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CHAPTER FIVE

“WE ARE ALIVE!”

The next two weeks were spent in frenzied activity, as the great expedition to Pommerelia began taking shape outside of Paltyrrha. The rain continued off and on in desultory fashion, occasionally ceasing long enough for the sun to lay a crust on top of the ever-present mud, but the men became used to the bad conditions, and even began joking about them.

By the first day of May, the Feast of Saint Stachys the Stigmatized, eleven thousand soldiers had gathered at Katonaí Field west of the city, with the Ar­rhéni, Kórynthi, Luristáni, Vorónali, and Velyaminóli con­tingents still to arrive. Four thousand more troops were al­ready encamped around Myláßgorod, their destination to the west, and another five thousand at Bolémiagrad. Con­trary to almost everyone’s expectations except the king’s, the enterprise was moving forward very rapidly.

The king had picked the first of May as the official leave­taking of the army for many good reasons, primary among them being the fact that this was traditionally the beginning of the warm season in Kórynthia, and the end of the monsoon rains. With the onset of the milder weather, the men could see the evidence around them of things sprouting everywhere, a sure sign of renewal. The opti­mism generated by all this greenery and the lessening storms had offset the depression following Lord Feognóst’s public suicide, an event that still hadn’t been adequately explained by the king’s physicians, plus the announcement the week before of the passing of the son of Prince Pankratz. Prince Alexander had perished of the creeping colick at the age of just six months.

But nothing of an unusual nature had occurred in the interim, save a tremor two evenings before that had jolted most everyone from their sound sleep, but had passed so quickly that many could not even identify what it was. Earthquakes were common in Paltyrrha, and anyone over the age of twenty-five remembered all too well the great quake of 1188, which had leveled part of the city.

The leaders of the expedition gathered at the hour of tritê at Saint Konstantín’s Cathedral in the center of the town, there to receive the official blessing of the Thrice Holy Patriarch Avraäm iv. After the shaky old primate had celebrated mass, given his benediction, sprinkled them with holy water, and distributed the consecrated bread and wine that represented in sacramental form the body and blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, he and half of his synod prepared to embark with the king’s army, for it was only fitting, he was heard to utter, that they suffer the same risks as the others.

“God will protect us,” he insisted, “He will watch over us all.”

From the Cathedral they marched as one body to Tighrishály Palace, where the Princess Arrhiána and Prince Andruin, the newly named Regents of the Kingdom in Kipriyán’s absence, were waiting for them, together with the womenfolk and children of the royal family and the high councilors of state. Many were the tears and the huz­zahs that were exchanged that day, and many the promises made of great victories and happy returns. Such are the gentle lies that loved ones tell each other, that they may sleep more soundly at night.

King Kyprianos kissed his son and daughter on each cheek, and gave them their sashes of office. Metropolitan Ismaêl, the ranking member of the Holy Synod, was ap­pointed Locum Tenens of the Holy Church by the patriarch.

Prince Ezzö and his eldest grandson, Prince Pankratz, the real commander of the northern army, then made their farewells; later that day they would transit to their camp near Bolémiagrad, where they would lead the northern Kórynthi army into Einwegflasche. King Hum­fried v kissed his father and eldest son gently, and was ac­tually seen to brush away a tear from his eye as he bid them “adieu.” Many at court had begun to comment that the Old Pretender Ezzö was starting to fail in his mind, especially since the unfortunate passing of his son Adolphos the previous winter. Still, he made a formidable presence on this most auspicious occasion, dressed in shiny armor with plumes a-flying, and care­fully seated upright in his saddle.

Finally, they were ready to begin at about the hour of hektê, which is called sext in the west. The king, in heavy battle armor, was helped onto his new stallion, a mighty gray called Szürke, signaling his Elite Guard and chief officers to follow suit. As the command to mount rang out, the dark clouds parted briefly, allowing a slender shaft of sunlight to bathe the monarch in its reflected glow. A brilliant flash of gold ricocheted from the king’s crown, blinding the onlookers, and causing awed comments all around. The Guard spontaneously saluted their monarch with their kiliçs raised on high. God had officially smiled on the expedition.

They began moving out, but as they started to pass through Saint Konstantín’s Square, in front of the great onion-domed cathedral of the same name, suddenly an earthquake rocked the capital once again, rattling windows and nerves alike. While they paused, looking at each other and trying to gauge the strength of the temblor, a second, more severe jolt struck, cracking the statue of King Tamás at the center of the square. The bronze horse on which the dead king was mounted almost seemed to trot free from its moorings, causing the entire structure to slide sideways to­wards the royal party. King Kipriyán spurred Szürke just in time to avoid being impaled by the outstretched sword of Tamás, who crumbled into pieces when he finally hit the ground. Inside, as they could all see, the statue was rotten clean through with pale green rust.

“Is anyone hurt?” Kipriyán yelled over the din. “Report!”

A few moments later, after consulting with his aides, Prince Arkády spurred his horse into motion, broke free from the chaos, and rode quickly to his father from the other side. He glanced rapidly to his right, then to his left, trying to gauge some estimate of any additional damage they might have suffered.

“Sire,” he said, as he wheeled to a stop beside Kipriyán, “several men were cut by flying débris, and one horse went lame when he slipped on the rubble. Princess Arrhiána is sending physicians to treat the wounded, as well as workers to begin the clean-up.”

The king examined the expectant faces peering up at him, waiting for some direction.

“The Walküri have done their worst,” he shouted to the gathered throng, brandishing his sword and waving it over his head, “and they have utterly failed. Look around you. We are alive, we are well, we are strong, we are victorious! Let the jihad commence! Vive la Corynthe!” he added, using the Gallic dialect which was then the fashion of the nobility at court.

Raucous cheers rattled the eaves of the buildings surrounding the square, even more than the temblor had, and the spirits of the officers and their men, so low a few moments earlier, soared high above the dome of Saint Kon­stantín’s. Certain of victory, assured of God’s good will, King Kipriyán and his army marched west out of Paltyrrha, exiting at the Gate of Saint Ignatios, and being joined shortly thereafter by the thousands of soldiers waiting for them at Katonaí Field. Even trampling through the sticky mud, they made a grand sight, ranged row by row in per­fect order, their spears reaching up into the sky to prod the very angels themselves into action.

The enterprise was fi­nally launched!