Zizka was a famous general in Bohemia who formulated the military code of conduct we use today. He also mounted light cannon on wagons that could be horse-drawn into a circle, forming a mobile fortress, much copied in the pioneer settlements of the US and South Africa, and enlisted women in his army. Zizka is also remarkable because he was completely blind and died, not in battle, but of the plague shortly before his last, and unsuccessful, battle. He is revered in Eastern Europe.
After they had disobeyed me and put the defenders of Nemecky Brod to the sword, I insisted they do penance and did penance myself along with them, to show them how serious I was. My knees were scarred for weeks afterwards. They knew then not to disobey me. The deaths of the defenders were partly my responsibility and so I shared the consequences, along with my men. I, too, have suffered in battle as they have. I was never a leader who led from the safety of his castle; I was always right there alongside them. What must they be thinking now? I heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles some while ago. They will have broken camp and gone. They know I would be with them if I could. Marek will have told them. I trust Marek.
So it has come to this. The battle rages on ahead and I am to die here, not in my own bed in the castle they christened Chalice, but here in this bare room in the guard house at Pribyslav, with its dusty boards and straw palliasse. God knows how many other unfortunate men have slept on it for their sins. The fleas in here were hungry enough for ten men. I should have made Marek come in here first and maybe I wouldn’t have been bitten so much. A bell chimes somewhere outside in the square, a horse gallops by and Anneka makes a clatter with the dishes. My body stinks. I wonder if they sent for the doctor?
I will dream of Litomefice; of the river winding through fertile fields and orchards, the grapes and the golden barley, and those long hot summers I shall never see again. What am I doing here?
Where’s that water? No dignity left. I feel nausea and my head is pounding. A little water. There. I lie back. It’s suddenly cold in here. I’m shivering. It’s the fever. I can feel it all slipping out of my grasp, all of it. How much time have I left? Minutes? Hours?
They say it’s only a matter of hours between the buboes appearing and a man’s death. I have done more than most people in my life. Who would have thought a blind man could be in charge of such an army? I showed them a thing or two!
Now I shall sleep.
Currently there are no comments related to "The Last Reminiscence of General Zizka". You have a special honor to be the first commenter. Thanks!
Welcome to Authspot, the spot for creative writing.
Read some stories and poems, and be sure to subscribe to our feed!
