Chapter Thirteen
The Bridge over Sajo River
Rugged yellowish-brown stones paved the bridge over Sajo River and masked its arched masonry beneath the deck as well. The bridge rose like a giant sea serpent out of the blue-gray fog of the night. The waters of Sajo exhaled a mist that engulfed the entire arena in gloom. Sea-smoke covered stone formed islands here and there across the length of the river.
Mongol horses had splashed through shallow waters and waded through rivers; they had climbed perilous mountains, descended narrow valleys and slid over frozen lakes carrying their riders to destinations from which they could not afford but to return victorious.
Batu and Subutai had reached the embankment, a bridge away from their foes who had camped there days in advance, so great in number that their silhouettes could be seen as specks on the distant horizon.
“Things don’t look so good. They have formed a solid wall with their shields, yet they can attack us with their arrows as we cross the bridge,” Batu said.
“I will take a portion of the army downstream to find shallow waters that are easy to cross. This way my unit can take them by surprise.” Subutai replied. “You do your best to fend them off in a frontal assault.”
“Are you sure this is going to work?” Batu asked, looking concerned.
“I joined your grandfather’s men when I was but a lad of fourteen, and since then my mind has been focused on only one thing: a strategy to win wars,” Subutai responded and then asked, “Are you as determined as I am to win this one?”
Batu looked at him fiercely, “I have the determination of a hungry dog picking a bone to bite on. Tonight, we shall drink to victory.”
“Bolad will remain with you, Baidar and Kadan will accompany me,” Subutai said as he signaled his men to prepare for departure.
With Subutai gone, the number of Batu’s men appeared too scant in the confrontation that was about to ensue. Bolad must have noticed the concern on Batu’s face as the commanders gathered in the main ger for the last time before crossing over to the other side.
“I have a solution that would put our minds at ease and strike fear in the hearts of our foes,” Bolad said lifting the handmade cloth doll above his head as he spoke. “Imagine this doll lifesize!” He paused and looked triumphantly at his comrades in arm who seemed awestruck by the suggestion. He then continued, “From a distance, the lifesize effigies would appear real. Now imagine many such dolls mounted on wooden frames as a backdrop to our operation. Our foes would think that the small army unit being dispatched to the front is merely an advanced guard, and a major attack is yet to occur.”
“We could use the fabric and wood from our gers for the purpose,” Batu replied thoughtfully, lines of concern that had earlier formed deep furrows upon his forehead began to melt. “We will ask each of our warriors to assemble at least five such figures within the hour.”
Mongol warriors knew the basics of stitching and frequently mended their own clothes torn in combat. Many complained, however, finding the undertaking tedious and unnecessary. The task being accomplished to the satisfaction of Batu, they made their first attempt to confront the enemy. As they reached the halfway mark on the bridge, the flags of the Knights, as well as that of the Hungarian army, became visible. The sheer number of foes struck fear in the hearts of the Mongols. The knowledge, however, that Subutai’s forces were racing to reach the battlefield and would soon arrive, gave them courage.
Meanwhile, Mongol horses under Subutai’s command slid upon the algae strewn embankment. Steam rose when the ice-cold raindrops hit the warm earth as they made their way down toward the shallower waters of the Sajo River. The wind blew their moistened manes and tails as they trotted bravely forward upon the now glistening land. Their leather armor slapped against their muscular frames.
Chunks of ice formed a slushy surface on the river. Baidar lashed out, not addressing Subutai directly but with his face toward the thawing river. “Now what, are we to walk on water?”
“We will if we have to,” Subutai replied coldly.
“How on earth are we going to do that?” Kadan retorted without thinking and instantly seemed to have regretted his harsh tone toward Subutai.
“I see some boats nearby. We will tie them together and form a floating bridge,” Subutai said, repeating the suggestion of a Chinese engineer who had accompanied them.
The stunt allowed for a quick, albeit inconvenient means of crossing the river. The boats were attached side-by-side forming a rather lengthy but unstable bridge upon which they encouraged their horses to cross after dismounting and leading them one by one.
Rust-colored weeds had grown on the banks, giving the scene an ethereal beauty. The warriors had no time to enjoy the serene landscape as they hopped like hooded amphibians from one boat to another. It was a cumbersome attempt that only the persistent, desperate Mongol horsemen would obediently undertake. Finally, they reached the shore under the cover of a moonlit night and quietly approached the arena of war.
Banners of every color, like linen hung on ropes to dry, made flapping noises in the breeze. The noise sounded louder than normal as silence descended on the battlefield. The Mongols under Batu’s command had earlier advanced with their horses galloping at full speed. They suddenly came to a halt before reaching the organized lines of their foes. The Mongol drums began to beat in a threatening, menacing way. The two armies stood at a visible distance of about thirty paces from one another. Flags signaled the initiation of the battle, and the commander of the European forces cried, “Charge!” As he did so, the Mongols rushed senseless toward their foes.
Unlike the stunning display of military prowess seen earlier by the Mongols in Kievan Rus and Legnica, this time Batu’s unit appeared disorganized, incoherent and ill-prepared. The Mongol horsemen trudged forward as if driven by invisible forces. They knew that turning back was punishable by death and going forward was the only way to survive.
