Under the Free Sun – Chapter 6

The victors lit fires and gathered in large groups around them. With burning embers, they searched the valley, looking for their missing kin. Morana (the goddess of death) had ruled brutally. The stream was blocked in many places, so many corpses lay in it. Even in death, men choked, clutching knives in their hands, gripping pieces of human flesh between their teeth, torn from their enemies in fierce battles. They found Krok in a ditch, surrounded by ten slain soldiers. One of them lay on top of him, Krok’s knife buried deep in his heart. Great sorrow overcame Svarun when they brought the mortally wounded Radogost. A long wound gaped across his chest; he took two final breaths by the fire and then died. He had been the most renowned elder of the Antes.

The Slavs had won, but they paid for the victory with rivers of blood. Hilbudios’s soldiers fought furiously; they were well-armed and fortified. Only the overwhelming strength of the Slavs crushed them; otherwise, they would have cut their way through the ranks and escaped.

“All the Byzantines are dead!” the warriors and elders declared. Svarun didn’t believe it. His armor, made of horse horn, had been struck three times; he was exhausted but didn’t rest.

He walked among the dead, counting the Byzantines and shaking his head.
“There should be more of them. Hilbudios has a stronger army! He must have left them in the camp, or they fled.”

Thus, he gave no rest to his people.
In the fort, word of the victory had already arrived, and they quickly sent many horses to carry the wounded home.

Svarun chose twenty well-armed warriors, ordered them to mount, and during the night, sent them galloping across the plain toward the bridge. He commanded them to hide and guard the bridge carefully. If they found a runaway, they were to kill him; if anyone tried to cross the bridge, they were to attack and quickly finish him off. If the garrison in the camp learned of Hilbudios’s defeat, they could destroy the bridge, and the Slavic army wouldn’t be able to cross the Danube.

They gathered the wounded and led them back to the fort on horseback. Among them were some fifty still-living and weakened Byzantine soldiers, who were taken into slavery. While the warriors rested, Svarun stood alone by the fire, lost in thought. It was clear to him that they needed to conquer the camp.

But Hilbudios’s camp! That fortress could only be taken at the cost of half the army’s lives. He thought hard, his brow furrowed, fingers running through his white beard, stained with blood. Here and there, young men laughed by the fire or sang a song, but Svarun bent further and further into deep thought. No clever trick came to him that would allow them to seize the camp without sacrificing too many men.

“Svetovit (god of wisdom), give me one more clever stratagem! Just one more to send into my gray head, and then I will rest. Just one more…” His head drooped low, his forehead resting on the hilt of the sword stabbed into the ground before him. His tired eyes closed, his body craved sleep, but his soul was restless, full of worry. The noise and cries around him faded, the fires dimmed, and the eastern sky began to glow with a thin red streak.

It was as if a ray of light broke from the sky and shot into Svarun’s head. He cried out in joy and quickly stood up.

Immediately, the horns blared, and the entire army rose, forming a tight line. The elders surrounded Svarun.

“Brothers, elders of the Slavs, brave warriors among the Antes,” Svarun spoke.
“The gods were with us. Perun (the thunder god) has struck down the arrogant Hilbudios, the thief of our freedom, and crushed his army so that now their bodies rot as food for vultures and foxes. But only half his army has fallen. We must strike at the nest beyond the Danube, destroy the camp, or more Hilbudioses will come and slaughter and rob us again. But the Byzantine sits like a dragon in his lair. You know his fortifications, the boiling pitch, the mighty spears and swords, quick as lightning. More than half our army will smash their heads on the barricades, and we still might not take them.”

“Destroy the bridge and return to our herds!” advised an elder of the Antes.

“No, brother! The bridge is ours. We must not cut off the branch we stand on. Our armies will march over the bridge to reclaim what was stolen from us. Therefore, we must destroy the camp!”

“Let’s strike! Starve the Byzantine army! Burn them in their nest!” The assembly roared with enthusiasm. Behind them, the warriors raised spears and swords, swinging axes above their heads.

“Yes, let’s strike the camp, but our heads will remain whole, and Morana will sit from afar, watching our victory!”

Everyone’s eyes widened, their lips parted with anticipation as they stared at Svarun. The crowd pressed even closer, listening intently.

“Brothers, thank Svetovit! He has granted my gray head a clever plan!”

A joyful cry erupted from the masses.
“Quickly, strip all the Byzantine soldiers, put on their helmets and rags, hang their shields on your arms, and march toward the camp!”

All were stunned. No one dared speak. To go into battle in such ridiculous attire? Svarun must be mad! Have mercy on him, Svetovit!

No one moved from their place. But Svarun commanded firmly once again:
“Helmets on heads, put on the armor!”

