Like a dog that’s been chastised by its master, Lishka turns and does as he’s been told. But he’s not happy. His eyes are smouldering with fury.
I face the official again and smile. ‘Forgive my servant. He does not always know when to speak. But thirty ounces? It seems …’
The official makes a face, as if he’s considering matters. Then, with a little shrug, he nods and a kind of smile appears on his lips, if not in his eyes. His eyes are still cold and calculating. They look past me at the loaded cart, as if to assess just how much he can take me for. Finally he folds his arms and nods.
‘Let it never be said that the Steward of Rzhev is an ungenerous man. Our laws state that a man must have an authorised pass before he can trade in the marketplace at Rzhev. Such laws cannot be bent or broken. Yet I can see a way, perhaps, where local law can be satisfied.’
I smile at him. ‘Go on.’
‘There is a meeting tonight. Of the veche. If they could be persuaded somehow to … endorse your existing pass, then maybe we could reduce the required fee. Then everyone would be happy, no?’
Lishka makes to speak, but I silence him. ‘Lishka!’
I smile my apologies to the official, then nod. ‘We are to attend this meeting, I take it?’
‘Indeed, but until the matter is decided, it might be best to place your cart under our protection. For the benefit of all.’ And again he smiles, his eyes – cast and all – like ice.
Lishka, I know, is about to burst a blood vessel, but I merely smile and bow to the man. ‘That would be most kind. We can keep our packs, I take it?’
I can see that he’d rather we didn’t, but my very politeness – which seems to be playing directly into his hands – makes him concede. ‘Of course. Until tonight, then.’
And with that he turns and, moving through his little entourage, walks away.
I watch him go, then take our packs from inside the cart. And not a moment too soon, as his men come over to the cart and, without asking my leave, begin to trundle it away.
‘Take good care!’ I call to them. ‘If anything’s missing you will have your master to answer to!’
There’s muted laughter at that from the men, and at any other time I’d be worried, only it doesn’t matter. There’s a supply dump only a few miles from here and I can replace the whole lot if I need to. No, what matters is to get that pass and hire a boat, because I need to be in Tver’ before the snows fall.
Lishka, however, is incandescent with anger. ‘How could you let him do that, Otto? Thirty pieces of silver! Mother of God! The man’s a thief!’
‘Maybe. But let’s deal with that later. Right now let’s find us an inn and some food.’
Lishka narrows his eyes, my very calmness alerting him to the fact that something must be going on in my head. He lowers his voice, so that the mob won’t hear.
‘You have a plan, Meister?’
I smile and nod. ‘Oh, I have a plan, Lishka. I always have a plan.’
189
Only I don’t. Not this time. Not unless you consider giving in and abandoning the cart a plan. Which I guess you could, seeing as I have duplicates not far away. Only how do I explain all that to Lishka?
As sorcery, of course.
Lishka finds us an inn, run by what he calls ‘the only honest man in all of Rzhev’.
The man’s half-oriental – a silk-trader, I learn, in his youth – and he goes by the name of Dmitri. It’s not his birth name, which he’ll tell to no one, but in this part of Russia it’s fit in or move on, and so he has adopted a Russian name and Russian ways, and thus is tolerated, if not much liked, by his neighbours.
The food is none too bad, either, and his ale is good, even if our accommodation proves spartan. But then, this is thirteenth-century Russia and to hope for anything better would be pointless.
Besides, as long as Katerina is beside me, it doesn’t matter.
The official clearly has been having our movements watched, for his messenger finds us without trouble, and I am told to present myself at sundown at the great lodge, which is in the centre of the town. Lishka, I’m told, is not required to attend.
Lishka, fuelled now by several pots of ale, is almost bear-like in his anger. He growls and prowls about the room, and curses the local boyars, calling them thieves and villains. He would rather burn their great lodge to the ground than have me step inside and trust to their untender mercies. But it’s my choice. Besides, I want to see the kind of men that Prince Alexander has appointed here, for it’ll give me some clue as to how to behave when we’re in Moscow.