From a distance, it appeared as if celestial bodies were engaged in a night of merrymaking. Fiery arrows flew against the night sky like shooting stars aiming for hearts too young to die. Sparks from the arrows set ablaze the fake army earlier constructed, unveiling the ruse. Under a deluge of spears and javelins that were thrown at them from every angle, Batu was able to cross the bridge, as some of his men perished right before his eyes. Although the Mongols cared little for the lives of their foes, the soul of a Mongol warrior was too precious to lose. The more courageous among them fell into the river, swam to the shore despite being wounded, and attempted to fight the enemy to the last breath.
Batu began to lose hope, for Subutai’s men were nowhere to be seen. All the careful planning and the precision they used in their earlier confrontations were of no use, and defeat seemed inevitable. The Hungarians, confident as forces are who are defending home territory, were ready to annihilate the Mongols.
A line of sweat formed on Batu’s forehead. His men were few, certainly not sufficient to fight against the powerful Hungarian warriors and their allies. Arrows rained on Batu’s forces, as Bela’s army, sure of victory, moved forward in a clear attempt to make the final kill.
Centuries of coexistence under the harshest conditions had tied the Mongol souls to one another such that they could almost sense each other’s presence from afar. That sensation brought hope back to their hearts; the sensation that their comrades were near and coming to their rescue.
King Bela turned to one of his officers and smiled. “The Battle of Mohi will be one to be remembered and celebrated throughout history,” he commented. He lifted his lance, ready to charge toward Batu when roars rose from behind him. Subutai’s army had finally made it. With the speed of an avalanche, they descended upon the Hungarians who were shocked and bewildered as they found themselves encircled by the Mongols.
Drenched with their leather suits weighing cold and heavy upon their bodies, Subutai’
s men had ridden fast toward the arena of war where Batu desperately awaited their arrival. With the freshly arrived units forming organized lines, the Hungarians realized the tenacity of their implacable enemies.
Subutai came to rescue Batu and his men when they were exhausted and vulnerable. Age had not deteriorated Subutai’s resoluteness, and failure remained unacceptable as he unleashed a wave of Mongol horsemen against the European cavalry. Caught between the forces of Batu and Subutai, the Hungarians and the knights fought with all their might. Both sides were young, both sides eager to fulfill the aspirations of the banners they held. With one side accustomed to conventional ways of fighting, the other resorting to every ploy imaginable, victory lay in the hands of those who could surprise their enemy.
The ceremonious movement of the European warriors was in sharp contrast to the bewildering motions of their enemies who seemed to be acting upon no strategy except their own impulses, thus adding to the confusion of the battlefield. The tactics of Subutai’s men, although unconventional and irregular, were well-planned and executed. They tore their way toward the enemy like an unstoppable instrument of doom. Their maddening maneuvers appeared to be straight out of the guidebook of Satan indeed, for no particular method governed their actions. If it hadn’t been for the determination of the knights to subdue the attackers, fear of the possible supernatural powers of the Mongols would have deterred some from engaging their foe, tempting the less experienced fighters to flee the scene.
Cries of the battle-hardened could be heard for miles, as well as the whimpering of the dying. Breastplates and gauntlets tore to shreds and hoods fell off as heads were severed. No armor could protect man from the brutality of other men. Within hours since the commencement of the battle, the Hungarians endured so many casualties that the continuation of the battle became impossible.
Pieces of cloth mingled with human flesh were scattered throughout the field of battle like rose petals thrown at the feet of a newlywed bride. But here, the bride was none other than the Angel of Death and her bouquet, the souls of young men whose bodies littered the arena. Silver swords slashed sanguine skies, raining blood and pestilence upon the earth. For those who died didn’t simply perish, the blood that had spilled would spread disease among the living.
Fear had gripped the throats of otherwise courageous men so tightly that even those with broken limbs and broken souls did not dare to cry. Blood had mingled with dust, making the air difficult to breathe. The choking sensation and the dark realization that their country was now conquered, paralyzed even the most courageous of Hungarian warriors.
The weary eyes of Bela’s men beckoned him to come to their rescue. But the situation had rendered him powerless. He felt as if the earth was pulled from under him like an unwanted piece of rug. The eyes staring at him weighed heavy upon his conscience, pulling him under just like heavy chains pull in a drowning man deep into the bosom of the sea. He had to confront the enemy like a hero, but his strength did not match that of his mighty foes.
Entrapped within a circle of fire with only one escape route remaining, the Hungarians began to flee, clearly forced by the natural need to preserve their lives. The Mongols intentionally left them this passageway. The Europeans retreated through it in disarray, seeing it as a miraculous intervention and not a deathtrap. The warriors of the Steppes descended upon their petrified foes like hungry vultures, killing the senior officers and allowing the low-ranking men to flee.
As bodies of the young defenders of Hungary lay in the fields in tens of thousands, and their steeds left unburdened fled the scene of carnage in every direction, a foot soldier pushed his way into Bela’s tent.
“Who are you? What is your name and rank, and what brings you here?” Bela demanded.
