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When the dark claims its rights on the day, and life in the camp slowly goes quiet, then Erik enters the chief’s tent that stood at some distance from others. He is carrying a silver platter full of roasted meat, still steaming into a cool night air, and several chunks of bread.
So used to plan his day in his mostly unplannable way of life Erik prepared a fine Hungarian wine in advance, hiding it near one of the chest standing inside the tent. It would go perfectly with the roast piglet, one of several kindly provided by the nearby village.
Upon entering the tent Erik notices that Ištván is still at the same spot where he left him in the afternoon - at his desk. He had asked not to be disturbed, explaining that he would be busy with some important documents taht they had managed to obtain during another heist on the estates of some petty nobility who supported the drunkard Wenceslas. The papers could be useful for blackmail in the future, and therefore required a thorough examination. And then Ištván has to write a couple of small instructions to his canaries and one big report for the person he himself was an informant for.
Erik, being right-hand man of his lord, decided that it was also his responsibility to make sure that Ištván ate during a day and slept enough hours. And no, lord Toth didn't suffer from forgetfulness, constant lack of appetite or insomnia, nothing like that. But he can get so carried away with his work that prolonged fasting causes him to have headaches, which in turn catalyse his irritability, negatively affecting the entire camp. That's why Erik always trues to organize a meal for them together if they are both in the camp.
Erik pulls the knot above the entrance and the fabric falls, isolating the two men from the outside world. In two strides he reaches the desk and places the platter as far away from the papers as possible. The flames from the candles flicker as he turns on his heels and heads for the hidden wineskin. Meanwhile Ištván still engrossed in his readings, doesn't move, comment or even glance at the young man to indicate that he has noticed his presence.
“Found anything interesting?” asked Erik, placing a pitcher on a small locker next to the chest and starting to pour the wine into it. A few drops of deep red liquid spilled over the rim of the pitchers, and Erik tilted the wineskin lower to avoid spilling even more of exquisite liquid.
Fortunately, Ištván doesn’t notice it. But he also did not answer the question, merely turning the page of a book he was holding. Erik hadn’t noticed it when he entered the tent.
“Is it someone’s diary or sort of groβbuch you are so interested in?” he asks cheerfully, trying to attract his lord's attention. But to no avail.
Having finished with pouring Erik returned to the desk with two silver goblets in one hand and the heavy pitcher in another. Now he can take a closer look at his lord, noting the two lines between his eyebrows, one deeper and longer than the other, slightly squinted eyes that almost dark in a dim light, and the index finger of his left hand, which István habitually pressed to his mouth, as if depriving himself of the ability to speak when he was immersed in his thoughts, pondering the information he had received.
The book in front of him isn’t one of those enormous religious volumes or scholarly treatises that Erik used to read whenever Ištván felt the urge to fill his “half empty” head with more knowledge. The corners of its pages isn't even slightly worn from hundreds of touches; on the contrary, it seems that no one but Ištván had ever dared to touch it. It looks more like a fancy gift for a nobleman or a collector rather than a source of entertainment. The contents of the book had been meticulously transcribed by an unknown scribe into a neat verse column. Quite an unusual choice of bedtime reading for a mercenary.
Erik carefully places all things next to the platter and calls the man again, this time more softly.
“Stefan?”
Ištván finally looks at him with a slightly surprised expression, as if he hadn’t expected to see Erik there.
“Please, forgive me, my dear boy, it seems I've been deeply engrossed with this little thing” he taps his fingertips on the lines, “and I didn’t notice you coming in".
He closes the book, eventually revealing its red leather cover with exquisite embossing, sets it aside and turns his chair at an angle so he could see both Erik and the dinner on the table.
Erik grabs the chair from the other side of the desk and places it next to his master, mirroring his position.
They eat in silence. Erik pours the wine into goblets and take a couple of sips before deciding to ask about Ištván's unusual choice of reading.
“I tried to talk to you twice, before you finally answered me. What is so interesting about this book that you didn’t notice me comin in?”
