The Ocean of Time

by David Wingrove

  ‘Oh,’ I say, looking to Saratov. ‘He said something about a place called Krasnogorsk. We’re to avoid it, it seems. He said the place is bad news.’

  ‘Krasnogorsk?’ Sergei looks surprised. ‘But there’s nothing there. It’s just a staging post. Two huts and a jetty. And not much of a jetty at that. Avoid it? Why, you’d be lucky to find it.’

  I shrug. It’s probably of no significance anyway.

  ‘So is everything else sorted out?’ I ask. ‘The sled? The passes? Our horse?’

  ‘All done.’ He looks down a moment, then looks back at me. ‘I’m sorry we have to part here, Otto. I’d come too, only …’

  Only there’s no room in the sled.

  Katerina looks to me, as if to prompt me, but I’m already ahead of her. I turn and go over to my pack, then return with a bulky package wrapped in cloth.

  ‘Here,’ I say. ‘For all you’ve done for us.’

  He unwraps it and shakes it out, his face filling with awe. It’s a fur. And not just any fur. This is a black bear fur, glinting red and brown and gold in the candlelight. Saratov stares at it then looks to me, overwhelmed.

  ‘But this …’ He makes to hand it back. ‘It’s too much. I—’

  A tear rolls down his cheek. Katerina reaches out and holds his arm.

  ‘You must have it, Sergei,’ she says. ‘We would not have got here without you.’ She smiles. ‘Go on. Put it on. Let’s see what you look like in it.’

  He hesitates, then does as she says. It looks good. Makes him look stronger, more substantial.

  I grin at him. ‘It was made for you.’

  Sergei can’t help but grin back. He gives a huge sigh of contentment, then reaches out and hugs me, the scent of the fur strong as he grips me like a brother.

  ‘You are a good man, Otto,’ he says quietly to my ear. ‘Such a good man.’

  209

  There is nothing – nothing in all space and time – to compare with a sled journey across the Russian snows. To feel that breath-taking rush, the exhilaration and the danger. To hear that endless tinkling of the bells. It is as Pushkin says, ‘so fast and free’. And to share it with the woman that you love, to be pressed close in the darkness of that tiny, jolting carriage. Nothing compares.

  We are heading upriver, across the moonlit ice. Ahead the Moskva broadens to a narrow lake, and beyond that – some fifteen or twenty miles distant – is our destination, Mozhaisk. That’s where we’ll stop, more than a third of our journey complete.

  I hold the reins tightly in my gloved hands. Ahead of us the horse snorts and spurs itself on. It’s a dark, fine beast that cost us dear but is probably worth twice what we paid for it. The snow is still falling, flakes gusting through the narrow slit at eye level.

  But we don’t mind. It’s warm inside and cosy, and the feel of her hip against mine, her arm beneath my arm, is all I need. I am happy beyond all measure.

  I can smell her in that darkness, and now and then our faces meet to kiss. Oh, such kisses. And still the onward rush, that breathless, unrelenting hurtle through the moonlit dark.

  But not unthinking. Indeed, I’ve done little else but think about things since Ernst’s unexpected message. Especially his ‘This time …’ I’ve not told Katerina about that, but now, as we move out on to the lake, I do.

  ‘So what does it mean?’ she asks, having to raise her voice a little against the noise of the sled. I stare out ahead as I answer her, pulling gently on the reins to keep the horse running close to the northern shore, away from the centre where the ice might still be thin.

  ‘It means something went wrong last time. Ernst must have jumped back and changed things.’

  I glance at her, and see she doesn’t quite understand. But then, nor do I. If Ernst jumped back, it meant he would have had to go through the platform at Four-Oh, and if so he’d have had to speak to Hecht. So what excuse did he make? Or does Hecht now know about Katerina and me?

  He can’t. Because if he did …

  ‘Imagine you were embroidering something,’ I say, ‘and you make a mistake. Imagine that all you had to do was go back to the point on the cloth at which you made the mistake and – like that! – the mistake was gone, the thread unstitched, and you were back where you were before you made it.’

