He was listening to what his steward, who had knelt before him, was telling. This man, who had galloped into the camp half an hour ago, was an old, fat soldier. It had been weeks now since he had taken alone a letter from his commander containing the proposal “to hunt Baron Erasm Tofl of Gündersdref together” to Hadim Ali Pasha. But the pasha was very busy. He couldn’t find time to reply. He was besieging Dregley Castle. The steward, who was present from the beginning to the end of the siege, was now telling what he saw there; this castle was built on the summit of a very steep, very sheer rock. Arslan Bey asked: “Is it higher than our castle?”
“Higher, my lord.”
The castle the commander called “our castle” was Šalgó Tower, whose still fluttering flag he looked at longingly. But he knew well that he would capture this place in a few days. How just a few weeks ago, Andrenaki, Mihal Tersi, Etyen Soşay, who wanted to resist his attacks at Boza Tower, had surrendered the tower to him; how they had withdrawn with thanks for his favor, applauding his heroism and courage…
“I can’t stay long before a castle,” he said, “I have no patience at all. But Ali Pasha is very patient… bless him!”
The steward raised his head: “He’s impatient too… But what can he do? Dregley is very precipitous, very steep… They say this is the main castle in the Börzsöny Mountains.”
“Didn’t the pasha first offer surrender to the defenders?”
“He did.”
“Didn’t they accept?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“Who was the castle’s commander?”
“A hero named Zondi…”
“I know their heroism. They don’t keep their word… They break the truce. They insult the ambassador.”
“No, Arslan Bey, Zondi isn’t like those you know. He’s a very honorable man.”
“Who did the pasha send the surrender proposal with?”
“With Priest Marten Urucgalo…”
“Whatever… If he had sent a Turkish ambassador, they would definitely cut off his head and throw him down from the walls.”
“If the pasha had sent a Turkish ambassador, Zondi wouldn’t have done this.”
“How do you know?”
“I understood from the words he said to Priest Marten.”
“What did he say?”
“He said: ‘Go, tell the pasha. Don’t offer me surrender. There can be no greater insult to a soldier than this. If he’s a man of war, so am I. Either I’ll die or I’ll be victorious. But I see my time is up. Let him not wait, let him attack with all his force. I definitely want to remain under the stones of the castle that will collapse.'”
“He was indeed an honorable, noble soldier…”
The steward said, “Not just an honorable soldier, Arslan Bey,” “but also a very chivalrous gentleman…”
“How so?”
“Look, let me tell you. When Priest Marten was returning to bring the refusal news to the camp, Zondi stopped him. He brought two Turkish young men he had captured earlier. He had dressed them in very valuable purple clothes. He filled their pockets with gold. He said, ‘Take these to the pasha. I don’t want them to die with me. They’re very brave youths. Let him pay attention to their education. He’ll have raised two great soldiers for his state.'”
“He was indeed a chivalrous man…”
“Then, we heard from the prisoners who fell into our hands alive—he had piled his weapons, silver items, most valuable belongings in the castle courtyard and burned them. He killed his war horses under him with his own hand, crying. In the last attack, our soldiers forced the castle gate. They broke it. The janissaries tried hard to capture Zondi, who was wounded by a single bullet, alive. But it wasn’t possible. He fought crawling on his knees, his whole body pierced by swords and spears, until he died.”
“So the pasha couldn’t talk to this honorable enemy.”
“Yes, he couldn’t talk. He had his body and severed head buried before the castle. He ordered a spear and flag to be erected on his grave.”
“Bravo! If it were me, I’d have a tomb built, by God…”
Arslan Bey loved the brave, the heroic, the unyielding of the enemy. For him, war was an art of honor. He never showed mercy to those who fled from the enemy army and sought refuge with him, immediately having their necks struck, saying “A traitor is a traitor everywhere.”
It was getting completely dark, night was falling.
The steward still couldn’t finish the story of Dregley Castle he had been telling at length. Laborers carrying ablution water for the evening prayer began passing with torches. Arslan Bey was looking at Šalgó’s wet, sick lights shining dimly like fireflies, not hearing the steward’s words, thinking of his own plan. He knew—not all enemies were heroes like Zondi, like Plas Batanyus, like Lozonci. Among them were cowards as timid as rabbits. For example, the defenders of Secsény Castle, while Ali Pasha was still approaching, had fled without firing a single shot, leaving their cannons, rifles, ammunition, provisions, goods, even their old people and children. In a few days, when this place was taken, Hollókő, Buják, Šajga, Kékkő castles remained. But God was generous…
“The capture of all of them may not take a month,” he muttered. The steward had no idea what his commander was thinking. He didn’t understand. He asked: “The capture of this castle, my lord?”
“No, dear… This is a matter of days! Just let the weather close in a bit… There are four or five castles up to Fülek… I’m talking about all of them.”
“Four or five castles in a month… This is difficult, my lord.”
“Why?”
“Not a single rifle has been fired at this castle yet… The comrades said when I was dismounting.”
“I’ll take this place without firing a single shot.”
“How, my lord?”
