‘Is such a piece … well, is it valuable?’
‘A piece like this? It goes to China, where they appreciate such perfection.’ And from another pouch he produced a set of beautifully matched nine globelets of golden amber, none with flies, but so radiant in their purity that they formed a kind of halo. ‘For the Sultan of the Turks,’ and he spit as he said the infidel words.
Finally he produced the piece which he himself had selected as the nonpareil, the one he had held back until the Pope himself or some great king came by to claim it. It was the size of a small hen’s egg and similarly shaped; its color was a soft gray-gold and radiant. Perfectly translucent, it seemed to break ordinary light into myriad colors, and yet it did not shine of itself. Said the German: ‘It longs to be held by a golden chain below the throat of a beautiful woman.’
‘What will you do with it?’ Pawel asked.
‘Wait.’
‘For what?’
‘Just wait.’
Pawel took such a liking to this trader, a man who obviously loved his work, that he returned to the center many times, and during one visit the German said: ‘I suppose you’re an official of your government. I suppose you have papers authorizing you to buy.’
‘Oh, I have!’ Pawel lied. That night—with the connivance of Graf Reudiger, who hurried in shortly after each of Pawel’s visits—it was arranged that a set of six amber beads would be sold to Pawel. They were extremely beautiful objects, not so large as the special ones set aside for the Sultan, but each matched nicely with the others, as if all were golden-skinned sisters from some remote Asian village.
‘They were formed a hundred years ago,’ the German said, ‘and they’ve been waiting for you.’ Then, as he held them in his hand for the last time, he said: ‘I sometimes think it must have taken much longer than a hundred years … for something like pine resin to make something like this.’ He was right. It had taken some sixty million years; that insect imprisoned in the other piece was not a fly as Lithuania now knew flies; it was some nameless progenitor that had flown through a pine forest those millions of years ago, and if the amber which held it was indeed more valuable than a similar weight of gold, there was good reason, for amber had a subtle, woodland, sunset beauty that nothing else could match.
After Pawel had wrapped his six beads in linen and then in heavy cloth, he told the dealer: ‘I shall be very nervous carrying these to Krakow for our king,’ and the German said with a certain sad cynicism, for he had come to like this stolid Pole who reacted so enthusiastically to the amber: ‘Yes, you will indeed be nervous.’ And as soon as Pawel stepped out of the little building beside the clock, servants of Graf Reudiger grabbed him and Janko, and the big knight, now dressed in full regalia with the black cross embroidered on his tunic, stepped from behind a door and said in a loud voice: ‘You are arrested. For trying to evade the amber laws.’
It was more than a hundred miles from the seaport of Lembok to the capital at Marienburg, and since Pawel was obviously not a full-fledged knight, he was owed no great consideration. He and Janko were allowed to keep their horses but they were lodged wherever Reudiger could find them a bed, and they ate poorly. It took six days to cover the distance, and occasionally the big German knight would ride with them, never abusing them but telling them frankly that at the end of the journey they would doubtless be hanged and their bodies shipped back to Poland—or at least their heads—as a warning to other Poles not to try to breach the Order’s monopoly of the amber trade.
Late in the afternoon of the sixth day Graf Reudiger began to spur his horse and commanded the others to do the same, and one of the knaves explained: ‘He wants to reach Marienburg before night falls,’ and as the sun was setting, the little company of travelers rounded the side of a hill and saw before them the mighty battlements of Marienburg Castle glowing red, a fortress of such size and strength as to immobilize the courage of any foe who happened to approach it.
Vast, mighty, thick-walled and impregnable, it would stand five hundred years without being taken by siege, both the symbol and the reality of German power in the Baltic states. Pawel, looking at it when it seemed part of the coming night, shuddered to think that within those massive walls he could be imprisoned for the rest of his life, like the fly in amber, or tortured, or even hanged. Janko, less imaginative, compared this tremendous fortress with the scrawny castles he knew along the Vistula, the ones that had been regularly destroyed at fifty-year intervals, and said: ‘Nobody could ever knock this one down.’