The warriors scattered and rushed toward the dead Byzantine bodies. They stripped helmets, unbuckled armor, and loosened the fine, ornate belts.

Iztok searched for Hilbudios. He lay on his back in the grass, holding Iztok’s arrow, which he had pulled from his temple before he died. He was a valiant warrior, and Iztok felt a sincere wish that he and his comrades were as well-armed so that they wouldn’t need to wait in ambush for their enemy but could seize him on the open field.

Oh, how different Iztok’s joy would have been if he had met Hilbudij alone, armed, on the green field. Their horses would have charged at each other, two spears would have cracked and shattered, then they would have drawn their swords, blow upon blow, sparks flying. Sweat would drip down both their foreheads, both would bleed, but in the end, Iztok would split his helmet, and Hilbudij would fall to the ground. Yes, that would have been a victory!

Almost sorrowfully, Iztok removed the armor and put it on himself. What strength Hilbudij had! His chest was stronger than Iztok’s! And when he unbuckled the armor, he looked under Hilbudij’s linen shirt. What scars! His skin was slashed in all directions. He had been a great warrior!

Iztok donned the gear with deep respect for the fallen enemy. Then he dragged the body into the bushes and covered it completely. A hero like that should not be torn apart by wild beasts or birds of prey.

When the army of the Slavs changed into their newly acquired equipment, they also outfitted the horses with Byzantine saddles and bridles. Iztok mounted a horse, and the army greeted him joyfully, mocking Hilbudij.

Since there wasn’t enough battle equipment for everyone, the troops formed up in the center. That was the order.

Svarun commanded that they depart immediately, but they were to veer to the right, so a small hill would hide them from the Danube. There, they would rest, and at dusk, they would head over the bridge and into the enemy camp.

Svarun sent swift messengers back to the fortress to bring rams and cattle and to fetch bags of honey and wheat, so they could feast properly after the victory.

The army moved through the gorge. Laughter, jokes, and wild taunts accompanied them. The Slavs moved awkwardly in their heavy battle gear. Their helmets hung sideways. Not a single one was smooth. All had dents, broken clasps, and torn straps. The armor showed signs of battle, pierced by spears, all filthy with blood and dirt. The Slavs swayed clumsily on the plain. If Hilbudij had caught them then, with just a single maniple, he would have wiped out the entire army to the last man.

Iztok felt as if he were shackled. He was an excellent horseman, but the heavy shield caused him so much discomfort that it would have knocked him to the ground in the first charge, and he would have fallen from the saddle, which he wasn’t used to.

Before the army crossed the plain, many grew irritated. They removed their helmets; some secretly tossed them into ditches, while others unbuckled their armor, which chafed their bare bodies until they bled. Only the fear of an authoritative leader shouting would have prevented an uprising. They would have stopped, rebelled against Svarun’s command, and thrown all the gear into the ditches and puddles. Many looked back, envying the light steps of the unarmed soldiers, who continuously laughed at the wobbling helmets and the grumbling men in armor.

Yet, they were always afraid of Svarun’s fiery gaze. Proudly, he rode in his cavalry attire, with a soldier carrying Hilbudij’s banner beside him—a wild boar on a gilded staff. They suppressed their wild urges for freedom, fell silent, and trampled the tall grass, eager to reach their goal and rid themselves of the burden. They all believed that Svarun had gone mad with joy over their victory, burdening them so heavily. A long shadow stretched from the hill across the plain as the army reached the foot of the hill. In disorder, with wild leaps, the warriors rushed into the bushes, lying down in the yellow leaves and dry grass. Helmets were thrown off, and the armor clattered onto the ground. Laughter and shouts echoed under the hill throughout the forest. It was an undisciplined, unrestrained band of free people, drunk on victory.

Suddenly, Svarun galloped into the midst of the old men. His brow furrowed, like an angry Perun, his eyes blazing. “On your feet! Put your armor on, helmets on your heads! Are you soldiers? A wild rabble! Listen to Svarun, the elder, or throw me off my horse, pierce me, rip out my heart, and hang it on a branch as bait for wolves and foxes! Better for a father’s heart to be in the belly of a beast than in a chest that leads an army with men like you. To the battle! Shame upon you!”

Iztok rushed among the young men, delivering Svarun’s command. With his hand raised, he commanded, and his words fell among the Slavs like a hammer, under which all yielded. The commotion quieted, and the ranks began to rise. They felt as though Morana herself was choking their throats. Svarun appeared like a threatening god, ready to strike with fire, and Iztok seemed a foot taller, his shoulders as broad as a mountain.

