The Boy Who Wanted Wings

by James Conroyd Martin

  He reached up now to touch the gold cross that lay on his breastbone. That it was still there on the leather lacing surprised him. His soiled and blood-stained white linen shirt had been untied at his neck, and his armor, żupan, and boots had been removed. He looked down to his leg now. The trouser leg had been torn open and his thigh had been tightly bandaged. When? By whom?

  Outside pandemonium reigned. Shouts, cries, running. Did the battle still rage? In those last moments of consciousness, he had watched the allies gain the upper hand. The Turks were panicking, turning tail and running pell-mell. Was the rout a mere tactical maneuver? Had they gathered forces and returned? It was just such a maneuver for which they were famous. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the thought. Am I a prisoner?

  I should pray, he thought. But no prayers would come to him. He remembered now what Szymon had told him about prayer: “I do pray when I breathe, my boy. And when I breathe, I pray.” It was still a mystery to him.

  He noted that except for his bandaging, he was not bound in any way. Motivated by equal parts curiosity and fear, Aleksy pulled himself up into a sitting position at the side of the pallet just as the crimson flap was pulled aside and a small figure entered.

  Idzi.

  “My God!” Aleksy cried. “You’re in one piece—”

  “I am, indeed,” he said with a wink. “My size increased the odds.”

  Aleksy laughed. “God’s bones! For a minute I thought I was a prisoner—oh, my God, Idzi, you’re bloodied from head to toe!”

  “Not my blood, Alek. Some belongs to a Turk who thought me an easy target. And some might be yours that got on me while we tried to patch you up. Seems your Turkish dance partner sliced into one hell of a vein.”

  “You bandaged me? You found me?”

  “You didn’t think I’d let you out of my sight no matter how far behind we trailed the hussars.”

  “You and… ?”

  “Piotr. He and I lugged you into this fine tent. I expect it belonged to one of Kara Mustafa’s favorite minions, yes? Pretty fancy, eh?”

  “Where is Piotr? He’s unharmed?”

  “He is. He’s gone to rejoin the king’s staff. I’ve been standing guard outside to keep looters at bay, as well as keep an eye on Miracle. Holy Chrystus, how did you come by him?”

  “Pure happenstance—where is he?”

  “Piotr took him for safekeeping.”

  “Good—so, we’ve won? It’s over?”

  “The battle for Vienna? Yes, it’s done, quick as you please.”

  “Sweet Jezus!—What time is it?”

  Idzi shrugged. “An hour or two after midnight.”

  “The king?”

  “Sound as a bell.”

  “Roman?”

  Idzi shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “And the situation? The Turks did not return after the rout?”

  “To face the hussars? No, they knew that was the way to hell. It’s yet to be decided whether the king chases them down.”

  “And the Grand Vizier?”

  “Injured in his eye, we’re told, but he escaped. Carrying his Holy Banner, he was.” Idzi snickered. “No doubt between his legs.” His face sobered now. “Do you know, even with our winged offensive coming down at him from the Kahlenberg heights like avenging birds from the heavens, he allowed his considerable forces to continue the siege of the city. It was a catastrophic military decision.”

  “God’s mercy! Putting them against us would have made the victory more difficult.”

  “Yes, and word has it that they were within half an hour of laying enough explosives in the tunnels to breach the wall.”

  “Ah, if they had gained access to the city, the tables would have been turned.”

  Idzi nodded. “No doubt about that. Before he fled, Kara Mustafa did order a retreat for those still in the siege trenches, and so some managed to save themselves. He also mandated that any equipment be destroyed, and that was done to a great extent, but the worst of his orders was for the captives to be executed.”

  “My God!—Christian captives?”

  Idzi nodded. “Yes, at least many of them, but the order came late enough that it was not fully carried out. They did a better job of killing their own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The slaves and women they left behind, whether camp entertainers, prostitutes, lovers, or wives—all were butchered rather than be left to their enemy.”

