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Prologue: Tatárjárásról¹

When rumors of a people known as the Tatars first reached the city of Pest, Sára Józsefne was excited.² There had long been tales of a mythical Eastern Christendom, cut off from the Christian lands of Europe. Sára had always loved these stories. As tales of battles between Tatars and Islamic Sultanates spread to the Kingdom of Hungary, she would excitedly relay them to Rogerios as he cleaned his blow pipe and glass molds.

“At last, Christendom will no longer be a small village in the west, trembling in the shadows of Islam’s castles.” She would proclaim as she worked to mend the scorch marks in his shirt. “When united with our eastern brethren, we’ll be able to defend the Holy Land the way our ancestors did during the First and Third Crusades.”

Rogerios József would smile and nod amiably. But in truth, he couldn’t conjure any enthusiasm for these possibilities. The Holy Land was many times farther away than he would ever travel, and the idea of a Lost Christian Kingdom seemed improbable. He figured these Tatars were just another antagonistic band of nomadic pagans, like the Cumans. But he never raised these thoughts to his wife; content to hear her wistful imaginings, even if they seemed fanciful to him.

If only the Tatars had been like the Cumans.

By 1241, news of the Tatars slaughtering the people of Kievan Rus had reached Hungary. Sára was no longer excited about their arrival.

Perhaps Rogerios should have taken her then and left for the Holy Roman Empire. But Kievan Rus seemed far away.

King Béla IV invited the Cumans into the country. They’d been driven out of their homeland by the Tatars. Shortly thereafter, Rogerios watched from the window of his shop as King Kötöny and his entourage rode through town on his way to the Royal Palace. The men held themselves with pride, but the exhaustion and despair was still visible in the bags under their eyes and the brittleness of their placid expressions. A customer who had been browsing his glassware joined him and tutted softly.

“Why is King Béla inviting the barbarians who pillaged Kievan Rus into his palace?” Rogerios blinked.

“The Tatars attacked Kievan Rus. These are Cumans.” Rogerios clarified, tentatively. The man scoffed.

“I’m from Rodna. Ever since the King invited these people into our country they have terrorized our town.” The man’s voice grew tight and sharp. “They have no respect for property. I can’t count how many pastures, crops, and orchards they’ve destroyed. They raped my niece and my servant’s daughter. It seems to me the Cumans and Tatars are one and the same.” The man was shouting now. “And there is no justice! The Cumans can do anything to us, and they are never punished! Indeed, myself and many others are lashed if we dare speak of the crimes of the Cumans. But steal from a Cuman, or bed a Cuman woman? You will be swiftly and severely punished.” The man turned away as he composed himself. “I’m sorry Úr József, this is a sensitive subject for me.”³

The procession had passed by, and the man quickly left the shop and disappeared into the now crowded street.

Rogerios and Sára definitely should have left then. He should have taken her all the way to the Kingdom of the West Franks if need be. But Pest was in the western side of the kingdom. It didn’t occur to him that invasion from the east would penetrate that far.

During Lent, word came that the Tatars were attacking the Russian Gate. With invasion imminent, the King called upon his nobles to assemble their fighting men. The time for emigration had passed. As a man of honor and duty, Rogerios enlisted in the King’s army.

As he prepared to depart, Sára cradled his face in her hands and kissed him tearfully. He felt too numb with dread to shed tears himself, but he carefully wiped hers away with his thumbs.

“We’ll see each other again.” He assured her. It was the one thing he felt confident of. It may not be in this life, but they would meet again. He stepped off the stoop and headed down the road. But just as he turned the corner, he heard Sára call out to him.

“Rogerios, wait!” She cried, the sound of her footsteps rushing up behind him. He turned and caught her up in a hug, but she wriggled out. Her hands slipped under the neckline of her dress, pulling out the necklace he’d given her as a wedding present. The piece of blue coral set at the center of the silver Star of Bethlehem winked in the sunlight as she pulled the chain over her head.

“Here,” she reached to loop it over his head, “for luck.”

He blocked her, gripping her wrist gently in his hand.

“Sára, I bought this for you. It’s one of the most valuable items we have. If anything were to happen to me, or the house, you could pay for months-worth of food with it.”

“Then I guess you better bring it back.” She dropped it over his neck and placed another kiss on his lips. Rogerios sighed, but he didn’t want to start a fight when he had to leave. He gave her a final kiss, then set his shoulders and walked towards the center of town.

There wasn’t time for much training, but the army did supply him with a sword and uniform. Rogerios spent most of his time practicing with his sword and gazing out from the city walls, wondering if the Tatars would soon ride over the horizon.

The eve of the Sunday of the Lord’s Passion, an advance detachment of the Tatar cavalry arrived and began to harass the troops stationed outside the city. The King’s knights and archers, and the Cuman warriors, held them off and after a time they retreated. The knights began to move after them, but the King ordered his troops not to pursue and to stay close to the city. The Tatar horsemen returned shortly, and were again repelled. This pattern repeated throughout the day and continued the next. Some seasoned infantrymen were sent out to assist the knights.

Rogerios hadn’t been sent out to fight yet. But he could hear the noise of the battles and see the wounded that were carried in between bouts. It was the most gruesome sight he’d ever seen. Men with their uniforms in tatters. Sliced open, stabbed, some were even missing limbs. The city’s doctors had gathered to render medical aid. But there was little they could do beyond wrapping the wounds and giving the men drink. Most died within a few hours.

