok, Svarun’s youngest and only surviving son. His father reluctantly permitted him. Eventually, he relented, but Iztok had to choose three companions. While the others left on foot through valleys, forests, and plains, Iztok and his companions mounted swift horses. Their mission was to penetrate far south towards the Danube, where Hilbudius’s camp was believed to be.

Many times had young Iztok ridden after wild boars, crawled after bears, and heard lynxes howling over his head while he lay among the sheep. But never had his heart pounded as it did today. His first military mission! Svarun was reluctant, but once he entrusted his son with this critical task, he directed him straight to the enemy’s lair.

Ljubinica had lost nine brothers—she feared for Iztok, yet was proud of him. She knew his daring and cunning, his prowess as a shooter and fighter; she knew his hand could wield an axe, a sword, a shepherd’s whip, and a bow. She joyfully went to get a lynx pelt, draped it over his horse’s back, and climbed the fortifications as Iztok departed.

Iztok rode slowly through the tents with his companions. As they passed the last group of warriors, the horses snorted: like four black ravens soaring over a vast field, the riders galloped into the distance until the four black dots disappeared into the tall grass.

Iztok rode fiercely. Longing spurred him on; he felt bold enough to leap in front of Hilbudius himself, thrust his fist in his face, and shout: We will crush you! For the first time, he felt the battle belt around his waist; for the first time, he sought not game, but longed to see the glittering helmets of the Byzantines. His heart burned in his chest, he felt powerful in his arms; he gripped the reins so tightly that the horse snorted, arched its neck, and leaped wildly through the valley. The sun seemed to shine more warmly, more freely than ever before. But this free sun would be overshadowed by Hilbudius, the Christian, who would subjugate him and his people, who roamed freely across the steppes, seeking plunder wherever they wished. Iztok firmly believed that the young men he led into battle would trample the Byzantines and chase away the cloud darkening the bright sun of his ancestors.

The horses sweated, the sun stood high. A small stream they followed flowed out of a gorge covered in dense forest. Before Iztok spread a long plateau, bending under the weary autumn grass.

He reined in his horse and waited for his companions.

“We must dismount! If we ride across this plateau, the Byzantine scouts might spot us. Then all is lost. Let’s lead the horses into the forest, one of us will guard and graze them, while the other three crawl through the grass and bushes to that hill rising above the plateau. My father said from there we could see the Danube and Hilbudius’s camp across the river.”

“Iztok, the hill is far. We might not reach it before nightfall.”

“We must! Rado, you guard the horses until we return. If we’re not back by nightfall, ride towards us, howl like a wolf, so we can find each other!”

Iztok spoke like a commander with authority. No one argued. They dismounted. Rado took the reins and led the horses behind a hill to hide and graze them safely.

“You go left, you go right, I’ll go straight! We meet on top of the hill!”

They quickly parted ways. The plain had no paths or roads. High grass covered it, with occasional shrubs. There were no horse tracks. Hilbudius had not ridden here for a long time. The young men burrowed through the grass, creeping forward cautiously and swiftly like young foxes. After a few hundred paces, no one would have noticed their human forms crawling through the grass. Sometimes they completely disappeared; sometimes the high grass swayed as if in the wind.

Iztok moved quickly. Sweat trickled down his face, but he didn’t care. Thorns scratched his back, but he didn’t feel it. He tore green stalks and juicy leaves, chewing them to quench his thirst. He breathed deeply, his nostrils flared like a young boar’s.

He stopped by a solitary tree, broken by a storm. He climbed into its branches to rest for a moment. His eyes searched for the hill. He was closer, but the plain still stretched like a sea between him and the hill. His courage did not falter. His eyes gleamed like a falcon’s; he wanted to pierce through the hill and see the wide river and Hilbudius’s camp beyond it.

Suddenly, something flashed beneath the hill. Like a bright flame flickering and quickly extinguishing. Iztok climbed higher, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked into the distance.

The glitter appeared again and again. He soon discerned three riders heading towards him. Their armor gleamed, their helmets shone.

Iztok whistled like a bird of prey to warn his comrades of the danger. They responded. He lingered a moment in the thick branches; the riders were galloping towards him. His heart raced. He only had a short knife at his belt and thought how the Byzantines would cut him to pieces if they caught him. Fortunately, the autumn grass was bent, so they wouldn’t easily notice his tracks. He lay on his stomach and crawled like a snake towards a dense bramble. Large, low bushes lay like a patch in the meadow; he dived under them, so close to the approaching riders that he could hear the snorting of their horses.