You see, a ruler can be judged by the men he gives power to, and by what he permits, and if I’m to judge Nevsky and find a way into his confidence, then maybe I’ll find a few clues here.
As the sun begins to set, Katerina joins me once again in the main tap room of the inn. She has combed her hair and changed her dress and looks quite stunning. The deep blue of the cloth sets off her figure wonderfully. She’s showing now, but not enough to suggest more than a matronly plumpness. But her face glows with good health, such that one would not suspect how ill she really was, after the ambush.
Taking my arm, she walks beside me up the hill toward the lodge. And as we walk along, so people come outdoors to watch us, their curiosity naked. Bare-arsed children tail us the full length of our walk, crying out and running about us, tugging at our cloaks now and then, while their parents look on, envy in the women’s faces at Katerina’s looks and dress, hostility in the faces of the men.
Rzhev, I think. The devil’s made this place his home, for sure.
Guards bar our way at the main gate to the lodge and make us wait as night falls. We stand there, kicking our heels until, finally, we are admitted.
The official meets us just inside the compound that surrounds the lodge. It’s a tiny fort, I realise. A safe haven for the elite within the greater fortress. And that too speaks volumes, for these people know that their power depends on force, not popularity. As for our official, he greets us coolly, offering no greeting at all to Katerina, only a disdainful glance, before leading us through into the main banqueting hall.
It’s a poor show compared to Novgorod, but then, Rzhev has neither the wealth nor history of that greater northern town. Twenty men sit around a massive table, wearing their furs like badges of office – proof of their wealth, though a glance about the table reveals more than one fur that’s seen better days.
I bow my head, then wait, looking to the one among them who I can tell, from instinct, is their leader. And so it proves. He’s a small fellow, grey-bearded and almost delicate in his features, yet there is something in his eyes that gives him away; that marks him out as the one who has real power in this town. Even so, if you shaved away his beard, there would be nothing of him.
He stands, and as he does, so silence falls.
‘Nemets,’ he says, quietly but authoritatively, ‘I understand you require us to endorse your pass, to make it valid for Rzhev.’
‘That is so, Master.’
He likes that. Likes the reverence I’m paying him.
‘But I also understand that you find the fee … a little high, is that so?’
I hesitate. ‘Forgive me, Master. Were I my own man, I would not hesitate to pay what is due. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Half of my load belongs to the veche of Novgorod, and I must account to them for all payments.’ I smile, and look about the table. ‘Were I able to say to them that the veche of Rzhev was generous enough to reduce that fee then – who knows? – maybe other traders would make their way here from Novgorod.’
Surprisingly it’s not something any of them have considered, and for a while there’s a real buzz of conversation about the table. They clearly like the idea. Only they also like the idea of fleecing me. After all, what’s in the hand is real, while what’s promised …
The old man raises a hand, and they fall silent again. He looks at me and nods. ‘You speak well … for a Nemets. And I understand
that you’ve converted to the Faith.’
‘I have, Master.’
‘And yet … your beard. Or lack of one.’
‘It is the style of my people.’
‘Hmmm …’ He sits, considering a moment, then looks about him, as if seeking their approval before he speaks again. ‘Very good,’ he says suddenly. ‘We will halve the fee for the pass. Fifteen ounces of silver.’
‘And the pass, Master?’
‘Will be ready in a week or so. In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy our hospitality. Come, take a seat at table, Meister Behr. Let’s drink a toast and seal the deal. To good friendship. And to trade!’
190
And Katerina all this while? Much as it wounds my soul, she is ignored by them. It was a mistake to bring her, and not one of them goes so far as to even offer her a chair, let alone something to eat or drink, and when finally we leave, she has been standing there for three full hours.
Back in our room, I hold her close and whisper my apologies.
‘It’s okay, my love. It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t to know.’
‘No, but I should have guessed. It is the same in Novgorod, after all. The men eat and drink, while the women … the women stay behind the screen and wait.’
