«Previous | Table of Contents | Next»

Day Two

 

She sat by his now-unstirring figure for a long time, running her fingers through his hair over and over again. It came to her that she had sat in this place before, watching Andrija's last incredible hours of life, and that Kosta had never been there to tend his brother's deathbed.

He had nearly been late for the funeral, an affair conducted very quietly by the old Orthodox priest Karadenić.

It had been Dabisav Uglesić who first spied him down the valley, a faraway horseman moving in and out among the pines.

"Are you expecting anyone else?" he had asked her.

"Not unless it's someone from the village."

"On horseback?"

"No." She looked again, squinting into the bright sunshine. "It could be Kosta, but why he'd bother to come is more than I could say."

He said slowly: "There are subtle ties between brothers."

"They must be subtle indeed to escape the notice of a wife."

Knez Dabisav looked back at the horseman. "You never did care much for Kosta, did you?"

"Only as much as the courtesies demanded, since that's as far as he went for me and for Andrija."

"I watched them together as Jovan Ilić raised them," said Dabisav Uglesić thoughtfully, "and there are many things that you do not know."

"I'm sure. But that doesn't compel me to love this man any more than to neglect the respect and hospitality due to him."

The knez bowed slightly and smiled. "You have had the last word, as usual." But she was already on her way to set another place at table.

Kosta Savić so little resembled the teenager Dabisav Uglesić remembered that as he caught the horse's reins, the older man asked: "You are the gospodar Andrija Savić's brother?"

"Yes," said the newcomer. He was shorter than Andrija, still close to six feet, rangier than his husky brother. But it was his face that interested the farmer; the strong-drawn features, prematurely weathered, as if he had spent half a lifetime on the steppes. Which for all anyone knew might be the case.

He said, "Welcome to the house of your brother. I am knez Dabisav Uglesić, acting as host; I only wish that you might have visited this roof under happier circumstances."

"I know. Much thanks for your kindness to my brother's family and to me. When is he to be buried?"

"At dawn. We were just about to begin the dinner." He wrapped the reins around one knotty hand and began to walk toward the stable below the house.

"Really?" said Kosta Savić coolly. "And where are the guests?"

The other man glanced at him briefly. "I'm afraid there aren't very many."

"Oh?"

"It doesn't reflect too honourably on Andrija, I know, but he was not held in great affection around here."

They were inside the stable before Kosta Savić said, "I see. And what does our honoured kum have to say about all this?"

Dabisav tied off the bay. "He is up in the house now. As you know, he is more than ninety years old. Yet he had himself driven all the way up here from Foča for the ceremony."

"And the others?"

"They all found some excuse for not attending. It seems Jovan Ilić himself is the only member of his family who will acknowledge Andrija Savić."

"H'm." The dead man's brother took up a fork and began pitching fodder to his animal. "He never taught them to act like that. They should have come as a matter of simple courtesy. Was he not gospodar?"

"There you have it."

Kosta Savić thrust the pitchfork into a hay bundle. "No, there I don't have it. And what about the widow? And how many children?"

"Two; but enough of this, Kosta, you'll tear yourself apart. Come in and have some coffee and drop of rahi."

"Thank you." They left the stable, turned, and went up the stairs to the house, the younger man unbelting his big riding-cloak and folding it over twice roughly.

Everyone in the house stood up as the knez opened the door. "Kosta Savić," he said, "He has ridden far to pay his brother's last respects."

"Be welcome, voevoda," said Stana. "You know me, of course, and your kum Jovan Ilić sahibija, and Father Bogdan Karadenić."

"Yes," said the visitor. "And this strapping young fellow is Demjan, true? You are -- fourteen now?"

"Almost, sir," said the boy, who was already nearly tall enough to look him in the eye. "And this is my sister Slavica." The little girl just looked at the newcomer, then back to her brother.

"Kosta," said Jovan Ilić. "Is it really you?"

Stana took his cloak and Kosta Savić embraced the old man. "Yes, it is me."

"Fifteen years. Fifteen years you wait to visit me, and now we meet at Andrija's grave."

"Things don't always turn out, papa."

"They do turn out." The rebuke in the old man's voice was very plain. "Kosta, my son . . . Where have you come from?"

"I've been living out east of the Danube, running things for Hungarians and Russians."

"Are you married? Doing well?"

"I’m well enough." replied Kosta Savić. "But married?--only to my saddle."

"You are welcome to stay with me, you know that. I just added another wing to the house. Your little foster-niece Marek just married some relative of Uglesić ‘s here--"

"My cousin's son, Dragan Vuković," said the headman.

"Of course. There's room for all."

"I just don't know," said Kosta Savić, helping the old man to his seat. "For his family's part I would accept, but I don't think I'd be any more at home here than in Hungary."

"Why not?"

"Fifteen years, things happen. I'll need time to think about it."

"Of course. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"But," added Dabisav Uglesić, "please consider staying. Someone will have to keep up this place, as Demjan is still too young to claim title."

The traveller looked at Stana. "Surely, sub-leasing a farm like this should be no problem. Give an ambitious young fellow like Dragan a chance to get a start in the world."

She met his gaze and said, "Don't forget, voevoda, this farm belonged to your father, the honourable Nikola Savić, bequeathed to him and his descendants in perpetuity by the sahibija Jovan Ilić here."

"It is true," the old man said.

"We will discuss it later," Kosta had said.

Whatever business he had had in Hungary must not have been pressing, she reflected, for he had never returned there. And she looked at his shadowed face in the blue moonlight and remembered with a chill Andrija's grim insistence, even as he lay bleeding to death, that she never marry again.

And she had kept her promise--for a decent interval. What other claim could Andrija have on her after his death?

A stirring in the next room aroused her from her reverie. It would be Anton again. In a way, she felt almost glad that he would be her last child.

Several hundred miles away, a very high Austrian official pushed his chair back from his enormous desk and got up. The sixteen-foot-high bank of windows behind him was flooding his office with sunlight reflected brilliantly off snow-covered Alpine peaks a few miles distant, and there was no longer any need for the lamps to burn. Normally he would have rung for a servant, but just now he felt like stretching anyway. So he took a slow turn around the great room and extinguished all the wicks one by one. He made a methodical, tidy job of it, for he was that sort of man.

For the thousandth time, he thought with irritation of His Majesty's obstinate insistence on retaining oil lamps for illumination in his palaces and ministerial bureaux. He could make some allowances for the old Emperor's distrust of all things modern, but to refuse gaslight--let alone the new electrical fixtures--! Still, Franz Josef was now over eighty, and the inconvenience could not last much longer.

The man's bearded, diplomatically-trained face permitted itself a small smile as he ended his tour and stood facing out the windows. Light, in a certain sense, was his job.

As Foreign Minister of Austria-Hungary, he was more aware than most of the Dual Monarchy's bright spots, and its dark corners. He did not pretend for a moment, for example, that his country's military resources were equal to a Great Powers conflict. War even with Italy--should their alliance founder--would strain them almost beyond endurance. It was not for nothing that his country was often compared with Turkey as a byword for decrepitude. Nevertheless, there were strengths--the man was convinced--which made Austria more than worth the treatments he had begun two years before.

Traditionally, Turkey and Austria were the two powers who had vested interests in the Balkans because their border always lay somewhere within. The other European Powers had little reason to meddle with the poor, barren lands and their restive nationalities; all, that is, except Russia, which had always coveted expansion into these warm regions for access to the Mediterranean Sea. On this--often on this alone--the other Powers stood together in opposition. Yet, weak as they were, only Austria and Turkey stood in Russia's way. The game was to keep the Balkans stirred-up and boiling; enough to create obstacles for the Russians, but not so much as to imperil the actual existence of any Power.

The game's basic rules were well-known. Keep Serbia landlocked; keep Macedonia out of Slavic hands; keep Bulgaria tantalized with bits of Thrace; keep Montenegro to one port; etc. When Turkey had decayed to the point of being really liable to Russian conquest fifty years before, Britain had stepped in with military guarantees to back her up, and now Germany was starting to fill the same role for Austria. Old Chancellor Bismarck had seen it coming. Turkey, in turn, was useful to Britain in Near East affairs, as Austria would be to Germany in the event of a war with Russia or France. And the game had its own intrinsic value. After all, every civilised nation had at least some calling to prevent barbarism--and seeing the long memories, vengeful temper, and savage tactics of these Serbs, Bosnians, and Croats, anyone who wished to see them fully independent in finances and armament had to be criminally insane.

The game would continue, for European civilisation more or less depended on it. Nevertheless, like all good games, it called for variation from time to time, and now was such a time.

