The Sky Worshipers

by F. M. Deemyad

  Noticing that Dounia’s mind was working in a new direction, Reyhan added, “Oh, and there is another thing I want you to keep in mind. Wealth and fortune have their privileges, and you happen to be married to one of the wealthiest men on earth. Like the alchemist, whatever Hulagu touches turn into gold.”

  Entry by Krisztina:

  I am holding a manuscript in my hand that contains the secrets of the women who were brought to the Mongol court before me. Its leather cover is a bit worn out, and the pages are turning dark yellow around the edges. I find it quite intriguing that I am given an opportunity to convey my side of the story. It was almost instant relief from that dark sense of melancholy and lack of purpose that had plagued me for almost a year. This manuscript and the idea of sharing my life story with others have uplifted my spirit, and so I begin my entries.

  The people of the Steppes live in their stretch of grassland occasionally interrupted by mountain ranges and barriers of hills, isolated from many other nations. Rivers snake through this grassland and rocks cover the Gobi Desert in the south. As the Mongols conquered more lands, they came across the intricate fabrics and fancy metals turned into jewels, as well as delicate women that the other civilizations had. Their desire for such possessions only increased their appetite for more war. They now control large portions of the world, and as Hulagu’s wife, I share the Mongol wealth and power laced with a constant sense of guilt. For they have conquered Poland as well.

  I must admit that my feelings toward Hulagu are beginning to change. After all, he has saved me from a life of subjugation and virtual slavery. He has shown kindness and admiration in every possible way. My resistance melts a little each time in the warmth of our nightly embrace.

  When Mstislav sat next to me on that fateful journey to Kiev, I felt his cold presence, and I knew I could never be happy living with him. Fate brought me here. Hulagu may not be the ideal husband for me, but at least he is warm, he is alive, full of feeling. Overwhelmed by the news of my illness, he ordered ingredients to be brought from far corners of the world to be made into sweets for me. Yet, I have seen how violent he can be at times.

  I know Hulagu has a temper. His actions may be read in the eyes of the prisoners of war. I keep telling myself that the path I am treading is not one chosen by me and that I have no choice but to adjust to my new circumstances. His wishes, whether a demand that I be present for a certain celebration or absent on other occasions, have to be fulfilled. Sometimes I fear what would happen if he loses his love and fondness for me.

  Hulagu’s attempts at winning my affections are sometimes clumsy. When he showed me the freshly planted flowers in the garden, he began to boast about the fantastic maneuvers of Mongol warriors in Europe. He only stopped when I coldly responded by saying that it depends on one’s perspective.

  Intimacy at times turns into attachment between two people, especially if one is an entrapped, downtrodden princess and the other the rescuing prince. Such has been the case between Hulagu and me. I do feel safe in Hulagu’s arms though, and I am beginning to learn to love him, although I am not sure if the feeling is brought about by admiration on his part or my total sense of helplessness that makes me feel like a victim of drowning, clinging to anything that would bring me to the surface of the water.

  Gradually my new identity feels more familiar. I am now known as Princess Dounia. Although, in my heart, I shall always remain Krisztina and retain the love of Poland, but to the Mongol court I am Dounia, a symbol of a once proud world that is now a mere captive.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Good Omen

  The scent of mountain cedar and sandalwood filled the air as the Shaman burnt incense and blessed each and every fighter heading toward Europe. But when he reached Bolad the Spy, his smile withered.

  “Be careful, son,” he said, “take an amulet with you that would protect thee from harm; an item not soiled but innocent, pure in its nature and its purpose.”

  No Mongol warrior would take such a warning lightly. Bolad left the temple where the ceremony took place immediately after the services to ransack his ger, hoping to find something. He did. It was his father’s pendant. The old man had been dead for many years, but by no accounts would he have been considered innocent. The item was not quite what the Shaman had prescribed; however, left with no other option, he placed the pendant in his pocket and left.

  “What is it that you are holding?” Bolad asked a trembling girl of no more than eight who stood in front of a rather large ger. The girl, who shook with fear, was hiding something behind her back. She held out a handmade doll with the tip of two fingers as if to minimize the connection between herself and the subject of her guilt. Her auburn hair, disheveled, curled around her face and a threadbare gown barely covered her thin, white shoulders. A slave.

  “I am going to . . . to return it,” she said as tears welled up in her eyes.

  The enormous size of the warrior standing before her made her shudder. She stared at the hilt of the sword tied to Bolad’s belt.

  “Whose servant are you?”

  “My lady,” she replied barely audible.

  “And which lady is that?” Bolad asked, laughing at the reply. The girl shrugged in response. “Why did you take the doll?”

  “I once owned one when I had a family,” she said, a teardrop escaping and rolling down her pale cheek. She probably had come from a region where people shared her pale color and reddish hair. Bolad snatched the doll, happy to have found his amulet and the girl exhaled audibly in relief when he left.

  When Bolad arrived at the Mongol camp near the region of Mohi, Batu Khan, commander of the forces of invasion, summoned him for a top-secret meeting. Batu spared not a moment in commencing the discourse with his trusted spy.

