“So the thing took shape, and our chosen champions trained as hard as any men could, knowing that the fate of all who lived in the city rested on their feats of arms. In the end, we chose three and sent them down the tunnel to fight their duels before a howling audience of Mongols and the less honorable scum who follow their camp.
“Our first champion, who I believed to be the best of the lot, was struck down and beheaded in a few moments by a demon with a curved sword. I never heard where that demon came from. I had never seen nor heard of his like before.
“The second was a wrestler, a Mongol, I think—who, to my surprise, was defeated by our champion. I believe that the Mongol was over-proud of his abilities and that my man took him by surprise and got him down and dazed before he could enter into the full spirit of the battle. He had been a favorite, it seemed, and when our champion won, the crowd was not very pleased.
“It then came down to me. For I was the third champion. I fought with a lance against a Kitayan man. I will not pretend to make the story suspenseful, since you can see that I am here. He was good with the point, and his weapon was lithe and fast, being hafted with some species of hollow reed. But his insistence upon using the sharp end gave me the idea he might not be so clever in the use of the butt, and so by closing in, I was able to clear his steel out of my way and bring the blunt end of my weapon around smartly and take him along the side of the head.”
The knights nodded and murmured approval. Cnán rolled her eyes.
“He fell and did not rise. I turned to regard Onghwe. This was the closest we ever came. I could have hurled my lance at him with even odds of putting it through his chest. While this would have been satisfying, it would have condemned my city to destruction, and so I did not do it. Never have I seen a more villainous face. He considered me for a few moments, then nodded toward the western tunnel from which I had issued a few minutes earlier.
“I went back into my city. The Mongols tore down the arena, which was cleverly devised so that it could be pitched and struck in a short time, like a tent. They struck their entire camp and went away.
“Three days later they came back and destroyed us.”
Illarion took another long draught of ale and allowed that to sink in.
“I could tell stirring tales of our defense and our defeat,” Illarion said, “and even more stirring ones of what came after.” He reached to his chest and made a fist around a locket that he wore, containing, Cnán knew, a tiny rendering of the wife and child who had been trampled to death next to him, beneath the planks. “But I do not wish to distract you from the main point of the story.”
“Which is?” Feronantus asked, though it was clear from his expression that he already knew.
“That I did just what you lot are preparing to do at this very moment…and the place and people I defended were made desolate and slaughtered regardless,” Illarion said. “The invitation to which you have responded is a farce. The only difference is in the stakes. For, unless I have been wrongly informed, you are here as the champions, not just of one town in the middle of Ruthenia, but of Christendom in its entirety.”
Feronantus spoke: “The offer that Onghwe Khan proclaimed, not just to us, but to every king and bishop and pope of every land not yet fallen to the Horde, was precisely as you have described it. Instead of offering to spare one city, he offers to spare all of Christendom, provided Christendom sends its champions to the arena you saw being erected near Legnica. Because of the great distances involved, he has granted those kings and bishops and popes several months to respond.”
“And need I tell you,” Illarion asked, “that he has not done so to be fair or merciful? He has done so because this entertainment, the Circus of Swords, is nothing more than a stalling tactic that he and his brother Khans use to divert the attention of their prey, while the Mongol armies are maneuvered and supply lines laid down for the next onslaught.”
“Did you truly believe it?” asked a voice.
Cnán and several others turned to find its source: Roger, the Norman who had come up from Sicily with Percival.
“When you were training in the square before your cathedral, did you believe that Onghwe Khan would honor his word?” His voice was skeptical. He was irritated by Illarion’s tone.
Illarion bristled at first, but then looked away, conceding the point. “Of course I asked myself that question every day,” he said. “But what choice did we have?”
“Exactly,” Roger said. “And do you keep in mind that, during those months of delay, it is not only the Mongols who are maneuvering their armies and preparing their supply lines.”
“Would that it were true!” Taran barked. “But Christendom has nothing like the Mongol’s unity of purpose. Frederick and the Pope are at war over the Italian peninsula. They don’t care what happens farther north.”
“It is still better to be attacked later than now,” Roger said.