‘Otto, it’s okay, really it is.’
But I know it isn’t. It was the last thing she needed in her condition. And thinking that, I grow really angry with them. It makes me feel like riding roughshod over them all. Like taking my guns and …
A week! We must stay in this hellhole a full week at least before we get the pass!
That is the worst of it.
I get Dmitri to bring her food, and while she’s tucking into a bowl of soup and a loaf of fresh-baked bread, I find Lishka and tell him what happened.
Lishka’s anger at their treatment of Katerina mirrors mine, but he has some good news. It seems he’s found someone willing to take us up the Volga to Tver’. Someone reliable. We are to meet the following day, down at the harbour. Until then, there’s nothing to be done.
I return to the inn to find Katerina talking with Dmitri. I sit down, barely listening to them, brooding upon the situation. I’m tempted to hire the boatman, arrange to meet him somewhere upstream, then go and get the duplicate cart. Lishka, I’m certain, would go along with that. But the boatman? How reliable is reliable? Because I can’t afford to lose a second cart.
I decide to sleep on it. After all, I’ve yet to meet our friendly boatman. Once I have I’ll make up my mind.
‘Dmitri?’ I ask, interrupting them. ‘Has it always been like this in Rzhev?’
‘Always?’ Dmitri considers, then shakes his head. ‘No. But for a long time now. Some blame the young prince Alexander, but his father, Prince Iaroslav, is the real villain. And now that the Horde has come …’ Dmitri lowers his voice, as if even saying this might cause him great trouble. ‘Their baskaki was here in the spring. He and several dozen of his men. Big, fierce men. Horsemen from the far side of the world. They are to return and settle here, it seems. To farm the land and take their tamga.’
‘Tamga?’ Katerina asks.
Dmitri turns to her. ‘It is a tax. A tithe on everything we own, everything we make or sell. And the baskaki collects it for the Great Khan. Or rather, the veche does. For they’re afraid of the baskaki and his men. They have heard how Kiev was burned to the ground, and not a house, not a single person saved.’
‘It is true,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ Dmitri says, leaning closer, his voice going down to what is almost a whisper. ‘And that is why they seek to rob you, Nemets. Because the tamga is so great. They are greedy, yes, but they are also afraid.’
All the more reason for us to leave this place as soon as possible.
I sit back, lift my goblet and down the last of my ale, then stand, smiling down at Dmitri. The drink has made me tired, the talk depressed. ‘You are a good host, Dmitri,’ I say, and he gives me a little nod of acknowledgement.
We are about to retire to our room, when Dmitri’s boy comes in.
‘What is it?’ Dmitri asks kindly, one arm reaching out to embrace the lad.
The boy glances at me fearfully. ‘Masters Kilik and Podnayin are here. They say they wish to speak to the Nemets.’
‘At this hour?’ Dmitri gets up unsteadily.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll see them.’
Not that I have a choice.
The boy goes out, returning a moment later with two of the company I met earlier. They look to each other, and then the taller of them speaks. ‘Forgive us, Nemets, for the lateness of the hour, but we have been thinking of our meeting earlier. We felt you were a trifle, how should we put it … disappointed?’
I shrug, waiting for the man – Podnayin? – to elaborate.
The other – Kilik, I’m sure of it – now interrupts. ‘Only we felt we might be able to … help you. Smooth your way, if you like. Help hurry things along.’
I nod. ‘Go on.’
Podnayin glances at Katerina. ‘Also, we felt that maybe you found our hospitality somewhat lacking. Making your wife stand throughout. Talyzin sometimes forgets such small delicacies.’
Talyzin was the greybeard. The posadnik of Rzhev.
‘I’m grateful for your kind thoughts, but—’
‘No, hear me out. We wish to make amends for that oversight. To properly welcome you to Rzhev. If you – you and your wife, that is – would be our guests at my house tomorrow evening …’
I am surprised. More than surprised. But why? There must be good men, men with a conscience, even in such a place as this.