Until recently, Turkey had kept a firm grip on its Balkan provinces: Thrace, Macedonia, Thessaly, Albania, Bosnia-Herzegovina, a strip of land between Serbia and Montenegro called the Sandzhak, and the southern half of Bulgaria called Eastern Rumelia. However, beginning with a rebellion thirty years before in the Herzegovina, Turkey's hold had begun to loosen. When the dust had settled at the Treaty of Berlin in 1878, Turkey had been forced to hand over responsibility for Eastern Rumelia to Bulgaria, and responsibility for Bosnia-Herzegovina to Austria, though it had retained actual title to them on paper. But now with Turkey weakening still further, the Czar of Russia was beginning to look hungrily again toward the ages-old goal of Constantinople. Furthermore, Bulgaria had recently annexed Eastern Rumelia outright, doubling its size and placing it very well for Aegean Sea access. Neither of these things were permissible to Europe, and so, with Turkey failing, Austria had to step in to fill the gap. Against this day, a predecessor in the Ministry had secured the paper right for Austria to annex Bosnia altogether under certain conditions--and those conditions looked to be brewing up. Yet more than this, German interests were now engaged in building the Balkan portion of a long-planned Berlin-to-Baghdad railway, and this was too important a project for Balkan statelets to meddle with.

Yes, it was altogether time for more presence in Bosnia. He had conferred with the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and with Prime Minister von Beck; it was now time to see the Chief of the General Staff who was now--the man noted with distaste--some ten minutes late.

At this point a knock sounded on the office's side door.

"Come," snapped the man.

A neatly groomed head appeared. "Excellency? The General to see you."

"Send him in at once," the man replied; and then with a touch of frost he added: "Mustn't keep him waiting, you know."

The head disappeared, to be replaced by a resplendently uniformed man whose massive mutton-chop whiskers and moustaches almost--but not quite--hid a pair of peculiarly jackal-like eyes.

"Good morning, Count," said General Conrad von Hotzendorf, closing the door. "Not an emergency, I trust?"

"Not yet, at all events. That is why I wished to consult you--to insure against one," replied the Foreign Minister smoothly. "Sit down, Conrad, sit down. We know we can rely on you in these little matters."

"And this little matter is--?"

"Bosnia-Herzegovina."

"Bosnia is never a 'little matter,' groused the General. "I've been telling you, with all due respect, that this constant politicking in military matters has been keeping our hand tied behind our back for thirty years. Occupy this town, but not that--don't shoot back if shot at--Turkish judges, A, B, C, D--it's maddening. Armies were not designed for this. Now, if you'd just give me a division, with good rail support, I'd end this farce about Turkish suzerainty and have Bosnia, the Herzegovina, and the Sandzhak of Novi Bazar ready for admission as the next Austrian Imperial Province for you in three months."

"And if we did just that?"

"Bah!" exclaimed the General. "You couldn't. Same old story, you see--Turkey would whistle up the British; Serbia would go and scream bloody murder to the Russkies; and then Berlin would come and slap us on the wrist and say, 'Naughty, naughty.' Same as it ever was. Look, Aloys, you and I came to power two years ago, within a month of each other, and I've a bet on with Count Berchtold that when we go, we'll go together, too. I've been telling you for a year that Izvolsky can bluster as much as he likes--Russia can do nothing. Their fleet is still at the bottom of the Sea of Japan where the Japanese put it in 1905, and their army is still playing hide-and-go-seek with officials from that new Duma parliament of theirs. Not to mention that every railroad line in Russia forces you to change trains in Moscow no matter where you're travelling--so they can't mobilize their army in less than a month--by which time we could be hammering at the gates of Thessalonica. Britain? Bah! A fat lot of good their precious Navy will do them when Sarajevo, Belgrade, and Uskub are being fought over! Von Bülow must be made to see that Germany need only stand firm behind us--at most, carry out a partial mobilization--and we have all the aces. Or almost all, if you hadn't scotched that railroad project from Sarajevo to Thessalonica."

The Count bristled. "That, General, was on direct orders from His Majesty, and you--of very few--know that. And I might remind you of the Treaty of Berlin. There are such things as obligations and forfeits. That treaty did obtain for us the right to occupy Bosnia."

"But under Turkish suzerainty--"

"Which isn't worth the ink used to include it, which again you know, and they know, too. They have taken a lot of pushing lately."

"But the Three Emperors' Treaty, the Dreikaiserbund, gives us the right to annex Bosnia fair and square," pointed out the General.

"Except that Turkey isn't part of that treaty, and needs know nothing of how we propose to divide its corpse with Berlin and Petersburg. Look, Conrad, I'm not disputing our right to annex Bosnia. I'm simply asking you what the military outlook is."

"I'm not going to issue jeremiads about a European war, because it won't happen. Back in '95 when we were still friendly with Serbia, King Alexander signed away Serbia's right to object to our annexing Bosnia. Of course, Alexander was murdered five years since for that and other reasons, and King Peter cheerfully repudiated the agreement. Serbia would fight--or try to, anyway. Prince Nicholas of Montenegro--wily old fox!--knows enough to lay low where we're concerned. He still thinks he can get some more Adriatic seacoast on a deal with our royalty, and God damn if he might not be right."

"What would the Bulgarians do?"

"Nothing. Anything King Peter does, King Ferdinand does the opposite--and King Peter is an old fighter. The only way the Bulgarians would come in is if they smelt a Turkish collapse in Thrace down around Adrianople--then they'd be in grabbing for land with both hands."

"And Turkey? Would they collapse, as you say?"

"That's the trick. They have a full division and plenty of artillery in the Sandzhak, but those troops' only lifeline to Turkey is one thin rail line. Cut that--easy--and a month's fight will exhaust their supplies. And the Turks don't dare reinforce them for fear of leaving Adrianople open to the Bulgarians. So there you are. As I said, one division and three months and it's all yours."

"Yes." The Count fell silent and stroked his beard a moment. "I'm more worried about the Hungarians."

"The Hung--? They're part of our own dual monarchy!" exclaimed the General.

"I know. But Baron Tisza would want Bosnia annexed to the Hungarian half, just as Prime Minister von Beck would want it annexed to the Austrian half."

"I don't know ... give 'em a joint condominium or some crap like that."

"The Archduke wants a third monarchy created."

"A third monarchy? Christ, we’ve one too many already! Bah!-—having Foreign Ministers for people within our own borders? Something's really screwy. I suggest with all respect that you have a talk with His Highness about that."

"Well, I won't keep you any longer," observed the Count. "Thank you, General."

The soldier stood up. "So when do we move?"

"Are the troop manoeuvres we ordered down there in the Herzegovina proceeding according to plan?"

"Just as usual. Baron Burian says that fellow Stadel--something, Stadelhoffer, I think, is doing all right. So could I give the orders tomorrow?"

"I don't doubt you've got them written up and ready to give right now," murmured the other. "Don't worry, Conrad. Soon. Quite soon."

And as he showed the General the way out, Count Aloys Lexa von Aehrenthal, Foreign Minister of Austria-Hungary, thought: Sooner even than you think, Herr General.

Kosta Savić blinked, then shut his eyes with pain and the sudden sunlight. It took a moment for him to realize just where he was.

"Stana?"

An indistinct sound came from the next room.

"Anton--how is Anton?"

"Better," came her voice.

He grunted, as if in response, rolling upright to a sitting position on the bedstead.

"And Demjan?" he demanded.

"Still not here," she answered.

Kosta Savić cursed and very gingerly began to pull on a few clothes. "Have the chores been done?"

"Yes, Slavica and I took care of them already. Just rest yourself for today."

He grunted again and stood up, his shirt still only half-buttoned.

"You--" She appeared in the doorway, a pan in one hand. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to Alija's."

"What?"

"Get out of my way."

She stood aside and he made it as far as the trestle-table before a wave of giddiness overtook him.

"God," he said.

From where she had watched him in the doorway, she began moving. "At least have some breakfast before you go out and fall on your face."

"It's my head," he said.

"Your head?"

"Something . . . happened to me last night. I don't know . . . what--" he rubbed a hand on his brow--"happened, really. Like someone cut into my head and removed a piece of me."

She put her pan on the stove and then stopped for a moment, looking at him. "Are you sure of what you're saying?"

"No. I don't know."

"H'm. You certainly aren't yourself this morning. Here," she said, ladling out some porridge, "eat this while I look after Anton."

"How is he now?"

"Better."

"Damn, where's Demjan? Why did you have that priest out here?"

She set a plate in front of him. "Because," she said very deliberately, "I felt it was Anton's right."

"I don't like that man. There is something not very priestly about him."

"I know, but until a new Orthodox priest arrives to replace Father Bogdan Karadenić, on whom be peace, he is the closest to a Christian priest that we have. And you do not know how close to death Anton was for a while."

He winced. "I know. I don't like him and he doesn't like me, and that's all there is to it. I guess he and Demjan get along alright."

She said nothing.

"He's at Alija's, isn't he?"

"I don't know."

"He knows we have a begin planting next week, and there's a devil of a lot of work to do."

"Wasn't it about that you went to see Dabisav Uglesić?"

He looked at her for a moment. "Yes."

"H'm."

He finished his meal in silence and got to his feet.

"Are you still going to Alija's?"

"Yes. I have to see him anyway."

She rose from beside the baby's cradle, fetched his cloak, and threw it around him. "Once you're mounted I suppose you'll be all right."

"Either that or I'll break my head once and for all," he said, and bent to the task of pulling his boots on.

