"He say…" Kolodzcy interpreted slowly, "he hess no fear ohf de Croats. Serbs are… fiercer fighters. He hates Croats! All true Serbs hate Croats, forever. Untrustvorthy… murderink… whores. 'Ungar-ian whores. Catholic. Uhm, suffice to say, sirs, he despise dhem. He make mahny vile accusations."
And ain't you a good little Austrian Catholic yourself, Kolodzcy? Lewrie wondered. He was torn between the play of expressions of both Lieutnant Kolodzcy and Petracic; one all but biting his cheeks to remain diplomatic, and the other-feigning, Lewrie was dead certain- noble long-suffering.
Petracic got to his feet to pace and gesticulate, waving with both hands now, and beginning to sound gruff and rankled. "Well?" Rodgers demanded, as the diatribe continued. "Still rants, sir," Kolodzcy replied, one ear tilted for a pithy bit. "He exblainink Balgan hizdory. Holy King Stefan Nemanja. Saint Cyril unt Saint Methodius, who conwert pagan Slavs to Christians, in de Orthodox Church, long ago… King Stefan, first of Nemanjas, build huge empire. Greater general dhan Byzantine, Belisarius. Son, Saint Sava the Wanderer found Serbian Orthodox Church. King Milutin Nemanja, he defeat fildy Bulgars… no bedder dhan slant-eye Tartars. Richer dhan Byzantine Empire. All of goast to Adriatic… far south into Macedonia unt Greece, conquer Albanians. Vould have conquer Constantinople, too, 'til de veak as vater cowards allow Durks across Hellespont. Unt Croats too stupid to be true Slavs… too jealous. Dhey look to Vienna, Rome… become Catholics. Whores to Budapest unt Vienna."
"Uhm… this'11 take long, d'ye think?" Rodgers softly wondered.
"Ach,ja, herr Kapitan," Kolodzcy said with a patient sigh. "He speak of Stefan Uros… Stefan Dushan… dushan meanink 'soul.' A last Nemanja, Uros. Daht ist vhen Durks come, unt he was veak. 'Ungarians from de vest svarm to take empire. Croats vit dhem. Comes final leader, elected prince… Knez Lazar."
"Aahh," Dragan Mlavic uttered, sounding like a mourner at a funeral; and Lewrie was amazed to see tears moisten his hard little eyes as his lips trembled in genuine sorrow!
"Comes time of Kossovo," Leutnant Kolodzcy translated, as the fierce Ratko Petracic ranted on. "Grade baddle. Durks vin, Serbs killed. He recite poem to us."
"Jesus," Lewrie whispered, pouring himself a glass of claret in frustration. "A long'un, I'd expect. 'Hear me, Oh Muse'…"he cited from The Iliad. In English, of course; he'd been bloody awful in Greek.
"Grey bird fly from Jerusalem. Falcon. Really ist Saint Elijah, bearink Holy Book. Comes to de Tsar… Prince Lazar, unt asks ohf him vhat kingdom he vish… heavenly or earthly? Knez Lazar choose heavenly kingdom. He say:
"He built a church on Kossovo …
Then he gave his soldiers the Eucharist…
Then the Turks overwhelmed Lazar…
And his army was destroyed with him,
Of seven and seventy thousand soldiers,
"Dhen, all vas Holy, all was honourable. Unt de guteness of God vas fulfilled," Kolodzcy interpreted for them.
Ratko Petracic stopped orating, arms out to his sides as if he were being crucified, his head hung, and unashamedly weeping.
"Uhmph, I say…" Rodgers squirmed uneasily, and Lewrie felt the urge to look away. Such blatant public displays of tears were bred, or whipped, out of English gentlemen. Even Lewrie, who was more prone to expressing his enthusiasms or disasters (more proof, he thought, that he would never make a true gentleman if he lived an hundred years!) was not this open with his feelings. Why, it was unmanly… foreign, certainly!
"Kossovo Polje," Petracic said, looking up and lowering his arms to wipe away his tears on his sleeves.
"Kossovo Polje," Dragan Mlavic echoed, his voice broken. "De Field ohf Black Birds," Kolodzcy said. "Durks leaf bodies naked, for carrion birds to devour. June twenty-eighth, 1389."
