The propaganda woodcut, one of many lying on the table, portrayed a monster with a horned goat’s head, a tuft of hair on its chin and a hideous, scornful goat’s face. The monster was wearing something like a dalmatic on its shoulders, a flaming tiara on its horned head and slippers with crosses on its feet. It held a pitchfork in one hand and was holding the other in a gesture of benediction. There was an inscription over the beast: EGO SUM PAPA.

“Few people can read,” said Scharley, pointing at the words. “And the picture isn’t that distinct. How are simple folk to know it’s the Pope? Perhaps it’s Huss?”

“May God forgive your blasphemy!” Sýkora choked. “Ah… Folk will know, never fear. They—I mean the papists—print pictures of Huss. They—the blasphemers—depict him in the form of a goose with teeth. It has become established. Simple folk know: Beelzebub, a horned, goat-like devil, means the Roman Pope, while a goose with teeth means Huss. Ah, and there’s your escort, reporting for duty.”

The escort had lined up on the parade ground in a somewhat ragged line. It consisted of ten thugs. Their faces were loathsome. The rest of them, too. They resembled a pack of thieves and marauders armed with whatever they could scrounge and dressed in whatever they could filch. Or find on a dust heap.

“Ah, here are your men, at your command from now on,” the deputy head of the propaganda department said, pointing at them. “From the right: Jewel, Cheapjack, Warrior, Dung, Beetle, Ostrich, Dunnock, Bag, Pea-Muncher, Mořic the Scrapper.”

“May I,” Scharley said in the baleful silence, “request a word in private?”

“Ah?”

“I won’t ask,” the penitent drawled when they were alone, “if these gentlemen’s names are their own or aliases. Although in principle I ought to look into it, since one can judge bandits by their nicknames and noms de guerre. But never mind. I wish to ask about something else: I know from Sir Reinmar Bielawa that Brother Neplach promised us a solid and reliable escort. An escort! What kind of a rabble is lined up over there? Is it the bloody Cherethites and Pelethites? Dick, Prick, Shitter and Crapper?”

Hašek Sýkora’s jaw jutted out menacingly. “Brother Neplach ordered me to give you men,” he snapped, “and what are they, eh? Birds of the sky, perhaps? Or fish of the sea? Frogs of the marsh? Not at all. They are men. The men I can spare at the moment. There aren’t any others. You don’t like them, ah? You’d prefer, ah, big-breasted women? Or Saint George on a horse? Lohengrin on a swan? I’m sorry, nothing doing. They’ve all gone.”

“But—”

“Are you taking them or not? Make your mind up.”