“Your mind wouldn’t grasp it. Let the weather close in a bit, you’ll see…”
“Will we attack without any cannon fire?”
“No.”
“Then what will we do?”
“I said wait for the weather to close in… You’ll see.”
“!!!”
Arslan Bey hid his plans even from his closest men. “The earth has ears,” he would say. A secret that left the mouth would definitely be heard. Like the steward, from this silent, this meaningless waiting, all the soldiers were getting bored, understanding nothing. It was being said that the commander was waiting for reinforcements, ammunition, cannons. Old cavalrymen were gossiping in their tents: “Can’t we take this place without reinforcements coming? Aren’t two cannons enough? Why are we waiting?” Since the day of arrival here, Arslan Bey, who had let the army rest, would mount his horse early every morning, plunge alone into the forests in the rear, stay for hours, return laughing:
“Won’t the weather turn bad? Ah, if only there were a bit of fog…” he couldn’t take his eyes from the sky, from the castle’s swaying flag. Now with the letter the steward brought, Ali Pasha was also accepting his proposal. When united with him, his army would be about seven thousand men. Then he could surely capture Tofel and Pallavicini alive.
From deep within the thick darkness, the bitter cries, bitter dog howls of the sentries at Šalgó Tower were heard from afar. There were no stars in the sky. Arslan Bey drank the ruby water in the crystal glass his servant held. He was smoking his refilled pipe, talking with his steward about this and that. While talking, what he was thinking was always his own plan. Again he had immersed himself in the sky. Suddenly he asked: “The weather is closing in, isn’t it?”
“Yes…”
“Let’s see tomorrow…”
“Will we attack, my lord?”
“No, dear, let the weather turn bad, you’ll see.”
The steward again understood nothing…
One morning…
A fog as cold, damp, and thick as smoke from thousands of chimneys just extinguished had covered everywhere. The camp, banners, standards, tents, ash trees, horses—nothing, nothing at all could be seen. First the words of those calling each other were heard, then two phantoms, by following the sound, would meet in this white darkness. Arslan Bey had his horse prepared. Again alone, he would disappear toward the place he went every day.
He was so cheerful…
He had all officers and sergeants called. Everyone thought there would be an attack. As if holding a horse council, one foot on the ground, one foot in the stirrup, he said, “Aghas,” “today we’ll take the castle. I’ll come in about two hours. Now all of you get ready.”
The old artillery commander, whose face framed by his endless white, large beard seemed suspended in the fog, asked: “Shall I start firing before you come, my lord?”
Arslan Bey laughed: “No… We don’t need your two cannons’ cannonballs. Just make a lot of noise for us.”
“What kind of noise, my lord?”
“Don’t move your cannons from their places unnecessarily. Bring your artillerymen close to the castle walls. Make them shout at the top of their voices, ‘Heave, ho, heave…'”
“Don’t you understand? I only want noise.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Then he turned to the other officers: “You also bring all your soldiers close to these in battle formation. Make as much noise as possible. Make them shout ‘Heave, ho…’ Make them give labor cries. Make them sing work songs.”
Like the old artillery commander, the officers and sergeants didn’t understand anything from this order either. But they knew very well how to do without understanding.
“At once, at once.”
“Come on, but quickly…”
When they all separated two steps, they became invisible in the fog. When Arslan Bey mounted his stamping horse, to his steward holding the reins:
“You also run, take a man with you, immediately drive here the fifty buffaloes I collected at the Mill Farm in the rear. Keep them ready by the road going to the tower… Wait for me there. Go.”
“At once.”
“But quickly…”
The fierce horse, quickly spurred, rearing up, threw itself into the fog. With Arslan Bey, whose gold-embroidered caftan’s skirts resembled golden wings, it flew like a legendary bird.
A little later…
A deep noise whose origin was unclear was boiling in the fog, moving back and forth, approaching, receding, undulating. Kettledrum, shield, horn sounds were mixing with horse neighs, orders received, commands given were being repeated separately by hundreds of mouths. Soldiers who couldn’t see where they stepped were advancing in war formation in the smoke, shouting, repeating what they heard, touching each other with their elbows and shields.
From the right side, the artillerymen’s “heave, ho” were heard. The castle also understood from the noise surrounding it that the attack had begun. Horn, trumpet, hurrah sounds began to echo, sporadic pistol and rifle shots began. Scouts were going back and forth right to the base of the castle walls. It was being said among the ranks that the artillery commander had opened a large breach.
The soldiers, by officers’ orders, sat cross-legged where they were, waiting, making noise.
Finally Arslan Bey, with his horse soaked in sweat, appeared step by step among the war lines in the smoke. At each step he was saying: “My braves! As soon as the fog starts to clear, immediately be silent. All stand up at once, stand as if to attack. But don’t go forward. Don’t open fire either. I will make a surrender proposal to the enemy.”
The artillerymen’s, the laborers mixed with the artillerymen’s “heave, ho” cries were increasingly growing, enlarging, making the invisible mountains and rocks moan with hair-raising, excited echoes.