  ‘That whole particular thread removed?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And Ernst did that?’

  ‘He must have done. There’s no other explanation.’

  At least none I can think of. For I certainly didn’t make a jump. I’d have remembered if I did. As it is …

  The dreams …

  I frown, then tug the reins again, bringing the horse’s head back to the left.

  It isn’t possible, of course. It’s not how it works. But my dreams have seemed curiously real lately, more like something remembered than ordinary dreams. Their very vividness has marked them out as different. Not that dreams can’t be vivid. It’s the repeated detail of them; the quality of … oh, I don’t know … of having happened.

  Or not now. That timeline having been erased.

  Which means, of course, that I oughtn’t to remember any of it. Not even as dreams. So they have to be just dreams.

  So why do they disturb me so? Why do I continue to suffer them, each and every night?

  The night rushes past us, our sled hissing across the snow, the thud of our steed’s hooves against the thick-packed ice mingled with the tinkling of bells. But we are not the only things abroad this night. There is the cry of wolves in the distance. Not one, but many. And not so far away, at that. But they’ll not harm us, not at the speed we’re travelling.

  I am silent for a while, then jerk awake, having dozed momentarily, realising that Katerina is asleep beside me, lolling against me, her head on my shoulder. I blink my eyes and try to see through the narrow slit just where we are, and whether there’s any sign of the lake narrowing up ahead, but I can’t properly see.

  I pull on the reins, slowing the horse, bringing him to a slow trot.

  I turn, nudging her gently with my shoulder. ‘Katerina …’

  She lifts her head slowly, sleepily, and smiles at me. ‘Are we there?’

  ‘No. But I need to check precisely where we are.’

  I don’t think we’ve drifted, but then, I don’t know how long I dozed for. We seem to be out on the lake still, so it can’t have been long, and if the horse ran in a straight line then we should be okay. But it’s best to be sure. Best not to be lost in this wilderness of a land.

  I slow the horse further, then apply the brake, grinding the sled to a halt. Beside me, Katerina raises her hood, then looks to me and nods. Unfastening the catch, I throw the hinged lid back and stand, the sudden, bitter cold swirling about me.

  It’s such a still, crisp night, and now that the snow has almost stopped, everything glistens in the moon’s pale light. I look about me, puzzled, for the land seems distant to either side. We’ve drifted, that’s for sure, and are out now near the very middle of the lake. I lean over the side, and sure enough, the ice is darker, thinner than I’d hoped to see. Even as I lean back I hear it creak and groan, as if our weight’s too much for it to bear.

  We need to move, and quickly. But which way?

  I tighten the reins, then make the horse walk on, slowly at first, listening to the sound of the ice beneath us. Is it my imagination or is that cracking I hear?

  Indecision could be fatal now, and, tugging on the left rein, I make the horse veer to the left, heading across the ice towards the northern shore. If I’m wrong we’re dead. Slowly I make the horse go faster, standing up all the while, my knees pressed against the front bar of the sled, my arms aching from the tension of holding the reins, my eyes seeking out any sign of open water up ahead.

  A minute passes, then another. Beneath us the ice seems once again thick and hard. I let go a breath and laugh with relief, then look down at Katerina. ‘Urd’s sake, that was stupid of me!’

  She looks away
.

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘I feel sick. I—’

  I slow the horse, then pull the handbrake on. The sled once again grinds to a halt. Stepping out, I turn and offer her my hand. She takes it and clambers out. And only just in time.

  I walk across and pet the horse, stroking its flank and the long side of its neck and face, giving it a handful of chestnuts from my pocket.

  ‘Otto?’

  I turn and look at her. For once she looks drained and bedraggled. Still beautiful, of course, but not her best. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve finished.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  She almost smiles. I walk across and, taking her hand, help her back in. I’m about to join her, to seal us back in and drive on, when I notice something.

  We’re being watched.

  Far off – maybe half a mile away – there is another sled on the ice. It’s not moving and I’m not entirely sure how many of them there are, only when I take a step towards them they vanish as if they were an apparition. But I know they weren’t. They were there.