However the wounded men brought something else back with them. Warning that there were Cumans in the Tatar army. At first, Rogerios thought it was just rumors. But then a wounded Cuman warrior confirmed he recognized members of his own clan amongst the Tatar forces.

As the church bells rang to honor the Passion, Rogerios watched a man who had lost both arms cry out deliriously for his wife. He wondered at so much suffering on the anniversary of Christ’s Sacrifice and Resurrection. Was the date a sign that God would see them victorious in the end? Or merely a coincidence of terrible irony?

That afternoon word came in the evening that the Tatars had taken the city of Vác. They had looted the church where the townspeople had taken refuge, before burning it with civilians still inside - including women and children. When he heard, Rogerios concluded his second hypothesis was the correct one.

During one of the Tatar retreats, the Duke of Austria arrived in Pest with a small group of his men. However, they had no weapons. Rogerios saw him lead them into the Palace and when the next attack by the Tatars began he emerged again. This time, armed with a sword and lance, he rode out to join the battle. Rogerios hurried to grab his own sword, thinking the time for a full-scale counterattack had finally begun. But the King once again ordered his forces to hold back. As the Tatars retreated again, the Duke pursued them. Rogerios and the crowd of soldiers and townspeople watched as he caught one of the stragglers and hit the man so hard with his lance that it broke. The man fell out of his saddle and Tatar Kenéz turned back to aid his subordinate.

The Duke quickly drew his sword from the scabbard on his saddle and cut off the cavalry leader's arm. A great cheer went up from the crowd as the Kenéz collapsed off his horse.⁴ The blood staining his armor, visible from the city walls, signaled his certain demise. A few of the Duke’s men caught up with him and together they bound the defeated Tatar. He was the first Tatar to be captured and the highest ranking one to be killed.

The Duke and his men arrived back to a jubilant crowd. Rogerios joined in, but after the men had disappeared back into the castle, the acclamation for the Duke swiftly turned to decrying the King.

“In one battle, the Duke of Austria has done more to defend one city and our nation than the King has in days of fighting,” complained a soldier on Rogerios’ left.

“If the King won’t fight to keep our homes and families safe, what do we pay him taxes for?” cried one of the doctors.

Rogerios felt a twist in his stomach. Expressing these sentiments felt treasonous, but he could not deny he agreed with them. He’d enlisted to defend his country, not stand by while it burned.

“Why would the King defend us?” spat a woman he recognized as the wife of the local butcher. “He loves the pagan horsemen more than his own subjects! He shelters their King in his own Palace at this very moment!”

“Wait a moment,” the twist in Rogerios’ gut turned into a slab of marble, “the King of the Cumans has no relation to these Tatar invaders.”

They’re both the same.” Another woman interjected. “Pagan nomads with no proper morals or respect for others. My cousin lives in Maieru. When the Cumans moved in, they stole her family's sheep and tried to take her daughter. Look over the city walls the next time the Tatars attack, you can see Cumans fighting with them!”

The marble slab in Rogerios’ stomach felt like it was splintering apart, shredding his insides. He knew the Cumans had caused a lot of problems, and these crimes couldn’t be denied. But he also remembered when King Kötöny arrived with his men and their families. The memory of the desperation that had seeped through their stoic expressions tugged at him.

“They- they’re not all pagans,” he tried, “King Kötöny has converted. And I’ve seen others in church.” The others were shaking their heads. “But the Tatars invaded their lands too!” He insisted. “Whatever quarrels exist between our peoples, shouldn’t we sort them out after we’ve repelled our common enemy?” But no one was paying him any attention now.

“These pagans attack us in our churches on a Holy Day,” yelled a man as he pushed through the crowd towards the Palace. His hands and torso were smeared with blood, there was blood on the knees of his trousers. He must have been helping tend to the wounded. He looked familiar. “The Cumans slaughter us while their King rests safe in our royal palace!” Rogerios suddenly realized the man was Baron Zemo. The crowd began to coalesce behind the Baron. His words finally providing direction for their outrage.

Rogerios followed near the back. His sense of dread was so consuming he felt numb to everything but the nausea it caused. When the palace came into view, Rogerios saw that the mob had broken through the front doors. As he approached the entrance, the windows opened on an upper story. Baron Zemo, accompanied by several other minor nobles appeared at the opening and held up something round. It was hairy and dripping red.

Rogerios choked on bile as he realized the object was the severed head of King Kötöny. Baron Zemo hurled the head down into the seething, crowing throng. He stepped back and the other nobles took turns hurling down other heads. King Kötöny’s supporters perhaps? His family? Rogerios stumbled away in disgust. Behind him he heard the cries of furious Cumans and the sounds of fighting.

He retraced his path back to the city walls, bracing an arm against the stone as he tried to steady his breaths. The shouting grew closer. They were joined by the clatter of horse hooves. Rogerios turned towards the gates in time to see the Cumans burst through them, cutting down anyone nearby as they passed through. They rode out and away from the city in the opposite direction from where the Tatars had been attacking.

The contingent of Cuman troops stationed outside the city walls peeled away to follow.