I smile and bow my head. ‘Thank you. That would be a great pleasure.’
Podnayin gives a nervous little smile. ‘I’m glad you think so.’ He looks to his friend, then bows his head to me. ‘I will send my man to fetch you. At sunset, yes?’
‘Yes, and thank you. I shall look forward to our meeting.’
When they are gone, Dmitri whistles through his teeth softly. ‘Well, well,’ he says. ‘Wonders never cease. I’d have put those two down for rogues. But there you are.’
I shrug. ‘Maybe they see a possible advantage in being kind?’
‘Maybe.’ But Dmitri falls silent.
Alone with Katerina, I find myself thinking through the alternatives. If those two can smooth my path, then maybe there’ll be no need to cut loose. They seemed contrite enough. But Dmitri’s comments nag at me, and I begin to wonder whether this is not simply another ruse to make me part with my silver.
If so, then I’ll confront that at the time.
Katerina turns into me, snuggling against me in the darkness. ‘Otto?’
‘Yes, my love?’
‘Are you plotting something?’
I laugh quietly. ‘Why are you so sure I am?’
‘Because …’
I’m quiet for a while, then, quietly, whispering in the dark, I begin to share my thoughts.
191
The boatman is a small man named Schelepin. Lishka and I examine his boat, then take him to the harbourside inn and buy him beer while a deal is agreed. I like him, and when Lishka suggests we go and check up on the cart, I ask Schelepin to accompany us, which he does with great delight. Though he expresses no opinion on the matter, I sense that he finds officials as much of a pain as we do.
The cart, Lishka’s discovered, is in the compound by the lodge. We go there and ask to look at it, but no one is willing to allow us in, and we are told that the official we first met – Gromov, we learn – has gone to Zubtsov that very morning and will not return for three days at the very least, and until he does …
Lishka wants to argue, but I draw him away. He doesn’t know it, but it doesn’t matter. Not now that I have Schelepin. Besides, I say, placating him, I’ll raise the matter when I see the two boyars, later that evening.
I go back to the inn and, collecting Katerina, decide to make a tour of the town, ignoring the ragged mob who come out to stand and stare
wherever we walk. I’m particularly interested to see where the town’s merchants live, and we find them at the top of the hill, in a separate little enclave, tucked inside the outer palisade, beyond which is a stretch of cleared ground about a quarter of a mile wide before the forest begins again. They’re good, well-built cabins, but not to be compared to those of Novgorod. These aside, there’s really not much to see. Rzhev is a town of two, three thousand people, and an hour sees us back at the harbourside, where Lishka is still ensconced with Schelepin. I introduce him to Katerina, and he’s at once in love with her – as a father with his daughter – and I decide there and then that if it doesn’t pan out with the two merchants, then we’ll abandon Rzhev, pick up the second cart and meet up somewhere on the river. Lishka will know a place, I’m sure.
The thought of it raises my spirits, even though the rain – which has held off these past three days – now returns with a vengeance, washing down the sloping streets of Rzhev in torrents, turning every path into a quagmire.
It is the ninth day of September, and the rainy season is now truly upon us. If we’re lucky we will have five, maybe six weeks of this, but when the snows come …
I need to be in Tver’ before then, ready for the snows; ready to make that last long push down to Moscow in the sled.
As evening falls, Katerina brushes out her hair, then looks to me. In the candlelight she looks magnificent. Like Russia itself, her beauty is ageless, timeless, and as her eyes smile back at me, I find myself wishing that I could take her back with me to Four-Oh, to be beside me every waking moment, to travel the width and breadth of time with me. Such marvels I would show her. Such astonishing things. But it is not to be. This here is all. And it would be enough, only I fear for her in this age of pestilence and banditry. I fear for her, and the child she carries in her belly.
Dmitri knocks at the door and tells us a man has come to lead the way, and so we set off through the back streets of Rzhev, lifting our booted feet high out of the squelching, oozing mud, Katerina picking up her skirts to stop them being spoiled.
The Ocean of Time Page 12