She saw Kosta Savić off through the trees, and then wiped her hands on her apron and went back to work. But even as she turned toward the house she knew that she must ride to Uglesić‘s farm.

"Rezatch? Savitch? Who the hell are these people," demanded Imperial Commissioner Claudius Stadelmeier, throwing down the note, "and where did this come from?"

"I don't know, sir," said the aide-de-camp. "The innkeeper had it on his desk this morning. He says it was left in the post-box."

The politician regarded his functionary sourly across the breakfast-table. "Ignore it, then. What else, Hendler?"

The young soldier adjusted his glasses. "A letter from Osman Janek congratulating you--"

"Yes, yes. Go on."

"A--er, similar letter from the chancery of the Patriarch of Serbia, and another one dictated by knez Rostislav of Mljesova. There is a brief from the Ministry of the Interior on excise and customs regulations, and a report from the Sappers on the local bridges."

"What do they say?"

"Hmmm." He flipped through the tacked-together pages. "I haven't read it yet, sir, as I--"

"Read it and give me the gist tonight. What else?"

"Something from Colonel Slavin, sir. For your eyes only."

"Rubbish, Hendler. Read it out to me." The Commissioner settled back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"From Colonel Fedor Slavin, Ninth Regiment--"

"Get on with it."

"Yes, sir." Hendler cleared his throat. "'Excellency. On the eleventh instant'--six days ago--'a regular border patrol was ambushed and four men were killed. Investigations are being carried out with the utmost dispatch. The evidence points to an attack by a hitherto unknown group of local hajduk bandits. This latest in a series of outrages indicates that nationalist violence, in conjunction with the other crimes it disguises, is on the increase despite measures already taken.

"'Furthermore, the soldiers' morale is in question. Unwholesome rumours and harassment have already led to three attempts at desertion. Therefore, Excellency, immediate and effective action is essential. The next step, in my opinion, is public floggings--'"

"Floggings? He's full of shit," observed the politician. "I'll have his head on a plate if he tries it."

"Yes, sir. He continues: 'The ultimate responsibility, and therefore the final decision, is of course yours; but unless Vienna is bent on following religious liberty with political autonomy, the region must be policeable.' Signed, et cetera."

Stadelmeier opened his eyes. "Incredible. Not like him at all. Give it to me . . . My 'responsibility?' This I'll answer personally. The ass-kissing letters you take care of."

"Yes, sir."

"And leave orders at the door for Captain Vathely to be shown straight up to me when he gets back. Go."

"Yes, sir."

The Commissioner sat back again, not quite easy in his mind. An old campaigner like Slavin would be fully aware of the risks involved with public punishment, and the vague allegations in the letter did not justify them. He would have to talk with Slavin privately.

The sun was high in the sky by the time Kosta Savić rode down from the hills into the village. He rode slowly, his head down on his chest, letting the big bay pick its own way down the washed-out track.

As the animal reached the spot where a drainage culvert forked away from the road, he raised his head and reined up, urging it up the bank and thence down the street toward the square and the old public guest-house.

The village was already wrapped in its midday rest, and even as he drew up in front of the han, he had to shout for someone to help him down.

For a long while no one appeared. He cursed, bringing one leg slowly over the saddle, and then a voice from the doorway said, "Wait."

Kosta Savić swung down from the stirrup and landed with a thump and gasp on the dusty ground.

"Let me help you," said the voice; he felt a strong grip hauling him to his feet and he opened his eyes and saw his stepson Demjan Savić with his hands gripping his shoulders.

"Let go of me," said Kosta Savić.

The big young man instantly obeyed and stepped back, glancing down. "You are hurt, sir." he said.

"We will talk about me," said Kosta, turning away and tethering his horse, "after we're done talking about you."

"What do we have to talk about?"

"Nothing the whole town has to hear. Come in, have a seat."

Still looking at his stepfather, Demjan Savić followed him inside.

Kosta Savić looked around him, quietly, then sat down at a table, and his stepson went on through a doorway at the back.

"What's the matter?" asked Kosta Savić. "Isn't there service here anymore?"

"Only on market-days," came the reply. "You know that, sir."

"Oh." Demjan returned with a wineskin and two porcelain tea cups.

"You hardly need me to tell you that this place isn't what it used to be," he said, pouring some clear liquid into the cups.

The other man raised the cup and inhaled the scent of the rakija before taking a sip. "I know," he said.

"Alija told you I was here."

"Yes."

"I expected you'd send someone."

Kosta Savić sipped his drink and looked reflectively at a couple of sunbeams playing on the stone wall, coming through a gap in the roof. Then he said: "There's a lot of work to be done before spring planting. You are needed."

"I know. I'll go back. But I don't want to go back now."

"Why did you go away?"

"I didn't go. Mother sent me."

"To fetch the priest."

"Yes."

"And you did not return?"

"I guided him back."

"So why don't you want to return home?"

"I'm tired, sir."

Kosta Savić tossed off the rest of his drink. "Bullshit, stepson."

"I might as well ask you--"

"--What?"

"--why you return wounded from Uglesić's."

Kosta Savić looked very steadily at the young man. "A neighbourly misunderstanding. That's all."

"The same kind of misunderstanding my father Andrija had with the farmer Bicanić?"

"What was that?"

"Bullshit, stepfather. I was fourteen then. I remember. Do you know what it's like to see your father die at that age?"

"I was eight," said Kosta.

"I'd forgotten," said Demjan.

Stana departed from the road a few miles up toward the valley and turned up into the trees. She whispered to herself household plans, chores, things to do for the future, anything to break the tension of the present. For until she reached the farm she would feel her fear like a sheet of weakness cutting her in half.

And then she thought: blood brotherhood had not been the only tie between Kosta and Andrija Savić. There had been a need.

"Let me tell you about Andrija," said Kosta Savić to Demjan.

The young man poured another drink and waited.

"Your father, on whom be peace, was always rather a strange fellow. Of course, I was younger than you are now when he and I parted company, and that was twenty years ago. But when we were boys, he never quite joined the rest of us. You always felt there was . . . something else about him. He always seemed to have a part of his attention elsewhere."

"What accounted for that?"

Kosta Savić drank again. "I don't know. Our father, Nikola Savić, on whom be peace, died when we were quite young, and sometimes in the scuffle of all Jovan Ilić‘s household I suppose Andrija felt responsible for me."

"That's not all, surely?"

"That's all I can speculate on. You aren't much like your father, on whom be peace. Even Jovan Ilić has commented upon it."

"Father told me my grandfather Nikola was thrown from a horse."

"True. As I said, I was eight years old then, your father eleven. We both felt the loss. He was a good man, well-respected, like a son to Jovan Ilić. That is why the old man took us in--for your grandfather's sake."

"I see. How old was he?"

"My age, I think. Nearly forty, anyway. I remember very little of him. He acted very religious, though he seldom prayed. He told us all the stories about the old heroes as if he believed them himself, and I can't ever picture him but dressed in black--"

"--Really?"

"Yes. For all his attachment to tradition and the old ways, I never recall him telling us anything of our grandfather or the family history. It was as if he grafted the old stories on to himself, trying to blot away his own past. Something must have happened, because he and others who might remember our grandfather would never talk about him. Not a word. I don't even know his father's full name."

"I should like to visit with Jovan Ilić."

"H'm. But there it is. I'm afraid I can't tell you much more about Andrija than I knew about my own father." He tossed off the drink and poured himself another.

"I could use another drink myself," said Demjan.

They drank for a time in silence, and Kosta Savić saw that his sunbeams had moved and faded out a little.

He said, "If you don't want to stay in the house for a while, I can understand. It's not the gayest of places right now, with your mother having to look after Anton and keep an eye on me as well. But I will need your help this spring, more than ever."

"So?"

"I talked to Alija. You can stay with his family for a few days if you'd like. But if you stay here you'll turn us both into laughingstocks, and I cannot allow that. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you ready to go with me now?"

"Now?"

Kosta Savić nodded.

"Very well," the young man sighed. He stood up, a little unsteadily, and gave his stepfather a hand; Kosta threw his cloak around himself and they walked out together into the early afternoon sun.

She smelt death in the place even before she emerged from the pines; a stench that hung obscenely in the still warm air, warning away life and reason. She flinched, her instincts alive, but then urged the horse on.

She rode down into a familiar farmyard that hell had visited for an hour. Fire had consumed some of the buildings' only the sod-buttressed main house stood intact, a strange misshapen figure sprawled half-in the stable-level doorway. Another lay further out, near the well, and as she neared she could see exposed ribs and a portion of spine through the greyish, hardening flesh. Only the long brittle hair remained to tell that the one-armed torso had belonged to a woman.

She rode slowly around the yard, grappling with the feeling rising in her stomach.

It had little to do with the reek of sun-rotting bodies, the insects and scavengers feeding on them, or even the certain knowledge that her husband had slain his friends like a maddened wolf and then coolly lied to her about it.

All these feelings, to some extent, were natural, or at least understandable. But there was something else; something alien, totally wrong about the business.

There was some factor that eluded her control, and she could feel it in her gut. It was much like what touched her for a moment sometimes when she knelt before the priest Rezać's altar.

