Dust and dirt hung over the clearing. Two armies facing each other raised it. On one side stood warriors dressed identically, along with a small group of cavalry on a hilltop towering above them. They wore rather primitive, yet always protective, armor. They also protected their bodies with wooden shields. They held spears, swords, and axes pointed at their opponents. Their eyes sparkled with mockery. On the other side stood a group of peasants dressed in various attire. Malicious shouts escaped their lips incoherently, encouraging them. Some were painted in strange colors, which, in their opinion, added to the menacing appearance of their faces. In reality, they were merely caricatures of true warriors.
These were pagan inhabitants of the hills and forests, yearning for the return of their deities and the expulsion of the God of warriors and nobles. They believed their gods would help them achieve success in battle. However, one didn't have to be a brilliant strategist to fail to recognize whose side would ultimately win this battle. Prince Bezprym, standing among the cavalry, looked with contempt at the colorful ranks of pagans. He was certain of victory in this desperate need. And he desperately needed it. Thanks to this, he would once again be able to demonstrate something to himself and everyone around him. What a skilled strategist and brilliant ruler he was. Yes, this conviction was very useful to him. He had to prove something not only to himself.
His greatest anger was at the decision of his late father, Bolesław, known in the Great Nation. How could he have chosen a son who wasn't his firstborn to succeed him? Had he acted contrary to all laws? That bastard Mestko had taken away his rightful domain? And had he designated him for the clergy? Oh, it was impossible. Just six years after his brother's accession to power, Bezprym, allied with Emperor Conrad II and Duke Yaroslav the Wise, regained his rightful position as duke. While he had to relinquish the royal crown his father had acquired, this was, in his opinion, too high a price for gaining power. The time for its restoration would come.
He knew, of course, that his wretched brother would not submit to his will and would plot against him, but he was confident of his success in this dispute. For now, however, he had to consolidate his newly acquired power. This was not easy. Longings for pagan beliefs still lingered in the peasantry. Not everyone agreed with the laws introduced by his great grandfather, Mestek, and the faith that had become dominant since his reign. For some time now, a pagan revolt had been raging in the country, likely quietly supported by his brother. However, Bezprym had no intention of yielding. His troops, along with imperial reinforcements, effectively fought against the rebels. They spared neither women nor children.
The trail of his army's advance was marked by the corpses of all those unlucky enough to encounter them in the forests. Of course, there were attempts at resistance, but they were doomed from the start. Such was the case here. The rebellious pagans tried to protect their village from Bezprym's army's arrival. But what chance did a group of peasants, often defended by thick branches, have against the well-prepared warriors? Some of them possessed excellent bows and spears designed for game, but compared to the prince's men-at-arms, they seemed insignificant. Bezprym already smiled inwardly at the thought of how he would allow his warriors to roam free in those huts, after covering the clearing with peasant corpses.
His warriors also needed motivation to continue fighting. And what better way could they find than to satisfy their masculine needs on captives? It's an age-old law, after all, and shouldn't surprise anyone. However, this pleasure wasn't destined for Bezprym. Even as a youth, he was deprived of his male member by a dog and was therefore destined for the priesthood by his father. For how could someone be a ruler who could leave no heirs? This was inconsistent with the family's vision of ruling. This was the decision of his great father. Yet no one asked Bezprym about it. No one cared about his plans and intentions.
Therefore, he seemingly accepted his father's decision without a word and with humility. Yet he patiently waited for his time. Finally, it came. The defeat of Mestek in Lusatia, along with the Czech attack on Moravia, was the straw that broke the camel's back. Proclaiming a desire to put state affairs in order, he entered the lands he believed were his due. The magnates and warriors joyfully welcomed the new ruler, who could bring them the desired peace. And so, seemingly, it first happened. Initially, Bezprym presented himself as the one who would bring peace and prosperity to all. He truly had a vision of creating a land flowing with milk and honey. He wanted to achieve this. He had to first establish peace. It wasn't easy. It turned out that Mestek's escape didn't mean the situation calmed down at all. The peasants, incited by him, likely started a pagan rebellion, which Bezprym, along with the imperial troops, had to suppress.
Bezprym gave the signal to attack. In truth, the clash required no tactical skills. The usurper's troops, vastly superior in both numbers and weaponry, clashed with the village's defenders in the field. The battle turned into a massacre. Attacked by the warriors, the peasants desperately defended themselves, yielding to the superior force. More and more bodies littered the green clearing. Only the terrifying certainty that, in the event of defeat, their families would be abandoned to the warriors' whims kept the rebels from fleeing. However, the inevitable happened. Everyone lay sprawled on the grass soaked in their blood. Stimulated by the smell and fumes of battle, the warriors burst into the settlement's huts. Soon, the cries of raped women and the gurgles of slaughtered old men and children rang out.
Bezprym gazed ahead with pride. This was it. Another famous necessity for his successes would be recorded.
He knew that no one would survive his warriors' entertainment. Well, that was the price of gaining and maintaining power. Not too high, after all.
Finally, an unnatural silence and peace reigned. Exhausted by the day's toil, the heroic warriors wordlessly gathered around their lord. They knew they would spend the night in the field. They wanted to change their campsite as quickly as possible. No one was happy to sleep with cut-up corpses in the huts of a conquered village. Bezprym waved:
"Worthy warriors. Our posterity will praise your work. Today you have won a great victory. Honor and glory to you. On the wagons behind me lies the drink due you. I invite you."
They didn't allow themselves to be told twice. Soon, jugs full of mead began to circulate among those gathered in the field. Bezprym drank too. His soul carried joyful songs to the heavens. He did not yet know the law, however, that when waging a fratricidal war, one must keep an eye on everyone and everything. Despite all his cruelty, he lacked the cunning a good ruler should possess. He did not carefully observe what those seated nearest him were doing. He did not see a few mysterious drops being surreptitiously poured into the jug handed to him. Gratefully, he took the jug full of delicious wine from the hands of his trusted warrior. He tipped it to his lips. Greedily drinking the sweetish liquid, he suddenly felt a terrible heat burning in his stomach. He felt a sharp hook tearing at his insides. He doubled over and fell to the ground, blood pouring from his mouth.
His fading consciousness was met with the words spoken by the same courtier who had served him the drink:
"Warriors, we will not murder our brothers.
Let the one designated by Bolesław the Great take power. Honor be to Mestek."
These were the last words he heard in his bloody life. The attempt to disrupt the normal course of history ended in a disastrous defeat for the would-be monk. It would be better for everyone to humbly accept what fate gives them, without considering what they might want from it...
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