His heart was pounding with an impatient longing. He had already imagined that they might see his trail, that they might sniff around and find him in his hiding place. He reached for his belt for his knife, and thought carefully how he would rush upon the first, and plunge the blade into his shin; the other two would startle, and by that time he would be upon the horses, and would seize one in a leap, and gallop away over the steppe. So absorbed was he in this thought that he arched his back like a cat, and waited eagerly for his prey.

They have already had a bath. They were wailing in silence on the dry plain. They were coming closer and closer. Here they are! Iztok saw the glittering outfit through a small patch in the bushes, and he felt like fighting, and he could hardly keep himself from rising and shouting at them.

But the riders went past in an easy pace, he could hear the conversation, he could make out the name Hilbudius, but otherwise he understood nothing because they were speaking Greek. Slowly, the sounds receded. Iztok rose alertly and inaudibly in the bush, so long that his curly head came up through it like a sunflower rising, and looked after the departing flash of the horses.

“If they turn into the forest, they’ll find our horses!” This thought frightened him. He stood still like a statue in the middle of the bushes, and no clever idea came to him. But gradually, he calmed down. The horsemen turned right towards the stream. They watered the horses, crossed the water, and slowly climbed the slope on the other side. Iztok did not move until they disappeared into the thicket.

He could have called his comrades now, to return to the horses and quickly head home to report that the Byzantine army was not far away. But something drove Iztok further. Perhaps Hilbudij is camped just beyond that hill! He would count their ranks, return, and deliver an important report about the army.

He slithered like a cat, pushing through the tall grass, hiding behind bushes, crawling on all fours, and lying flat whenever he found enough cover.

The sun was setting as he stood before the hill — exhausted and tired, his thigh muscles trembling. Had his comrades arrived? He whistled. From close by, to his right and left, came responding whistles. Soon, they met in the dark thicket. They climbed silently up the steep slope and, before the sun had fully disappeared, they reached the top of the hill. They listened. Everything was quiet. Some birds were startled from the branches, and far off, a wild boar grunted.

They lay down on the ground and pressed their ears to the soil. “Thudding! Thudding! Hoofbeats!” They all said it simultaneously. Iztok stood up and climbed a tree. “The Danube!” he almost cried out. Before him stretched a vast plain, encircled by a fiery frame from the setting sun — a wide river. Beyond the glowing frame, right where a long dark line stretched over the water — a bridge — smoke was rising from a dark spot.

“I see a camp!” His comrades rejoiced, expressing themselves like wild cats, surprised and excited. Iztok looked around to identify the source of the hoofbeats. The last rays of the sun flared once more and vanished. At that moment, Iztok also noticed three lights approaching the hill. The horsemen scouts were returning in a fierce gallop, racing around the hill into the plain to reach the camp as quickly as possible.

Iztok climbed down from the tree, happy and content. “What if the horsemen have sniffed out our fortress?” “They’re racing wildly! They must carry important reports. Let’s return!” “Let’s wait a bit and rest! The moon will rise, Rado will bring our horses to meet us, and maybe we’ll hear or see something more.”

The young men lay down on the moss, biting into pieces of sheep cheese, chewing on sweet roots, and quietly exchanging heroic words. Darkness swiftly fell over the land. In the east, the moon was already rising, still pale. Its frightened face still feared the sun’s rays, which bid farewell in red flames across the sky. The sound of horses had long fallen silent.

“Let’s go! Svarun ordered us to return by night,” urged the young men. But Iztok refused. With youthful stubbornness, he rejoiced in giving orders — for the first time in his life. So, he ignored his father’s instructions. He yearned for glory and wanted to bring even more important news to the camp.

“We’re not going yet! If Rado comes with the horses, wait for me. I’ll ride after those three, all the way to the bridge.” “Think, the Byzantines guard it! They’ll catch you.” Iztok laughed aloud, causing his comrades to look at him. “May Morana spare you! Iztok, don’t risk it! May Stribog blow your reckless laugh to Hilbudij’s ear! May the demons raise werewolves in the forest, ambush us, and lead us astray!”