A few days later, a unit of Templar Knights arrived and the King finally announced he would be leading his army out of Pest in a counter-offensive against the Tatars. Rogerios assembled with the rest of the troops. As they marched east, plumes of smoke were burning nearby villages. The King directed the men towards the largest plume. As they drew closer, a terrible stench filled the air. Something vaguely akin to roasted pork. But instead of sparking hunger, it made Rogerios nauseated. As they crested a hill the smoldering remains of Gödöllö came into view; as well as a loose collection of Tatar horsemen. As the army descended down the hill, the Tatars coalesced into a unified front. Those who had been looting the villages quickly joined them. Their numbers quintupled before his eyes.

Rogerios felt a flash of fear at the reality of battling the fearsome Horde. But after a brief exchange of arrows and a scuffle with the frontline troops, the Tatars withdrew and rode away around the burned houses.

Could it be this easy? Had the Tatars been posturing? Rogerios thought back on how the Duke of Austria had repelled the cavalry from Pest. He felt a rush of resentment towards the King. How many lives could have been saved if King Béla had grown a spine and faced the Tatars sooner? How many towns might still be standing?

The army marched after the Tatars for hours before they caught up with them again. Their cavalry seemed larger than before. Perhaps they’d been joined by units that had been raiding other villages.

This time the battle was more intense. Rogerios felt his pulse rush in his ears as arrows tore through the ranks. The man beside him fell to an arrow in his chest. The man before him collapsed back against him with an arrow protruding from his eye. Rogerios lifted his shield above his head, angled towards the Tatars. He stooped forward to protect his torso. He felt arrows bury themselves in the wood. The force of them shaking his arm. He raised his other arm to brace the shield. He could hear the sounds of battle around him. The shouts of injured men, clangs of weaponry, cries of wounded horses. The men around Rogerios jostled him as they pressed forward, and a panic rose within him. A moment ago, hiding behind his shield had made him feel safer. But now it also made him feel trapped. It blocked his vision and constrained his movement. He was torn between the instinct to lower it and assess his surroundings, and the knowledge that once he did so, he might be skewered in an instant. Carefully, he trained from side-to-side, peering around his shield at the battle. He saw the fall of arrows had lessened as the front lines of both armies mixed in direct combat. Some Tatars had lost their horses, or been dragged off them and were fighting the infantry on the ground. Hungarian knights were also riding forward to engage the Tatars in chivalrous combat.

Rogerios straightened, pulling out his sword with his right hand. Holding his shield in front of his chest with his left, he pressed forward towards the enemy. Using a lance, a knight pushed a Tatar off his horse. The man quickly scrambled to his feet, cutting down several infantrymen with a long knife before lunging at Rogerios with a spear. Rogerios blocked the blade with his shield, but the force of the blow caused him to stumble. The Tatar rushed at him with the knife and Rogerios swung at him with his sword. He smashed the blade into the side of the man’s head, but it just clanged against his helmet. His head snapped to the side but he was unharmed and came again at Rogerios. He tried to block the knife with his shield, but the Tatar was faster and stronger. He hooked his knife around the shield, slashing Rogerios’ forearm and twisting the shield out of the way. Holding the shield down with his right hand, he transferred the blade to his left and raised it, preparing to drive it into Rogerios’ eye. But before he could bring his arm down, a sword swung down from above and sliced through his arm. His hand, and the knife it held, dropped to the ground. He screamed in shock as much as in pain, while his forearm stump spewed blood all over Rogerios’ face and tunic. He closed his eyes against the splatter and when he’d wiped the blood off his lids and opened them again, he saw the Tatar was dead. The knight who’d demounted him earlier sat there on his dapple gray horse; his bloody sword still raised. Before Rogerios could react, the knight turned and rode towards the front lines where the battle was thickest. Rogerios scrambled to his feet, he reached to pick up his shield and was confronted by the bleeding gash on his left arm. He grabbed the Tatars knife out of his severed hand and cut a strip of cloth from the dead man’s tunic. Tying it around his own wound, he retrieved his sword and shield and looked to where the knight had gone. But the fighting was dying down now, the Tatars withdrawing eastward once again.

The army quickly regrouped to pursue them. Rogerios wiped the blood off his face the best he could. But he was sure there was still a considerable amount smeared there. The army marched forward until the blood dried on Rogerios’ face and flaked off in dark matted clumps. They marched through the night. The Templar knights rode ahead several times the next day to engage the retreating Tatars, but the skirmishes ended before the army could catch up. When they arrived at the Sajó River that evening, the knights were standing guard at the only bridge. One knight rode to meet them. Rogerios and the other soldiers shuffled aside to create a path for him. He dismounted when he reached the King and bowed quickly.

“Your Highness,” he announced, his voice carrying across the hushed ranks, “the Tatars have crossed the river and we have secured control of the bridge.”

“Thank you, Sir Toldi,” intoned the King, “is the river traversable?”

“We don’t believe so, Sire. The river is wide and muddy. This bridge is the only way across.”

“Then we shall make camp here tonight, and continue our campaign in the morning.”