They approached it by the eastern gateway, where guards told Reudiger: ‘You’re lucky. Fifteen more minutes … closed.’ And before they left the inspection courtyard, the massive iron gates clanged shut for that night.
With torches they were led through devious pathways which would be difficult for a stranger to follow, and impossible to penetrate if they were defended, and into a walled northern area of staggering size where the heavy shops for the fabrication of swords and armor were located. From here they were led across a wide wooden drawbridge to the massive gateway seven tiers deep, each graced with carved figures, and into the beautifully walled courtyard of the first castle, itself bigger than anything Pawel had seen or heard of in Poland.
They traversed this courtyard without halting and left the first castle altogether, passing through a low archway, easily defended, into the great castle itself, and there Graf Reudiger directed a herald to sound a signal indicating his arrival. Trumpet sounds echoed through the enclosure, bouncing off a dozen walls and making strange melodies, at which a small, heavily ironed doorway in the western wall slowly opened, revealing the tall, severe figure of a knight dressed all in white, except for the black cross upon his breast.
This was Ulrich von Jungingen, brilliant leader, fearless warrior and Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights for the duration of his lifetime. ‘Brother Reudiger, you have done your job. To the dungeons.’ Saying no more, he retired.
The dungeons of Marienburg Castle were spacious affairs, larger than most inns and capable of holding more people. They were not composed of individual cells, except for a few reserved for prisoners of major fault, but of huge stone-walled rooms, four of which served a very special purpose: they were packed with large wooden logs which prisoners fed into furnaces that had brick-lined ducts leading to important rooms in the castle. Thus when a single fire raged in the cellar, heat could be delivered to rooms far distant and high above the dungeons.
Pawel and Janko were thrown into one of the lesser compartments, but Pawel complained to the guard that this was improper, since he, Pawel, was a knight and not accustomed to sleeping with peasants. The Germans, taking this complaint seriously, moved him to better quarters, where there was straw upon which he could sleep.
But his nights were wakeful, for he tormented himself with speculating as to what was going to happen to his six amber beads, which Graf Reudiger had rudely taken from him at the time of his arrest, and he conceived the curious idea that his safety, the continuance of his life on earth, depended upon his custodianship of those amber beads. He devised a score of ridiculous plots whereby he might recover them and smuggle them through German lines to Krakow, but he knew they were futile because all depended upon his escaping from this tremendous fortress, and that was not likely.
He could not tell how many days he had been in the dungeon, and it seemed that most of the men who shared it with him had lost sense of time, for they had been there for years: Lithuanian farmers who had tried to avoid delivering their grain to the knights; Poles captured on raids to the south; other Poles caught visiting the city of Danzig; Danish sailors who had attempted to fish the Baltic; and a few Tatar infidels taken on raids into Russia. The dungeons of Marienburg formed a map of German power in the east.
On the sixth or seventh day, when his eyes were accustomed to the gloom, he was dragged forth, allowed to wash, given fresh clothing, and taken to a room where two remarkable men sat awaiting him. The first and tallest was a prope
r knight, Siegfried von Eschl, forty years old, a traveler to Jerusalem and Rome, scion of an ancient German family occupying various castles along the Rhine, a man devoted to the welfare of the Order and one of its ablest commanders. The second was of a smaller size and a less distinguished bearing, but in some ways he was the more impressive, for he could read and write. He was Priest Anton Grabener of Lübeck, younger brother of a master merchant in the Hanseatic League.
The two indicated that Pawel was to sit on a small chair on the opposite side of the table, facing them, and to answer honestly all questions put to him by Priest Anton, who spoke Polish in addition to Latin, French, Italian and Lithuanian. Since Pawel had been carefully coached in Castle Gorka as to what he must reply when questioned, he was prepared for this interrogation, but to his astonishment it proceeded along lines no one in Krakow could have anticipated:
PRIEST ANTON: Is it true that your King Jagiello is covered with heavy body hair from his neck to his toes?
PAWEL: I’ve seen him only a few times, but once was when he stayed at Castle Gorka for three days, and I saw no such hair.