  “I need victory in Europe to ensure my ascension as the new Mongol Khaqan,” Batu said. “You have been my ally, and you can guarantee this victory. Before the warmth of spring thaws the ice-covered rivers, we will ready our horses for the incursion.”

  Batu was ambitious but level-headed; he knew when to strike the enemy and when to withdraw his forces to avoid unnecessary casualties. To overcome the remaining forces in Europe, he had to deploy the best of his archers, those with the greatest physical fortitude and mental tenacity at the point their enemies began to flag. After the Mongol victory in Legnica against the Poles and prior to subduing the Hungarians, a Tumen unit, ten thousand in number, led by Batu had arrived near the region of Mohi.

  They stared for a moment or two at an outstretched map. Unlike Batu, whose motions were meticulous and calculated, Bolad’s gestures were quick, bordering on nervous.

  “The Teutonic Knights have joined them. So have the Knights Hospitaller,” Bolad said.

  “Put it to me plainly, Bolad.” Batu looked up and exhaled deeply toward the smoke-darkened felt ceiling of the ger. It was clear that Batu did not quite understand the complexity of European military hierarchies. All he wanted to know were the flaws of his foes.

  “They are special forces with strong religious convictions, mostly Germans and Slavs. They are some of the fiercest fighters in Europe and have been fighting the Muslims for centuries over the control of Jerusalem. I would say, they are quite experienced in all forms of warfare.”

  “We kill people to attain wealth,” Batu said. “They slaughter each other to become more pious.”

  They both laughed. A lifetime of shared memories made the bond of their friendship unbreakable; they were like brothers. Thus, despite differences in status, they did away with formalities and addressed each other on a first name basis when conversing in private.

  “Setting all other elements aside, number-wise, can we overcome them?” Batu asked.

  “I doubt it. They have already taken position on the other side of this bridge; their numbers are too numerous to count. This conquest will be tougher than fighting the Poles. I am sorry Batu. I wis
h I had better news.”

  “Don’t look so disheartened. We are destined to rule the earth as my grandfather used to say, one way or another.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Recurring Nightmare

  Maria Laskarina ran to her husband’s bedchamber, where he was tossing and turning in agony. She began to shake him. “Wake up! Wake up! You are having another nightmare.”

  King Bela IV, leader of Hungary and Croatia, opened his swollen lids that always made him appear tired and sleepy even at midday, his face soaked in sweat. Maria wiped his face with her handkerchief. She reached for the goblet of water by his bed.

  “Drink,” she insisted. “It will help.”

  “Nothing helps,” the king replied. “It is the same damn nightmare.”

  “Your mother again?” Maria was not only Bela’s wife but his companion, friend, and soul-mate since childhood.

  “How can I wipe that cursed vision from my memory?” Bela asked. “I was no more than seven when those monsters killed my mother right before my eyes.”

  Maria had heard this story countless times but always listened, wanting to soothe her husband. Bela’s mother had gone for a ride in the very forest where he had roamed one morning, chasing after his dog. The barons pursued her, forcing her deeper into the woodland while Bela’s father was away. As landowners and noblemen, the barons, who were mostly children of European knights, were exempted from paying taxes and enjoyed political influence within the royal courts. Many had castles and palaces of their own and had jointly formed an establishment similar to a parliament known as “Diet.”

  “A spearhead wounded the leg of my mother’s horse, and she fell rolling on the green grass,” Bela added after swallowing some water. “They congregated around her, forcing their spears into her young flesh. Blood gushed from every corner of her body, turning the green meadow crimson red, as I stood at a distance watching the gruesome scene.”

  “And what does your father do? Instead of punishing the corrupt barons responsible for her murder, he ignores the entire tragedy and simply remarries as if nothing of significance has occurred,” Maria said sympathetically. “It is all behind you now. Your father is deceased, and you ordered all the chairs in the Assembly burnt so that as punishment the newly appointed barons would have to stand up during the entire time they convene,” she said smiling, hoping her sarcasm would pacify the monarch.

  Indeed, King Bela had a troubled childhood. His father, Andrew II never let the poor traumatized child out of his sight and kept reprimanding him over the slightest shortcoming. Bela’s German mother, before being murdered, had placed her own family members in positions of power in Hungary, thus bringing upon herself the wrath of the barons who were excluded from the decision-making circles.

  The death of King Bela’s father had not put an end to his nightmares. However, it had allowed Bela to pursue much-needed reform. He returned the lands confiscated by the undeserving barons to the people and opened Hungary’s doors to immigrants. Those immigrants, known as the Cumans had been defeated by the Mongols in earlier skirmishes and had sought refuge in Hungary. Thus, Bela had come to be known as the “King of the Cumans.”

  The following morning, King Bela addressed the March session of the Diet. “The Mongols have already devastated Kievan Rus and Poland. Their threat to Hungary is imminent,” he said. “The Cumans consider Hungary their home, and they can help defend our homeland, acting as a buffer against outside aggression.”

  The powerful barons of Hungary, although sidelined, remained defiant. They continued to show resistance to Bela’s strategy for defense. King Bela argued for hours, trying to convince them that the Cuman immigrants were actually an asset for the country as the Mongols carved their way deeper into Europe.

