Ismail Kadare - Elegy for Kosovo

All the evidence points to the fact that the Turkish sultan was probably not killed by the Balkans but by his own people under mysterious circumstances, possibly as the result of a secret conspiracy that had been hatched some time previously. This seems to have resulted from two factions that had recently surfaced in the palace: one faction insisting that the empire center itself in Asia, the other that it expand westward. Since, according to facts already verified, Prince Yakub, like his father, supported the Asian faction, both his murder and that of his father point to political intrigue. From this standpoint, the assassination of the sultan and the heir apparent has been to our disadvantage, because it has opened the way for Ottoman aggression against us.

SUPPLEMENT TO THE REPORT

The above statement is further validated by the symbolism behind the sultan’s partial interment on the Plains of Kosovo. The bizarre decision that the monarch’s body be taken to the Ottoman capital but that his blood and intestines should be buried in the Christian soil of Kosovo has a clear significance. As is commonly known, the ancient Balkan people believed that everything linked with blood is eternal, imperishable, and guarded by fate. The Turks, who had at that point interacted with the Balkan people for over half a century, had apparently assimilated some of this symbolism. By pouring the monarch’s blood on the Plains of Kosovo, they wanted to give that plain, just as they had done with the invasion, a direction, a fatality, both a curse and blessing at the same time; in other words, a “program,” as one would call it today.

He had never before been on the losing side in a war, but nevertheless, late that afternoon, the first cracks began to appear. He closed his eyes wearily, but when he opened them again the view was still the same: soldiers and officers spinning in all directions as if caught up in a whirlwind. Two or three times he heard his name being shouted — Gjorg Shkreli! — but he was quick to realize that it was just his imagination. He didn’t recognize a single person in the confusion — he had lost sight of his Albanians since noon. On a battlefield the minstrels are always the last to fall, Prince Lazar had said the preceding night, and gave the order that they should all gather on a small mound not far from his tent — the Serbs with their guslas, the Walachians and the Bosnians with their flutes, and the players of the one-string lahuta from the Cursed Peaks — so that they could all follow the battle without risking their heads. “Those minstrels have always been the darlings of fate!” one of the men said with a faint smile and a twinkle of envy in his eyes, but the prince was quick to point out, “If we lose them, who will sing our glory?”

All afternoon the minstrels stood outside the commander in chief’s tent, their eyes at times clouded with tears as they watched the troop movements.

A scorching blanket of heat lay over the Plains of Kosovo, immersing them in a harsh, dreadful light. In the crazed glare the movements of the troops did not seem to make sense. The minstrels heard shouts of triumph from the commander in chief’s tent when, under the pressure of the Christian forces, the center of the Turkish lines started to bend back like a bow. The shouts came several times, but the minstrels could not figure out what was happening. With eyes grown weary from the light they struggled to follow the movement of the banners bearing crosses that were being slashed to pieces by the Turkish crescent. The harsh light spread a great dread. Just as the intoxicating wine had the night before. “They are advancing too far!” an old Bosnian minstrel said. The preceding night he had warned that no one must drink before going into battle, not even princes.

More shouts came from Prince Lazar’s tent as a horde of Serbs on horseback came thundering past. The soldiers following them told the minstrels the reason for the jubilation: the horses’ hooves were covered in honey and rice — the Christian army had cut so deep into Turkish lines that it had reached its rear guard and crushed the barrels containing their provisions.

Here and there shouts of triumph could be heard, but Gjorg Shkreli could not shake off his apprehension. And always that harsh. Intoxicating light that would not leave him in peace.

He soon noticed that he was not the only one to be uneasy. The horses of the heroes who had just been cheered seemed suddenly to slow down, hobbled by the honey as they stumbled back in the direction from which they had just come.

He stared again at the swirling banners over the swarm of soldiers. And it was in the sky that he thought he noticed the first sign of disaster. The silk of the banners was faltering and the crosses and the ornate lions and the crowned eagles no longer showed their former conviction. But the Ottoman crescents were rising with greater force. He could not escape the childish, illogical thought of how these lunar crescents, so undaunted by the blinding sun, would really come into their own as night fell.

There was a clamor to the right of Prince Lazar’s tent, but with his attention focused on the battlefield Gjorg did not manage to turn around in time. It was only when he heard someone shout — “The commander in chief is moving out!” — that he realized what had happened.

“What about us?” Vladan, the Serbian minstrel, called out, “What are we supposed to do?”

The prince was not setting out on a glorious counterattack. He was relocating his camp, but nobody was prepared to tell the minstrels what this meant,

Gjorg tried to bolster himself with the idea that a commander in chief’s relocation during a battle was nothing out of the ordinary, but his anxiety did not diminish,

The prince’s empty tent was filled with the wounded. The cries grew ever louder. The minstrels began running about in panic, clutching their instruments, which had suddenly become a burden,

“I’m going to see if I can find my Walachians!” one of them shouted,

The other minstrels immediately began scouring the battlefield, searching for their banners,

Vladan’s eyes filled with tears. It came as no surprise that people should be left behind in this confusion, he thought, but surely not a Serb of his distinction, who had stood outside the tent of Prince Lazar.

Gjorg, like the other minstrels, was also peering at the banners, looking for the Albanian eagles. He cursed himself for not having watched Count Balsha’s troop movements on the plain, or at least those of Jonima. Now it was too late to find them.

The drums of the two sides were still beating. Gjorg finally made out the Albanian banners, but their black and white eagles seemed harried, as if chased by a thunderstorm.

“Protect us, Mary Mother of God!” he silently prayed.

He started retreating like the others, without knowing where to. Someone shouted: “The Turks are attacking from this side!” Others shouted words that might have been taken for orders but quickly changed into laments. Again he lost sight of the banners with the Albanian eagles, but still he continued moving. “What a calamity!” someone shouted. “Turn back!” another yelled, but no one knew anymore which way was forward and which was back. King Tvrtko’s banner veered to the left of the battlefield. Then for an instant Prince Lazar’s banner appeared in a dust cloud right next to the menacing crescents.

Everyone ran. Unknown men, short swords in hand, glared with wild eyes. Gjorg had lost all hope of finding his Albanians.

His mind a blank, he turned back to where he had just come from, to the abandoned tent of the commander in chief. He came face to face with Vladan. Vladan was sobbing, tearing at his hair: “Prince Lazar has been captured! Serbia is dead!”