“When the sun sets—look, the shadows are already lengthening—then we will rise and head to the bridge, across it, and into the camp. Before midnight, you will give thanks to Svetovit, who inspired me with this trick!”

The warriors still didn’t understand what he meant. Many rebellious thoughts arose as they fastened their helmets and buckled their armor. They stared at the elder with questioning eyes as he formed them into the order of a proper Antian army.

The shadows stretched, trembled, and disappeared. The sun had sunk.

“Forward!”

Iztok rode at the front.

The troops marched in silence, company after company. The heavily armed men in front, the free Slavs in the middle, and the archers and slingers at the back. There was silence, and the steppe rumbled beneath their feet. In the grey dusk, they saw the Danube, a wide, deep ribbon across the plain. At the ribbon, a black line. Iztok turned his horse toward it.

“Prepare spears, axes, and swords!”

Iztok turned and relayed the command. It was whispered from mouth to mouth. Straps released axes, sword hilts were gripped in tense hands, and spears were lowered. In the warriors, passion awoke; the fire and desire for battle were ignited.

Beyond the black line, a square formation rose, smoke billowing from it. Iztok swung his sword toward the smoke. All eyes were fixed on the camp.

It had grown completely dark. A grey mist, like a veil, drifted down the Danube. They were a hundred paces from the bridge. Two dark figures moved ahead of them. “The guard,” Iztok thought. He leaned left, leaned right, and whispered instructions. The horse quickened its pace, and the soldiers pressed forward behind him.

He rode right up to the bridge. The moon had not yet risen. The guards respectfully stepped aside to the right and left, saluting ‘Hilbudij.’ But then two armors clashed—the powerful spears, thrown with all their might, pierced the guards’ chests. They collapsed with a scream. But the noise of the army crossing the bridge drowned out their cries.

The planks thundered beneath the feet of the army as it rushed across the river.

Then, joyfully, the trumpets sounded from the ramparts. Torches flared up in the camp, and the gates were thrown wide open.

At that moment, the entire army of the Slavs understood Svarun’s ruse. The Byzantines believed that the victorious Hilbudij was returning with prisoners.

The Slavs charged wildly onto the bridge, shouting and howling so fiercely that the very air seemed to tremble. They struck the camp with a tremendous assault.

Iztok was already at the gates. The guards were stunned. They dropped their torches to the ground, and the bravest Slavs stormed through the doors. Axes swung, armor shattered, swords clashed and cut. A terrifying chaos erupted. “Sklavenoi, Sklavenoi!” echoed through the camp.

In the middle of the camp, before Hilbudij’s tent, a company was swiftly assembled. It seemed as though Hilbudij’s ghost had appeared in the camp. Swords were suddenly raised, bodies shielded by armor, forming an impenetrable wall against which the wave of Slavs crashed.

Svarun had been mistaken, believing the Byzantines would be unarmed. Whenever Hilbudij went on expeditions, the garrison had to be ready day and night to come to his aid if necessary. This is why the battle that ensued was unlike any the warriors had ever seen.

When the Slavs outside the camp heard the screams, the groaning, and the splintering of spears, they rushed at the ramparts, climbing over one another and pushing through the wooden walls. From all sides, they surged into the battle, flooding into the camp like a terrible living mass bristling with spears and gleaming with swords—blood splattered everywhere, and bodies piled up on the ground. Fighters stumbled and fell over each other into the warm pools of blood.

The mighty wall of Byzantine soldiers cracked, split, then reformed, slashing furiously with their swords in every direction. The growing torrent of Slavs smashed against it, and the wall began to retreat. Suddenly, it tilted, the Slavs pressed in, and the wall collapsed.

But at that very moment, the gates on the western side of the camp opened, and the Byzantine cavalry, which had been shielded by the living wall, charged through. They slashed into the naked mass of Slavs, their swords plunging into bodies. To the left and right, corpses fell, and the cavalry cut a path through the throng, galloping southward into the night.

Groaning, gasping, wheezing, and gurgling filled the camp. The Slavs streamed over the ramparts, driving one another into the ditches in a frenzied rush. Those who had not yet entered the battle thirsted for blood, trampling over dead bodies, raging in a furious delirium.

Horns blared, the commanders called out, urging the men on and striking them. Everything descended into madness, chaos, and there was a fear they might start killing each other.

Svarun ordered torches to be lit. The moon slowly crept into the sky. Naked men with raised spears, swords overhead, clubs, and axes in hand, swarmed over the ramparts. In the middle of the camp lay a dreadful offering to Morana, groaning and gasping, drenched in blood, covered with broken spears and shattered swords. At the bottom of this sacrifice lay the hero, the hope of the Slavic army, buried beneath corpses—Iztok.