Under the Free Sun – Chapter 8

The next morning, Svarun gathered all the elders, notable men, and experienced warriors for a council of war. He commanded order and discipline in the army. The gray-haired men assembled, and Svarun spoke:

“Elders, renowned warriors, the war is over, yet it is not over. Perun is great; he thundered when we sacrificed under the linden tree, and he kept his thunderous word. The enemy is trampled, the sun shines freely upon us, our herds are free. The Slavs are what they once were and must remain forever. Thanks to Perun, under the linden, we shall offer sacrifices of gratitude!

But I tell you, the war is not over. Who would leave the plow in the middle of the field and return home in fair weather? We have set the plow, the furrow gapes wide—so, brothers, onward! Let us claim just a crumb of the bread that Hilbudius has taken from us for three years. The frosts are still far off this year, let us strike the enemy’s lands and reclaim what was stolen from us. Sheep for sheep, cattle for cattle, and let us bring home the baptized men and women to graze, sow, and harvest in place of our fallen sons. This is the thought of your elder, whom you yourselves have chosen to walk ahead of you in his gray years and fight with you.

Elders, chieftains, speak wisely!”

Velegost, a very wealthy and esteemed Slav elder, stood up: “Half my servants have fallen in the recent battle, two sons lie in the field, yet I say: I still have myself and two more sons, and we shall all fall if need be, so long as we avenge and reclaim our due. Svarun is wise, his advice is the thought of the gods.”

“Reclaim our due!” the Slavs repeated.

The elders of the Antians remained silent. Svarun looked at them meaningfully. Worry and fear crept across his face.

“Our brothers, the Antians, you live higher than we do and have not suffered as much under the Byzantines as we have. But if you want to be safe, build a wall before you! We are the wall, your brothers. Bring your stones, hard stones, as you proved in this battle, to the common wall, so that you may sleep peacefully with your families and graze your herds safely!”

The Antian elder Volk rose.

“Brothers Slavs, winter lies at our door and knocks. In the mountains, it will catch us and devour us like a beast. Let us not tempt the gods! They have given us enough this time! Let us return home peacefully until spring. Then we will gather and strike across the Danube!”

The Antians loudly agreed with their elder. The Slavs frowned and muttered.

Svarun stood up and tried to calm the discord with gentle words.

“Elder Volk, your thought is wise. But I say, it is not wise for a man to slaughter a lamb, roast it, and then leave it and walk away with a hungry belly.”

“We will not go; we want to eat our fill!” the Slavs roared.

“Not just you! The elder must be just. The Antians were loyal comrades and came from afar to help us. Should they break their spears, dull their swords, and lose their heads for nothing? No. They deserve payment according to their deeds. We cannot give it to them, but we will go and get it for them where it is abundant.”

Then the Antian Viljenec, a rich and boastful elder, spoke up.

“Volk spoke the truth. We do not ask for payment. But if we were to seek it, Volk has said we might find bitter payment in the jaws of winter. Therefore, we will return. Our home is far away—let us be wise and not greedy like those who, though already full, continued to eat and perished.”

The Antians roared in agreement and unanimously demanded the army return.

Svarun was bitter. The discord pained him. There was no longer any garrison at the border; they could freely enter the land and plunder its riches, but the Antians refused. He tried once more.

“It is good that you wish to go home. We will gladly escort you. But if you were to ask your soldiers, many might wish to gain more in a month than their flocks and cattle provide them in a year. Let us ask them!”

Volk took up the word.

“Let that be the decision, if it yields any result. So let the council be adjourned until tomorrow!”

The elders dispersed—two great groups—left and right.

“Svarun thinks the Slavs alone should rule,” the Antians grumbled.

“On purpose, he doesn’t!”

“How dare he command free men!”

“As if we were slaves!”

“We’ll tell the people!”

“No one will go with him, nor should they!”

The Slavs grumbled against the Antians.

“Rebels!”

“As long as the army is divided!”

“Should they go to Byzantium to grind the emperor’s mills?”

“Let them go to their women, to warm their backs, since they fear the winter so much.”

“They don’t care about the winter! Volk is a wolf.”

Svarun was left alone, bitterly saddened. Iztok approached him.

“Father, your face is sorrowful. What council has caused you to hang your head?”

“Iztok, my son, remember this: the Slavs will not be happy because they are not united. Clouds will gather over their free sun, clouds so thick that perhaps joyful light will never break through again.”

“Father, we Slavs must change. Father, I will improve them when I become elder. And we must learn the art of war, the art of war from our enemies, or we will be beaten.”

“Iztok, I will soon lie down; the breath of Morana is not far. I will lie down, but without hope. Only let me lie down with our ancestors—free!”

The old man bowed his head and fell silent. Iztok did not speak to him again in his deep sorrow.