Now that the prospect of rest was imminent, Rogerios felt his exhaustion begin to catch up to him. But he pushed through the stinging in his eyes and the trembling in his limbs to help set up camp. The King directed them to build the camp on the heath and Prince Kálmán instructed them to move the supply wagons so they encircled the camp. Rogerios helped tie the wagons together with ropes and chains while one of the knights explained how he’d seen this wall of wagons used to great effect against other nomadic armies. By the time the wagons, tents, and sleep rolls were set up, the cooks were starting to hand out soup to the knights.

Rogerios went down to the river to drink and wash up. He pulled off his tunic, doing his best to scrub the blood out. As he rubbed the fabric together in the water, his wife’s necklace swung below his chest like a pendulum. He paused to grab the pendent and look at it. The silver and coral were caked with blood. Shuddering, he took the wet fabric and rubbed at the jewelry. There was no way to get the stains completely out of his tunic. But with a little spit he was able to clean the necklace. He refilled his flask, wrung out the tunic, and redressed. Then he joined the other soldiers in waiting for their turn to eat.

When he finally did get a bowl of soup, he was so tired he almost nodded off between bites. But when he lay down to sleep, it didn’t come easily. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw his comrades pierced by arrows, the Tatar soldier clutching his bleeding stump, his own fingers pulling the knife from that severed hand…

Rogerios was jerked from a fitful dream of blood raining from the clouds by the yelling of soldiers and a sound like boulders smashing together. He scrambled up, pulling on his still-damp tunic, strapping on his belt and sheath, and grabbing up his shield. He stumbled to the edge of the wagon circle to find a scene of chaos. The knights guarding the bridge had been pushed back by fiery balls being hurled by the Tatars across the river. When they landed, they burst apart with a rumbling bang like nothing he’d ever heard before. Other battalions of Tatar horsemen were attacking the camp from all directions. Arrows rained down like a hailstorm, nearly blocking out the sun as it rose over the horizon.

Rogerios hefted his shield over his head, but beside him, other soldiers weren’t so quick and were swiftly cut down. Rogerios retreated toward the center of camp. Around him, soldiers and commanders called out for each other, but Rogerios didn’t bother trying to form up with his unit. The arrows were so dense and the panic so palpable that such an effort seemed useless.

When he reached the center of camp he found King Béla trying to assemble battle lines. Rogerios joined one of the lines and soon they were marching back out of the camp. Yet as soon as they were in range of the Tatar archers, the lines fell apart. The men before him were cut down by flurries of arrows so serried, they reminded him of flocks of starlings. The men beside him were beset by intense terror. Some even turned back. Others froze, trembling in place as their nerves failed them. The horse behind Rogerios screamed as it was struck, and he glanced back in time to see an archer thrown from its back as it bucked in fear and pain. The archer struggled to his feet as the horse stumbled away with the arrows sticking out of its breast. The archer looked shaken, but raised his bow to fire back at the Tatars. Rogerios continued forward, shield raised to protect himself and the archer behind him. But the shield only provided so much cover, and as the battle lines deteriorated further, they were left exposed on all sides. It was only a few stânjen, a rope length at most, before Rogerios heard a wet gasp behind him and turned to see the archer fall to his knees with an arrow through the side of his ribcage.⁵⁶ Reflexively, Rogerios dropped his sword and reached out, clasping the man’s left shoulder. He grasped Rogerios’ arm in return, but his grip was weak, and he soon slumped onto his back. The ranks around them continued to thin and Rogerios realized his chance to retreat was quickly vanishing. He picked up his sword and slid it back in its sheath.

“Please,” the archer called out, his voice so weak it was more of a whisper, “please don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry,” Rogerios choked out. The man grabbed at the front of his tunic, still stained with the blood of the Tatar soldier. But Rogerios broke the hold easily and ran back towards camp. The last noise he heard from the archer was a wispy, despairing sob.

When he made it back, King Béla and the archbishop of Kalocsa were trying to organize another charge. But the remaining soldiers were refusing. The sun was high in the sky now, and the stench of fear-filled sweat hung heavy in the air. Rogerios slumped down to sit on the ground. The King and archbishop continued in vain to try and rally the troops, escalating to threats when appeals to honor and patriotism failed. Exhausted, Rogerios sat listening while he watched his shadow shrink as the sun rose to its highest point. He tried to focus on the slow creep of the sunlight, on the sweat running down the tip of his nose, anything but the equine scream and shaky sob echoing in his mind.

Suddenly the voice of Prince Kálmán broke through the fray.

“Brother!” He called out to the king. “Enough threats and posturing! If we stand around bickering we all die.” He turned to address the troops. His armor was smeared with blood, tunic dark with sweat. “If any of you wish to see your families again, if you want to save them from the gruesome fate so many of our countrymen have just fallen to, now is the time to take up your arms and fight for it!” Rogerios felt a spark of motivation light in his chest and pushed himself to his feet. He joined a group of soldiers that were beginning to rally around the Prince.

“I’m asking the bravest, noblest men to join me in a charge on the south side of the camp!” We will draw the enemy to our position, then the remaining soldiers can outflank them from the north!” Prince Kálmán announced confidently. The king nodded in agreement and the prince organized the men who had assembled around him. He led the unit with a group of knights, followed by infantry, with archers bringing up the rear.

It was the fiercest battle yet, but also the best coordinated. Instead of leaving the circle of wagons, they fought around them, using them as shields.The fighting lasted the rest of the day, but the lines held and casualties were low. A couple knights and an archer fell. The prince ordered infantrymen to mount the riderless horses in their stead.