Slavica put down the small silver amulet she had lifted to the light. It was an odd little thing, like a many-pointed star--twelve, she counted--with thin, wavy arms, attached to a fine-linked chain.

She had seen her mother with it only once, less than a week ago, and today her occasional furtive searches had paid off. It had lain in a chink where one of the house's main rafters met the wall, and now in her palm it gleamed dully, its tips and central body worn with long handling.

And in one side--a pattern. Nearly-effaced writing of some sort, and straining her eyes she could just make out the first bit:

ΦΟΡΕΗΙΚΗΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΑΑΤΛΑΝΤ . . .

She knew that Stana had never held with the local women's custom of wearing their wealth in jewellery except when some special occasion forced her to don the traditional costume. But even then this piece had never found a place among the pierced Turkish, Venetian, and Habsburg coins, charms, oblong bangles, gold chains, and gemstones.

But if she disdained to display it in public, why did she refrain from wearing it in private as well?

Despite its obvious age and neglect, there was a palpable attraction about the object, she felt. Its roundness and cool weight felt comfortable in her hand with the smooth chain coiled all about is, while its twelve tongues somehow reminded her of flame, of starfire observed only after crossing vast spans of time and the unthinkable voids of interstellar space.

She reined in the horse abruptly, and it stood stock-still, trembling a little. She sat very upright in the saddle, listening, every nerve alert. Somewhere, she was sure, she had heard a sound.

Again, things seemed utterly wrong.

Certainly, nothing remained alive here.

She dismounted.

As well might some eons-dead Egyptian mummy suddenly shudder at the touch of the dissector's knife.

And then, impossibly, there it was again. She picked up the hem of her dress and ran over to the woodpile, and behind a log, near a severed arm, greyish and bloating, there lay one of Dabisav Uglesić's youngest sons.

He sprawled on his belly, his head to one side, covered with drying mud and caked blood from slashed tendons behind his knees. He was still trying to breathe.

She knelt down and turned him over.

He flopped across, leaving a black stain where he had lay, the same sticky mess that covered his ragged shirt front. He had been stabbed repeatedly in the stomach; but the sound she had heard came from a great wound in the front of his throat crawling with blowflies.

As she watched, his jaw worked convulsively a moment and then his eyes opened, looking directly at her.

She bowed her head, unable to bear it.

As Kosta Savić and his stepson walked out of the half-ruined han, they did not at first see the tall cassocked figure coming toward them through the square.

But Demjan nudged Kosta and the older man looked once only briefly before untying his horse.

"A word with you, Gospodar," said the priest Rezać, approaching.

He threw his gaze toward the sky and took the reins in his hand. "Speak," he said.

"I hope you are in good health," said the priest.

"I'm getting along."

"And how is knez Dabisav? Well, I trust?"

"What the devil have I to do with Uglesić's state of health?"

"Nothing, of course. Merely a civil question."

"What do you want?"

"I came over to visit with Demjan. He has been living her for a few days, you know."

"I know. He is returning with me, to prepare for spring planting."

"All is well, then?" the priest asked Demjan.

"Yes--" began the young man.

Kosta Savić snapped his head around. "I forbid you to speak with this man," he said. "I will do the talking for this family where he is concerned."

"Yes, sir," said Demjan.

"What were you doing at my house?" Kosta asked the priest quietly.

"Did Demjan not tell you? Your wife sent him for me. She said little Anton was in danger of his life."

"He is well now, thank you. And in the future I will send for you if we require your services."

The priest bowed his head slightly. "Do not neglect your immortal soul, gospodar, or the family that God has put in your charge."

"Help me," said Kosta to Demjan. The young man gave him a hand mounting his horse, and once seated he looked again at the priest. "Do not overly concern yourself with my soul, Reverend Father. I have looked after it myself for thirty-seven years, and at the time of Judgement I suspect that we all shall have our hands full."

"No doubt," said Father Ante Rezać. "Nevertheless, I shall remember you in prayer. Farewell."

"Good day," said Kosta Savić and gave his horse the rein, motioning Demjan to follow.

They headed off across the square in the dusty sunlight, and the priest stood for a time, watching them go.

She was riding fast, keeping to the road. She had expected her troubled mind to be set at ease by the certainty of what she would find; but that certainty had instead confronted her with a kingdom of possibilities that she had shrunk from entertaining.

The Kosta Savić she knew, though a proud, wilful, sometimes stubborn man--not without his streak of vindictiveness--would never do such a thing as she had seen. The very facts that made him capable of it, and she did not doubt that his hand had wrought the destruction, also made it impossible for him to have carried it out against his oldest friend.

Something was present in him that had never been before.

She had not passed the first branch in the road when she heard horsemen approaching, many horsemen, more than forty. There were no potential enemies in the area, so she sat up a little straighter in the saddle and rode on.

She was not mistaken. There appeared through the trees a troop of Austrian cavalry. As the wife of a landowner she had nothing to fear from them, even alone.

As the guidon-bearer approached, the commander--a colonel of cavalry, by his insignia--held up his hand, and they reined to a halt.

He offered her a salute with his sabre. "Merhaba, good woman," he said in excellent Serbian. "And who may you be, riding alone on this road?"

She eyed him levelly. "I am Stana Malević, wife of the gospodar Kosta Savić."

"Indeed? We have heard a little about your honourable husband. Allow me to introduce myself: Colonel Fedor Slavin, Ninth Regiment of Lancers."

"And by your leave, sir, what brings an Austrian Colonel of Lancers to this particular section of Bosnia?"

"Not my own will, I am afraid, but merely a routine patrol."

"Routine? I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you and your men before this."

"Changes are in the air, gospodja. This area is falling under the administration of Austria, by virtue of certain agreements between His Imperial Majesty and the Sublime Porte."

"I had no idea such august people were concerned with our little patch of mountainside. But I fear you will find that we around here require little protecting."

"I'm quite grateful for a circumstance that makes my burden that much easier, gospodja."

"Good. Perhaps you may wish to express your gratitude to my husband. We live just down the road, behind you and to the right."

"Thank you. Good day, gospodja."

"Good day, Colonel. And good luck."

As she rode past them, Slavin remarked to his orderly, "We must, indeed, pay them a visit some time soon."

"Sir?"

"That is the gospodar's wife. They will require watching, both of them. You see how she rides, like a lady bred?"

"Yes, sir. I wonder where she learned that."

"God only knows." He motioned the detachment forward. "These folk are altogether queer."

"Yes, sir."

Yes, thought Colonel Fedor Slavin. He would definitely have to pay them a visit, soon.

"Come in," growled the Commissioner.

The door opened and a man came in. He was tall, uniformed, greatly moustachioed, and carried himself very straight. In one hand he bore a shako whose distinctive plume identified a Hungarian Captain of Hussars.

"Ah, Vathely," said Stadelmeier, rising from behind his escritoire. "Good, good. Come in."

"How do you do, sir?" enquired Captain Vathely. "I received your message and came straight up."

"Indeed," said the bureaucrat, observing Vathely's mud-spattered boots with distaste. "Sit down. How were things down Ustikolina way?"

"Quiet, sir," said the officer, pulling up a chair. "Nothing to report that you won't see in the morning."

"H'm. Quiet, you say." He picked up a piece of paper and handed it over. "Read this."

Vathely's eyes moved across the dispatch for a minute, and when he gave it back his expression was blank.

"Well? What do you make of it?"

The hussar considered for a moment and then carefully replied, "It's quite curious, sir. Not at all characteristic of Colonel Slavin."

"Curious? It's crazy. If it weren't that four men are dead, I'd say he was up to something."

"Up to something, sir?"

"He was assigned here because he knew the country, just as I got you precisely because you don't know it at all."

"Sir--"

"I want you to find out what's going on. If he's up to something, that's bad. But if his judgment is still sound--and it always has been up to now--that's even worse. You are to proceed to him personally and see for yourself what the hell's happening up there. You'll buck up the men, square Slavin away, and tell him from me that if he starts flogging people without my direct order he will answer to Baron Burian in Sarajevo. Personally. You understand me?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Find out the exact details of this ambush of his, and forbid him to shoot back. Tell 'em to run away if the shit hits the fan. That's all."

"I'll get on it in the morning, sir."

"You'll get on it right goddamn now, and go alone. I don't want any more brawls between your lot and his. Wear civvies if you want to, but be in full uniform when you catch up with him."

"Where is he, sir?"

"Up in the sticks by Tsele--Tselebietchi somewhere. And while you're at it, find out who some priest named . . . Retchnik or something, is, and why the hell he's sending me notes about some fellow named Savitch."

"Savitch. The name I've heard. Some kind of relation to the local bigwig here in Fotcha."

"Ilitch?"

"The same. Though I understood that Savitch is the gospodar up there."

"And what the hell is that?"

"A minor noble, something along the lines of the old German Vogt. I'll check it all out for you, sir."

"Do that. And soft-pedal it. Slavin is a man who's had a good record behind him, the kind you'd do well to build up yourself. Don't get him angry, you understand me? Just find out what's going on and report straight to me. You may go."