The comrade who spoke these words involuntarily reached for the boar tusks hanging around his neck, a charm his mother had given him to ward off spells and demons. Iztok rolled onto his back, and in the faint moonlight, his face reflected a smile full of doubt. “Morana — demons — werewolves,” his lips whispered. Could they really harm him? The faith of his ancestors… but still… Why isn’t Hilbudij afraid of them?… He closed his eyes, placed his folded hands on his forehead, and prayed with a fervent sigh to Svetovit, asking him for comfort, he who sees all four winds at once, who sees in the dark night and gazes into the bright sun without his eyes being blinded…

“Tratratra!” All three of them jumped up. Again: “Tritratritra…” From afar, trumpets were heard. In an instant, Iztok was at the top of the tree. He strained his falcon-like eyes, focusing them on the dark spot beyond the Danube where he had previously seen the smoke. The moon illuminated the surroundings. In the dim light, he saw glowing lights pouring from that elevated area. More and more of them swayed toward the river.

“Hilbudij is coming with his army!” Iztok jumped down from the tree, and they rushed wildly down the slope, sprinting straight toward the hill where the horses were. “If only Rado would come!” Iztok hissed and leapt over a bush. “Listen, a wolf howled!” “Rado is coming. He’s close! Let’s hurry toward him!”

All three of them sped with doubled force toward the source of the wolf’s howling. One of them would call out now and then, and the wolf answered them back, getting closer and closer. Soon, they heard the neighing of horses and the rustling of grass. They caught their breath and slowed to a walk. In the distance, they already saw dark shapes quickly swaying across the plain. Iztok stopped.

“Comrades! Don’t try to take my horse. You know it’s the best in the camp. You can reach the fortress by morning, but I must get there sooner, so the warriors can quickly rise, and we can attack Hilbudij!”

No sooner had he told them this, the horses whinnied right in front of them. Iztok leapt onto his black steed like a bird. The horse reared and turned on its hind legs when it felt its master’s hand on the reins. Its mane flew, and like a thought, they shot across the fields. A few times, the horse hesitated in its stride, as if asking why the rush. But Iztok squeezed his knees, making the horse snort deeply, and the reins tightened. Then the animal understood — this ride was no joke; it was life or death.

The excellent horse — a gift to his father from a Hun leader — lowered its head, its nostrils flared, and white foam flew into the air. Trees sped past, disappearing like flashes in the distance. On the horse’s back, Iztok lay bent forward, as if lying on its neck. Nothing moved on him. He clung to the horse as if glued, with only his long curls flowing in the air, and his lynx fur fluttering like a tail over the horse’s back.

To Iztok, the journey felt twice as long as during the day. Occasionally, he cast an anxious glance at the stars, wondering if midnight had already passed. But again, he urged the horse on, whispering words full of gratitude and love into its ears — and the horse continued its gallop through rough and smooth terrain.

He had been riding along the stream in the gorge for a long time. Now and then, he hoped to see the fires — but the stream turned left, and behind each bend, there was still only a silent forest. The horse began to neigh and snort frequently. Iztok felt it was using up its last strength. What if it collapsed? He had to stop it and let it walk slowly. The horse’s ribs were heaving, all its tendons trembling from the effort, its head hung low as it walked, panting. Sweat dripped from its belly.

Iztok carefully observed the surroundings. He had ridden too wildly in the morning, not paying attention to what was around him. So now, he couldn’t recall any tree or hollow that could tell him how far they still were from the fortress. Onward then!

He hugged the horse’s neck, pressed his cheek right against its ear, and promised it the finest grain if it hurried and brought him to the camp as quickly as possible.

The black horse struck the ground twice powerfully with its hooves, then stretched out its neck again and galloped like the wind.

Another bend. Iztok spotted several fires in the distance. “The fortress!” he exclaimed. He spurred the horse, and the ground thundered beneath them, dry branches crackled, and the fires drew nearer.

A short stretch of plain remained, the gorge opened into a wide basin. The horse, wild with fury, descended, completely soaked and foaming as if covered in snow. The guards heard them. Torches were raised and began to move. Like lightning from the sky, Iztok dashed into the center of the camp.

“Hilbudij! Hilbudij is coming!” he shouted wildly. The whole camp awakened, a rush and murmur spread among the warriors, and the horns sounded. Iztok’s black horse trembled and, with convulsive tremors, collapsed near the fire, hot blood spurting from its nostrils.