Hours passed, but there was no outflanking maneuver from the rest of the army. The king joined them.

“What are you doing here?” Prince Kálmán exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be leading the other troops!”

“There are no other troops!” cried the king. “As soon as you drew enough Tatars away for them to break out of the camp, they fled. They abandoned us!” The prince took a moment to process this, a grimness settling about his shoulders.

“So we’re on our own. Men, behind me! There will be no victory today, but that doesn’t mean we all must perish. We’ll carve a path out and escape.”

As they fought their way through the Tatar forces, the knight who had cut off the warrior’s hand in their first battle was speared and collapsed off his horse at Rogerios’ feet. Rogerios looked down to see panic spread across his face before it was crushed by the hoof of his frightened horse. He turned toward the Tatar who’d slain the knight. Raising his shield defensively, he sliced into the man’s thigh with his sword. The blade hit bone, but Rogerios hadn’t swung with enough force to cut through it. The blade slid sideways, carving a long gash into the side of the man’s horse. The horse bucked and twisted in pain, distracting its rider long enough for him to be beheaded by a Templar knight.

Prince Kálmán had grasped the reins of the fallen knight’s horse. He gestured to Rogerios.

“Climb on, soldier. No use letting a good war horse go to waste.”

Rogerios clambered into the saddle. It was strange riding with weaponry. But he quickly adapted and fell into formation with the other horsemen. They breached the wall of Tatar fighters, but Prince Kálmán took an arrow to the gut in the process. The prince gritted his teeth and led them westward. Rogerios looked around for King Béla, but didn’t see him anywhere. WIth no wagons or infantry slowing them down, they were able to reach Pest the next day. Prince Kálmán ordered royal attendants to bring them food, water, and fresh horses. Seeing his wound, one asked if they should fetch a doctor. Prince Kálmán declined.

“My doctor will tend to it once I get home.”

Rogerios realized Prince Kálmán hadn’t returned to Pest to defend it, but to prepare to flee.

“How soon are we departing, your Grace?” He asked. The prince washed down the bread he was chewing with a cup of water.

“Now.” He replied, motioning to where servants were leading a group of newly saddled horses towards them. Rogerios watched in disbelief as he tucked another loaf into a saddle pouch and climbed into the saddle. Several knights followed suit.

“But our families.” Rogerios blurted out. “My wife’s here!”

“The Tatars will be back any minute. I can’t afford to wait.” Other soldiers began to plead.

“Your Grace, my entire family is here!”

“My family has lived in this city for five generations!”

“I have ten children!”

The prince looked sad, but unmoved.

“Please, your Grace,” Rogerios begged, “just give us an hour to collect our families.”

“I’m sorry,” intoned the prince, “the battle is lost. Everyone must look out for himself now.” He and his knights rode off towards the city gates. The remaining men also mounted horses, but they scattered in different directions.

Rogerios rode towards home, presumably the other men were headed to theirs.

At first his mind was blank with panic. But as he rode past men and women going about their daily business, shooting him disapproving glares for his disruptive speed, a denser sense of horror replaced it. They had no idea what was coming. No idea at all.

“Evacuate!” He began calling out as he rode. “The Tatars are coming, you all need to leave the city!” It took far too long for his house and shop to come into view. He slid off the horse, keeping a hold of its reins as he opened the shop door. Sure enough, Sára was inside, showing his wares to a well dressed gentleman in a yarmulke.

“Rogerios?” She ran over and hugged him. He wrapped his free arm around her. “You’re back? Are the Tatars defeated? God, you’re filthy. Let me prepare you a bath.”

“Sára.” He cut through her babbling. “The Tatars won. King Béla is missing. Prince Kálmán has abandoned us. The Tatars are coming. We need to leave now.”

“Wh- what?” Sára stammered, taken aback.

“The king is missing? How?” gasped the customer she’d been helping. Rogerios held Sára closer, but addressed the gentleman’s question.

“I lost track of him in the battle, but we didn’t encounter him on our journey back. I can’t honestly say whether he survived. The man turned pale. Sinking to the floor, he buried his bearded face in his hands. Rogerios returned his attention to Sára, shaking her gently.

“Sára, we need to go.” She pulled away and nodded.

“Let me pack some of our things.”

“We’re already running out of time.”

“Just a few things. Food, water. Running away won’t do us any good if we die of starvation or thirst after a few days.”

“Alright. But we need to hurry.”

Rogerios tied the horse’s reins to a post and helped pack food. He also grabbed extra flasks and the kitchen knife. Sára went to fetch extra clothes and came back with some soap as well. Rogerios saddled their horse and they packed the supplies into the saddle bags of both horses as the city’s warning bell began to toll. The Tatars were back.

The gentleman in their shop burst out.

“Wait, please, take me with you!”

“We only have two horses.” Rogerios replied dumbly.

“I have my own horse.” The man gestured to an elegantly attired bay mare. “But I’m a man of letters. I have no skills or tools for fighting. I do have an estate south of here where we might safely resupply if you can get me there.”

Rogerios exchanged a look with Sára. But he couldn’t think of a reason to say no, and it seemed neither could she.