"Yes sir." Captain Vathely stood up, saluted, and marched out of the room. And as the door closed behind him, Claudius Stadelmeier looked at the dispatch again for a moment, then shoved it into a pigeonhole with a mild curse.

"Down, down," said Demjan to the leaping, barking dogs.

The door of the house opened, and Kosta Savić waved from horseback. "Joj! Alija!"

The farmer bowed his head briefly. "Good day again, gospodar. Everything is ready, as we arranged."

"Good. I can promise you that Demjan will pull his share of the load around here for as long as you need him."

"He is most welcome. Won't you both come in for some coffee and a bite to eat?"

"I think Papa--" began Demjan, and broke off as he saw Kosta Savić beginning to dismount.

"I would be most honoured to accept," said Kosta, wincing a bit as he stepped out of the stirrup. Demjan took the reins as Alija came down and handed them over to him; and he brought the animal forward and tied it near the staircase. Then Demjan let Kosta lean on him a little as they followed Alija up the steps into his house, ducking under the low lintel.

Inside the carpet was brushed, and on the low sofra sat the pride of the household, a shining silver coffee pot, and an array of small porcelain cups on a lacquerwork tray. Three places were laid with embroidered linen napkins and tiny squares of Turkish Delight, mint torte, sliced white bread, and slatko. To one side was a bottle of clear fiery rakija and three glasses. The farmer's wife and daughter were nowhere to be seen, in accordance with Islamic custom.

"Really, Alija, you do carry things out so," observed Kosta Savić. "I see you have two more cups to your set, too."

"It takes all our poor house has to do our visitors justice," said Alija with an obvious touch of pride. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you." Kosta Savić motioned away Demjan and sat down cross-legged on the carpet. Demjan did the same, while Alija went about dispensing the steaming coffee. He handed it round in silence and one by one the men added a drop of cold water to their cups, thereby settling the suspended grounds. Kosta Savić took the first sip and pronounced it excellent and Alija murmured a word or two of deprecation.

"So," said Kosta. "Now we have time to chat. How are things with you these days, Alija?"

"I have nothing to complain of. I and my family are well, and what with this weather we may get an extra crop this year."

"That'd be a lot of work for one man. But you always were a worker, Alija."

"Only when I have to be," said Alija with a faint smile. "And my girl Mara's a fine strong creature. She could handle a plough herself, I dare say."

"Indeed. This season we shall all have to stick by each other, and with any luck we'll have to go clear to Sarajevo to sell it all."

"Here's to that, gospodar. And tell me, are you all well and prospering? And is little Anton better?"

"He is, thank you. For a time Stana and Slavica had to take turns watching him, but he is through it now. And I must say the experience seems to have done Slavica good. She is a regular little woman now."

"I am glad to hear it. We must encourage her and my Mara to get together more often."

Demjan took a bite of the torte. "I must say, this is very good."

"Thank you, Demjan," said Alija. "I trust you will be enjoying our cooking for a while. I'm sure you know your stepfather has arranged for you to stay here with us a few days to help clear my north field."

"Yes. I should like to help you out any way I can, Alija."

"I warn you," added Kosta Savić, "if he works you half as hard as he works himself, your fingers will wear out down to the bone."

Alija laughed. "Hardly true, gospodar. 'Many hands make light work,'" he quoted.

"Ha! I had forgotten you and your proverbs, like Mullah Nasruddin," said Kosta Savić. "But don't go bandying them about, for 'many words are like to the wind, to which no man listens.'"

The farmer cocked one eye. "True there, but 'wisdom is as far above a fool as the sky over his head.'"

It was Kosta's turn to laugh. "Foxed again, you old wizard! I ought to know better than to match wits with you."

"It's only practice, ya khawand. There's nothing like good conversation to honour a guest. It turns the meanest hut into a house of God. Doubtless the young master will learn these things."

"So I trust, sir," said Demjan.

"Good. And now," said Alija, producing an elongated pouch from inside his gaily embroidered jacket pocket, "we shall smoke."

And as they smoked their pipes, Alija Selimović considered at length. And despite his implicit trust in this man who had been his master's brother, his private misgivings about the affair refused to be stilled.

Slavica laid the baby back in his cradle and did up her blouse, covering the breast that was yet too young to have given him milk.

Looking down at him she was conscious of no particular maternal instinct, should she even have known what such a thing was. Nor did she think she loved her mother; she certainly did not feel toward her as Demjan did. She did hold both her parents in a harsh respect scarcely seen even in the old codes of the Bosnian nobility; for she came of a race that had never known equals in Europe.

For over a thousand years after the coming of Christianity these strange proud men had fought all the powers of Rome and Constantinople--both Orthodox and Catholic--holding to a heretic faith of their own, speaking their ancient tongue and writing their forbidden Bogomil gospels in a queer, crabbed script still called bosančica after its users.

And then the Ottoman Turks had stormed out of Asia into Anatolia, breaking the millennial power of Byzantium forever. And when the West was gathering its greatest forces to meet the invaders, these men were not invited to join; and as Bavarians, Austrians, Poles, Bohemians, Hungarians, Croats, Serbs, Lombards, and Franks converged in the Vardar valley they kept one hand on their sword hilts, watching with hostile indifference.

The men of the West met their destiny on St. Vitus' Day, 28 June 1389, at Kosovo Polje--the Field of Blackbirds, and on that day the Turks laid open the road to Europe in a welter of steel and blood that began five centuries of oppression for the South Slavs and ever after made the hyssops of Kosovo bloom in crimson.

And the men of Bosnia prepared to meet the conquering Turks grimly, silently, as they had readied to fight Christendom; but as the Asiatic invaders descended on the Bosnian mountains like a spring avalanche, a weird thing came to pass.

The Turks offered peace instead of doom. Perhaps Sultan Suleiman was sick of slaughter, despite the apocalyptic vengeance he was to take on the Serbs for the death of his father Murad at Kosovo. Perhaps the rugged gorge-slashed terrain played its part; but they had faced as bad and worse in the limestone jungles of Montenegro and Albania.

For some reason Suleiman decided that these dark enigmatic men were better negotiated with than fought. The Bosnian nobles, for their part, decided to talk to the first foreigner in ten centuries who seemed willing to let them alone.

The talks took a single day. The Bosnians, in accordance with Turkish practice, were offered the chance to keep their language, their half-pagan religion, and their petty rulers.

Their princes were to remain in power; no tribute was to be exacted; no hostages would be taken. In fact, nothing was to change at all with the exception that any Bosnian was to be free to profess the Faith and to join the Turkish army; and an agent of the Sultan was to remain in Sarajevo.

By and large the bargain was kept for nearly five hundred years. True, the Vizier was soon packed out of the capital and moved to the resort of Travnik, whose luxuries rapidly developed to suit his taste, and in later times trouble was to be caused by Bosnian janizaries who returned from Ottoman service to a lifestyle not to be found in the seraglios of the Golden Horn. But the Bosnians found many of their own values in the austere, mysterious i'jaz of the Prophet's desert-born creed, and their dukes soon took to Turkish dalliance with the same ability they had once brought to mountain warfare. For its part the Sublime Porte appreciated its Bosnian voevodi who carried on their code of swordsmanship under the Crescent with the very discipline they had once been ready to employ against it.

In the end the men of Bosnia were to become more Turkish than the Turks, often becoming viziers and generals, and Bosnian blood would run in the veins of more than one black-haired, blue-eyed Sultan. Manifestly, the practical advantages offered by conversion to Islam were to lead to the decline of their old Bogomil faith, now living principally in folklore and still to be seen only in its black cenotaphs, which stand to this day, pitted and lichen-covered, in the wilder regions of the country.

But however much the old ways had suffered in practice they were never entirely forgotten. The gospodar Nikola Savić, like generations of his forefathers, had dutifully exercised the public profession of faith admissible to heads of family; but he had seen to it that his sons Andrija and Kosta, like others of old Bosnian blood, remembered the unwritten traditions as well, and those perhaps only to be read in the cryptic tracery of the bosančica.

Slavica rolled over again in the bed, onto her face, twisting the sheets awry and thrusting her slim exposed buttocks into the air; a few drops of sweat trickled down the straight valley of her backbone as she swayed from side to side, both hands beneath her, clasped on her groin. And when she pulled forth one hand to put to her lips a silver chain was wrapped around it and it clasped the amulet with the twelve serpentine points of stellar fire.

Her lips opened, pressed beside the mattress, and her breathing came faster. Her face contorted as in unbelievable agony and she collapsed, her blood flowing bright crimson on the white sheets.

"Sarai! Mara!" yelled Alija, cradling Kosta Savić's head in his hands. "Bring hot water!"

"It was so sudden," said Demjan, because there was nothing else to say.

Alija's wife hurried in with the kettle, her starched kerchief all askew. "What happened?"

"Here, damp this," the farmer ordered, handing her a large spotless napkin.

"He fainted," said Demjan. "We were getting up to go, and suddenly his face took on the oddest expression, just for a moment, and he fainted dead away."

"He's sweating," she said.

Stana started up in the saddle.

