A Tale Without a Name Page 12

  “Whatever it should take, I must get through,” said the equerry.

  And he asked:

  “You know these parts well?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you think we can get through the strait?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Onearm,” said the equerry, “one of us must get through.”

  And pointing to the large leather money belt around his waist, he added:

  “This must be delivered into the hands of the Prince.”

  The one-armed man smiled.

  “Well, then, put it rather in my bedroom,” he said. “My house will always get through. You or I, however, might not come out of this alive.”

  “But if the risk is so great, why don’t we get ashore now?” asked Polydorus.

  “You say you are in a hurry to get to where you are going.”

  “Yes! But we could reach the capital on foot.”

  “There is no path.”

  “We can cross the mountain.”

  “Only of you had wings could you get through that way. The crevasses are impenetrable, and the mountain snow eternal,” replied the one-armed man.

  “And is there no other way?”

  “A speedy way, you mean? No, there is none.”

  For some time the river carried them on, each sunk in his own silence.

  They gazed without speaking at the waters, which tapered sharply to a narrow bottleneck between the riverbanks.

  All of a sudden, the one-armed man rose to his feet; he seized his punt pole and he thrust it with great force into the riverbed. Fright and Turmoil swivelled around abruptly and came out of the midstream, heading towards the left bank.

  “What is the matter?” asked Polydorus.

  The one-armed man, however, had no time to reply, for five or six arrows dug themselves viciously into the sides of the feluccas; at the same time, several riders in full armour appeared through the trees on their right.

  “The fun is about to begin,” said the one-armed man.

  The current was strong at the straits, and the bargeman could only steer his boats with extreme effort. He knew he could not get too close to the left bank: at the roots of the mountain, black rocks, which jutted out now and then from beneath the waters, posed a nasty hazard for the old rotting timbers of Fright and Turmoil.

  “Are we still far away?” asked the equerry.

  “No,” replied the one-armed man. “If we can make it past the strait, we shall be safe.”

  And bending down swiftly, he dodged an arrow, which flew past him only to bury itself into Polydorus’s shoulder.

  Pulling out his punt pole, the one-armed man hurried to the equerry’s side.

  “You have been wounded!” he cried out.

  “It is nothing, barely a scratch,” replied the equerry. “But for God’s sake, plunge in your punt pole, push, the current is carrying us back midstream once more.”

  The one-armed man ran to the prow and thrust his punt pole into the riverbed.

  Yet suddenly his legs buckled under him; he advanced but a single step, lunged bodily forward, and fell into the water.

  “Onearm!” cried Polydorus frantically.

  “Preseeeent…” came the drowning voice of the one-armed man.

  For one instant longer his bloodied face lingered on the watery surface. He stretched out his hand for help—perhaps for a final farewell—and then the river covered him with its silver shroud.

  The arrows came whistling like a hailstorm all around the feluccas, which were being carried midstream yet again.

  Polydorus had seized the punt pole and with great force he was thrusting it into the riverbed.

  At that same instant, an arrow pierced his brow and threw him down on his knees. He hurriedly wiped away the blood that was blinding him, and tried to stand up. Yet another arrow dug itself into his chest; the punt pole slipped through his hands, and was carried away by the river.

  Seeing that the youth had been wounded, the riders burst into wild yawps of triumph and, using him as a target, competed with one another to see who could drive more arrows into his fallen body.

  One of these arrows struck him in the neck; another slashed the strap of his money belt, and some florins spilt out.

  He raised himself up with great effort, and rebuckled the strap. But another arrow pierced his side, and he collapsed onto the bottom of the boat.

  “Mother, sweet, loving mother…” he muttered.

  It seemed to him that the sun had been extinguished, and that blackest night had spread everywhere.

  The current was carrying away Fright and Turmoil, propelling them out of the strait towards the broad river below, where they continued to travel slowly on its becalmed waters.

  From under the riverside trees, where he was working with feverish zeal, the master builder made out from afar the twin boats. He thought it strange that he could not see the one-armed man pushing his punt pole, or lying on the prow as he was wont to do, so he cried out to him:

  “Ahoy there, countryman! Where are you hiding?”

  No one replied. And the boats were coming nearer, ever faster. He thought he could make out a body lying down, but it did not look like the bargeman’s.

  “Countryman! Ahoy there, Onearm!” he cried out again. But no reply was heard.

  The master builder wasted no time. With the help of his assistants, he threw onto the water the pontoon he was building, and jumped aboard.

  “Easy with the ropes there, lads, till I can get midway across the river,” he cried.

  From the opposite bank, where the enemy was now encamped, some of the soldiers shot arrows at him and shouted insults.

  “Long live the Royal Navy of Witless I!” one of them jeered.

  And at that, all the others broke into rude and rowdy laughter.

  Unperturbed, the master builder allowed the feluccas to get close enough, till they finally collided with the pontoon and their movement was arrested for a moment. Instantly, he grabbed then the rope that was coiled on the prow, and motioned to his men to pull him back to the shore.