“Alright. If we’re to be traveling together, I suppose we should be properly introduced.” The man was clearly of high standing, so Rogerios gave him a little bow. “I am Rogerios József.”

The man dipped his head in response.

“Ábrahám Eszes.”

The three of them rode towards the city gates. The terror among the citizenry was now palpable. Everywhere they passed people were frantically packing their belongings, readying their horses, and begging stubborn relatives to do the same.

They rode to the western edge of the city where it sat against the Danube river. Across the water, the city of Buda was visible. Along the shore, ferries were being loaded with passengers fleeing the city. The trio moved towards them, hoping to cross the river on one of the boats. However, the Tatars suddenly rode along the bank towards them. They attacked those who were boarding and the boats that were already crossing came under fire. The boats sank under an onslaught of arrows. Men, women, and children flailed in the water as the current carried them downstream. Those who could swim back to shore were quickly cut down by the Tatar swords.

Rogerios realized that if they were going to make it out alive, they would need to take a different path. Even if it meant taking a drastic risk.

“Follow me.” He called and rode his horse into the water. Behind him he heard the splashes as Sâra and Úr Eszes followed him into the water. Instead of trying to cross, he urged his steed downstream. The horse struggled to keep afloat in the strong current. The screams of the slaughter followed them as they followed the pull of the water, but the trio was soon carried out of sight.

Rogerios checked that the other two were still behind him before directing his horse back towards shore. It took a while to reach a point where the bank was shallow enough for their horses to climb out. The animals were clearly exhausted from the harrowing swim, so they dismounted and let them rest. Looking back upstream, Rogerios saw plumes of smoke begin to rise. In the river, a steady parade of corpses floated past.

Once the horses were rested, they set off southward. Úr Eszes led this time. But Rogerios asked him to traverse through the fields, staying clear of the main roads.

They didn’t encounter either Tatar soldiers nor fellow Hungarians as they rode. But the now-familiar stench of burning and decaying flesh was carried to them on the wind. Occasionally they would see a panicked horse, fully saddled but lacking a rider, galloping terrified through the countryside.

It only took them a couple days to reach Oradea, which was fortunate since the river had spoiled most of the food they’d packed. Úr Eszes brought them to his estate on the edge of the city and they put their horses in his stable before following him into the grand manor. Úr Eszes tapped a small plaque on the doorframe as he entered, then showed them guest quarters where he told them they could stay as long as they wished.

The bedroom alone was larger and more lavish than their entire home back in Pest. Outside the window they could see the bustling town in the distance. After witnessing so much destruction, it all felt quite surreal.

However, while their physical safety was assured for the time being, a new challenge presented itself. Sára became ill. She was sick nearly every morning. Expelling the previous night’s dinner into her bedpan. She fortunately experienced no other symptoms like fever or coughing. But after over a week of almost daily vomiting Rogerios urged her to confide in Úr Eszes that he might summon a doctor to balance her humors.

However,when she finally assented, Úr Eszes just chuckled.

“I do not think an imbalance of humors is behind this sickness.” he explained. “I was apprenticed to a doctor before I became a scholar and administrator.. I have seen these symptoms many times in new wives. And although she was never able to bear me a child, I saw it several times in my late wife when she was pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” gasped Rogerios. Sára pressed a hand over her mouth and sank down in the nearest chair. Ordinarily they would be overjoyed by such news. But under the present circumstances - living in another man’s home, in fear that the Tatars could descend any day - Rogerios could feel only trepidation. He placed a hand on Sára’s shoulder in a meager attempt at comfort.

That night Sára included a plea to King Saint Stephen in her bedtime prayers, as she had every night since they fled Pest.

“Szent István Király, patron saint of the Kingdom of Hungary, the land you were the first King of, the land you led into Christendom. Please pray with me now for its deliverance from pagan Hordes. Pray with me that we might again be free to worship the Lord Almighty in peace.

But tonight she asked for more.

“And Szent István Király, as the protector against the death of children, please pray for the health of my unborn child.”⁷

Rogerios hadn’t prayed since his first battle with the Tatars. But after that night, he joined his wife in prayer every night. He knelt silently beside her, letting her lead the prayer. It was nice. Having lost faith in King Béla, being able to turn to another King of Hungary for support and protection was comforting. Rogerios repeated his wife’s words in his head and felt his hope renewed.

A short time later, a messenger arrived bearing a letter with the king’s seal, which he read aloud.

“Do not fear the ferocity and madness of the hounds and do not dare to leave your houses, because, although on account of some unforeseen circumstances we had to leave behind the camp and our tents, yet by the favor of God we intend gradually to recover them and fight a valiant battle against the Tatars; therefore, do nothing except pray that merciful God may permit us to crush the heads of our enemies.”

Sára rejoiced at the letter.

“At last, our prayers are being answered!”

But Rogerios still wasn’t so willing to see the hand of God in everything.

“Even if the king did survive the Battle of Mohi, we know he did not return to the Royal Palace.” He puzzled, “How did he retrieve his seal?”

