Citadels of Fire

by L.K. Hill

  Chapter 29

  Moscow, May 1548

  Taras scratched his beard, trying not to shift in frustration. The meeting had run long. Important? Yes. Interesting? Not especially. Having been a member of the Chosen Council for nearly a year, Taras had become used to long, dry, political problems. The only meetings of this kind in which he took much interest were the ones concerning military matters, because his expertise was valued.

  Not that he wasn’t interested in Russia’s trading practices, international relations, or social reforms. He possessed enough education to have an opinion on such things, but others on the council were far better qualified to speak of them, so Taras was overlooked on these matters. Today’s subject had to do with the copying of manuscripts, a task generally left to the church scribes. Apparently, they weren’t always as accurate as they should be, and bad manuscripts were being circulated. Since many of them had to do with scripture, this was a serious problem, and Ivan was determined to remedy it.

  “Every manuscript must be checked against the originals,” the tsar said. “Only accurate copies may be used.”

  Ivan enjoyed good health. Round-faced and red-cheeked, his frame had filled out. Unlike Taras, he was still clean-shaven, but then he was still a boy by most men’s standards.

  Taras began letting his beard grow not long after the Burning of Moscow. Nikolai told him of the talk at court. Russians were extremely superstitious—Taras learned that quickly—and they believed it a sin to shave one’s beard. Boys were one thing, but Taras now claimed thirty winters, and the Russians thought it improper for him to have a smooth face. Taras preferred to keep himself shaved—his beard always grew in itchy—but he wanted to be accepted, and shaving was not a pillar of his personal code of ethics.

  So, he grew a beard. Not a long, thick thing, fanning over his chest as the Russians wore theirs. Rather, he kept it clipped close to his jaw and well groomed. If it wasn't exactly what they had in mind when they criticized him, at least they accepted it as an “English style” beard. They respected him more for it.

  The past year had been filled with the tasks of rebuilding Moscow, and trying to secure peace with Kazan. Everyone felt certain Russia would go to war against the Tatars. There were constant border skirmishes, and the tsar led three different forces into their country, but it hadn’t come to open battle. Instead, the tsar built a Christian city—Sviazhsk—on a hill outside Kazan, right in the middle of infidel territory. He laid siege to Kazan long enough to gain support from inside and put a puppet Khan on the throne, one loyal to Russia.

  Furthermore, the city of Sviazhsk served as a way station for trade between Moscow and its eastern conquests, as well as a military outpost should war ever ensue. It seemed Ivan had acquired peace without loss of a single Russian life.

  Then, another upset. Khan Shigaley murdered his own nobles to secure absolute power. They rioted and demanded a less blood-thirsty ruler. Ivan deposed Shigaley and sent a viceroy in his place. Prince Simeon Mikulinsky travelled to Kazan even as Taras sat in this boring meeting.

  Taras had the feeling that peace with Kazan would always be elusive, but it was under control for now.

  “Well,” Sylvester, who conducted the meeting, said, “are there any more items to be discussed?”

  No one answered, and Taras was grateful.

  The meeting adjourned, and benches were pushed back with loud screeches of wood on wood. Taras picked up his coat and headed for the door. He wanted to see Inga before he went out again.

  “Your Grace!”

  The outburst sounded so desperate, Taras whirled around in alarm. Several others of the Council reacted the same way, putting hands to swords before realizing it was Ergorov, followed by Makary, the Metropolitan.

  “What is it?” Ivan demanded, looking as taken aback as everyone else.

  “My lord, the Tatars have revolted again.”

  “What?”

  “The viceroy dallied on his way to the city, and others ran ahead of him, spreading rumors that he and his retinue would murder the Tatars in their own cities. When he got there, they had barred the gates. They won’t let him in. They are determined to defend themselves against Russian rule.”

  “It is worse, Your Highness,” Makary spoke now. The Metropolitan had a grave, authoritative voice that matched his lean figure and stark white hair.

  The tsar, who slumped upon hearing Ergorov’s news, straightened, putting his shoulders back. “Tell me.”

  “Sviazhsk has become a den of iniquity. All of Russia rejoiced when you proclaimed that the Tatars release their Russian slaves, and thousands of Russians poured out of Kazan into their homelands. Now, many of them are enjoying their freedom in the spring weather of Sviazhsk. It has become as Sodom and Gomorrah. The men are even shaving off their beards to please their concubines. It is madness, my lord. It must be stopped.”

  “We must put an end to it, before the Almighty is once again displeased.” This was Sylvester’s deep, resonating voice. Despite the relative warmth in the room, a collective shiver went through the council members. No one wanted to deal with another “punishment” of the magnitude of last year’s fire.

  Ivan nodded. “We will. Holy Father,” he addressed Makary, “collect the icons. You and I will pray and offer penitence. Then a holy man must go to Sviazhsk. It shall be blessed, sprinkled with holy water, and rid of its sinners. I know your age makes travel difficult. If you cannot go, another may be appointed in your stead.”

  The Metropolitan bowed in acquiescence. Taras watched Makary closely. Makary appeared amenable to the tsar’s wishes, but when Ivan turned away, his eyes shifted up to the tsar in irritation. He disliked being told what to do. Blessings were the business of the church, not the secular ruler.

  Taras had seen it before: the monarchy and the clergy in a constant struggle for power at court. It was no different than in England. Taras had not been a ranking member of the English court, so he didn’t register the conflict until he came to Russia.

  “It is clear, however,” Ivan addressed the council, “that prayers and holy water will not solve the problem of Kazan. I am sick of these back-and-forth tactics. I will not spend another year as I did the last one—constant skirmishes, marches that come to nothing, continuous unrest and insecurity. No! The time has come. We will march on Kazan and end this once and for all.”