guard at the lower gate, of Troskowitz
“I keep a sharp eye on the tree line while the rest of these whoresons sleep on their feet. I know my way around a spear.”
Things Frantishek had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Saint John before the Latin Gate, at Vespers
Anna Brook wants five groschen from me because her rotten lean-to timber snapped when I leaned on it. I told the nagging harpy to ask her absentee landlord Osbert in Prague. The damp winter rotted it through, not me. I will not pay a single penny.
Nota scribaeDictated in the street, with much pointing of fingers.
the Monday after Easter week, at Prime
Another morning jabbing a spear at wooden targets in the mud. I am the only man in this garrison who knows how to hold a line. If the Cumans came out of the trees right now, Lawrence would drop his spear and run, and Tobias would be sick on his own boots.
the Friday before Palm Sunday, at Compline
I cannot sleep for the noise in my head. Every time I shut my eyes I am back in the pitch dark by that creek, hearing the Hungarian bastards in the trees. Prokop should still be here sharing this sour wine. Some men break formation and leave their brothers in the mud to die.
The line was already broken, Frantishek. You were just as scared as the rest of us that night.
You ran first, Robert. You left him to the swords. You are a coward.
Pray for his soul, my son, and let the anger go. The Lord judges all.
Nota scribaeThe man smelled strongly of vinegar wine and spoke with a wet face.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Sext
The quartermaster fed us boiled cabbage and grey pork again. It is no wonder half the barracks is shivering and sickly. I stood the morning watch on the eastern road freezing to the bone. At least when I am on the wall I do not have to look at Robert's face.
Candlemas, at Terce
I lit a candle for Prokop today at the church. It is a bitter cold morning and the mud is frozen hard as iron. I keep thinking about how he died unconfessed in that ditch. Saint Wenceslas protect us from dying in the dark with no priest.
He was a good lad, Prokop. We all miss him in the barracks.
Nota scribaeDictated beside the church door. He made the sign of the cross three times.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You fell against it like a drunken ox, Frantishek. Pay what you owe or find another tavern.
Your sour wine made me stumble, and the wood was already dust. Fix it yourself.