Chapter 5
Author: Fran Saleški Finžgar
Hilbudij had crossed the plain overnight and led his soldiers to the hillside at dawn, where a gorge opened up towards the Slavic fort. The troops hid in the dense oak forest. He forbade them from lighting fires to cook barley soup, so they ate cold food—some had dried fish, others smoked meat, with garlic on the side.
Hilbudij decided to wait until the afternoon before advancing into the gorge, aiming to seize the Slavic fort by morning. He had no doubt about his victory and wasn’t afraid of ambushes. His only concern was for his soldiers, valuing each one as highly trained and invaluable.
He called forward a brave horseman, a Thracian barbarian who had joined his service a year earlier. The Thracian had proven himself highly skilled, almost unmatched.
Hilbudij ordered him to shed his Byzantine uniform and wear the short linen trousers of the Slavs. He was to dismount and ride cautiously through the gorge like a wild shepherd. Understanding Slavic well enough, he was to pose as a messenger from an Asian merchant, inquiring about sheep or horses for trade. His primary task was to scout for signs of enemy troops in the valley.
The Thracian quickly transformed into a barbarian shepherd, riding leisurely, singing a pastoral song with loose reins. He seemed indifferent, yet his sharp eyes noticed every trail and movement in the grass and bushes. Spotting a horse track, he dismounted and pretended to forage by the stream, all the while measuring the distance covered by Iztok’s horse the previous night.
He sluggishly mounted his horse again and rode on. Sometimes he would spur it into a gallop, then stop and observe carefully. Everywhere, he saw the wide, stretched tracks of a horse that had raced in wild leaps. The situation seemed increasingly suspicious to him—he nodded his head faster, and his sharp, fox-like eyes gleamed more attentively. However, he couldn’t uncover anything else. The bushes were silent, the forest occasionally shedding leaves as wild birds landed on branches. Then, he halted his horse. Before him lay a dead animal in the stream. He dismounted again and stepped closer.
A horse! He quickly stepped into the water. He examined it from all sides but found no signs of a bridle. It’s a wild carcass! Wolves had chased it until it perished and fell into the stream. That explains the wild leaps!
Pleased, he climbed back onto his horse, took a quick glance ahead, but the large leaps had disappeared—the tracks ended in the water. Iztok had been riding through the stream.
But the Thracian was mistaken. This horse had belonged to one of Iztok’s comrades. The man had been chasing after Iztok, but his horse grew weak and collapsed. He strangled the horse with a strap, took the bridle with him, rolled the carcass into the water, and vanished into the forest, creeping onward through the woods. Two other companions didn’t follow him into the gorge but instead turned toward the hill, aiming to reach the fort by crossing the mountains.
Joyful, the Thracian turned his horse and galloped at full speed to inform his commander, Hilbudij, of what he had found: all quiet, no enemies.
Yet, halfway down the narrowest part of the valley, a human figure rose from the grass in front of him. The Thracian pulled back his horse, causing it to rear up on its hind legs. “Hey, little shepherd, what are you doing?”
“I’m looking for sheep; a hundred of my father’s sheep are lost. I’ve been searching for them for three days. Have you seen them? Where are you headed?”
“Hey, boy, I’m looking for sheep just like you. But I’m searching for them for buyers from Byzantium. They want hides, they need leather. Do you know of anyone among the Slavs who might have such goods for sale?”
“My father, Svarun, has a fort a day’s journey from here. It’s filled with piles of precious furs, heaps of buffalo hides, and plenty of fine stones. He’d love to sell them, but he can’t, because that dog Hilbudij lies beyond the Danube, and we haven’t had the time to trade our wealth. Bring your merchants here—you’ll make more than you can dream of if you come!”
“Little shepherd, may Daždbog1 go with you, find your sheep, and Veles protect you. Tell your father that wealthy buyers are coming. They will pay well—”
The Thracian sped off like lightning, and the shepherd watched him curiously, waving his long stick. When the rider disappeared behind the bend in the distance, the shepherd burst into loud laughter, threw the stick aside, clenched his fist, and shouted: “Just come, you devils, for the furs! We’ll skin you alive and send you back to Byzantium wearing your own hides.”