Toward noon the fog began to clear. The soldiers saw Šalgó with its swaying black and white flag like a phantom. Sounds ceased. A wind blowing from the north was dispersing the smoke; driving it toward the rear, toward the forests.
Now everyone could see each other.
They had approached the castle very closely. The soldiers searched for their commander with their eyes. He was riding his horse at the pass of the road going to the tower gate. Before the pass there was a large herd of buffaloes. At the top of the tower, men with shields and rifles were walking among the ramparts.
Brave Arslan Bey drove his gray horse forward. He approached about a hundred steps to the castle. His steward and young interpreter behind him ran…
He shouted with his loud voice: “Hey, Šalgó defenders! I am a descendant of Yahya Pasha, Governor of Bosnia, who captured great places from your king’s lands for my sultan’s grandfather. My ancestor Hamza Bali Bey, even when he was only fourteen years old, routed your armies, gained glory at the siege of Vienna, before Wienerberg. Whichever castle I’ve gone to, I haven’t returned. Just the other day, with two small cannons, I leveled Boza Tower to the ground. I spared the lives of your heroes like Mihal Tersi, Etyen Soşay, Andrenaki. I withdrew to the valley. I gave them way to pass and go. Come on. You also surrender. Don’t shed your blood needlessly…”
The interpreter, shouting at the top of his voice, repeated this proposal that the whole army heard along with the castle.
A deep silence…
Arslan Bey’s horse couldn’t stay still, was rearing up, stamping right and left, the steward was trying to hold its reins.
They gave an answer from the top of the tower. The interpreter repeated: “‘On what terms?’ they’re saying, my lord.”
Arslan Bey, with a harsher voice than before, shouted: “I have no terms. We don’t kill those who surrender. If you don’t surrender, in five minutes there won’t be a living man inside the castle. What you see on the pass of the road before you, what is it? Don’t you understand? Haven’t you heard from your fathers? With fifty buffaloes, the two cannonballs of this cannon I brought here destroyed thousands of Istanbul castles as strong as Šalgó. This is the cannon that took Istanbul… I will fire once. There’s no need for a second shot. Neither your castle nor yourselves will remain… I pity you…”
While the young interpreter was repeating these words again at the top of his voice, all the soldiers turned their eyes to the back of the road. They saw beside the buffaloes a long, big, very big, very thick, very black, very terrible cannon extended like a fearsome dragon. Sounds of joy rose among the ranks. Everyone was now understanding what Arslan Bey had been waiting for a week, so this cannon was coming…
A little later…
On the top of Šalgó, the ominous white flag, the shroud of honor and reputation, was waving. The iron gates had opened. The brick commander turned yellow with fear, the nobles with golden swords, the armored knights had knelt before Arslan Bey. The enemy whose weapons were taken was being tied two by two, being taken in groups to the back of the camp. From the valuable things inside the castle, a mountain was swelling in the middle; soldiers climbing to the top of the castle with red and green flags were shouting, dervishes among them were reading the call to prayer hanging from the walls, were calling takbir.
To the commander and his staff who had surrendered, Arslan Bey said, “Don’t be afraid. Your lives are spared. We don’t break the truce. Come, let me show you the cannon I brought here with fifty buffaloes.” When the interpreter repeated this, they all looked at each other. They both were curious to see this terrible, this fearsome instrument up close, and were hesitant. They followed behind Arslan Bey. They walked toward the great cannon.
When they approached, Arslan Bey said, “There,” “do you have such a cannon?”
The enemy commander answered through the interpreter: “No.”
“Why don’t you make it?”
“We don’t know.”
A large young knight asked the interpreter something. Arslan Bey said, “What’s he saying?”
“My lord, in how many days did he bring this cannon from Istanbul here?”
“You say: ‘He didn’t bring it from Istanbul. He made it himself here in a week.'”
When the interpreter said these words, the prisoners were dumbfounded. Arslan Bey had them told that he allowed them to approach closer and touch it with their hands, to see it more closely. The proud commander, the heroic nobles, the brave knights gathered around the great cannon. Arslan Bey, leaning one hand on the diamond handle of his dagger, with the other hand was smiling and twirling his handlebar mustaches, the steward behind him was doubled over with laughter scratching his head, the interpreter was stupefied. The sentries with spears standing twenty paces away were also laughing. The prisoners put their hands on the cannon. They searched for the hole. When they couldn’t find it, they turned pale. Then they blushed. They looked at each other. They remained like that. The castle commander, looking at the ground with his arms crossed, muttered trembling. Arslan Bey looked at the interpreter: “What’s he saying?”
“‘This isn’t honorable…’ he’s saying.”
“Ask him: ‘Is it honorable to immediately surrender out of fear of a cannon that hasn’t fired even once?'”
The interpreter asked.
The castle’s commander, raising his eyes from the ground, didn’t answer. The nobles, the knights couldn’t dare to look at each other’s faces; they froze in place as if struck by a sudden death blow.
This fearsome cannon that would destroy the castle with one cannonball was nothing but a huge log painted black!…