That day, there was much debate and discussion among the army. They deliberated over the elders’ conversations, some boasting, others criticizing. The Antians were pushing for a return, while the Slavs pressed for a march south.

Suddenly, the arguments ceased. On the eastern horizon, along the Danube, horsemen appeared. The Slavic army grabbed their weapons. The girls and the wounded had to cross the bridge quickly to avoid the battle. Iztok ignored the pain in his head. He gathered the best archers and positioned them to shoot at the cavalry’s flanks.

But the closer the riders came, the more the Slavs doubted that it was an enemy force. No armor gleamed, they rode scattered and without order.

“Huns! Huns!”

Like one voice, the cry went up when they recognized them. Weapons were lowered, and they curiously awaited their arrival.

The first to ride in was Tunjuš, their leader. His horse was lean and wiry, all legs, but with tough, resilient muscles like a buffalo’s sinews. The Hun thought he was riding to the Byzantine camp, so he was startled when he saw the Slavic army.

In an instant, he realized what had happened. He quickly hid his surprise and cheerfully asked for the elder, Svarun. He rode up to the tent and greeted the elder from his horse.

Tunjuš was a stocky man with an angular body. His thick head sat deep between his shoulders, his neck like that of an old bull, his nose flattened, sparse hairs on his chin, and small, lively eyes that never rested—like two black sparks darting from beneath his brow. He wore a cap on his head, a thin horn armor across his chest, over which fluttered a scarlet cloak. His scrawny thighs were covered in hairy goat-skin trousers.

“Svarun, you are the greatest hero, for you have defeated Hilbudius. The greatest in the world, says Tunjuš, descendant of Ernac, son of Attila.”

“Where are you headed? Dismount, sit with us, and eat!” Tunjuš dismounted.

“To Byzantium, to deceive the emperor and get money.”

Tunjuš laughed loudly.

“The emperor is powerful; aren’t you afraid of him?”

“Powerful? You are powerful, and I am powerful, for we know the sword and the club. But he sits on a golden throne, twirling written donkey skins between his fingers, and cradles his beautiful wife, who is such a whore that Tunjuš wouldn’t even tie her to his horse’s tail. He is only called emperor, and when barbarians rise, he immediately opens his chests and pours out gold, begging: Tunjuš, calm them, pay them, take gold and silver!”

“I don’t believe it. The emperor has Hilbudiuses! They are demons! Whoever has such soldiers can sit on a golden throne!”

“Hilbudij was just one! Now the land is free. You can go to Byzantium if you have time and desire!”

“Eh, I would go, but the Antians, the Antians…” Tunjuš’s eyes gleamed.

“Do you allow my men to camp here for the night? Tomorrow we will move on!”

“You are our guests. What we have, you need not lack.”

The Huns joined the Slavs. Tunjuš greeted them and slowly made his way to the Antians, where he lay down among the elders.

Meanwhile, Iztok had made a bold decision. He waited for Radovan.

He sat away from the army behind a lonely bush, tying the broken strings of his lute. His face was grim, wrapped in angry clouds. When Iztok approached him, he glanced up from under his brows and continued with his work.

“Radovan, sitting alone? A minstrel — and you’re crouching behind a bush.”

Radovan didn’t answer a word, only shot him a sharp look from under his thick eyebrows.

“Full of anger, Radovan! You’ve drunk yourself into a rage with Byzantine wine.”

The minstrel looked at him with a waspish, irritated expression.

Yet Iztok calmly sat down beside him and remained silent for a long time.

“Uncle, don’t be mad, I want to ask you something important!”

“Ask away!”

“Are you going to Byzantium?”

“To Byzantium! I can’t stay with these savages. They tore my strings apart; may a werewolf meet them!”

“Will you take me with you?”

“Svarun’s son, be wise and don’t act foolishly! Your place is at home, for the son of a chieftain. For me — a minstrel — it’s a life of wandering the world.”

“But I want to go, because I must.”

“A Byzantine blow has scrambled your brains! Don’t talk nonsense! Stay home and don’t kill your father with grief. Remember, you are now the only son.”

“Precisely because of that, I want to go to Byzantium.”

“A madman has loosened you from your tether and strangled your reason. I’ll tell your father so he can cut some switches and discipline you.”

“Uncle, be merciful, take me with you. I can sing, and sing well!”

“A fool is like water. Always forward, never back. Tell me, what desire drives you on this path?”

“I want to learn how to fight like the Byzantines!”

Radovan opened his mouth wide. He stared at him for a long time, holding a torn string in each hand.

“To fight like the Byzantines! You already know how to fight like a Slav, you proved it just these days, as the young men who were with you say!”

“But the Byzantines fight better. I want to fight like them, too.”