Then he darted into the forest like a wildcat. It was Iztok. When Svarun gave the order to depart, Iztok led the first group of agile archers. They climbed straight up the ridge. Moving through the brush like lynxes on the hunt, they scaled cliffs and crawled up steep slopes on all fours, like lurking beasts. They moved cautiously and skillfully, so that not a single dry branch snapped underfoot, and no arrow rattled in its quiver. They didn’t even breathe loudly, though their chief drove them quickly, as if a young wolf was running ahead of them through the woods. When they reached the ridge, they spread out widely, sank into the tall grass and blackberry bushes, and continued successfully onward in the darkness—the moon had set.
As dawn began to break, Iztok slowly climbed onto a gray rock and surveyed the surroundings. All was silent, as if no one were in the woods. Only now and then came the faint rustle of a wild grouse flitting from the leaves, or a shadow would briefly pass over the clearing, only to vanish swiftly again into the dark trees.
Iztok smiled. His eyes gleamed like a falcon’s. He tightened the strap of his quiver, climbed down from the rock, and moved on.
It was nearly mid-morning when a young scout halted and signaled with a hawk-like whistle that they had reached the designated spot. He stood in a dense oak forest on a steep slope where the valley was at its narrowest. At the whistle, figures of comrades emerged from the ground, rising from every bush, behind every tree, from the grass, over rocks, and from hollows—valiant youths were rising everywhere.
Iztok gestured for them to descend quietly. Not a pebble was disturbed to roll down the slope. They descended silently down the incline and soon reached a young, dense thicket. From there was the best distance for arrows to be shot into the valley.
He ordered them to spread out in a long triple line along the ridge and to lie in the grass and bushes. Everyone was to wait for his command. No one was to move until he fired.
Then he cut some branches for himself, wedged them atop a mossy rock, crawled underneath, and settled into a hidden lookout.
From there, he spotted a rider—the envoy of Hilbudij. For a moment, he thought it was one of his companions from the previous day and nearly rose from his makeshift bush to call out. But his eye recognized the tall horse, the kind the Byzantines rode. Slavs did not ride such horses. Suspicion awakened in him. His hand instinctively moved to reach for an arrow to send it flying into the stranger’s neck. But he resisted. He quickly unbuckled his strap, let the quiver slip from his back, placed his bow beside him, and hid his combat knife in his short sheepskin trousers. All signs of battle disappeared, and Iztok slipped quietly down the slope. At the bottom, he broke off a branch and waited for the rider.
He intercepted him and cunningly convinced the Thracian that Svarun was at the fort without an army. He hoped that Hilbudij would head into the gorge.
When the Thracian returned to Hilbudij and reported what he had seen, the commander’s brow did not lighten. He was dissatisfied, as he expected too little combat, and the plunder was distasteful to him.
“Robbery according to the customs of barbarians, pleasing to the emperor, to feed a few hungry bands that come rushing into the city for the winter. Millions are wasted on a senseless circus, for merriment!”
He lay angrily on the grass. The soldiers watched him fearfully, speaking only in whispers.
At midday, Hilbudij stood up and ordered a departure.
Heavily armed troops—with large shields, spears, and swords, all in iron armor—marched at the front. Behind them rode Hilbudij, accompanied by a few cavalry to relay quick commands if necessary. Archers and slingers followed, very dangerous in battle from a distance. They had leather slings attached to round sticks, with which they skillfully hurled long, pointed lead projectiles called “acorns”; whoever was struck well by an acorn would not move again in battle.
The army moved slowly through the gorge. The sun was setting, casting extraordinarily warm autumn rays against the troops’ backs. Hilbudij rode pensively, his helmet dangling carelessly from a red strap on his back. Other riders and many foot soldiers had also loosened their straps and lowered their helmets. The sunbeams shimmered brightly, dancing on the pebbles of Hilbudij’s cross.
Under the gentle sky, a solemn silence prevailed. The soldiers marched silently beside each other. Only the sound of footsteps echoed through the gorge, while the stream flowed steadily.