  Aleksy felt his stomach tighten with disgust. Victory was sweet, indeed, but the price was extreme. Was this the field of glory he had imagined?

  Idzi moved toward the pallet. “Now, lie back down and let’s take a look at the wound. You lost a good deal of blood.”

  Later, as things outside quieted, they slept the short night away, Aleksy on the pallet, Idzi on the ground, curled like a snail into a fine Turkish blanket.

  “Time to rise and look pretty!”

  Aleksy opened his eyes. The voice—at once jocular and stentorian—wasn’t Idzi’s, and yet it was familiar.

  With some effort, Aleksy sat and pulled his legs to the side of the pallet. Nearby, Idzi was wiggling out of his blanket.

  The tent was dark, the speaker a mere shadow near the entrance.

  “Who goes there?” Idzi demanded, his voice all snarl, like that of a small dog that surprises one with a strong bark.

  “Ah, here we have it,” the speaker said. He had found and was lighting a Turkish lamp. “It’s Piotr, Idzi, who else?”

  “Could have been Roman,” Idzi said, echoing Aleksy’s thought.

  “Good to see you, Piotr,” Aleksy said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “I hear that I have you both to thank for finding this little palace for me.”

  “Think nothing of it. Now, you’ve both got to make yourselves presentable.”

  “Presentable?” Idzi grumbled. “Chrystus, we’re at war.”

  “At this hour?” Aleksy asked. “Presentable for what?”

  “Well, as fate would have it, last night I was witness to a tale told by a young man to his noble father about a hussar—a Tatar, in fact—who had saved his life by pretending to be a heathen who had just taken the life of the young man in question.” He paused nodding toward Aleksy. “Does this scenario sound familiar to you, Aleksy? The description fit you down to your sprig of hay.”

  Aleksy felt hot blood rushing to his face. “Did the boy say I forced on him the indignity of playing dead rather than playing the hero certain to die?”

  “He did.” Piotr paused, smiling. “So it was you, blessed be the saints and King Krakus, too! It’s good I spoke up, then.”

  “You spoke up? You told them what?”

  “Who you are, of course. The boy wants to thank you. Indeed, so does his father. I gave a good description of this tent—why, it’s just spitting distance from the Grand Vizier’s pavilion. Easy enough to find. They shouldn’t be too far behind me.” Piotr retrieved Aleksy’s boots from his pile of belongings and dropped them in front of him.

  “God’s wounds, can’t this wait?” Aleksy asked. “Who needs this now?”

  “There was no putting them off.”

  Aleksy had no sooner pulled on the darkly-spattered yellow boots than he looked up to see someone pushing aside the tent flap and entering. It was the boy Aleksy had saved.

  With some effort, Aleksy managed to stand, weak and unsteady, all the while taking in the figure before him. A smile stood in place of the dirty and pained visage of the day before. A full head of curly, coal-black hair framed the thin, pale face that tapered to a pointed chin. He stood tall in a relatively clean officer’s uniform.

  “You’ve been hurt,” the youth said.

  Aleksy shrugged. “I’ve been told I’ll live, eh, Idzi? Go
od to see you upright, too.”

  Aleksy turned to see that Piotr had just bent to whisper something into Idzi’s ear. Idzi’s gaze flashed to the figure of the youth and his mouth fell agape.

  “What is it?” Aleksy asked.

  The youth spoke before Piotr could reply. “I am here to render thanks, Aleksy Gazdecki.”

  Aleksy nodded. “You’ve been told my name, I see. And yours?”

  Piotr cleared his throat and spoke now. “Aleksy, this is Prince Jakub Sobieski.”

  At first Aleksy smiled widely, thinking it a silly joke, but a glance at Piotr and then at Idzi told him otherwise. Their faces and demeanor were serious as the plague.

  “Prince Jakub?” Aleksy asked, his voice thin and tentative.

  The youth nodded. “My father’s come, also. He’s outside. Are you able to walk?”