  “We Hungarians can easily push our enemies back to where they came from without any help from the Cumans,” one baron proclaimed loudly.

  “You cannot push the Mongol genie back into the bottle,” Bela replied, frustrated, “until all its wishes are fulfilled.” Realizing he had the attention of the full House, he added after a pause, “The Cumans are a powerful fighting force, and they will not allow foreign enemies to invade their backyards.”

  “That is if they do not succumb to the temptation of serving as spies for the Mongols. I have heard that espionage is quite a lucrative trade,” another baron sarcastically declared.

  “They are different from us!” yet another one objected. “They eat different foods; they dress differently; they are foreigners. We should not have allowed them entry into Hungary in the first place.”

  “No Hungarian lass feels safe around these Cuman vultures,” an old baron raised his voice.

  “Kick them out!” A couple of the younger Hungarian aristocrats shouted from the back of the assembly room.

  “We cannot stand here arguing over insignificant matters when the Horsemen of Apocalypse are upon us!” King Bela snapped as he rubbed his temples in frustration. As always, the meeting with the barons adjourned without reaching any conclusive decision.

  The infighting among the political elite had created discord among the ranks of the Hungarian military as well, weakening their fortitude and resolve. The troops were paralyzed by indecision and therefore lacked the tenacity necessary to wage war.

  King Bela had requested help, but most European leaders had let him down. That, the Mongols knew. For they never invaded any land before running reconnaissance missions and gaining enough information about the social, political, and military conditions of the target country.

  The Mongols, aware of Bela’s adamant position regarding the Cumans, used this very group to place him under pressure, leaving him with no choice but to fight. When Bela returned to his chamber, an emissary of Batu Khan delivered a letter to him, requesting that he hand over the Cuman subjects of Hungary so that the Mongols could punish them for their atrocities in earlier confrontations.

  Karakorum had woken up to the news of another military engagement. Krisztina sat at her desk to write the following account of an incident that was brought to her attention by Baako. This time she decided to follow Reyhan’s example and write her findings in the format of a tale, albeit in Polish.

  Entry by Krisztina:

  Sadness in Sunset Street

  Easter brought with it a solar eclipse the likes of which had not been seen in many years in Hungary. The Magyars perceived the covering of the sun as an omen portending the horrors that would lie ahead. Overnight a layer of ice had sugarcoated the otherwise dirt roads and alleys of Napnyugta or Sunset Street. Candles were lit in the houses and cottages as the pale sun began to melt on the horizon.

  The imminent war was on everyone’s mind. Not a war in some distant land, but right where it threatened the tranquility of Napnyugta. It crept its way into conversations, it cast a shadow of gloom on otherwise happy faces, and it made well-prepared meals distasteful. The inhabitants could smell the stench of the dreaded six-letter word haboru (war) in every corner of their country that seemed to be shrinking in size with the passage of each day, as the shadow of the invading aliens loomed larger.

  “Stop crying for God’s sake. You are spoiling our dinner. It is a sin to be ungrateful before God’s bounty. We have food on our table, a roof over our heads, and a fire burning in the hearth to keep us warm,” the man said, frustrated.

  It was too late, however; the mother’s contagious tears had already afflicted little Natalia and droplets of it were forming pools by her plate of goulash.

  “I cannot help it,” her mother said looking utterly miserable. “Aurelian is our only son. He is old enough to be married and to have a family of his own, not to be dragged to that slaughterhouse.”

  “It’s not a slaughterhouse. It’s the war front, and he has a duty toward his country,” the man countered.

  “Well, the country hasn’t done enough for me to repay it with my son’s
blood,” the mother retorted like a tigress protecting her young.

  “Calm down, my pet. Why do you always assume the worst? Not all who go to war get killed or injured. He could return a hero and marry a girl of his . . . or your dreams,” he said, apparently unable to hold back the sarcasm.

  He then added more gently, “You remember when at barely twelve he came down with a bad case of pox. You were about to lose your mind over the matter. But he survived with only a few pockmarks on his skin which to me makes him more handsome than ever.”

  His reassuring talk brought a faint smile to her lips, but the trepidation lingered on her face.

  The defeat of the Polish army in the Battle of Legnica had had its effect on the psyche of the Hungarians. The rhythmic sounds of approaching Mongol hordes and their victory chants of urra sent waves of terror throughout the Continent.

  Inhabitants of cities subconsciously realized that like a deadly game of chance there would be those who would be spared and those who would suffer. When looking at one another’s faces, the Magyars wondered who was marked to die by the hands of destiny and who was to be spared the pangs of death. It appeared as if everyone felt watched, bared, void of protection, vulnerable like slugs unable to find their shells. Under such circumstances, no one can dream of a future; minds become stagnant, ideas wither; souls feel empty, social life becomes extinct.

  Terror not yet materialized shattered nerves, paralyzed otherwise fighting men and brought daily activities to a halt. Agriculture suffered, industry stood still, craftsmen no longer cared to pursue their trade, men were inclined to remain indoors, trust among them vanished, culture languished, and religion became the rope to which people clung for solace in hopes of an intervention by Providence.