A Jester’s Fortune

'He asks me, are we de British Royal Navy vich hezz so vahry much silver to buy brot unt sheep,' Kolodzcy was explaining, leaning to and fro from translatee to translatee. 'I tell him we are. He ist askink, do we fight de French. I say we do. He asks me, do ve dell de druth… ve take many rich ships, oud ad sea. I say ve dell druth, alvays, unt daht dhere are vahry many more rich ships… good bickinks. Kapitan Petracic is askink… he vould vahry much like de riches dhat we take. Uhm… Gott in Himmel, was ist das? Ldcherlich! Umph!'

Kolodzcy leaned away from the pirates.

'De Kapitan Petracic sayink he ist master ohf dis goast… unt… unt!' Kolodzcy gargled, outraged. 'Ve are owink him… tributes! His share!'

'Tell 1m t'go buy a hat, shit in it an' call it a brown tie-wig,' Rodgers barked. 'The bloody nerve o' th' man!'

'Plenty… blood-ey… nerve, Ratko Petracic,' the short man hoorawed, as good a sycophant as Clotworthy Chute any day, Lewrie told himself. Once he got over his shock, o' course. His shock of hearing English from the hairy churl-and the smug look of satisfaction on Ratko Petracic's face. 'Plenty bloody nerve,' indeed! Lewrie thought.

CHAPTER 5

'He speaks English?' Rodgers blanched, staring at Petracic.

'Not bloody word,' Dragan Mlavic informed him soberly. 'But I do. Little.'

Least we can do 'thout this mincin' pimp Kolodzcy from here on out, Alan silently hoped.

There was a brief palaver between the smirking Ratko Petracic and his chief lieutenant. Then, 'I listen careful, British man. Then I tell him what you say. But Captain Petracic says we will talk. In Serbian. Your…' Mlavic gave Leutnant Kolodzcy another of those scathing head-to-toe glances, as if he still couldn't quite believe his eyes or that such creatures lived. 'Your translator help us, da?'

'Bud, ohf gourse,' Kolodacy seethed, though smiling rigidly.

There was another brief outburst of Serbian, which to Lewrie s ears seemed like gargling, from the handsome Petracic.

'Captain say… rain, soon. We go below… talk, yes? You have good wine? We talk,' Dragan Mlavic urged. 'No good sailing today.'

'Inform the captain, uhm… Petracic,' Rodgers offered, turning a lot more civil, 'that we will indeed repair below to the great-cabins and talk. But… there must be no more talk of paying him tribute.'

'We see, British captain.' Mlavic smiled and lifted one chary brow. 'We see.'

The first hour of talking and swilling (Lewrie's wine, with which Rodgers was damn liberal, and the Serbs putting it down like they were fresh-parched from Hell!) consisted mostly of boasting. Ratko Petracic told his listeners what a great seaman he was, how many villages he'd raided, how wealthy he'd become, how many throats he'd cut and how many Turks now roasted on Shaitan's Coals because of his sword or the actions of his bold warriors. How Venetians gave him a wide berth when they saw his sails and took themselves elsewhere. How the fierce Ragu-sans shook in their boots and would not pursue him when he boldly raided one of the outlying ports. And blah-blah-blah…!

'Unt de Croats?' Kolodzcy queried. 'They run from you, too?' 'Ha!' Dragan Mlavic sputtered. 'Croats… poo!' He spat upon the black-and-white-chequered sailcloth deck covering, highly insulted.

'Here, now,' Lewrie grumbled. 'Have a care, tell him. Spit on his own damn deck… but not mine! Damme, was he born in a barn?'

Kolodzcy posed the question to Ratko Petracic directly, resenting his role being usurped by the barely intelligible, and partisan, pirate. A babble ensued as Mlavic tried to ask the question in his place, and Petracic put up one hand to silence his lieutenant. Petracic put a noble expression on his face, one of deliberate musing, before replying.