Radovan thought carefully as he tied the broken string.

“I won’t deny it, your idea has merit. Even the emperor would be pleased with such a soldier. But know that they send barbarians first into battle, and it’s hard to return alive.”

“Perun will protect me.”

“Fine! You’re a brave lad; maybe fortune is seeking you. I’ll take you with me — but when you take your first step behind me, from that moment you’re my son. Understand?”

“Your son, dear father!”

“Has Tunjuš seen you?”

“He hasn’t!”

“He mustn’t. Tunjuš is a trickster. He’s going to Byzantium, where he’ll sell us both to the Praetorian Prefect for some old horse bridles. That’s why I’ve hidden from him as well. You mustn’t say a word about this campaign.”

“Not a word, father!”

“Don’t let the Huns see you. We’ll vanish at night. But think carefully, your father might die of sorrow!”

“He won’t. Ten sons have fallen, yet he hasn’t died.”

“Good. Get ready. Wear a linen cloak and bring a sheepskin coat with you, we’ll freeze in the Hemus mountains. Don’t bring any weapons. Just tuck a knife in your belt. Sometimes it’s needed.”

“I’ll also take two horses.”

“You mustn’t. Minstrels and bards travel on foot. We’re in no hurry.”

“But keep it quiet, father!”

“You keep quiet and hide from Tunjuš. In the evening, by this bush, when the army settles down.”

Iztok joyfully said farewell. His mind was racing. Wild images danced before his soul. He dreamed of battle, dreamed of beautiful Byzantium, dreamed of returning home one day as a learned and skilled warrior, where they would elect him as the chieftain. But what if he died, who knows where, never to see the Slavs again, neither his father nor his sister Ljubinica? His heart wrestled and hesitated.

Radovan was still tying his strings, thinking, and came to a decision: “Let him go, the daring lad! Life will be more pleasant with two of us. He’ll see the circus in Byzantium, then he’ll yearn for sheep, and by spring, I’ll bring him back. I won’t let him join the Byzantine soldiers, no, never. It would gnaw at my heart for the rest of my life.”

While Tunjuš lay authoritatively among the Antian elders, he soon stretched out his spy’s feelers and gathered the opinion of the Antes regarding the campaign southward. He knew well that the garrisons along the road leading across Hemus to Byzantium were so small that the united Slavs, after Hilbudius’ defeat, could easily crush them and gather immense plunder.

But Tunjuš was looking out for himself.

“So, you won’t go south with Svarun?”

“No!” replied the elders.

“Wise answer! You know that Tunjuš, descendant of Attila, is your faithful friend, ally of all the Slavs. Attila’s blood would curdle in my veins if I didn’t tell you the truth. I tell you, there are ten more commanders with troops on the way to Byzantium, worse than Hilbudius. Don’t throw your bodies to the wolves for supper. Return and rejoice in victory!”

“Listen! But what about Svarun? The proud old man is pushing south!”

“Svarun is a great warrior. His will is iron, too. So, don’t quarrel in the war council, return quietly and peacefully. Svarun can’t go south alone; he’ll follow you back.”

All the elders praised Tunjuš’s great love, dispersed among their families, and shared what the Huns had revealed to them. The Antes secretly whispered among themselves and avoided the Slavs. By nightfall, the army was divided into two camps.

Tunjuš, meanwhile, dined with Svarun, praised his bravery, and mocked the Antes. He drank mead and wine. His beady eyes then fell upon Ljubinica. The girl shuddered and clutched the pendant, a gift from the famous enchantress, to her chest.

A dark, cloudy night came. The camp settled early.

Morning dawned slowly and lazily. Svarun stood before his tent, pondering whether he could persuade the Antes to march south.

Then suddenly, from all sides, Slavic elders rushed to him, astonished, and reported: “The Antes are gone! Their camp is empty! Tunjuš vanished with the night.”

Svarun pressed his hands to his chest, clenched his lips, and returned to his tent.

It wasn’t until noon that he reappeared. His face had taken on a stony expression. The deep furrows were deeper and harder, like cracks in a rock worn by centuries of dripping water. He had decided to set off alone to the land of the Byzantines to bring home at least some loot after such a fortunate victory. He planned to send Iztok to the fort to guard and defend it in times of need.

He ordered them to call for him.

The call rang out everywhere: “Iztok, Iztok!” The young men ran back and forth, searching. They went to the camp, the surroundings, the bushes, the plains — the day vanished, Svarun waited in vain, and there was no sign of Iztok.

The old man summoned the leaders and announced that his chieftainship had ended. He immediately mounted his horse, silent and grim, called for Ljubinica and his kin, and rode across the Danube that very night. At home, he shut himself in the house and, like a wounded lion, lay on a ram’s skin for long days and even longer winter nights.