Under the night sky, the Rus' people set up countless torches, illuminating the land as if it were day.
"Come, let us raise a toast to the victors."
"Long live Great Duke Rostislav! May his martial fame endure forever!"
The battlefield, which had been stained with blood during the day, was now a place of feasting and revelry for the Rus' people. Soldiers sat on the ground, enjoying the delicacies bestowed by the Great Duke, cheering for victory, and even more so for heroes.
This war had made everyone rich. The sheer number of treasures and livestock in the Polovtsy camps meant that everyone had gotten rich to some extent. The gold and silver wealth stimulated everyone's mood, making them even more excited.
Although the land was still covered in blood and the bodies of the Polovtsy were piled high in a nearby mass grave, the Rus' people did not care. Compared to the joy of victory, what was this minor discomfort? They were not pampered individuals; they were all battle-hardened soldiers, and blood and corpses were simply a part of their daily lives.
The thumping of drums and the low sound of brass horns rose simultaneously. There were no other instruments in the army, so people could only use these for their music, which had its own unique flavor.
Barrels of kvass were drunk dry in such unrestrained revelry, and countless roasted meats, cheeses, and breads were consumed, but new supplies would quickly be brought in to continue this feast that would last throughout the night.
However, for some, such a feast was still not joyous or exciting enough. A group of people, fueled by alcohol, cleared an open space and began their favorite pastime: brawling.
In this open space, two bare-chested strongmen were swinging their fists, attacking each other, while around them, soldiers gathered to watch the excitement. As the commotion grew louder, more and more people gathered to observe.
In this makeshift fighting arena, every successful attack from one side would be met with cheers. Of course, there was no shortage of curses; where there was brawling, there was betting, and where there was betting, there were people losing money.
In contrast, the generals of the army enjoyed a much more refined experience. They drank Moldavia wine specially supplied by the Great Duke and ate various delicacies sprinkled with spices. They even had seats, though they were just ordinary long tables and benches, usually used by common soldiers, but now these were a luxury for nobles.
The few prostitutes in the army served as attendants, moving among the noble warriors, filling their cups with fine wine, serving them food, and not forgetting to sway their hips and flirtatiously pose. These were all the powerful figures of Rus', and spending a night with them would certainly bring a reward. If one could catch the eye of a certain lord and become his lover, then she could escape her miserable life.
And these displays indeed aroused the desires of many warriors who had been fighting fiercely during the day. For men of battle, a woman's body was the best way to release their surging hormones. Some had already pulled attendants away, heading to their tents, while others, more impatient, simply found a patch of bushes and got straight to it.
However, most people did not have such thoughts. Compared to women, they cared more about the joyful feast of the day. This moment of revelry was a time to strengthen bonds between warriors and to socialize with Princes and nobles.
In front of the nobles, a Gael warrior with a scarred face was plucking his stringed instrument. No one knew his name, only that he came from the distant British Isles, but he had earned his place here with his excellent singing, chanting ancient poems. His face was shrouded in a hood, and a blue cloak covered his body.
"Alas, the years I have lived, where have they gone?
Is life merely a dream, or were they never real?
The things I once believed, did they truly exist?
Perhaps I was asleep, unable to articulate them one by one.
The children who once played with me are all old and walk with faltering steps.
The fields have been burned by fire, and the trees have all been cut down.
The rivers that should flow endlessly no longer flow.
The sorrow in my heart, this body can no longer bear.
The world appears beautiful on the outside, white, light green, and vivid red.
Once you look inside, this world is nothing but dark as death."
"Good, very good!"
When the last note fell, Great Duke Rostislav was the first to loudly praise. As the Great Duke had done so, others naturally followed suit, and applause and cheers erupted in unison.
The imagery of the poem brought tears to the Great Duke's eyes. He thought of the years he had lived, the schemes and campaigns, the failures and achievements, but now these held no meaning for this old man who was nearing his end. Everything seemed like a grand dream.
The poet, holding his instrument, bowed to everyone present in thanks. The Great Duke's attendant presented a bag of gold coins, a reward from Yaroslav. The poet accepted it and retreated amidst the clamor.
Soon after the poet left, the entire hall became incredibly noisy again. People boasted of their achievements, drank the Great Duke's wine in large gulps, and used it to wash down their food.
"Rostislav!"
The Great Duke wiped away his tears, composed his expression, and called out to his grandson, the greatest contributor to this war.
Prince Rostislav, who was just boasting and conversing about battlefield experiences with the young warriors beside him, immediately stood up. He knew the main event was coming; the Great Duke was about to introduce his grandson, who had achieved such great merit, to everyone.
Standing up, Prince Rostislav felt countless gazes upon him—gazes of envy, admiration, and even jealousy—but he accepted them all calmly. He had earned all of this with blood and fire; it was all what he deserved.
His offensive was the turning point of the battle, laying the foundation for victory. He had reclaimed the ancestral skull that his family had sought for years and presented it to the Great Duke. The merits he had achieved brought countless honors upon him, making him so brilliant.
"Come, kneel before me."
Prince Rostislav walked to his grandfather and knelt before him in full view of everyone. Yaroslav looked at his eldest grandson. He had not expected this child to achieve such great merit and fulfill the family's long-cherished wish, which made him sigh at how inscrutable God's will truly was.
"Rostislav, your glory has earned it for you."
The Great Duke waved his hand, and an attendant standing by approached, holding a tray. The Great Duke lifted the red cloth covering it, revealing the sparkling jewelry underneath.
Countless red and blue gemstones were set into a silver necklace, and hanging from that necklace was a delicate, small icon of the Virgin Mary holding the Child. This icon was made of gold thread, its frame was adorned with gold, and all four corners were set with emeralds.
Everyone gasped in admiration. Such a luxurious and exquisite piece of jewelry would be considered a treasure even in the emperor's treasury in the capital. This was even a treasure of Kiev, and now the Great Duke was going to give it to his grandson.
Many did not expect the situation to unfold this way. Many thought the Great Duke would only present gold or silver armbands or rings, but to bestow such a precious treasure! Many began to regard Rostislav with even greater importance, for the Great Duke's esteem was so evident.
The elder uncle's eyes were filled with admiration for his outstanding junior. For him, nothing was more gratifying than the flourishing talent within the family, while the second uncle's eyes held a complex expression. He simply silently tasted the Great Duke's wine, his heart a mix of emotions.
"Cheer for the victor."
"Hail! Hail! Long live Rostislav!"
Great Duke Rostislav roared, and everyone naturally followed suit. Their voices carried outwards, and the soldiers who heard them also began to shout his name. Gradually, everyone in the entire hall was cheering for him.