Ištván put on a slightly guilty experssion, wanting to show Erik that he had no intention of neglecting Erik’s company. He swallows a piece of meat, washing it down with wine, and then replied.
“I found it among the belongings of the late lord Zdeslav when we looked into his private quarters a month ago. It wasn’t what I was expecting to find, but the thing is worth getting familiar with.”
“So what exactly is it? Some fancy poems from Prague?”
“Your guess about the content is right, but the origin of this book leads me to believe it’s from Res publica Florentina”
“From Florence? How did it get here?”
“No idea. I doubt thatanyone among the Bohemian nobility is capable of reading Italian, or read at all. Therefore, I think it is a gift or, what’s more likely, another trophy for the robber baron” Ištván shrugs and puts another piece of meat in his mouth.
“But you read it. You know Italian" says Erik, surprised, but at the same time absolutely certain that Ištván is capable of it.
The man nodes and takes another sip before answering.
“I do, scarcely. My knowledge of this language is barely enough to grasp the beauty of the poetry.”
“Will you read it to me? Just a bit.” asks Erik immediately. He’d never heard Italian spoken before and is curious hearing it spoken by Ištván. Besides, he will probably find out what made him so attracted to it.
“Well, if you insist.” Ištván’s lips twitch into a light smile. Wiping the fingers on a cloth to avoid greasing the pages, he gets up and reaches for the book at the far end of the desk. Opening it, he sits down and starts to read. Reaching a certain passage, Ištván pauses, glances briefly at Erik, who was looking at him with adoration, and continues:
Amor, ch'al cor gentil ratto s'apprende,
prese costui de la bella persona
che mi fu tolta; e 'l modo ancor m'offende.
Amor, ch'a nullo amato amar perdona,
mi prese del costui piacer sì forte,
che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona.
Amor condusse noi ad una morte:
Caina attende chi a vita ci spense».
Queste parole da lor ci fuor porte*.
Ištván read more slowly in Italian than in Latin or French, but Erik doesn’t notice it, completely immersed in the sound of low soft and soothing tone, that very few people had ever heard. He closes his eyes, trying to imagine what the book might be about. When Ištván stops, Erik opens his eyes.
“As you can see, my oratory skills fail me when it comes to poetry, especially in Italian” Ištván smiles apologetically, looking at the book in his hands.
“But you grasped the idea, didn’t you? What is it about?” Erik hastens to ask, tilting his head to the right, like a huge pup waiting for his beloved human's words.
Ištván exhales and smiles at him, pleased that the young man is eager to learn something other than the art of sword fighting. His mentoring efforts had not been in vain.
“The book tells the story of the journey of the main character and the author, Dante, and the spirit of the Roman poet, Vergilius, through Inferno, Purgatorio and Paradiso. And this Dante has a rather peculiar view of what Hell looks like, I must say,” Ištván chuckles looking at the wall of the tent and then at the book again.
Erik is silent for a while, thinking of what he just heard, and then blurts out several questions at once:
“But who would even think of going to Hell or Purgatory? Couldn’t he wait for his own death? What even made him go there?”
The question pulls Ištván out of his reverie, and he replies somewhat melancholically.
“Love, my dear boy," he makes a pause and looks into Erik's eyes, “Love for a woman named Beatrice, who was moved to Heaven and is now waiting for him there, made him go through all this.”
With these last words he stands up to hide the book in the chest. On his way back Erik, still sitting in his chair, grabs his arm gently and pulls him closer, locking his hands tightly around man's waist. Ištván doesn’t resist this impulsive embrace and lays both hand on young man's shoulders.
Erik’s voice was quiet but confident as he presses his face against the man’s belly.
“If anyone or anything ever separates us, I’ll go down to Hell and Purgatory, but I'll find you. I won’t leave you. Ever.”
Ištván leans down and presses his lips to Erik’s crown.
“There are things in this world that are beyond our control, my dear boy. Your promise may never come true.”
“I know,” Erik tugs the man even closer, “but I promise you that I will never leave you.”