“Sir, a matter of high urgency is the reason for my intrusion,” the young soldier being addressed replied. He was none other than Aurelian of Sunset Street, standing tall with his light brown hair forming sweat drenched ringlets around his handsome face.
“You have not stated your name,” Bela said, alarmed.
“My name is Aurelian, and I am a new recruit, a petty but proud foot soldier in your army, sir.”
“Why haven’t you fled with the others?”
“It is you, sir,” he said almost breathless, “it is your life that I fear for. For mine is that of a worthless soldier and you . . . you are a sovereign. It’s a slaughterhouse out there. The Mongols are killing and mutilating our men. Only petty foot soldiers have managed to escape, for the Mongols are focused on killing the commanders and senior officers.”
“You still haven’t told me why you are here,” Bela said.
“They cannot tell us apart, sir, the prince and the pauper, save for the clothing we wear, and if we were to exchange those clothes, you have a chance of escaping,” Aurelian said.
“I have no fear of death,” Bela replied, sternly.
“I know that sir and neither do I,” Aurelian replied. “But I am just a foot soldier while you are the hope of Hungary. You cannot stand there in your fine regalia recognizable by the enemy. We need to switch places now. I do not intend to return to my family as a defeated soldier. I would rather lay my life for the land where I have been born and to which I belong.”
“And so do I. I prefer death to defeat,” Bela replied.
“Your demise would mean the death of hope for the people of Hungary. Do not put me in a position, sir, that I force you to abide by the will of a common soldier. I came to lay down my life, and I will not take back what I had intended to give. But if you die, Hungary’s aspirations for a future will die with you.”
Bela, seeing no other option, reluctantly removed his white cape bearing the embroidered red cross that signified him as a nobleman and donned the torn surcoat of the foot soldier on top of his metal armor.
Chapter Fourteen
The Seal of Hungary
As dawn broke, a thick fog descended upon the treetops. The weak rays of the sun were not powerful enough to penetrate the grayish clouds that covered the sky. A suffocating weight had descended upon the land, one so evil and so injurious that even nature sensed its presence.
The sky wore a veil of gray on that mournful day. Raindrops like tears slowly dripped on the wretched earth, as nature bemoaned the fate of man. Tree branches reached for the sky, as if pleading for help for no human had the strength to do so. The yellow daffodils that once adorned the roadsides were trampled upon, turning them into a nauseating spectacle next to the blood-drenched streets.
As towns and principalities of Hungary were crushed one after the other, security became more precious than the air one breathes. There was an urge to run, to flee but one knew not where. Deep forests, dark jungles, burrowed holes in the ground, abandoned wastelands became far better sanctuaries than populated cities, but even fleeing to such places had its risks.
Those who hoped to be spared could not help but visualize the possibility of imminent death and the pain of suffering through a gruesome butchery. People in Kievan Rus and Poland who were taken as prisoners of war and were already assigned humiliating tasks fared better than Hungarians who were in abject abeyance awaiting the inevitable end.
For those who did not dare venture out, food became scarce, rotten bodies left on the streets became infested, and disease spread. The young and the elderly easily perished with few shedding a tear or two. The enormity of the horror experienced left no room for mourning. Death almost became a sanctuary in itself, for in death there is no terror, no suffering. The interred seemed to be the ones who were spared, for the living faced a far darker future.
Ultimately the dust settled, and rain washed away the stench of blood. The Mongol storm had left its devastating mark on the country’s history, and they now ruled the nation by the power of the sword. There was no chance of defiance. For the defiant would be uprooted instantly.
With the battle over, the Mongol o
fficers congregated in the main camp, but despite the fact that they had reached overwhelming victory against the Europeans, Batu was in a state of great fury. He snapped at Subutai in front of all the other officers.
“You were late! They would have annihilated us if you had arrived any later than you did.” Batu’s voice echoed through the ger that was speedily assembled for the meeting of Mongol commanders. The fire burning in its midst needed more time to warm up the entire enclosure. Clouds formed out of his mouth as he spoke, yet his voice remained steady and powerful. Few people could speak to Subutai as Batu did. He was a true grandson of Genghis and had inherited his ego.
“We needed you as reinforcement,” he said, his voice trembling with anger. “Many of my men perished, and a large number were badly injured. We stood on the precipice of annihilation when Your Excellency dragged your reluctant forces into the arena.”
“No Mongol warrior is ever dragged to the arena, they go voluntarily, and they give their lives for the Khaqan gladly,” Subutai spoke, recoiling. He spoke calmly, although his temples were visibly throbbing. “We charged our way through freezing waters,” he continued unabated. “The terrain was impassable. We had to tie up some boats and create a makeshift bridge to cross it.”
Batu calmed down a bit when he heard that. He lifted a silver chalice filled with the brew concocted in a nearby vineyard and drinking to Subutai’s honor pronounced aloud, “You have done so much for the Mongols that no man dares to question your integrity. I blame myself for jumping to conclusions too fast. It is just that we were placed in a very difficult predicament last night.”
Subutai, looking undaunted, raised his chalice to Batu’s health and the atmosphere of jubilation returned to the camp.
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