It was only the memory that had startled her. Nothing else could have made that sound again.

She set spurs to her horse.

The horses sensed it first, halfway down the mountainside. Slavin's mount suddenly shied but he reined in very short and the disciplined animal proceeded ahead despite whatever had alarmed it.

The soldiers had reached the edge of the woodline before they began to smell the death in the air. Colonel Slavin waved them into a V-formation and they rode quietly into Uglesić's farmyard.

They grew even quieter at what they saw and not a few of them fingered their Mannlicher carbines.

"Jesus, what a mess," said Slavin at last, only half to himself. His orderly did not say anything.

When they had ridden once through, Slavin gave orders to regroup and comb the area, though he suspected that the perpetrators would be long gone, and that whatever tracks the road may have afforded had been effaced by their passage.

After a fruitless hour of searching, in which they turned up no fewer than eight bodies, or the major portions of such, Slavin's suspicions had become bitter certainties. And with the realization that the principal victim was the universally respected leader of the Christian peasantry, his task of imposing some Austrian law and order on this strange wild woodland, already brutally complex, had now compounded to the point of psychosis.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a bare hand and then spit on the ground. "Two men," he said. "Vonhof and Hird. You remain here. Make sure no one--or nothing--disturbs the scene. We'll put up in Celebiči this evening and I'll contact the local priest to arrange for the burials. We'll keep a guard posted until he arrives."

The two men named saluted and looked at each other as Slavin called a formation and the patrol galloped off into the afternoon.

"Here, lift him by the legs," directed Alija.

Demjan obediently took his elbows round his stepfather's knees and they lifted; and as the body came away from the floor Mara gave a little scream of horror and pointed to where Kosta Savić had lain.

Blood smeared the cream-colored carpet.

"Quickly," said Alija, "and carefully, lay him down." It was done. Sarai hurried off for bandage material while Alija gently pulled back the flap of his visitor's embroidered jacket to reveal a red spreading stain on his white shirt; then when he saw the bandage beneath it undid the shirt and peeled it back as well.

Then, very slowly, he drew his razor-edged handžal and cut through the soaked bandage. Demjan looked on transfixed, and Mara turned away as the farmer removed the big dressing an inch at a time.

"Oh, God," muttered Demjan and Alija did not rebuke him.

The wound in his abdomen had torn open; blood was welling up fast, flowing over a damaged organ and starting to trickle down his side.

Alija said: "Demjan. Get a needle and waxed thread from Sarai. Heat the needle in the fire. Move. Mara, get me a sheet and a pair of scissors, go. Go." The young people disappeared and the farmer balled up the napkin and held it against the ribcage.

Slavica awoke as the door closed. She sprang out of the bed and reached overhead to replace the silver amulet in its crevice. Then she scrambled for some clothes and as she was gathering them up Stana caught her.

She read the story in Stana's eyes.

As her mother came for her she tried to dodge around the bed but with a kick of her long powerful legs Stana went over it, backhanding her across the head. As her head snapped back Stana grabbed her by the hair and twisted her round.

"Shameless girl,"--slap--"call yourself a woman,"--slap--"and leave a baby crying in the next room?"

She held Slavica's face to her own with both hands. "Is that it?" she demanded.

The girl said nothing but hatred and jealousy twisted her mouth into a gash. Her eyes went blank and Stana grunted, releasing her and driving a fist into her stomach. Slavica tried to roll away but the older woman got her by one wrist, blocked away a slap, and held her still.

They stood a moment, frozen, a tear rolling down one of Stana's cheeks; then she canted her head back, gazing down at the girl like a basilisk.

She let Slavica go, both hands briefly up, and struck her once like lightning across the face.

The girl's brain seemed to burst asunder; she reeled, white lights flashing back and forth across her vision, but she kept her balance, and Stana watched while she snatched up her clothes and dashed out.

Stana stood alone, trembling, for a minute; then she took several deep breaths and went out to see to the baby.

But Slavica was gone.

At last Alija arose from beside the body, his sleeves rolled up and his arms bloody to the elbows like a butcher's.

"Well?" demanded Demjan nervously.

Alija wiped himself off with what had been a guest napkin. "I've done as well on goats and sheep--with all respect--but you're the gifted one. You're the one that saved my brown cow when the wolves got her last year."

"I couldn't," said Demjan. "I just couldn't work on him with my hands."

"I know," said Alija. "Something like that would have killed two other men. But he got it and lived. Who patched him up first?"

"Probably my mother," said Demjan. "She's a better healer than I am."

Alija looked at Demjan in surprise. "I didn't know that."

"She kept my father alive for a whole day before he died."

"I wouldn't have believed it."

"It's true. You know, though, she can't work on anyone outside the family while she's still of childbearing age."

Alija nodded and tossed aside the reddened napkin.

"And she believes very strongly that there is a due time for living things to die--almost a need--and so often won't tend to something when she thinks it ought to die."

"Really?" said Alija.

Demjan's voice clouded with bitterness. "Though why she couldn't let my father die decently I'll never understand." He looked at Alija with such intensity that the farmer had to turn his head. "He lay there and bled like a carcass for a day and a night. We had to burn the mattress and the linens and the rugs and wash down the whole room with lye."

Alija listened.

"She kept the door closed but you could hear him screaming like an animal, and Slavica had to hide outside in the bushes. She was eight years old. I don't know what kind of a night she spent out there but she still has nightmares sometimes."

"Maybe she had her reasons."

"Maybe. She won't talk about it."

The farmer knelt down by Kosta Savić, examining the tight new dressing where it fit on the bluish flesh.

His chest still slowly rose and fell, terribly slowly, despite the pallor on his face.

"She'll tell you some day," Alija said. "She is honourable."

"That is what bothers me," said Demjan.

"This must be the place," said Slavin.

"I don't know, sir," said the orderly, looking round the interior of the empty han. "The map said this was an inn."

"Well, what do you expect up here? An Alpine Gasthaus with a terrace-garden and afternoon tea-parties? This is the place, all right. Have the men ground their gear in here, we'll set up four per room, one per on duty. And see the dispatch-rider off."

Now alone for a time, Colonel Slavin looked around. True, there would be no Nußtorte and clean linen here, not even a host to serve them coffee and sheep's cheese; but it was a good defensible position with four walls and most of a roof.

His men would at least be dry tonight.

They could get a fire going in the common-room grate, post two men to each door, and set up an orderly room; there was enough rough-hewn furniture for that.

Yes, the Turks had known what they were doing when they built these places.

"Sir, Herr Rittmeister Vathely to see you."

What?

"Send him in."

Captain Vathely appeared in the door and saluted. Slavin returned it curtly and dismissed the soldier.

"Good afternoon, Vathely. I must say this is a surprise."

"As it was to me, sir," said Vathely. "But Herr von Stadelmeier sent me up to check on the last dispatch you sent in. About the ambush, four men dead."

"What about it? Have you come to cart the bodies away?"

The hussar said slowly, "I came to collect some details."

"They died in the line of duty, honourably, and we buried them in the Christian cemetery at Vikoč."

"I need details of the ambush, sir. Something substantial to report to Herr von Stadelmeier."

"What is there to report? We were riding a mountain track on a black rainy night five nights ago and suddenly someone opened up on us with small arms, two or three carbines and a pistol, maybe a Gasser. We returned fire and went after them but they got away in the brush. Three of the men died instantly, one the next day. Outside of the goddamn unbelievable shooting they did by starlight, nothing remarkable about it. Enemy losses unknown. Provenance unknown. Everything unknown. Nothing 'substantial' except four of my men dead and twenty-nine rounds expended. What else is there?"

"Why did you recommend punitive action against the population?"

"How long have you been down here?"

"I don't see--"

"Answer the question, Herr Rittmeister."

"I was assigned here three months ago, sir,"

Slavin growled: "I’ve been five years with these people. Five years. And I still can't figure them out. They hate us, God knows why. Not for any reason I can see. I think they are a people who have forgotten everything else. Everything but hate."

"Perhaps they kill soldiers for political reasons," suggested Vathely.

"No. They don't know what politics are, and don't care. But they know what it is to believe, and fight, and die. Though, again, what they believe in I have no idea. If I knew, I might have something better to do than shoot back when they shoot at us."

Vathely remained silent.

"Today, not two hours ago, we saw something that you won't believe. A family of eight people, from grandmother to baby, all slaughtered and burned in the most frightful manner. Slashed, shot, gouged, bodies actually torn apart. No clue as to who might have done it, or why. You tell me, Captain Investigator Vathely, what kind of people would do that?"

"Only madmen, surely," said Vathely.

"Madmen? Who treat us with a chilly courtesy I have seen rivalled only in Vienna itself, and whose women ride textbook side-saddle like Austrian countesses? Surely, Captain, a most refined and subtle sort of madness."

"I would like to see this thing you speak of," said Vathely.

"Indeed you shall, when we escort the priest back there to arrange the funeral. I am about to send for him now. And when you have seen, then perhaps you will be able to give Herr Stadelmeier his details."

Vathely looked out the door at the lengthening shadows of dusk, and said nothing.