PRIEST ANTON: Are his private parts of enormous dimension?
PAWEL: How would I know?
PRIEST ANTON: Is it true that he killed his Queen Jadwiga because she produced in her womb a devil of tremendous size?
PAWEL: No one ever told me that. She died in childbirth, I believe.
PRIEST ANTON: We know she died in childbirth. But why? For what terrible reason?
PAWEL: Many women die in childbirth. My wife’s sister—
PRIEST ANTON: Why was no one allowed to see the stillborn?
Was it not because of its monstrosity?
PAWEL: I do not know. I heard of no monster.
PRIEST ANTON: Is your King Jagiello known among your people as a pagan?
PAWEL: When he stayed at Castle Gorka, and I was asked to serve as attendant, he certainly joined us in prayers.
PRIEST ANTON: Did he kneel? Did he cross himself?
PAWEL: I suppose—
PRIEST ANTON: We want no supposing. Did he cross himself?
PAWEL (snapping out the word): Yes.
PRIEST ANTON: You are lying, and you can be put to the rack.
PAWEL (stubbornly): I saw him cross himself. On three days I saw him do it.
PRIEST ANTON: Are the Lithuanians who came with him to Krakow, are they not pagans too?
PAWEL: I know none of them.
PRIEST ANTON: Are not the peasants of your village pagans?
PAWEL (bursting into laughter): Our Father Bartosz would give them something to worry about if they tried that.
PRIEST ANTON: In the next village? Aren’t they pagans?
PAWEL: Father Bartosz has that village too, and the ones after it and the ones after—
SIEGFRIED VON ESCHL (breaking in): Are there many Tatars in the Polish army?
PAWEL: We fight against the Tatars. They used to burn our village, but now we fight against them.
VON ESCHL: But there are many in your army, are there not?
PAWEL: I’ve never seen a Tatar, and I don’t want to see one.
VON ESCHL: But surely you’ve heard of Tatars serving in your army?
PAWEL: I’ve heard only that it’s death for a Pole to go to Kiev.
VON ESCHL: Have you been to Kiev?
PAWEL: God forbid, no.
VON ESCHL: How did you get onto the Amber Road?
PAWEL (breathing more easily, for now the questions would begin on topics whose answers he had memorized): I left my village of Bukowo in the month of January, and I rode east for six days, south of Lublin and north of Przemysl—
VON ESCHL (impatiently): Did you not go first to Kiev to meet with the Tatars?
PAWEL: God forbid that I should consort with those devils.
VON ESCHL: Yes, yes. Our own opinion. Then why does your king hire Tatars to fight against the forces of Christendom?
PAWEL: I know of no—
PRIEST ANTON: Have you ever met one Lithuanian who was a true Christian?
PAWEL: I told you—King Jagiello. But you understand, I did not meet him personally, like eating with him. I never claimed that.
PRIEST ANTON: Do not the people of your village consider all Lithuanians pagans?
PAWEL: We don’t bother with Lithuanians.
PRIEST ANTON: Your king is a Lithuanian.
PAWEL: We think of him as a Pole, and a damned good one.
PRIEST ANTON: If you use profanity, you can be put to the rack.
PAWEL: I am sorry, Your Reverence, but to tell you the truth, I don’t believe I’ve ever met a Lithuanian.
PRIEST ANTON: When Jagiello was at Castle Gorka, did he ask for fresh pine branches … so that he could cast pagan spells?
PAWEL: I heard of nothing such.
On four different occasions Pawel was questioned like this, Priest Anton Grabener hammering at the supposed paganism of King Jagiello, all Lithuanians and most Poles, while Siegfried von Eschl was preoccupied with the presence of Tatars in the Polish forces. Pawel, obviously, knew nothing about either topic, but his apparent innocence merely fortified the suspicion that he was lying to hide the faults of the Polish-Lithuanian confederacy. The questioning was therefore confusing and non-productive.