Petracic started speaking again, clearer, his voice infused with a low, bitter anger even after over four hundred years.
"Grade Serb Empire dies, long before Byzantine, in 1453. No one come to help Serbs, he say," Kolodzcy began translating again. "Every hand against us. Croat, Byzantine, 'Ungarian, Austrian. Beginnink ohf Durkey in Europe. Could heff sdopped, defeaded, but no. Too jealous. Vorld vish grade Nemanjic Serb kingdom to die. Zo dhey could pick our bones, like de black birds, he ist sayink. Grade, holy sacrifice de Serbs made. Zo daht Europe should live. Unt de Croats, de Slovenes, Albanians, Bulgars… take from Srpski Narod… Serb Beoble, effrydink dhey own. Some love conwersion to Islam, he say. Some are traitors… Catholic Croat traitors, who vish to make Serbs Catholic sheep." "Ah." Rodgers nodded as if it all made perfect sense. Petracic barked out a question. Kolodzcy took pause, recoiling back into his chair for a moment before replying, long, slow and wary.
"He ask me, dese Frenchmen… dhey are Catholic, ja? I dell him dhey are. Danes, unt Batavian Dutch… Protestant. Like British. Bud, nod Slavs. More like Germans. Do ve vish him to kill dhem? I say no. Dake dhere ships only."
"Ah, perhaps we're gettin' somewhere?" Rodgers wished aloud. "He say to me, sir," Kolodzcy interpreted another long ramble, "Serbs hate Croats, 'Ungarians, Durks. Dirdy Albanians, unt all Slavs who now are Muslim, who did nod come to Kossovo Polje. Dhey are now traitors, people forever apard. Or mongrels, nod drue Slavs. Unt for a price, he say he vill now hate Frenchmen, unt all dheir lackeys. A vahry high price. For to build new Serbian kingdom. Avenge de Field ohf Black Birds, someday."
"Right, then!" Rodgers beamed. "What sort of a price?" "He vish guns, sir," Kolodzcy translated, as Petracic sat down at the table, his weeping quite forgotten. "Muskets, powder, unt shot. Unt artillery, to arm his men. Gold, to addract odders. Ships such as dhis one. You give him Jester?"
"Like bloody Hell!" Lewrie snarled.
"Tell him our sovereign King George III will not allow us to give him a sloop of war," Rodgers ordered. "We may supply muskets, made cartridges, loose ball and powder. And accoutrements. We can get him swords and bayonets. We've pistols, too. But a warship? No, I'm sorry. But… once he's better-armed, hey, he could take himself a European-style ship and convert- her. Arm her."
"He say he ist sendink to his boat for brandy, sir," Kolodzcy informed them. "British wine ist gnats-piss, he ist thinkink. Zorry. Unt, he say… dhat ist like chicken come before egg. Gannot get ship to conwert vid-out strong ship in firsd blace. European ships pass by, dhey are armed vit cannon, unt he gannot fight dhem now. Too strong. For his smaller boats, too fast, alzo. Unt too far oud at sea. His four small boats gannot make long foyages. Only his galliot, unt dhat ship Mlavic command."
Rodgers drummed his fingers on the table as Mlavic returned with a stone crock and poured them all a brimming measure of a colourless, clear-water liquor.
"Ve trink to bargain? he asks. To heart of bargain, he say. De Devil ist in details… unt ve have all rainy day to thrash dhem oud."
The Devil, indeed, Alan thought, trying not to frown; I'm sittin' 'cross the bloody table from Old Nick this very minute! Petracic was smiling [at them, a coy, "Captain Sharp-ish" grin, even sharing a glance to his chief lieutenant, Mlavic; all but tipping him the wink!
"Boddom's up, he broboze," Kolodzcy said.
Lewrie's wineglasses were smallish, more suited to a port after a meal than the usual larger goblets that went with supper itself-to keep their rate of consumption down and save him a supply for later in this voyage, if nothing else! At the rate Rodgers and Kolodzcy put it away, he'd be begging 'pon the gun-room's charity, or reduced to rum and water before they put in at Corfu again.