  Aleksy felt the blood draining away from his face. “Yes… I think so.” The weakness he was fending off wasn’t completely physical.

  “Good, come then.” The young lord turned and left, followed by Piotr. Idzi—his huge blue eyes all wonder—silently held the tent flap to the side and waited for Aleksy, who limped forward, heedless of the pain.

  Outside, dawn was breaking, a mist clearing. At the center of a semi-circle of eight or ten soldiers stood Lord Jakub, his corpulent father to his side, King Jan III Sobieski. He had shed his armor and was robed in a red kontusz, lined in blue and fitting his stout form like the bowl of a bell. He wore no hat or helmet.

  Aleksy felt his heart contract.

  The king recognized him and smiled. “Ah, it’s you,” he said, genuinely surprised. “What little mystery we must have here! Unravel it we will, in time. But first, our thanks to you, young Tatar, our deepest thanks.”

  Aleksy was at a loss as to how to receive the gratitude of a king. He nodded slightly before making the appropriate bow.

  “Aleksy, is it?”

  “Yes, Sire”

  “I’ve not forgotten our first meeting. What was the name of the girl of whom you were so enamored?”

  “Krystyna.”

  “Very pretty, too. Now, my son has told me how your posing as one of the enemy Tatars deflected attention from him and allowed his escape.”

  “I’m afraid I used force to make him play dead, Sire. I am sorry for that.”

  “Sorry?” The king sniffed, as if at an unpleasant odor. “He was at a disadvantage and outmanned, yes?”

  “I was,” Prince Jakub interjected.

  “We have much to be thankful for this morning, Aleksy. Just as Vienna and Europe have been spared, so has my son. There is the reward to consider.”

  “Your Majesty, I had no thoughts of—”

  The king held up his hand to shush his subject. “I’m sure you had no thoughts of reward. In fact, judging by your reaction this victory morning, I would venture that you had no idea whom you were aiding. Is that correct?”

  Aleksy nodded. “It is, Sire.”

  “All the more reason for an appropriate reward,” the king announced, his voice rising and his head turning to those behind him. “Wouldn’t you all agree?”

  Several voices called out in the affirmative. Only now did Aleksy notice that a small crowd had gathered about the king and his men.

  “Now for the mystery, Aleksy… ?” The king was prompting him for his family name.

  “Gazdecki.”

  “Aleksy Gazdecki, then. When we first met—somewhere along this long road to victory—you were a retainer for two hussar brothers, I believe. Is my memory correct?”

  “It is, Sire.”

  “Ah! And yet your derring-do yesterday was done in the guise of a hussar, was it not?”

  Aleksy could feel a great heat rise and burn in his face. He knew he had turned scarlet. His temples throbbed. “It was, Sire.”

  “Now everyone around me knows the skills required of a hussar, the length of time it takes for training, and the obstacles one has to overcome to be initiated into the elite corps.”

  Aleksy stared at the king. Of themselves the words were accusatory, but the king’s attitude was hard to decipher.

  “How is it,” the king was saying, “that in the matter of a few days, a young retainer is able to leap over such requirements and become one of my beloved and valued hussars? How is it you were wearing the wings of a hussar?”

  Sweet Jezus, Aleksy thought. I’m not to be thanked here. I’m going to be placed on trial. I had no right to be wearing the wings. He took a deep breath. The king hadn’t even mentioned that he had stepped outside of—and above—his class. Was he to be accused of impersonating nobility?

  “Aleksy,” the king was saying, “how is it possible?”

  “I can answer that!” The voice came from behind the King’s Guard.

  All eyes turned toward the soldier pushing through the small crowd, taking little care to avoid jostling soldier or citizen. In moments he stood before the king and Prince Jakub.

  Roman!

  Aleksy’s throat tightened. Was he here as friend or foe? Roman shot him a quick, indecipherable glance before bowing to the king. “I can explain, Sire.”

  “You? Why, you were the one this young man was brawling with the other day.”