  XIV

  The Battle

  THE PRINCE had come to the river. He concealed his men in the woods, and instructed them not to come out from the trees, so that the enemy would not see them.

  His plan was to cross to the opposite bank during the night, assail the sleeping camp with his men, and, taking advantage of the resulting mayhem and the fright that would seize the enemy, drive them far away. There he would strive to hold them, by any means available to him, until he had formed an army and a navy, and then, by fighting hard, force them to the other side of the border.

  In order to succeed in his purpose, however, he had to find a way to ferry his soldiers across.

  He was going therefore at once to seek Illstar, and propose his plan to him.

  From the distance, he saw under the trees many men gathered together, and the master builder bending over a human body that lay on the ground.

  “What is the matter?” he asked, drawing near.

  The master builder recognized his voice, and turned around. His face was ashen and unsmiling.

  “You are the one he asked for, my lord,” he said without rising.

  “Who did?” asked the Prince.

  And pushing the workmen aside, he bent and saw the bloodied face, where the arrow remained still buried deep in the furrows of his brow.

  “Polydorus!” cried the Prince, and fell on his knees by his side.

  He lifted up the equerry’s head, held it against his chest, and wiped the blood that dripped from the wet hair.

  “Fetch some water, quick!” he ordered.

  “It won’t do any good, my lord,” said the master builder, “the gallant youth is dead…”

  “That cannot be! He must live! He must!” cried the Prince. “Polydorus… can you hear me! Speak to me…”

  He received no reply. The pursed lips remained mute, turned into the marble of eternal silence.
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  With nervous fingers he pushed away the leather money belt in order to feel whether the heart was beating. The strap came undone, and golden florins spilt out on the dusty earth.

  The Prince stood up then, and turned to his men.

  “Soldiers!” he cried, and his voice was quivering with the turmoil in his soul. “This noble youth gave up his life willingly for the sake of his country; he has shown you the way to glory. From each of you tonight I expect the same sacrifice, whether it may be to death that I lead you, or to victory! Countrymen! Hail the first fallen hero!”

  Everyone around him knelt down in silence.

  They buried the valiant youth there where his life’s breath had flown away from him. In the grave where the Prince had laid him, his arms crossed upon his chest, Polydorus now slept his final sleep. A bitter smile had frozen on his lips. The light of his eyes had been snuffed out without their meeting the bright gaze of his lord, who had awakened in his soul so much beauty and such strength, and had transformed him from a mere average man into a hero.

  With heavy hearts they all went back to their tasks, for time was passing, and the enemy had drawn very close.

  “Master builder,” said the Prince, “I have a plan for tonight. But in order for it to succeed, I need your help.”

  “Command me, my lord,” replied the master builder. “Whatever it is you wish, I shall do it.”

  “I know you sold everything you had, your house even, so you might pay the workers and build me a navy…”

  “I only did my duty,” said the master builder simply.

  The Prince stretched his hand out to him.

  “I thank you in the name of our country,” he said, deeply affected in his heart. “But now, I must ask you to abandon your ships. I have need of something much more urgent.”

  “I have abandoned them already, my lord. Tell me what it is you want.”

  “With the army that I have at my disposal, I cannot possibly tackle a regular trained army. I have decided therefore to take the enemy by surprise, strike against their camp tonight with my soldiers, and drive them away. But we will have to cross the river.”

  “And you have no ships, is that what you mean to say, my lord?”

  “I thought that you might be able to build me a makeshift bridge—” began the Prince.

  The master builder, however, interrupted him.

  “I have it all but ready,” he said.

  The Prince was much astonished.

  “Who told you to make it?” he asked.

  “The one-armed man,” replied the master builder.

  And he recounted to the Prince the words he had exchanged with the bargeman.

  “So I have built you many pontoons,” he continued. “At your command, we shall quietly and silently tie one pontoon to the next, and the entire army will cross to the other side.”

  “Where is the bargeman?” asked the Prince excitedly. “I must speak to him at once!”

  “I don’t know,” answered the master builder. “Since the time when he went up the river, I have not seen him at all. The wounded youth was found in his feluccas, yet the bargeman was not with him.”

  “He did not tell you where he was going when you asked him?”

  “No. He only said: ‘Secret mission of the State!’ I did not understand what he meant.”

  “And Polydorus said nothing to you?”

  “He did not have the time,” replied the master builder. “He was unconscious when I laid him on the ground, drenched in blood. I tried to bring him round, but he never opened his eyes again. He murmured your name once or twice, and then he died.”

  “When the one-armed man comes back tonight, I want to see him,” said the Prince. The one-armed man, however, never returned.

  The night was well advanced. Everything was ready.

  The Prince had organized his soldiers in units, after having distributed to them the arms as well as all the sickles, scythes, hoes and every other tool brought to him by the villagers.

  In a low voice he was giving out his final orders, while by the river the master builder and his apprentices were tying together the pontoons one beside the other, and securing them to the riverbank.

  The Prince gave the signal, and stepped onto the bridge, crossing first to the other side.

  The enemy camp was sleeping most serenely.

