“Briefly, the same as happened to all other cities that stand in the way of the Mongols. Perhaps worse than usual.”

“How did Illarion escape? He is not the sort to run away.”

“Aye, your judgment of his character is sound,” Cnán said. “He stood and fought. Was captured, along with many others of that city’s noble class, as well as clergy, merchants, and so forth. Mongols do not like to shed the blood of captives. It’s fine on the battlefield, of necessity, but they prefer to put prisoners to death bloodlessly. If it’s only one, or a few, they bring out a wrestler who breaks the spine. But that’s too slow for large numbers. So they bind their captives and force them to lie down in an open field, like a human carpet. While the poor people moan and plead, over this the Mongols throw planks, making a heaving floor. Then they ride their horses up onto the floor—though the ponies like it not a whit—and ride them back and forth…over and over…until the crying and moaning stops. The Mongols bray and babble and toast each other with their foul milk. Their young watch and dance like imps in hell. It’s a fine party,” she spat, and her eyes darted around the astonished circle. She put down her bread. “By the time the party’s over, most of the prisoners have been trampled to death. The ones who survive are too broken to move. Mostly dead, mostly broken,” she added, fingering the bread again. Her stomach twitched and she shook her head. “Enough.”

“This happened to Illarion?”

“Yes. And his wife and daughter. The next morning, while Onghwe Khan and his men were sleeping it off, a few black bones came around—”

“Black bones?” Feronantus asked.

“Mongols of lower caste. Tartars, Turks, some Ruthenians. They came to pull up the planks and take ears.”

“Ears?” Taran asked sharply.

Raphael explained, “It is how they count the enemy dead.”