“So we searched alone,” Scharley said, sighing, “for quite a long time. We went beyond Ještěd, as far as Roimund and Hammerstein. Čapek found us again there, this time in the company of Štěpán Tlach of Český Dub and an emissary of Flutek who had come from White Mountain.”
Hejtman Tlach, it turned out, had received news from his informer in the Celestine convent at Oybin and the mystery of Reynevan’s disappearance was explained. Unfortunately, the company were unable to go after Biberstein’s men. The messenger from White Mountain brought with him the order to return at once. The order was categorical, and since the responsibility for its execution fell on the hejtmans, the company set off under escort. Or rather in a convoy.
At White Mountain, only Scharley was retained by Neplach. Samson was raring to head for Silesia alone, but the penitent talked him out of a one-man expedition.
“It didn’t take me long,” he said, smiling evilly. “Our friend Samson had important matters to see to in Prague. All day and every day. Promenading with the red-haired Marketa in Zderaz or Slovany. Or sitting with her in Podskalí, where the two of them spent hours looking at the Vltava and watching the sun go down. Holding hands.”
“Scharley,” said Reynevan.
“What? Isn’t that right?”
“D’antico amor senti la gran potenza…” said Reynevan, recalling the quotation and also unable to stop laughing. “How is she feeling, Samson?”
“Much better. Let’s have a drink.”
“There are rumours,” said Scharley, squinting into the sun, “that a plundering raid is in the offing. A large one. You could call it an invasion. Or better yet: a war.”
“If you were with Flutek at White Mountain you surely know what’s afoot,” Reynevan said, stretching. “Flutek certainly didn’t fail to inform you.”
Scharley wouldn’t be distracted. “There are rumours that you’ve been assigned an important role in that war. That you will, as the poet says, find yourself in the very centre of events. Which suggests that all of us will.”
They sat on the terrace of the Silver Bell Inn, enjoying the sun, which was pleasantly warm in spite of the slight frost. Snow sparkled on the forested hillside and water lazily dripped from icicles hanging from the roof. Samson appeared to be dozing. Perhaps he really was? They had talked well into the night and probably completely needlessly uncorked the last demijohn.
“It’s child’s play to get your arse kicked when you’re caught up in the centre of a war,” continued Scharley, “especially when you have an important role. Or get another part kicked. When war is waging, it’s extremely easy to lose a body part. Which may include your head. And then it’s very dangerous.”
“I know what you’re getting at. Stop.”
“You appear to be reading my mind, hence I have nothing to add, for you’ve already arrived at the conclusion, I understand.”
“I have. And I declare: I’m fighting for the cause, I’m going to war for the cause and I shall fulfil the role I’ve been assigned for the cause. The cause of the Chalice must prevail, all our endeavours are bent towards it. Thanks to our efforts and sacrifices, Utraquism and the one true faith will triumph, an end to immorality will dawn and the world will change for the better. I’m ready to spill blood for it. And give up my life if necessary.”
Scharley sighed. “But we aren’t skiving,” he said calmly. “We’re fighting. You’re making a career in medicine and intelligence. I’m moving up through the military hierarchy and quietly amassing loot. I’ve already put away a pretty penny. We’ve cheated the Grim Reaper several times in the service of the Chalice. And all we’re doing is tempting fate, pushing on blindly from incident to incident, each one worse than the last. It’s high time to talk seriously to Flutek and Prokop. Let younger men risk their necks in the field and in the front line. We’ve earned a rest—we’ve done enough to be able spend the rest of the war lying around sub tegmine fagi. Or alternatively, we’ve earned the right to cosy positions at headquarters, Reinmar, which, apart from being comfortable and lucrative, have another inestimable virtue. When everything begins to totter, fall apart and disintegrate, posts like that are easy to run from. And then you can take plenty with you—”
“What exactly will start tottering and falling apart?” Reynevan frowned. “Victory is in sight! The Chalice will triumph and the true Regnum Dei will dawn! That’s what we’re fighting for!”
“Hallelujah,” Scharley summed up. “It’s hard talking to you, lad. So I’ll put the arguments to one side and end with a concise and matter-of-fact suggestion. Are you listening?”
“I am.”
Samson opened his eyes and raised his head to indicate he was, too.
“Let’s get away from here,” said Scharley calmly. “To Constantinople.”
“To where?”
“Constantinople,” the penitent repeated in an utterly grave voice. “It’s a large city on the Bosporus. The pearl and capital of the Byzantine state—”
“I know what and where Constantinople is,” Reynevan interrupted patiently. “I was asking why we have to go there.”
“In order to live there.”
“And why should we live there?”
“Reinmar, Reinmar.” Scharley looked at him pityingly. “Constantinople! Don’t you get it? A glorious world, a glorious culture. A splendid life, a splendid place to live. You’re a doctor. We’d buy you an iatreion near the hippodrome and you’d soon be a famous specialist in women’s complaints. We’d wangle Samson into the Basileus’s guard. I, by virtue of my sensitive nature and dislike of effort, wouldn’t do any work at all… aside from meditation, gambling and the occasional petty swindle. In the afternoons, we’ll walk to Hagia Sophia to pray for greater profits, stroll around the Mesa and enjoy the sight of sails on the Sea of Marmara. We’ll eat lamb pilau and fried octopus washed down with spiced wine in one of the taverns on the Golden Horn. Heaven on Earth! To Constantinople, lads, to Byzantium. Let’s leave Europe behind us, gentlemen, the ignorance and the barbarians. Let’s shake that loathsome dust from our sandals. Let’s go where it’s warm, abundant and blissful, where there’s culture and civilisation. To Byzantium! To Constantinople, the city of cities!”
“To foreign lands?” Reynevan knew that the penitent was joking but played the game. “Abandon the land of our fathers and grandfathers? Scharley! What about patriotism?”
“This is what I think about patriotism.” Scharley made an obscene gesture. “Patria mea totus hic mundus est.”
“In other words,” continued Reynevan, “ubi patria, ubi bene. That’s a philosophy for vagabonds and Gypsies. You have a fatherland, for you had a father. Didn’t you take anything from your family home? No lessons?”
“But naturally.” Scharley feigned indignation. “Plenty. About life and other subjects. All sorts of wise maxims that help me live a dignified life today. To this very day,” he said, wiping a tear away theatrically, “I can recall my father’s virtuous words. I’ll never forget his noble teachings, which I remember and which still guide me through life. For example: put on thick hose after Saint Scholastica’s Day. Or: you can’t squeeze blood out of a stone. Or: a beer in the morning sets you up for the day. Or—”