by L.K. Hill
Chapter 37
Ivan woke long before dawn, buckled his too-big armor over his lean frame, and went into one of the church tents. The attack would begin soon, and his army needed all the help they could get. He spent the morning in prayer, especially to St. Sergius, who'd been spotted within the walls.
Men who escaped Kazan reported seeing a man inside Kazan sweeping the streets. The way they described him made him St. Sergius, one of Ivan’s favorite and personal saints. When the men approached Sergius and asked him why he swept the streets, he replied he would soon have many guests. Was this not proof the Russians would take the city? That God and his saints prepared the way for them?
Ivan didn’t know how long he’d been praying. His knees and ankles began to hurt, then went numb. He ignored the pain in favor of fervent prayer. He continually crossed himself, touched his forehead to the ground in front of the altar, and cried out prayers of acquiescence and pleas for guidance and mercy. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he begged God not to allow his past sins to influence the battle today. Sylvester’s words rang in his ears. He would not forgive himself if his people were lost due to his youthful merry-making.
The priest came to perform the morning service. Ivan listened patiently, trying to feel each word of the service in his heart and mind, knowing his devotion could change the course of history today.
“And there shall be one fold,” the priest was saying, “and one shepherd—”
The earth shook so violently, the icons and candles around the tent shuddered. Only then did Ivan’s ears register the boom—like being outside with thunder all around you. He ran to the door of the tent and threw back the flap.
A cloud of black smoke rose from the city. The first tower had been blown. Seconds later, another boom—like a thousand cannons all firing at once—and this time the icons tumbled.
Ivan hurried back to his place, falling onto his knees once more. “Priest, quickly, finish the service.”
“Well, I—” the priest hurried around the tent, righting icons and candles.
“One fold and one shepherd.”
“Of course, my lord. And there shall be one fold . . .”
A soldier entered. “My lord, the time has come for you to leave the tent. There is fierce fighting in the city and the soldiers are expecting you.”
“Finish the service. Christ Jesus will show us greater mercy and our prayers be swords against our enemies.”
The soldier did not complain. The service ended, and Ivan felt a desperation unlike any he’d ever known. The entire weight of a war, the lives embodied in his army, the history, honor, and freedom of his people pressed against his chest.
“Do not forsake me, O God. Do not abandon me,” he cried. “Help me.” He rose and went to the icon of St. Sergius, kissing it and letting his tears drip onto it. “Guard me with thy prayers,” he whispered. He took the holy sacraments, pressing the tokens reverently to his lips.
Then he followed the waiting soldier out of the church and onto the battlefield.
