The history of Stephen the Great
Preface
- Nicolae Iorga -
On July 2, 1504, Stephen the Great was dying of a gentle death in Suceava, in the perfect great peace that was pouring over the whole country on the strong pillars of his victories.
For the last time the gates of the fortress opened before the one who had fought courageously the hardest battles. The boyars on horseback, dressed in silk clothes and gold, some old as their master fallen asleep, others in all their old age or in the confident rise of the youth, surrounded the coffin wrapped in expensive cloths. The soldiers' spears rose straight into the serene air, a summer day’s radiant air. The procession passed through the fields heavy of wealth, on the way to the Putna Monastery.
From the watchtower above the gate the bells rang out in mourning. The whole council of Moldavia, under the glittering mitres of precious stones, the metropolitan, the bishop of Roman, also the metropolitan of the Lower Moldavia (Southern Moldavia – n.t.), the bishop of Rădăuți, the abbots who had been able to gird up for this long journey were receiving, chanting hymns of forgiveness, the master of all. Eternal remembrance was deemed for him who had become worthy to be remembered by his people for ever and ever. Then the darkness of the grave was shadowing more and more the commanding face, now serene, and the old man's sparse white hair. And, as the tears ran down the roughest cheeks, the beautiful slab of carved marble sealed the little tomb in which the remains of the Great One still fit.
He had ruled for almost fifty years, half a century. He had come young, in the storm of invasion, to avenge his people, to establish his life, and to draw a wall of bravery around his inherited land. Since then all the roads to the enemy's borders had been beaten by the hooves of his army's horses. But over his wonderful sword he pressed a sure hand, controlled by a good thought. He always felt sorry for the blood of the people shed in vain.
He brought with him the order and the good rule. That army, he had coagulated, whose flags fluttered over his coffin, he made it like a single weapon meant to always win. To the boyars who accompanied him before taking his decisive farewell, he had established their governing functions and rights. Harvesting the red weed of times of hardship and iniquity, he had cleansed the dust that had drunk the innocent blood, lowering into it the holy foundations of the church. To the bishops who were now praying to God for his soul, he had put the miter on their heads, after he knew that it was proper for them to wear it.
His thought of wisdom was at last extinguished, or rather it descended as a ray of joy upon all, passed as a blessing on the riches of the fields, and trembled as a threat to the enemies of the future through the leaves of the forests that had protected and waged the victorious battles. But his voice could no longer be heard, and his icon was no longer in front of anyone.
And the candle lit above his grave was sometimes extinguished on bad days. Hands of thieves rummaged in the holy tomb.
But his memory always shone in the great church of the nation's conscience. Sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but no strong wind could put it out. And today it rises strong, in the great flame of pride and gratitude that starts from all our hearts at the commemoration of the four hundred years since the death of the powerful serene emperor of Romania.
