Byzantium Endures: The First Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  I began to explain, but Petlyura gripped my arm. ‘How many of these ray-machines could you build to give us, say, a month before help arrived?’

  ‘There would have to be an experimental model first. After that, it should be fairly easy to manufacture more. If the generators were available to power them.’

  ‘Would the generators in the electricity stations do?’ Petlyura enquired.

  ‘I think so.’ I had not expected such an offer. This meant he was willing to divert Kiev’s entire power supply. I was flattered. ‘Cables would have to be laid.’

  ‘Where would the machines best be sited?’

  ‘On the heights.’ General Konovalets was adamant. ‘That gives a sweep, you see. If they were used in the outlying suburbs they would be too cumbersome to move quickly, eh?’

  ‘The machines themselves would be transported in the normal way of artillery, but the power-sources are the problem.’ I admired his quick grasp. ‘One can’t go dragging huge cables all over Kiev. The people, as well as the streets and the houses, would get in the way.’

  ‘They always do!’ Konovalets spoke with mock despair. ‘St Andrew’s would be one good site.’

  ‘You mean the observation gallery, near the dome?’ I considered this. ‘The only thing I wonder about there is— ‘ I hesitated, not knowing whether to bring the question of religion into a discussion with socialists, many of whom might be militant atheists.

  ‘Sacrilege,’ said Petlyura. ‘Is that what you’re worrying about? You’re a believer? And a scientist?’

  ‘—the problem of diverting power to such a high point.’

  ‘There is no sacrilege,’ said Konovalets quietly, ‘in defending ourselves against Bolshevism. They are sworn to destroy all religions.’

  I saw at once that he was right. Indeed, it was almost as if God were providing us with a site from which we could defend His faith.

  ‘We’ll construct the experimental model in St Andrew’s.’ Petlyura lit a cigarette as waiters took away our dishes. ‘Power is easily diverted?’ He looked towards his Minister.

  ‘Not that easily, Supreme Commander.’

  ‘But it can be done?’

  Braun said, ‘It might be best having some sort of emergency source. A small petrol-fuelled generator, or banks of Voltaic cells.’

  ‘Voltaic cells are a bit old-fashioned.’ I smiled.

  ‘I’ve always found them reliable. They don’t break down.’

  ‘But they’re hard to operate. The connections?’

  Braun shrugged. ‘I still advise a separate source of energy. If, in the middle of fighting the Bolsheviks, they capture our electricity stations, then we have no weapon.’

  I was forced to agree. I now understood his logic. My mistake, as usual, had been to miss the practicalities as I became obsessed with the pure idea. The very term ‘death-ray’ was unpalatable to me. These days we have such words as ‘anti-personnel devices’ which keep the entire thing in perspective. Many words of this sort were borrowed by the Germans from the Bolsheviks and from the Germans by the Americans when they offered a home to Germany’s best scientists after the Second World War. They do not make the idea of warfare abstract. They allow a technician to do his job without becoming confused by unnecessary considerations. It is for priests and novelists to decide where the moral blame, if any, lies. In giving himself up to the Age of Individualism, Man has lost the ability to reason clearly. His art and science become confused, for he believes he should reach independent decisions on every aspect of his life. One has only to accept the authority of the Church to know true clarity of vision.

  I had been elevated from my rather ambiguous status in the scientific and business community to a fully fledged member of the socialist Petlyurist group. I was nervous. I asked Petlyura what my powers were.

  ‘Whatever you need to fulfil your task.’ He was expansive. ‘You may requisition whatever you want—men and material—so long as you do not actually interfere with our current military operations. We have Russian and Polish chauvinists to contend with. And Deniken is likely to prove a highly unreliable ally, if he actually is an ally. He, too, is a chauvinist, but at the moment he hates Trotsky worse than me. What will become of him if the French decide he is an embarrassment?’

  ‘Let him go to Turkey with a hundred riders,’ said Konovalets. ‘Things are so bad there, he’ll be able to conquer the whole damned country in a week and have himself crowned Tsar of Constantinople.’

  Petlyura raised his champagne glass. ‘Death to the enemies of Ukraine!’

  I sipped a reluctant toast. As a ‘Russian chauvinist’ I was not in complete accord with our Ataman.

  ‘Twentieth-century methods will produce a twentieth-century revolution,’ said Petlyura. ‘And it will impress the superstitious peasants with the importance of science. I hear you are a linguist, Comrade Pyatnitski?’

  ‘I know English, German and some French,’ I said, ‘as well as Polish and Czech.’

  ‘And Ukrainian?’

  ‘The local dialect?’ I experienced a moment of terror.

  Petlyura changed the subject. Then I thought him a gentleman, whatever else he stood for. My diplomacy had not worked, but neither had it misfired. Official Ukrainian was a form of Galician not easily assimilated even by Kievans who spoke their own patois. The language was about as authentic as the average Republican bank-note.

  We were all of us in that candle-lit room speaking, needless to say, purest Petersburg Russian. Petlyura said, ‘I would imagine the French would pay for the secret of your ray?’

  It had not occurred to me. I think Petlyura saw this in my face. He smiled reassuringly as he patted my shoulder. ‘It is all right, citizen. You would not be here if I took you for a traitor. But I shall despatch a courier. We’ll tell Freydenberg we’re in the process of constructing a secret weapon. He must move his forces up quickly or it will fall into Bolshevik hands.’