  The King the Royal Uncle had reached the river without ever meeting a single soldier. Before him, the country dwellers ran away in terrified throngs, abandoning their villages, which the enemy burned down after having despoiled the houses of all that they could carry.

  He had no reason to worry, the King the Royal Uncle, nor did his soldiers. And, weary from the day’s long march, they slept heavily, without even thinking of posting a watch.

  The Prince realized immediately the advantage such negligence had given him.

  Noiselessly, muffling the sound of their steps, the Fatalists surrounded the camp, and, holding their breath, waited for the signal.

  A fire signal flashed all of a sudden near the riverbank.

  There, the Prince, before any other man, unsheathed his sword and hurled himself upon the enemy, and from every side the soldiers followed him, rending the air with mighty yowls.

  Their foes woke up in terror from the clamour.

  At first they could not make out what was happening, and the Prince’s soldiers had time to slay a good number of them before they were able to think about reassembling themselves.

  It wasn’t long before they realized, however, that some unknown enemy had assailed them; then they ran for their arms.

  Only it was not an easy task to find them in the solid darkness of the moonless night. In the meantime, the soldiers of the Prince were cutting down their enemies with their long scythes; like stalks of wheat, they fell upon the ground.

  Panic seized the enemy and they sought to escape towards the plains, hoping to save their lives. But the Prince was on the lookout for them, and with a few chosen soldiers he fell upon them and killed so many that the blood flowed like a river on the ground.

  “Onwards! Onwards!” cried the Prince. “Onwards, men! Let us capture their king.”

  And sword in hand, he ran to the tent of the King the Royal Uncle.

  The King, however, was a daring man. He would not give himself up so easily. He woke up at the first sound of screaming, grabbed hold of his armour and weapons at once, and tried to recall his soldiers to order.

  Master Faintheart was shaking so terribly that he could not even stand up on his feet; helpless, he sat down heavily on the ground.

  “Pick up your sword, you coward!” his ally yelled at him. “Pick up your weapons and follow me! You are the one who got me into this, and lured me into waging this war. Come out now and fight at my side.”

  Master Faintheart, however, could no longer move a muscle; the King the Royal Uncle kicked him aside with disgust and went out of his tent.

  Seeing his men run away, his anger turned into frenzy and he began to hit them with the pole of his lance. He managed to muster a few together, and with these he strove to offer some resistance, shouting:

  “You spineless cowards! Where are you running away to? Are you lambs with a wolf at your heels? Come back! Come stand by your king, and see if he knows how to fight for your sake!”

  With his cries, he stopped a few more.

  “Let us to the river, now! If they could cross the waters, so can we, and get ourselves to the other side. And when they see us arriving at their homes, they will scatter away like frightened sparrows! Come, lads! To the river!”

  The Prince saw him though. He realized immediately what total devastation would ensue should the enemy cross to the left bank where there wasn’t a soldier of theirs left.

  With his few select men, he rushed to the bridge, arriving at the very moment when the small unit of men guarding it was almost at the end of its tether, and just as the first enemy soldiers were leaping onto the pontoons.

 
“Break up the bridge! Master builder, cut the ropes!” he bellowed. “And if any of our own men try to escape, then let them be drowned by the river!”

  From the opposite bank, the master builder heard him; he leapt onto the bridge and with two hacks of his axe he split it in two.

  The pontoon bridge was divided into two halves.

  The enemy forces, seeing the way severed, tried to turn back. But all of a sudden, from amidst the companions of the Prince, there leapt out a youth, who ran to the river, and at the risk of his life, defying the lances of the enemy, slashed through the ropes which still secured the pontoons to the mainland; half the bridge was thus swept away by the current, together with all the enemy soldiers who had had time to leap on to it.

  The youth then disappeared, was lost once more amidst the soldiers.

  The Prince fought as fiercely as a lion, and his example gave heart even to the most timorous of men.

  The King the Royal Uncle saw him, and recognized him in the blaze of the fire that still burned on the shore.

  “Lads! My steed, my fighting arms, my daughter too shall I give to the man who brings me that youth, alive or dead.”

  His most select officers and men pounced to seize him.

  Yet the Prince’s sword was reaping heads, clearing a circle around him. A knife blow had slashed his forehead, yet the Prince continued to hack away, and the enemy, dazzled by his boldness, had begun to shirk away and retreat—when, all of a sudden, his sword blade broke in his hands.

  With wild howls they sprang upon him then. One man thrust his spear with such force into his shoulder that the Prince fell down on his knees.

  They would certainly have slaughtered him. But in a flash the same youth who had slashed the rope of the bridge leapt out from the crowd again, and with his own body he shielded the Prince.

  “Leave, my lord!” he shouted.

  In an instant, ten swords pierced him through and through. And he collapsed unconscious, drenched in his own blood.

  That instant had been sufficient. Seeing their Prince fallen on the ground, the Fatalists transformed into fierce beasts, and with renewed resolve assailed their enemies, pushed them back, quashed them, forced them into mad retreat.