  I don’t tell Katerina. I don’t want to scare her. Not while she’s feeling so fragile. But as we make our way onwards, I begin to register a strong sense of wrongness about the whole thing.

  Just why am I being watched? What exactly is going on here?

  But of one thing I’m convinced. Hecht knows. Hecht damned well knows.

  210

  My first sight of Moscow is through the early morning mist. We have stopped high up on a ridge overlooking the town, at a place known to the locals as the Sparrow Hills. Beneath us the ground slopes away slowly towards the Moskva River, through snow-covered water meadows and small copses towards the cluster of wooden buildings – no more than a hundred in all – that perch atop the low hill to the north, where the frozen river bends in a great, white inverted ‘U’, pointing south.

  It looks what it is – a trading post: a tiny island in this great northern wilderness. Nothing in its humble aspect suggests its future. Nor should it. The real centres of power are far from here, in Kiev to the south, and in Novgorod. Moscow is a backwater, important only because Prince Alexander chooses to make it so. He has friends here and enjoys the hunting. And there’s another reason. It’s easy to meet with the Horde’s representatives here in Moscow. His friends, the Muscovites, are discreet. No word gets out of what’s discussed here. And that’s important right now, for Alexander doesn’t wish his people to know just how in thrall he is to the Great Khan. If they knew, they would probably overthrow him. As it is, he can play the hero – the saviour of the Rus’ – and no one knows any better. Not outside of this backwater, anyway.

  And that’s why I’m here: to meet with Alexander and become his friend, because when the time comes to spring the trap …

  Katerina climbs from the sled and comes across to me. Her voice, when she speaks, is filled with surprise. ‘Is that it?’

  I turn and smile. ‘Yes. Not what you thought, eh?’

  There is a crude wooden palisade about the town, and a small stone tower – the Kremlin! Beyond that, it’s little different from Tatarinka, or any of the other places we have stayed along the way. It’s hard to imagine how huge it will become, unless, like me, you’ve seen it in its later glory.

  The sky is clear, the day bright, and so we decide to walk behind the sledge, letting the horse plod slowly, and in less than an hour we arrive at the gate and wait to be admitted.

  They are surprised to see us, a beardless German trader and a beautiful Russian girl, but the town’s officials are courtesy itself and lead us along the main logged path, past staring locals, to the great hall – the only two-storey building in the town – where, unexpectedly, we are brought directly and immediately into the presence of the prince himself.

  They are having breakfast, I note, as we duck inside, into the fire-lit gloom. Two long, trench tables fill the upper half of the room, about which several dozen men – Nevsky’s druzhina – are busy eating. Our entrance makes heads turn suddenly, the great buzz of conversation falters. Nevsky looks to the official, who has hurried ahead of us, listens to him a moment, then stands and smiles.

  ‘Welcome, Nemets. And your good wife, welcome, too.’

  It is courteous enough, and the smile seems without edge, but I have met Nevsky before – though he doesn’t know it – and I know the kind of creature he is. Nineteen years old, he is a strong and handsome man – more so than I – and his good looks and long blond hair have turned the head of many a young girl, yet I am surprised when I turn and see how Katerina has looked down, a faint blush at her neck.

  I say nothing, concentrating on making a good first impression, but that glimpsed moment disturbs me, because Katerina is my rock. My foundation.

  Room is made for us at the table, between – as fate would have it – two of the Russian agents, Tyutchev and Rakitin. Of the others there’s no sign, but I’m certain they’re not far away.

  Breakfast finished, we are found quarters near the prince’s – a simple izba but clean enough – and are invited to a feast that evening in our honour. The letter I am carrying from Novgorod’s veche will be handed over then, but before that there is this other matter to be sorted out.

  Alone with Katerina, I turn to her and gently ask her what she thought of him.

  ‘Of whom?’ she asks, speaking in German, even though I have not.

  ‘Of the prince,’ I say, persisting with the Russian, refusing to be drawn into a game about this.