The dull flames of sunset still burned in the deep West when Kosta Savić opened his eyes.

He tried his voice and found it still worked, though he could scarcely breathe for the pain that seized his abdomen like some fell predator.

"Brandy," he said.

Alija's face, oddly inverted, appeared over his, the topsy-turvy eyes looking down at him with grave concern. "You must rest, gospodar," whispered the upside-down smiling lips.

Kosta Savić wondered why this man was failing to understand him. He drew a breath that made him shudder and said: "Brandy, goddamn it. Now."

"Yes, gospodar," said the face and disappeared.

Kosta Savić closed his eyes again.

Oh, Andrija, he thought. Why? You always looked out for me. What is it? What is this woman doing to you? --You'll understand everything. Trust me. My own brother, my little brother. You're all I have, all there is in the world. What wouldn't I give to you? --But this woman! I don't understand. What hold does she have over you? Nothing you don't already have in yourself. I say it because I love you, my little brother, in ways you will never know. --Andrija! Andrija!

"What is it, gospodar?" asked Alija gently.

"Give me the brandy," said Kosta Savić.

Hardly raising his head, he gulped the rahi in driblets that half went down his chin.

"What is going on?" Demjan asked Alija.

Alija looked at Kosta, refilling the cup and watching him sip the fiery liquor greedily. "I don't know. I think he was dreaming of the old gospodar Andrija, on whom be peace."

"Peace, indeed," said Demjan. "Slavica's memories of him are bad enough--but he remembers my father almost as if he had been there in the death-room."

"But you said only Stana was in there, and Kosta did not arrive until days later."

"Of course," said Demjan. "I don't think they ever really knew each other at all."

"Who is it?" called Stana.

"It's Ivo, ma'am. Come by to pay my respects and see Kosta Savić if I could."

"Do come in, Ivo," she said. As the man entered and closed the door, she was squatting on the rug, waving a rattle over the baby. Ivo saw little Anton, crawling, look up and make a pass at the toy, tumbling over like an overturned basket of potatoes; Stana, laughing, caught him up in her arms and arose, such a radiant smile on her face that Ivo could not help smiling himself. "I'm afraid he's not here, Ivo. He went to the village this morning."

"I'm sorry to miss Kosta Savić, ma'am, as we had one or two things to talk over, but seeing the child so well is worth the walk by itself." He tickled it with a hard brown finger, which it took in a dimpled fist and shook. "He's growing like wildfire now. If you don't mind my saying so, he looks a bit like you."

"Do you think so?" asked Stana, looking down at him.

"He was the very spit of Kosta just when he was born, but I don't see it now, ma'am."

"Ako, ako," she smiled in agreement. "But come, sit down. Let me get some coffee on, and you look like you could do with a slice of bread and butter."

"Don't trouble yourself, ma'am," said the farmer, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bench; but Stana was already raking up the fire.

"No trouble at all," she said. "Kosta should be back any time now. Besides, I almost feel guilty when I see you not eating, you great starveling."

Ivo smiled. "It's true I am a bit on the lean side, ma'am, but I daresay you would be yourself if you had an idle wife and four great lazy sons to feed. But between the sheep, the cow, and our two fields, we get along. Nije lako ali ako," he shrugged.

"Yes, it was that sort of arrangement which sent Kosta to the village," she said, putting Anton on the carpet to crawl. "Is there anything you can tell me?"

"Well, I came to see if Kosta Savić would pick a few things up for me in his wagon for me on market-day, day after tomorrow. I shall be needing two sacks of seed oats and a bale of wire, and naturally--"

"Say no more, Ivo. Of course we'll pick them up for you." She headed Anton off as he approached the stove, and turned him round.

"Thank you very much, ma'am. We all have to stick together these days. Who knows what evils these Schwabes will bring down upon us?"

"Nothing greater than what we have already seen, I am sure," said Stana. "They are only men, they cannot bring drought, or hail, or wolves."

"No; but they can take away what the others leave," grumbled Ivo. "And they won't find mine easy to take, I warrant you."

"I have already met them," said Stana, "and they did not seem bent on taking anything, I assure you."

"In my father's time," said Ivo bitterly, "Omer-latas Pasha did not seem like to take anything either. That was fifty years ago and more, and we had precious little enough in the first place. Jovan Ilić sahibija could tell you. dede Milovan said, 'What have we got that they could take?' He had only his loyalty to the gospodar Malibor Savić, on whom be peace, Kosta's grandfather; but as the Devil himself couldn't have caught Malibor Savić, that was enough for the Pasha to have my grandfather strangled."

Stana said nothing, certain memories of her own stirring, and she remembered the lancer's words: There are changes in the air, gospodja . . .

"Mind the child," warned Ivo. Stana started up and rushed over to pick up Anton, who had once more approached the stove.

"I hope Kosta Savić, God strengthen him, stands up for us the way Andrija would have," said Ivo as Stana returned, cradling the baby in her arms. "It was a pity for him to go the way he did, such a great man--saving your presence, gospodja. But, Christian, Moslem, or Roman Catholic, all were one to him. It's true he had his darker side, and there's those who talk against him still, five years in his grave--God rest him--but I'll never hear a word said against him, for he set me free, both me and Alija Selimović. And even if the Schwabes hang us all they can't take that away."

"Very truly said," observed Stana. "But when the Austrians visit this house, to which I have invited them, they shall be our guests. And if you have a shred of respect left for me you will not treat our guests badly. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, gospodja." Ivo arose. "I'm sorry to have talked on so, but every now and then we have to remember the olden times."

"You're not going yet, Ivo?"

"I'm afraid so. I just needed to leave the message. I have to be getting back; it's almost dark, and I must be up early. God save you, ma'am."

She arose, too, and acknowledged his bow with a nod. "Farewell, Ivo. I shall arrange everything for you."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Ivo, and was gone, closing the door carefully behind him.

After he had left Stana sat for a time, heedless of the boiling coffee-water, wondering what he had really come to discuss with her husband.

"Demjan, where are you?" asked Kosta Savić's tired voice.

"I am here, sir. Do you want more brandy?"

"To hell with the brandy. How long have I been here?"

"About six hours."

"Damn. What happened to me?"

"You had a wound in your side that opened up and started to bleed. You passed out."

"I'll say."

They sat awhile in silence.

"How did you get that wound?" asked Demjan. "Someone must have attacked you."

"It looks that way," admitted the nobleman.

"Who?" asked Demjan. "Who did it? And why?"

"Too many questions . . . If I told you," said Kosta Savić, "you'd call me a liar. Things will reveal themselves in due course . . ."

He went on: "I don't remember very much, and I drank the brandy to forget what is left, but it didn't work. Do you believe that I have killed men before?"

"Yes," said Demjan. "I do."

"I have. On several occasions, for different reasons. Or what I thought were reasons. Many different circumstances put a gun or a knife in a man's hand, but there can be no reason to use them. Killing a man is an act which can have no relation whatever to reason. There is something beyond a mere reason that is in one man when he kills another."

"And what, sir, is that?" asked Demjan.

"I have forgotten," said the tired voice from the shadows, "if I ever knew at all. But I tell you this, stepson. When you kill a man, at the same time you are killing yourself."

"I don't understand."

"It is best that way," said Kosta Savić. "You know that your father was the killer of Petar Bicanić and his kin, and it was Petar Bicanić that dealt Andrija his death-wounds."

"I knew," said Demjan woodenly.

"And you wondered why?"

"No. I just didn't believe it."

"Believe it," said Kosta Savić. "Andrija was a killer."

"And what about you?" cried Demjan. "You didn't even know him!"

"You have no right to say that," said the older man quietly.

"And you're not a killer yourself?"

"Yes."

"What made you that way?"

"It used to be my job. I worked like any man works for his wages. But when Andrija died," said Kosta Savić, "something in me died, too. I didn't start to feel it until Anton was born. But nothing seemed to replace what I had lost in Andrija."

"So?"

"Something is there again, now. Something strong like the great wind that blows out of the west at sundown."

"What?"

Kosta Savić was silent for a time. At last he said: "I am tired, and drunk. And it is late. Alija has gone to bed, and so ought you."

"Yes, sir. But we must talk about this more."

"We will," said Kosta Savić. "Good night."

"Good night, sir."

Father Ante Rezać, seated in his study, unlocked the desk drawer and brought out the broken crucifix, the locket portrait, and the thing done up in a bit of silk.

He unbelted his robe and began the nightly ritual. But as his hands framed the symbol of power he sensed that something was not quite right. Nevertheless his pulse began to race as the power sprang forth within him, closing him inside its invulnerable warmth and energy.

He called.

There was no response: only a void, a nothingness that drew the powers off in wisps from his heated brain.

He seemed lost in time rather than outside it, and he knew that things were indeed very wrong.

"A very fine dinner," Andrija Savić had said, pushing himself back from the table and removing the napkin from his jacket front.

"It truly does you credit, stepfather," Kosta Savić had added. "I hardly remember any to equal it."

"All the better, then, shall we have to converse in order to do it justice," said Jovan Ilić who had watched them, his own plates barely touched, for some length of time.