  “I was.”

  “Your name?”

  “Roman Halicki.”

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “My brother Marek was there that day, too. He was one of the hundred and fifty hussars who made the initial sortie into the Turkish center… He did not survive it.” He paused, allowing time for his words to be digested.

  The king’s manner softened. He nodded. “His service to country will be celebrated. Now, go on.”

  “I gave the wings to Aleksy here,” Roman continued, “so that he could take Marek’s place. I thought well and good if he could kill just one of the enemy, Sire. I could not have imagined that he would save the life of Lord Jakub.”

  Indeed not! Roman was lying to the king. Aleksy had taken it upon himself to commandeer Marek’s wings. He instantly saw through to Roman’s motivation. If rewards or glory were to be handed out this day, Roman was expecting to be lauded also for what he saw as his part in saving the king’s son. Why else speak up for the Tatar he so hated?

  “I see,” the king said. “How can even a king question your decision? You are to be commended for putting in order the elements that led to Jakub’s rescue.”

  Aleksy saw Roman’s spine tighten at the compliment, his shoulders lift, his lips attempt to avoid a full-out smile.

  “But,” the king went on, “this moment belongs to young Aleksy here.” The king’s small, deep-set eyes turned from Roman to Aleksy, who witnessed a flicker of disappointment in Roman’s face. The semi-smile had fallen away. “Now, Aleksy, what is it that a monarch can do for you?”

  Aleksy stared.

  “Come now, Aleksy Gazdecki, what is your wish? Don’t prevaricate. You are no Aladdin and I am no genie.”

  “I—I don’t—”

  “What is your dearest wish? It is to be a hussar, yes? You want to wear the wings? Piotr has vouched for your archery skills, I can tell you. You’ve supplied meat for the royal table more than once, he assured me.”

  What was he to say? His gaze went to Roman, who glowered back at him. Now his eyes went to Idzi, who was tugging on the skirt of the king’s red kontusz. The king bent low to give his ear to the little man. Idzi cupped his right hand and whispered. The king, with slightly widening eyes, watched Aleksy as he listened.

  A minute went by. The king asked Idzi his name, then straightened. “Your friend Idzi tells me you have two wishes, is that correct?”

  Aleksy’s eyes went from the king to Idzi and back again. The moment hung fire.

 
“Tongue-tied?” the king pressed. “I don’t have all day. He tells me you would wish for the girl—Krystyna.”

  “Sire, that’s not possible,” Roman blurted.

  The king held up the palm of his hand to Roman, who cut short his speech.

  Turning back to Aleksy, he said, “The girl Krystyna, do you love her?”

  Aleksy nodded before he could even give thought to the question or consider Roman’s reaction.

  “And does she return your love?”

  “She does, Your Majesty.”

  “I see. And—on the other hand—you’ve longed to join the ranks of the hussars?”

  Another nod.

  “Well, there we have it,” the king announced. “The young Tatar here has a decision to make. To be a bridegroom or a soldier.” Then, louder, in a stage-like voice: “To make love—or make war!”

  The crowd laughed. The king had drawn them into the little drama, and they peppered Aleksy with advice. Some called for him to take the girl while others urged that he take the hussar wings. One called out: “Take the wings and many girls will follow.”

  More laughter.

  “Well, Aleksy?” the king persisted.

  Aleksy burned with one part embarrassment, one part pressure. He surveyed the crowd of twenty or more. Was his future to be decided on the spot and in public? As a little diversion? So be it.

  “Lady Krystyna Halicka,” he said, even as his gaze fell on Roman and he remembered the hopelessness of the situation. “But, Sire…”

  “What is it?”

  Aleksy drew in another breath, but before he could get words out, Roman spoke.

  “Your Majesty,” Roman said quite forcefully, his face dark, “what Aleksy wants to say is that the Lady Krystyna—my sister—has been spoken for. She has been married to a true hussar.”

  Murmurs of disappointment swept the crowd.