  ‘I thought he was very gallant,’ she answers, and for once her German is so fluent, that single word – ritterlich – so unexpected, that I simply stare at her.

  ‘Ritterlich?’ I ask finally. The precise meaning is ‘knightly’, ‘chivalrous’. And outwardly it fits. Only I know what true knights are like. I have been among them, and lived among them, and Nevsky isn’t one of them. Nevsky is a snake pretending to be a knight. He has the look of it and the mannerisms, but otherwise …

  ‘Did you like him?’ I ask, still in Russian.

  Unexpectedly, she pouts and looks away, like a little girl caught out. ‘Yes,’ she says quietly. ‘What’s not to like?’

  Russian. This time she’s speaking Russian. The German, then, was for distance. But why?

  She looks across at me. ‘Why? Am I not supposed to like him? Am I only to like who you tell me to like, Otto?’

  The question takes me aback. Before now I’d not have thought she’d need to ask it. But for the first time – the first time since Kravchuk, that is – I feel jealous.

  I close my eyes a moment, trying to still my thoughts, my racing heart. ‘Nevsky is a villain. I’ve told you that. What’s more …’

  ‘Yes, Otto. You’ve told me. Only—’

  ‘Only you liked him.’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t help it. He was nice to us. Kind. The feast—’

  ‘He’s a politician, Katya. He’s nice to an end.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve experienced.’

  I meet her eyes, meaning to stare her down, to make her acknowledge that she’s wrong, only what I see there shakes my certainty.

  ‘Instinct is all I have, Otto. Until I know better.’

  ‘Then trust me. You don’t mess with the man. And you especially don’t flirt with him.’

  ‘Otto, I didn’t—’

  ‘No. But you might.’

  She turns abruptly, a flash of anger in her face. But she says nothing. Just stands there, waiting. And eventually I step across and, reaching out, turn her gently to face me again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m being silly, I know. Only this is a tiny place, and Prince Alexander is a powerful man. I keep remembering that dream …’

  She looks up into my face, her eyes imploring me. ‘It was only a dream, Otto. As for the prince … he won’t act like that. If he did, well, you said it. He’s a politician. He’d not want word of what he did to get back to Novgorod.’

  ‘And yet he still migh
t try.’

  ‘Then I’d rebuff him.’

  I’m quiet a moment, then, ‘Would you?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I would. I might like him, but you’re my man, Otto. You. Now and for ever. Until the stars die.’

  My mouth falls open slightly. Until the stars die. She has never said that before, not even in the extremities of passion.

  And so we kiss, and kissing leads us on. Until, with a tiny cry, I make her mine again, there on the packed earth floor. There, in Moscow, in the very heart of Russia.

  211

  It is mid-afternoon when we step outside once more, and something’s different, though it takes me a moment to recognise what it is.

  The clue is in the sound. The strong, vigorous flapping of a banner in the wind. I walk across and stare up at the tower and there, sure enough, is a long silk banner; sign that the Great Khan’s representative is in residence. Katerina looks a question at me, but I shake my head. I have not explained the Mongols and their significance to Russian history to her.

  I am about to find one of Nevsky’s druzhina and ask him if we might not see the prince again before the evening’s festivities when one of them, Zasyekin, I think, marches up to me and, without preamble, tells me to come at once.

  We follow, back along the iced log pathway, but this time not to the hall but to a smaller building set back from it against the palisade. Nevsky is there, and two Mongols. There are also two traders, brothers by the look of them, and I’m not surprised when they are introduced to me as Arkadi and Mikhail Romanov.

  But it’s the chief Mongol that I’m interested in. I’m surprised to find him here without significant military backing. After all, the battle of the Sit’ River – where the Mongol Horde, under Burunday, defeated the Rus’ princes – was only a year and a half back, and the Mongols, for all their threat, are far from established in the north.

  Their chief calls himself Kongdu and has all the air and swagger of a chieftain. Of course, he cannot speak a word of Rus’, but his attendant – a small, squint-eyed fellow – more than makes up for it, his Russian heavily accented.