The Mongoliad: Book Two

blacksmith and a church. A small hamlet that grew, almost by accident, out of a desire for farmers to have a place where they could pray and drink without having to travel to the city of Legnica. When the Mongol army assembled to fight Duke Henry II of Silesia, Hunern was abandoned and then overrun. The church remained, its awkwardly tilted spire rising over a landscape of crooked and broken walls, like eggshells scattered across a chicken coop after a fox’s rampage.

When the Mongolian engineers began to build their arena, mercenaries, fighting men, traveling merchants, and other vagabonds summoned by Onghwe Khan’s challenge reclaimed the ruins of Hunern.

Invariably, the first structures rebuilt after the sacking of a city were one or more churches. The dead must receive absolution before they could be interred, and the survivors-in the absence of strong battlements and armed soldiers-had only their faith to protect them. A house of prayer meant they had not been abandoned; within the sanctuary of the church, they could open their hearts in prayer and hope to be sustained.

Inevitably, an assortment of dilapidated taverns followed, because laying stone and raising walls-especially those of a church-was thirsty work. In the absence of salvation, what else could a man do but drown the pernicious voices that whispered incessantly of one’s coming damnation? If God had abandoned you, what use was prayer? Drink was better.

In Dietrich’s opinion, the closest approximation of a real drinking house in Hunern was a battered, slant- roofed shanty with only two real walls, two tables, a few benches, and a handful of wobbly stools. Known as The Frogs-after the amphibians that hid in the cracked rubble and called to one another in high peeps and groans at dusk-the tavern was permanent enough to warrant a staff of three.

If God had abandoned his Church and his Faithful, at least He had left them a place that served real ale and not the horse’s piss the Mongols guzzled. A few hours in the afternoon at The Frogs quenched both thirst and burning soul.

Dominus custodiat introitum meum et exitum meum, he thought, hoisting his dented tankard. Foam slopped over his arm and onto the floor. Sanctuary is all we have ever sought. I will confess to this blasphemy, Dietrich assented after he quaffed half the contents of his flagon, the next time I am in Rome.

Dietrich had brought a full squad with him to The Frogs this afternoon. Usually he was only accompanied by Burchard and Sigeberht-he never left the Livonian compound without his bodyguards-but the incident at the bridge required the Livonian Order to show its strength. Rumors needed to be silenced; the people needed to see the power and presence of his knights. They needed to be reminded.

The man who ran the tavern, a Hungarian with a whistling voice and a tongue that he couldn’t keep fully in his mouth, had managed to acquire an oak chair-a heavy piece with a tall back, much like a lord’s seat at the head of the table. He allowed no one else to sit in it, and he always made a fuss when Dietrich showed up, running a rag over the seat and arms before letting the Livonian Grandmaster sit, asking him several times if he was comfortable enough, providing him a barrel on which to rest his tankard.

Gratitude and obedience. At The Frogs, the relationship between a knight and the people was clearly understood.

Dietrich and a company of Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae-nearly a dozen knights and twice that number of men-at-arms-had arrived in Hunern the first week of June, to establish their presence among the Western fighting orders at the Mongolian Circus.

Dietrich had at first considered taking over the church, but after a brief examination of the field of tents and flimsy shelters huddling close to the walls of the church, he opted for a more defensible location. On the southern verge of the camp, near a muddy pasture-a field of tenacious grass poking up through the mud and ash-he found a barn with half a roof. The occupants, a band of squatters, mostly elderly or crippled, had taken one look at the host of warriors with their white surcoats and red markings, and fled.

In that rout, one gray-bearded old man with a bloody stump for an arm had passed quite close to Dietrich and roundly cursed him. Dietrich had turned aside and let him live. The smell of gangrene would have haunted his sword.

Since then, more of the Livonian Order had arrived, doubling the number of knights. They overflowed the barn, and Dietrich had set his men to erecting a rudimentary perimeter. The walls wouldn’t stop a halfhearted attack from the Mongol host camped to the east, but they would present deterrent enough to thieves and scavengers. The small compound was a haven for his order within the pustulant chaos of the carrion eaters who trailed after every invading army.

The Mongolian army was dispersed in many camps to the east, the largest occupying a great Romanlike square-beamed fort. Mongols and their lackeys were a permanent presence that no one would entirely forget, but by virtue of their number and their organized encampment, the Livonians found themselves the recipients of a certain largesse from the Christian population of Hunern.

Gratitude and obedience. From the people to the knights who protected them. For the knights, such behavior was demanded of them by the men they served-kings and popes.

For more than thirty years, the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae had crusaded on behalf of the Bishop of Riga, cleansing the trade routes and converting the pagan tribes who were scattered throughout Livonia. The Pope had even taken notice of their work, calling upon them to bring Christ to the Novgorodian lands. But the order had been abandoned by God. The pagan tribes had realized they shared an enemy and, putting aside their petty differences, had fallen together into a large host. They had attacked Master Volquin’s army at Schaulen, and over the course of a night and day, the pagan army decimated the order. The Livonian Brothers of the Sword fled, and would have vanished utterly if the Pope had not granted them refuge in the ranks of the Teutonic Knights.

Was it better to survive as subjects of another master than to be scattered and lost? At first, many of Dietrich’s brothers would have said sanctuary was preferred, but after wearing the Teutonic cross for a few years, they began to chafe under their new banner. What was the cost of their salvation? Some wondered if they would ever truly find God again.

Two years after the Battle of Schaulen, Dietrich had been summoned to Rome for a private audience with Gregory IX. The meeting had occurred during a time when His Eminence and the Holy Roman Emperor had not been at each other’s throats, before the supreme Pontiff had fallen ill. Dietrich did not know why the Pope had granted him an audience, but held out a dim hope that the Pope was going to offer him-and the remnants of his order-a commission to lead a new crusade to the Levant.

The Pope, however, had had other plans.

God has not abandoned anyone, least of all those who are willing to fight and die for Him, Gregory IX had said during Dietrich’s first audience with the Pope after being elected Heermeister of the Livonian Order. His design is too vast and too subtle for us to comprehend. All we need to trouble ourselves with is faith and obedience; in return, He will grant us not only eternal life in Heaven but also eternal life in this world. All He asks in return is that you serve Us.

I do serve, Dietrich had replied. My duty and my life are devoted to the Church.

Not enough. Clutching the gold keys of his office, the Pope had offered his left hand to Dietrich. On his finger was a gold ring, and its seal was a fragmented Greek letter, an omega cleaved in twain by a stick-or a fasces, an old Roman weapon used by the lictors. You must serve Us, the Pope had reiterated.

Dietrich had pressed his lips to the ring and had been shocked to find it cold. The Pope’s fingers were like ice, his palm stiff and waxy-as if he were already dead.

Dominus custodiet te, the Pope had blessed him. Dominus protectio tua super manum laevum tuum.

The Lord will protect you.

The servingwoman appeared at his elbow, rousing him from his reminiscence, the pitcher of beer perched on her wide hip. “More, Heermeister?” she asked in German.

Dietrich grunted and raised his tankard. She poured adroitly, and the foam rose to the edge of the tankard but didn’t slop over. Her movement was supple and simple, the sort of deftness that came with practice. Was she married to the Hungarian tavern master, or was she his daughter? He glanced up, his gaze lingering on her breasts.