Three Arched Bridge

36

THE MARCH DAYS rolled by like chunks of ice. Nobody could remember such a bitterly cold spring in years. The news about the Orikum base at Vloré was true. The decision to hand over the Byzantine portion of the base to the Turkish Empire was proclaimed by special decree in the two imperial capitals, Constantinople and Brusa.

The news caused deep despair everywhere. It was said that the courts of Europe could not believe that ancient Byzantium could submit to such an indignity. Some made allowances, saying that this was at present the only way of staving off the Turkish monster. At present… But later?

News came from Vloré of preparations for the evacuation of the Byzantine warships. Apparently the base would be vacated very soon. The Scandinavian garrison too was preparing to make way for the Turks.

The elderly prince of Vloré kept his army mobilized. They said that he himself was seriously ill but was keeping his illness secret.

As if these dark clouds were not enough^ the bards at the Inn of the Two Roberts continued singing about the sacrifice that must be made at the bridge.

Work proceeded feverishly on the bridge. Ever since I had heard the most recent ballad’ in which the immured victim cursed the bridge to perpetual trembling, it seemed to me that the bridge had really begun to shake.