“Well,” Amadej Baťa interrupted philosophically, staring at the backside of one of the wenches serving the players, “such is woman, lust incarnate. And insatiable in her urges. Thus it has been ever since the world began, and will be in saecula saeculorum…”
“Talking about skirt as usual, are you?” said Scharley, sitting down, evidently bored with the game.
“I’m giving your companion a brief history lesson,” Berengar Tauler replied.
“Then I’ll gladly listen.”
Tauler cleared his throat and continued, “The Picards were still a thorn in Žižka’s side. Crusades were being organised against Bohemia and Catholic propaganda was trumpeting about Picardian cultism, so the Adamites were the perfect subject for them. Soon it was believed throughout Europe that all Czechs wandered around naked and fucked each other according to Jan Huss’s teachings. In the face of the threat of crusades, anarchy in the ranks could be fatal, and the Picards, let’s face it, still had closet supporters in the Tábor. Towards the end of March 1421, Žižka sent a force against Kániš’s commune. Some of the sectarians were slaughtered; the rest—a few dozen, including Kániš himself—were captured and burned alive. It happened in the village of Klokoty, on the Tuesday before Saint George’s Day in late April. The location was not coincidental. Klokoty is right beside Tábor, so the massacre could be seen from the walls. Žižka was warning the Tábor—”
He broke off and glanced at the corner where Samson Honeypot was sitting. “He’s a devil for whittling. Look at him—is it safe to give an idiot a knife? Might he cut off his hand?”
“Never fear,” Reynevan said, accustomed to questions like that. “He is, in spite of appearances, extremely attentive. Go on, Brother Berengar. What happened next?”
“They finished off more sectarians, one after the other, until only one group remained: Burján’s commune. They were hiding in the forests by the River Nežárka. It was a dreadful band, the most radical of radicals, absolutely fanatical and certain of their divine mission. They began to rob neighbouring villages and settlements—allegedly to ‘convert.’ In reality, they murdered, plundered, burned things down and committed appalling atrocities. They feared no one. Burján, their leader, who was now officially addressed as ‘Jesus’ and ‘Son of God’—as indeed Kániš had been—vouched that as chosen ones they were immune and immortal, that no blade could cut them and no weapon harm them. He surrounded himself with a harem of about two dozen women and girls. It finally went so far that…”
“Well?”
“That he began to administer Communion… Erm… By means of… fellatio. A marvellous sacrament, isn’t it? But the end of the Picardian interlude was approaching fast, Žižka was hanging over them like a hawk. In October, they were tracked down and surrounded. Burján’s Adamites put up fierce resistance, they fought like tigers. Most were slaughtered and about four dozen taken alive. They were all burned at the stake. Half of them were women, most of them pregnant. Mercy was shown: the male Adamites were cruelly tortured before being burned. The female Adamites were burned without torture.”
“All of them?”
“Not at all,” Amadej Baťa interjected with a lecherous smile.
“Several were left alive,” said Berengar Tauler, nodding. “It was a closely kept secret, carefully hidden from Žižka. The matter of the Adamites’ sexual freedom was then common knowledge. Female Adamites, so ran the rumours, made love after stripping naked and simply adored orgies, particularly in groups, nothing gave them greater pleasure than group sex, with several men on one of them. Well, if that’s how they like it—”
“You needn’t finish,” said Reynevan through clenched his teeth.
“But I will. For one of the women who was saved, the last alive, is serving drinks here.”
“Marketa,” confirmed Amadej Baťa. “Said to be the favourite, the pet, of the Adamite Burján. Huncleder bought her from the Taborite brethren when they grew tired of her. Now she is his. His property. Entirely and for ever. Until death.”
“When she joined the sect, she burned her bridges.” Tauler noticed Reynevan’s astonished expression. “There was no way back. The sectarians were disowned by their families…”
“And Picards are still being hunted down,” added Scharley, sounding indifferent. “Almost every day they expose and burn somebody after torturing them. The wench must do what Huncleder orders for she’s at his mercy. She’s only alive thanks to him.”
“Alive?” Reynevan turned his head. No one reacted.
The red-haired girl called Marketa charged their cups. This time, Reynevan watched her more attentively. This time, as she filled his cup, she looked up. He didn’t see in her eyes what he had expected: pain, shame, humiliation, a slave’s anxious docility. The eyes of the red-haired girl were despoiled by measureless apathy.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something that surprised him even more.
Samson Honeypot had stopped carving.
“Well, gentlemen and brethren,” said Huncleder, getting up from the table. “Time to divert yourselves after your hard work. Servants, push the benches together! Move yourself, Jeřábek! Hey, wenches, draw the wine and serve it! And may I remind our guests that you have to pay for the diversion. To feast one’s eyes on this spectacle you must part with a florin or a Hungarian ducat. Or its equivalent in value, which means thirty groschen. No one who parts with the sum will regret it! The prospect is worth even ten ducats, I vouch!”
Soon all the guests were sitting in a makeshift auditorium, with the oak table they had been playing on in front of them.
Several candle holders were placed on the table to provide illumination. Suddenly, one of the servants began to rhythmically beat on a drum. The hubbub subsided.
Marketa emerged from a side room. The drum fell silent.
She walked calmly, barefoot, attired in something that only after a moment revealed itself to be a surplice, a genuine liturgical robe. A servant offered a hand to help her climb onto the table. She stood motionless for a time, immersing herself in the rhythm of the drum. Then she lifted the surplice. A little above her knees. And then higher. She swayed gently and turned all around, as ethereal as a scantily clad shepherdess. Manfred of Salm yelled enthusiastically and clapped his hands, but fell silent on noticing that the others were utterly absorbed by the spectacle.
Marketa didn’t even react. Each gesture, movement, glance, twitch of her face and unnatural smile said the same thing: I’m utterly alone here. I’m alone, alone, isolated and far from you. From you and from everything you represent. I’m in a completely different world.
Et in Arcadia ego, thought Reynevan. Et in Arcadia ego.
The drumbeats quickened, but the girl didn’t adapt to the rhythm. On the contrary, her movements were awkward. Ponderous, sluggish. Enticing and hypnotic. And the edge of the surplice she was lifting crept ever higher, to halfway up her thighs, higher, higher, finally and eventually revealing what they had all been waiting for, at the sight of which they reacted with involuntary grimaces, grunts, groans, puffs and loud swallowing.