On the fifth day Von Eschl said with a show of impatience and authority: ‘We’ve been questioning you, Pawel, in order to verify facts for an important document which Priest Anton is writing for circulation to the courts of Europe. It must go forth within the week, for couriers are leaving to strengthen our alliances and recruit knights for our crusade. I want the priest to read you three sections of our letter, and I want you to identify anything which might sound dubious or false to you. Proceed with the first.’
Von Eschl leaned back, his fingertips forming a little temple at his chin, as the priest, obviously proud of his composition and its irrefutable logic, read the first indictment:
‘Know, Sire, that the Lithuanians have never been Christianized, that they are a willful and pagan people, that they live like animals without the blessings of Jesus Christ, and that they constitute a menace to all Christian lands. They must be reduced on the battlefield and brought to a true Christianity.
‘Their king, this Jagiello, is known to be a barbarous brute with matted hair covering the entirety of his body and with private parts so much like those of some great horse that he ruptured and killed the saintly Queen Jadwiga, a devout Christian of Hungary. This Jagiello claims to have been baptized, but he makes his claim only to gain the Polish throne, for he remains as pagan as he ever was. On visits to Christian homes he is known to have asked for fresh-cut pine branches so that he might continue his pagan rites and cleanse himself of any Christian influences.
‘The Teutonic Knights, right arm of God and personal agency of the Pope in Rome, beseech your help, both in gold and knights to fight alongside of us, for we are determined to convert Lithuania to Christianity and bring it the benefits of civilization.’
Von Eschl dropped his hands and asked: ‘Do you find anything wrong with that?’ and Pawel, totally unqualified in Lithuanian affairs, remained silent. ‘Proceed with the next,’ Von Eschl said.
‘Know, Sire, that one of the most grievous faults of King Jagiello is the irrefutable fact that he employs in the armies he sends against us Tatar regiments composed solely of infidels. Some of the Tatars are pagans from the vast wastelands of Asia, some adherents of Islam, the criminal religion which holds Jerusalem in its grasp, denying access to our Holy Places to all Christians.
‘It is disgraceful and an offense in the nostrils of God that a pagan country like Lithuania should employ pagan troops to withstand the pious effort of the Teutonic Knights to bring Christianity to the Baltic coast. We implore you to send us assistance to eradicate this terrible blasphemy, and we inform all true knights in your domain that if they hunger to smite the infidel, which they can no longer do on crusade in the Holy Land, they must come to Marienburg, where we conti
nue the struggle against the infidel and where Christians can once more cross swords with the followers of Muhammad.’
‘Do you find anything wrong with that part?’ Von Eschl asked, and Pawel said truthfully: ‘I despise Muhammad and the way he keeps Jerusalem in thrall. If I could, I would go to the Holy Land tomorrow to fight him.’ Von Eschl nodded and said: ‘Now listen carefully to this.’
‘Know, Sire, that the principal reason why the Sacred Order of the Teutonic Knights must pursue defensive warfare in these parts is to bring true Christianity to darkened Poland. Despite what their defenders say, this is not a Christian land. It has never been converted by any saint or bishop or even priest in a direct and honest line from St. Peter to Rome to the Holy German Empire to Krakow. It is a pariah among nations and it must be converted, first by the sword, then by true priests who will bring not only the Bible but also European law and custom to this wilderness.
‘The Pole is not like the German or the Frenchman or the Englishman. He is more Asian than European, more animal than man. Only the saving grace which the Teutonic Knights can bring, their superior piety and order, can save Poland, and it is our solemn duty to bring that grace to this moral wilderness.
‘As proof of our claim, we cite the fact that Poland willfully chose as its king the pagan Jagiello when it could have taken a proved Christian, Sigismund of Luxembourg, and it forced its saintly Queen Jadwiga, daughter of Louis of France, a devoted Christian, to marry Jagiello instead of Wilhelm of Habsburg, a true Christian to whom she was legally engaged and to whom she had been married since the age of five.
‘The only salvation for Poland is for it to fall under German rule, and the Teutonic Knights stand prepared to effect this change if only the courts of Europe will support us and if the knights of Europe rally to our cause.’
Poland: A Novel Page 11