'He say…' Kolodzcy interpreted slowly, 'he hess no fear ohf de Croats. Serbs are… fiercer fighters. He hates Croats! All true Serbs hate Croats, forever. Untrustvorthy… murderink… whores. 'Ungar-ian whores. Catholic. Uhm, suffice to say, sirs, he despise dhem. He make mahny vile accusations.'

And ain't you a good little Austrian Catholic yourself, Kolodzcy? Lewrie wondered. He was torn between the play of expressions of both Lieutnant Kolodzcy and Petracic; one all but biting his cheeks to remain diplomatic, and the other-feigning, Lewrie was dead certain- noble long-suffering.

Petracic got to his feet to pace and gesticulate, waving with both hands now, and beginning to sound gruff and rankled. 'Well?' Rodgers demanded, as the diatribe continued. 'Still rants, sir,' Kolodzcy replied, one ear tilted for a pithy bit. 'He exblainink Balgan hizdory. Holy King Stefan Nemanja. Saint Cyril unt Saint Methodius, who conwert pagan Slavs to Christians, in de Orthodox Church, long ago… King Stefan, first of Nemanjas, build huge empire. Greater general dhan Byzantine, Belisarius. Son, Saint Sava the Wanderer found Serbian Orthodox Church. King Milutin Nemanja, he defeat fildy Bulgars… no bedder dhan slant-eye Tartars. Richer dhan Byzantine Empire. All of goast to Adriatic… far south into Macedonia unt Greece, conquer Albanians. Vould have conquer Constantinople, too, 'til de veak as vater cowards allow Durks across Hellespont. Unt Croats too stupid to be true Slavs… too jealous. Dhey look to Vienna, Rome… become Catholics. Whores to Budapest unt Vienna.'

'Uhm… this'11 take long, d'ye think?' Rodgers softly wondered.

'Ach,ja, herr Kapitan,' Kolodzcy said with a patient sigh. 'He speak of Stefan Uros… Stefan Dushan… dushan meanink 'soul.' A last Nemanja, Uros. Daht ist vhen Durks come, unt he was veak. 'Ungarians from de vest svarm to take empire. Croats vit dhem. Comes final leader, elected prince… Knez Lazar.'

'Aahh,' Dragan Mlavic uttered, sounding like a mourner at a funeral; and Lewrie was amazed to see tears moisten his hard little eyes as his lips trembled in genuine sorrow!

'Comes time of Kossovo,' Leutnant Kolodzcy translated, as the fierce Ratko Petracic ranted on. 'Grade baddle. Durks vin, Serbs killed. He recite poem to us.'

'Jesus,' Lewrie whispered, pouring himself a glass of claret in frustration. 'A long'un, I'd expect. 'Hear me, Oh Muse'…'he cited from The Iliad. In English, of course; he'd been bloody awful in Greek.

'Grey bird fly from Jerusalem. Falcon. Really ist Saint Elijah, bearink Holy Book. Comes to de Tsar… Prince Lazar, unt asks ohf him vhat kingdom he vish… heavenly or earthly? Knez Lazar choose heavenly kingdom. He say:

'He built a church on Kossovo …

Then he gave his soldiers the Eucharist…

Then the Turks overwhelmed Lazar…

And his army was destroyed with him,

Of seven and seventy thousand soldiers,

'Dhen, all vas Holy, all was honourable. Unt de guteness of God vas fulfilled,' Kolodzcy interpreted for them.

Ratko Petracic stopped orating, arms out to his sides as if he were being crucified, his head hung, and unashamedly weeping.

'Uhmph, I say…' Rodgers squirmed uneasily, and Lewrie felt the urge to look away. Such blatant public displays of tears were bred, or whipped, out of English gentlemen. Even Lewrie, who was more prone to expressing his enthusiasms or disasters (more proof, he thought, that he would never make a true gentleman if he lived an hundred years!) was not this open with his feelings. Why, it was unmanly… foreign, certainly!

'Kossovo Polje,' Petracic said, looking up and lowering his arms to wipe away his tears on his sleeves.

'Kossovo Polje,' Dragan Mlavic echoed, his voice broken. 'De Field ohf Black Birds,'