“I’m sure the king has more than one seal.” Sára assured him.⁸

Rogerios wasn’t willing to sit back and trust in the king. He and Úr Eszes worked together to prepare for the possibility of another Tatar attack. They collected a stock of dried meat, bread, and nuts that could be taken with them at a moment's notice. Úr Eszes ordered his servants to keep three horses saddled at all times. Rogerios practiced with his sword and shield daily, even though he knew there was little a single man could do against even a small contingent of Tatar warriors. Rogerios and Sára visited the city of Oradea daily to ask about the latest news. But apart from reports of destruction and slaughter brought by new arrivals, there wasn’t much to learn. The king’s promised counter-offensive had yet to materialize.

The castle at the center of town had a broken wall. Rogerios helped the townspeople who were working to repair it. He knew nothing about architecture, but he could carry wooden planks as well as any other man.

It was only a few months before the Tatars attacked. Rogerios and Sára hurried to the stables as soon as they heard the warning bells ring. Úr Eszes joined them moments later and helped pack their provisions into the saddle packs.

“Should we take shelter in the castle?” asked Sára. Rogerios shook his head.

“Remember how fast Pest fell? We’ll be safer in the woods.”

“I’ll stick with you two.” Úr Eszes affirmed, swinging into the saddle. His servants burst into the stables, desperate to secure their own means of escape.

“We’re taking refuge in the forest.” Úr Eszes told them. “I urge you to do the same.”

“But the castle!” Objected the cook. “Surely we’ll be safer behind real fortifications.”

“You’ll also be trapped,” countered Rogerios. But the others were shaking their heads. Unwilling to delay longer, Rogerios led his wife and their benefactor out of the estate grounds and up towards the tree-covered mountains.

As they reached the treeline, he looked back to see the Tatars had begun their attack on the city.

They pressed forwards into the mountains until the grade became too steep for their horses. They followed the curves of rock for hours until they found a cave large enough for their whole party - horses included.

“We should stay here for the time being,” asserted Rogerios. “If we keep trying to run from the Tatars, eventually they’ll catch us off-guard. Or we’ll run into them.”

“You’re right.” agreed Úr Eszes. “Here I know the terrain. We know where to find water. If the Tatars leave anything of the city behind we might find provisions there when they leave.”

They spent the rest of the day securing their campsite. They blocked the cave entrance with rocks. Leaving a small, diagonal gap through which they and their horses could fit. The angle was such that the opening was not visible from a distance. They piled rocks inside as well. So they could seal the entrance completely if needed. After, they all ate a few strips of dried meat for dinner.

Rogerios couldn’t repress his curiosity over the fate of the town. He rode back to the edge of the forest. The only building left unburned was the castle itself. The stench of death permeated the air. The Tatars were nowhere to be seen, so Rogerios gave into his curiosity and descended into the smoking rubble. The fields surrounding Oradea were strewn with bodies. The roads were choked with corpses. Men, women, and children of every social class lay smoldering in pieces on the ground. Unable to stand the horrific sights and smells, he retreated to the cave.

The men took turns keeping watch every night. Sára offered to help, but he told her no. It was bad enough she was eating rationed amounts of food and dealing with the stress of invasion and displacement. The least he could do for his pregnant wife was let her get a full night’s sleep.

Every day he went out to hunt, forage, and collect water. He also crept out to the forest edge to see how events were progressing at the castle. The Tatar army had retreated completely after the initial attack. But scouts rode up every few days. Every time they were chased off by Hungarian horsemen. Then the scouts stopped coming. Several weeks passed with no sign of them.

“Should we go back?” Úr Eszes asked.

“I don’t know,” admitted Rogerios. “The Tatars seemed to retreat many times at Pest and on the way to Mohi. But it was all a ruse.”

From the mountain, Rogerios could see that many townspeople had emerged from the castle and begun to clean up what little remained of the town.

Then one morning as the sun appeared on the edge of the horizon, a full contingent of Tatar horsemen rode into the town. Everyone who could not make it back into the castle before the drawbridge was raised from over the moat, died upon their swords and spears. Rogerios watched from the trees as they assembled seven siege engines in front of the wall he had helped assemble. They launched rocks at it relentlessly. Rogerios ventured over to check on the progress several times a day. Each time all seven weapons were engaged in an unending barrage. It took nearly a week, but eventually the wall fell. Rogerios arrived at the treeline one morning to see a gaping hole in the castle. The Tatars dragged the men who had defended the castle out and tortured them to death beside the moat. The civilians inside had retreated into churches, but one by one the Tatars broke down the doors. The screams of the women inside echoed across the valley, making the nature of the crimes perpetrated within terribly clear.

The last church to fall was the great cathedral. The Tatars were unable to breach its walls, so they gave up and set it aflame instead. Rogerios was paralyzed with shock and disgust. After the Tatars departed again, taking their loot with them, he remained at the treeline. The shrieks of those immolated rang in his head. But Rogerios was not the only Hungarian watching from the forest. Others apparently had stronger stomachs, or emptier ones. After a few hours, people began emerging from the woods to search the castle’s remains for food. But it wasn’t long before the Tatars returned again and killed every last one of them. This cycle continued for days. Rogerios returned to his own routine of hunting and foraging. He, Sára, and Úr Eszes tried to survive solely on the food he brought in, saving the dried meat and nuts. The bread was long gone.