The sun gradually approached the horizon. The valley constricted, and shadows gathered over the troops. They were nearing a narrow gorge.
In the young Slavs lying in wait on the ridge, blood surged. They heard the rustle, sometimes a sword clanked. Every hand reached for an arrow, placing it on the bow, fingers gripping the nocking point that already rested on the string. Soon they spotted through the gaps in the bushes the first detachments. Excitement boiled over; it took great strength to keep the tide of young, battle-hungry Slavs in check. Iztok crouched on a rock—frozen. The mighty bow stood upright, the best arrow rested on the string, muscles in his right arm rippled, his heart pounded, making the strap on his chest that held the quiver tremble. He could see the heavily armed troops below him. He could have fired, but his eyes were searching for Hilbudij, looking for him and tracking him down. Around the bend appeared the first rider, clad in fine armor with a helmet on his back. Following him were others, riding two by two.
The commander! Hilbudij! He rode alone, carefree and lost in thought. He was getting closer to Iztok. Just fifty steps more, and the commander would be beneath him.
Iztok gripped the bow tighter; the string began to stretch, the bow bent—ten more steps.
Iztok rose from behind the branches, the bow drawn to the limit. Twang, the string sang, the arrow soared through the air, and below, Hilbudij shouted with a terrible voice, “Kyrie eleison!” waving his arms in the air, reaching for the spear that lay nearby, then toppled and fell from his horse. At that moment, a whistle and rustling erupted from the ridge, a cloud of arrows broke free and rained down on the Byzantines. A cry echoed, shaking the mountain; Hilbudij’s soldiers fell, shrieking as they pulled arrows from their wounds. But suddenly, the chaos ceased. The captains ordered the troops to form up, shields tilted like roofs over the unit, arrows clanged and bounced off the bronze bulwarks on the shields. The army turned like a snowplow, entirely covered with shields, positioning its front against the attackers and charged uphill. The slingers and archers poured across the stream to the opposite bank; they split and fell, as arrows pierced through light armor, or they retreated up the hill to return fire at the attackers with lead acorns. The first shields were already close, just twenty steps below Iztok, and no arrows stuck anymore; lead rained down from the opposite bank. Many young men cried out, their bows fell from their hands, and they crumpled and rolled down the slope. Iztok realized they must flee. But then, wild horns sounded from the opposite side.
“Krok,” Iztok thought.
The lead rain suddenly ceased; the roar and cries, the clamor and clatter echoed. Krok struck like a wild boar from the ridge against the slingers and archers. The wedge of Byzantines advancing toward Iztok halted; they recognized they were surrounded. Krok’s wild horde clashed with the lightly armed, creating chaos, twisted heaps of human bodies rolled down the hill, hacking, biting, and stabbing each other, while at the bottom in the stream, they thrashed and drowned, the water turned crimson with blood. The Byzantines sounded the retreat; the trumpets called for withdrawal. The tightly packed heavily armed troops turned—under them, the roof of shields—and fled into the valley. But there, the mighty figures of Svarun’s force had already appeared. Spears whistled through the air, piercing holes in the iron roof of shields. The battle began man against man. Axes crashed against shields and cleaved through them, swords thrust into flesh, flashing swiftly across the bodies of the Antians. The entire long valley became a tangled chain of furious soldiers clashing and slaughtering. In the midst of the fray, Radogost charged in. Sticks rose and crashed down upon the bronze helmets. There was noise and shouting, sighs and roaring, the clattering of swords, and the tumult of breaking spears.
Iztok surged forward with the archers up the slope. The cavalry had just broken free from the crowd and was trying to flee. They showered arrows upon the horses, causing them to buckle beneath their riders. The young men lunged after them with knives, head for head fell beneath the swift blades of elite horsemen, while others pushed over the corpses, toppling Byzantines to the ground and suffocating them under the weight of their bodies.
Night fell upon the earth. Puddles of blood ran across the grass, groans echoed to the heavens, while the Slavs sang wild war songs that reverberated beneath the clear, free sky.
- One of the major gods of Slavic mythology, a solar deity/sun god ↩︎