"I'm feeling expansive," said knez Dabisav Uglesić.

"And so you should, seeing how much of my dinner is inside of you; but that's all as it should be. We do have much to further expand upon."

"You mean, sir, the girl," said Kosta Savić.

"Quite. You know the rule I observe. I want to get the serious talk about her out of the way before we pass the slivovica around, and I do feel most inclined toward a drop tonight. For talk there must be before I will sanction the match. And as she has no relative to speak for her, I will trust you, knez Dabisav, as a responsible family man and Christian, to uphold her part according to custom."

"I shall, sahibija," said Dabisav Uglesić.

"Good. Now, what we have thus far, Andrija Savić, is that the lady loves you and you love her; and this I see no reason to doubt. It is in fact a very sound point at which to begin."

"I have more than love to offer her, sir," said Andrija Savić. "I have a home, the estate of my father, Nikola Savić, on whom be peace, to which I lay claim by right of inheritance."

"And what," asked Dabisav Uglesić, "has your brother to say in this matter?"

"The estate is wholly Andrija's to claim," said Kosta Savić, "for I have decided to waive my right of inheritance to an equal portion, and am so prepared to state in writing."

"This is something of a surprise," said knez Dabisav, and even Jovan Ilić lifted his eyebrows.

"Nevertheless, I give my word upon it," said Kosta Savić.

"You are very lucky," said Jovan Ilić to Andrija. "Make good use of your brother's patrimony."

"I shall, sir, as he would if the situation were reversed," said Andrija. "I would certainly do the same for him."

"Your brother's confidence in you speaks well of your prospects," said Dabisav.

Jovan Ilić's uncanny green eyes turned to Andrija. "And what," he asked, "of the lady's prospects?"

"It is true that she has no kindred in the country," said Andrija, "and is dowerless. But my means are more than enough to provide for us and for our family."

"The wealth involved in a dowry," said Jovan Ilić carefully, "is not altogether a matter of pocket-money. A dowry represents a woman's legal stake in the marriage. Without it she has no legal standing."

"Concubinage," murmured Kosta.

"Exactly," said the old man with a small sharp smile. "Marriage without a dowry does amount to legal ownership."

"Are you saying I can't marry her?" demanded Andrija.

"No. But if you did, she would be little better than a harem-girl. I believe you love her better than that."

"That is what I want to bring her up from," said Andrija Savić.

"True," said the old man. "But it does explain the circumstances in which you found her, too. And if you married her that way you would seal her into it forever."

"knez Dabisav," appealed Andrija. "You have the authority to adopt her."

"I wish I could help you, Andrija," said the farmer, "but I have two daughters of my own to provide for, and my crops are still in the ground. You know how it is."

"What can I do?" asked Andrija.

"This is a very grave matter," said Jovan Ilić, "for I will not permit you to marry a dowerless girl."

"Kosta!"

"I have already given you my half of the farm," said Kosta Savić. "I have no more but my saddle and the clothes on my back. You should have them if it would help you."

"Then what," repeated Andrija, "can I do?"

Jovan Ilić said: "Listen to me very carefully. As her betrothed, there is nothing you can do. She must do for herself, if there is no father to do for her. If she can show me fifty gold dinars, or an equivalent in transferable property, hers and hers alone, I will see the contract made out and make all the arrangements. That is final."

"Yes, sir," said Andrija Savić. "We will talk more of this later."

"I hope so," said Jovan Ilić. He clapped his wrinkled hands twice and called for the slivovica.

"Fifty gold dinars?" said Stana. "He might as well have asked for a thousand."

"He was adamant," said Andrija, "and there is justice in what he says."

"You seem quick to take his side," she said coolly.

"I am on our side," said Andrija. "You know I love you."

"We will be married," she said. "I'll show him not fifty gold dinars, but a hundred."

"What is your plan?"

"Leave that to me. You must take care of the farm now that you're getting all of it. I know he won't sign it over to you until the wedding contract is made out, but he can't object to you at least cleaning the place out and stocking it."

"No. Kosta will be leaving soon, and I have to make some provision for him."

"He's not losing a thing. He knows no one could make half a farm that size pay off. He's cutting clean and good luck."

"He'll make out," said Andrija.

"Was the old man upset that you published the banns without notifying him?"

"Yes," admitted Andrija, pulling out his tobacco-pouch. "But there was nothing he could have done about that anyway and he knows it."

"He's putting the screws on where he can. After all, you can't fault him for wanting to make this thing a paying proposition."

"I'd do the same."

She nodded.

Andrija built himself a cigarette and lit it. "What's your plan for the money?"

She shrugged expressively. "I'll find a way. I made out for a long time before I met you."

"I remember how you made out. What were those Gypsies going to do with you, anyway?"

"They were going to bury me alive."

"Christ!" exclaimed Andrija. "What on earth for?"

"Look at it this way. Why would you want to bury someone alive?"

Andrija just stared intently into a cloud of blue cigarette smoke. "No . . . no," he said softly. "No."

She looked at him levelly. "You knew what you were doing when you asked me to marry you, and I knew what I was doing when I said yes. We're in this together, all the way."

"We are that," said Andrija, still wondering.

He had had, indeed, excellent reasons for marrying the strange strong-blooded Vlakh woman to whom a chance encounter had led him; and more than once he had carefully calculated the risks in such a match. But he knew that old Jovan Ilić had discussed very few of the facts concerning their great-grandfather's exile from Tjentište, and had never adequately explained their grandfather's death, or their father's strict instructions for the boys never to marry in the region. And only now, hearing that someone had once slated his betrothed for a sorceress' execution, he began to wonder whether there were not some radical flaw in all his careful calculations.

The moon was near the zenith when Slavica came to the ruined farm. The buildings stood like shadowy megaliths among the grasses of the valley floor. A faint chilly mist was rising, turning the miasma of decaying flesh into a visible foetor that hung in the air like lace curtains; all was profoundly silent.

A tiny winking orange light in the mist had attracted her from the pine scrubs at the valley's edge, and now as she moved in she could see that it was a campfire.

Very carefully, without a sound, she melted into the gloom around the house and took one step at a time until she could see the fire clearly.

Sitting quite close to it were two men, soldiers, blankets wrapped around them, with their packs close by, and their hoses hobbled further off. Each man had his carbine across his knees; one had his head sunk on his chest, dozing, and the other was reading, or trying to read, from a small leather-bound book.

Two packs, two men.

A prickling sensation, not unpleasant, ran along her back, and then her stomach tautened. A dizzying aura of power crept over her, until her ears roared; she seemed to float an inch above the ground.

She looked down and saw that she was trembling.

She drew a breath and said: "Sir . . . excuse me, sir?"

The reading soldier's head snapped up and he elbowed his companion sharply.

She pushed out from the building and began walking slowly, slowly, toward the fire.

She was naked.

Both soldiers had their guns pointed in her direction but such was the force pounding inside her that she felt even bullets couldn't stop her now.

"Sir, who are you two? What's happened here?"

They lowered their weapons when they saw her and shot a glance between them. The one who had been reading grabbed his blanket and tossed it to her; she let it fall before picking it up and putting it about her shoulders.

"Don't be afraid, young lady," said the dozy one in heavily accented Serbian. "We won’t touch you. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"Come over here, sit by the fire--you are cold, yes? Nobody will hurt you here."

She came a little closer.

"Sit down," said the dozer. "We won’t hurt you. We just want to ask you a few questions. Do you live here?"

She just stared at them for a minute, and very softly began to weep.

"Are you hungry?" he tried. "We have food."

Her head came up immediately.

The reader put down his rifle, reached into his knapsack, at a word or two in German from the other, and produced a half-loaf of black bread. Perhaps remembering the blanket he stretched out, handing it to her.

She crushed his windpipe with a single blow and was upon him, teeth shearing into the side of his neck as they toppled over. He screamed, thrashing, and as they rolled over she sucked greedily at the hot spurting blood, clamping her thighs around his abdomen as if to squeeze the very life-force out the wound.

For a moment she perceived nothing, nothing whatsoever, and suddenly the power inside her burst into white heat; she felt a fiery apotheosis such as Lucifer must have felt when he declared war upon God.

Something hit the back of her head. She turned and saw the other soldier, lifting his rifle for another blow, and with one smooth movement she was onto her feet, crouching.

The man chambered a shell and fired once, twice as she leaped, tearing at him with her nails. Her impact bowled them over and she was on top of him, clawing and biting like a fury, but he blocked her teeth at the neck with the gun.

She wrenched the barrel out of his grasp with one hand, but in a convulsive effort he knocked her back and scrambled away; she watched him flee into the darkness and returned to the other, now sprawled out, unmoving.

He was breathing rapidly, shallowly. She exhaled and put her mouth to the wound, slippery with great clouts of blood, and then realizing he would be dead within seconds, ripped open his uniform and drove her hands into his chest, trying desperately to break the bones and get at his heart.

It was only toward dawn that the priest Rezać came to in his chair with the frustrating feeling that his dreams would have unlocked some knowledge of great and urgent import, if only he could remember them.

«Previous | Table of Contents | Next»