As harvest season approached they heard a man wandering through the woods calling out that the Tatars would allow anyone who returned to their homes in the next month to stay there safely. Rogerios, Sára, and Úr Eszes didn’t even bother discussing leaving their cave. None of them trusted any assurances offered by the Tatars. But others were clearly more trusting, or more desperate. Soon the farms around Oradea were full of Hungarians harvesting crops under the watchful eyes of Tatar overseers. Every now and again the Tatars would pull some pretty woman or girl from the field and take their pleasure from her right in front of her family. Other girls were taken away to be given to the regional kenéz. They were not seen again.

One day Rogerios returned from a day of hunting and was greeted at the cave entrance by Úr Eszes. He held out a chunk of honeycomb to Rogerios.

“Úr József!” he exclaimed. “I hope you will not be offended if I include you and your wife in my meager celebrations of the High Holy Days.”

“Of course not.” Rogerios replied, setting down the game he’d caught in order to take the honeycomb. “As long as you’re not offended when Sára and I celebrate Christmas this winter.”

“Thank you, Úr József. It’s so hard to celebrate alone.” He laughed hollowly. “I don’t actually know what day it truly is. I haven’t even kept kosher in months.”

“We’ve been living in a cave together for several months now. I think you can call me Rogerios.”

“In that case, Rogerios, you should call me Ábrahám.”’

Ábrahám spent the next ten nights explaining the meaning of each High Holy Day as it passed.

A few weeks later the harvest was brought in. The Tatars killed all the Hungarian laborers who had gathered it.

The baby began kicking and Sára became obsessed with making plans for it. Some were fanciful.

“When the Tatars are gone and you can re-open your glass-blowing shop, you can teach our child all about your craft!” Some were very practical.

“We’ll need to keep the cave entrance blocked all the time once the baby comes. It won’t know to keep quiet.” Her favorite topic was names.

“If it’s a boy, we could name him József, after your father!” Sára whispered in bed one night.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He said as calmly as possible. “We’d be Rogerios József and József Rogerios. I think it would be confusing.”

“Well, if it’s a girl, we could name her Zita.”

“That’s nice. I like that.” He petted her hair gently. “Szent István Király has given us so much strength these past months. If we have a son, we should name him after the Patron Saint of Hungary.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea.” She agreed, snuggling against him.

As the weather turned colder, it became more difficult to find food. The leaves and berries Rogerios had foraged for in the past were gone. Most of the animals he had hunted migrated away or went into hibernation. He began taking Ábrahám with him. He loathed to leave Sára alone, especially now that her growing belly was beginning to restrict her mobility. But the Tatars had shown little interest in patrolling the forests. And they’d purged the local population so completely that the chances of some other desperate Hungarian stumbling upon her were low. Hunger was their greatest foe now.

Rogerios recalled a lean winter during his childhood when one of the women in his village had grown thinner even as her pregnancy progressed. When the baby was born in the spring, the mother had not survived. The baby had lived, but she’d been unusually short the rest of the time he’d known her. She’d tired very easily, never able to keep up with the other children her age.

By midwinter, they’d run out of dried meat and buts. Every day Rogerios and Ábrahám failed to find food, Rogerios felt a clutch of fear that his wife and child would suffer the same fate. At Christmas, food had grown so scarce they resorted to killing and eating one of the horses. By the New Year, they’d eaten the others as well.

It had been months since they’d seen a single Tatar, and they’d all lost the sense of vigilance that had gripped them months earlier. Even Sára now ventured from the cave daily, despite her now fully rounded belly, to help forage. Rogerios was tracking a rabbit one day when he heard Ábrahám cry out. He ran towards the noise and found Ábrahám running from a Tatar soldier. Ábrahám was losing ground fast. Rogerios drew his sword, remaining still as they approached his position. As Ábrahám passed him, he leaped out. Taking the warrior by surprise, he cut him down. Not wanting other members of the Tatar procession to catch them, let alone with a Tatar corpse, they ran together back towards the cave. But just when they thought they might have escaped, a dreadful sound rent the air. Sára screaming.

Rogerios should have gone wild with panic, but instead he felt a sense of absolute clarity. He took off the coral necklace he’d once given Sára and she’d given him back. He pressed it into Ábrahám’s fingers, then turned and ran towards the sound of his wife’s distress.

He found her in the grasp of three Tatars as they held her down in the snow and ripped at her clothes. Drawing his sword, he beheaded one before they’d noticed his arrival. The other two stumbled back in shock, and he used the moment to pull Sára to her feet and push her back the way he’d come. As she stumbled away, the Tatars descended on him with long knives. His sword gave him a slight range advantage. But these were hardened fighters. For every hit he landed, he took four. He grabbed a rock in his left hand and smashed it against the head of the closest Tatar as he stabbed him in the gut. He collapsed onto the ground, but Rogerios didn’t withdraw his sword quickly enough and the man’s bodyweight pulled him sideways. He felt a great swell of pain in his back and looked down to see the point of the last Tatar’s knife sticking out of his stomach. Using the same motion that had sealed his own fate, he twisted away as he sank to the ground, breaking the man’s hold on the knife. The man reached for the knife of his fallen comrade, intent on finishing Rogerios off. He reached behind himself, pulling the Tatar’s knife out of his own back. Blinking at the black spots now consuming his field of vision, Rogerios leaned forward and sunk the blade into the heel of the final Tatar.

The last thing he saw was blood spurting across the snow.

His last thought was of Sára and the child he would never meet.