  ‘That is strategy.’ Konovalets was approving.

  ‘It’s diplomacy,’ said Petlyura. His pink cheeks beamed. ‘And we thought it would be so easy to save Ukraine.’ ‘I shall need authority,’ I said.

  ‘Give him a rank, Konovalets.’ Petlyura spoke carelessly.

  Konovalets shrugged. ‘You are now a major in the Republican Army.’

  And that was how I gained my first military title. Quite legitimately, but without having once spilled a drop of blood.

  ‘You’d better have that confirmed,’ Petlyura told an aide. ‘Is there anything else, Comrade Doctor?’

  ‘I have been expecting papers from Petrograd,’ I said. ‘They were held up. They’re probably destroyed now. A Special Diploma.’

  ‘A Russian diploma? They’re useless here. Professor Braun?’ Petlyura had these people hanging on his every word. The professor understood as rapidly as had the general. ‘You need what? Some sort of diploma? We could give you an honorary degree from the University.’

  ‘It would not be the same.’ I explained what had happened in Petrograd. ‘My dissertation warranted a Special Diploma, you see. The equivalent of a doctorate.’ I reached into my pocket and produced my wallet, handing him a copy of Professor Vorsin’s letter.

  Braun read the signature first. ‘I know Vorsin. This is his. If the Comrade Secretary—Ah, Pan … ‘ He looked up at Petlyura as if suddenly uncertain of himself.

  ‘Is it important to you?’ Petlyura asked me. He took the letter from Braun. He read it. ‘Well, it confirms what we have heard. Is that your price, comrade?’

  ‘There is no price,’ I said, ‘for resisting Trotsky and Antonov. It’s thanks to them I have nothing on paper.’

  ‘This letter is certainly clear. Isn’t it, Braun?’

  ‘Absolutely. We can—we have diplomas— ‘ The professor spread his hands. ‘If a D.Sc. is in order … ?’

  Petlyura made a quick movement of his head and stared directly into my eyes. Then he looked at his napkin. ‘Will that suit you, Major Pyatnitski?’

&
nbsp; I sighed and reached for my crystal goblet. ‘These are insecure times.’

  Petlyura called down the table to his old comrade, Vinnichenko, another pro-Bolshevik. ‘Do you approve of this now, Comrade President?’

  Vinnichenko, a literary man with very little stomach for what was happening, looked tired. He said sourly: ‘Certainly, Comrade Supreme Commander. If the Praetorians have agreed.’

  Konovalets scratched the back of his neck. ‘This is silly. The Sich riflemen are loyal. We don’t wield power.’

  I thought I was to witness open argument amongst the various Directorate factions. Vinnichenko said wearily, ‘I apologise, Konovalets. But you’re the only one the French seem to trust at all.’

  ‘It’s because they’ve never heard of me.’ The general smiled.

  I laughed politely. Konovalets had the look of someone who might well be taking the reins of power soon. This was not to be the case. Colonel Freydenberg, in charge of the French, found it impossible to tell one socialist from another. He had been insisting, I was to learn, that all ‘Reds’ be dismissed from the Directorate. Petlyura, Vinnichenko and the others controlled the Directorate. Freydenberg’s ultimatum was tantamount to demanding the dismissal of the whole government before he would come to the relief of Kiev. To Freydenberg, Petlyura and his gang were no more than bandit warlords. His only sympathy was for Deniken’s Whites. The Russian Volunteer Army was larger, more reliable, and represented the Tsar.

  Konovalets’s Galician sharpshooters were the Directorate’s strength. This was why Vinnichenko had called them Praetorians. They were grouped in the outlying suburbs ready to meet Bolsheviks moving towards the city. No newspaper reported this fact. I was equally unaware of the immediate danger after I had left the meeting. Kiev seemed very quiet. The winter was cold. The snow was hard. I could not believe very much would change until March. In the meantime I had achieved both my D.Sc. and the rank of Major. As I had once dreamed, I had been honoured by an entire government. It was ironic I could not abide their idiotic politics but I admit I was momentarily seduced by the chance, at long last, to work on one of my inventions.

  I had a note sent to Mother, briefly outlining my good news. She replied via the same messenger. I was to be careful. I was not to worry about her. It seemed every time I tasted success she became frightened. She had been too long with her head down, I suppose. It was hard to blame her.

  Next day a diploma from the University of Kiev was delivered to my suite. Maxim Arturovitch Pyatnitski was a Doctor of Science who had graduated on 15 January 1919. Shortly afterward an officer of the Sichovi Streltsi arrived to salute me, address me as Major and hand me an ordinary paper envelope containing all necessary insignia. I was expected, apparently, to provide my own uniform. I would have a special white one. I thought the matter over again seriously. I put the envelope in a drawer of my escritoire for the meantime. I was becoming identified with a specific political group. If the Bolsheviks arrived I was likely to be rounded up and this time I would certainly be shot unless I was very careful.

  I prayed my so-called ‘Violet Ray’ would be effective against the Reds. Petlyura had given me the idea of taking the secret as soon as possible to Odessa. The French garrison would put the device at Deniken’s disposal. The entire fate of Russia lay in my hands. I received another message: a note from Petlyura confirming every assistance, giving me carte-blanche powers. The monks and priests had been ousted from control of St Andrew’s. I was now the new proprietor. This caused me some uncertainty. But God has His own methods. And surely my light-beam issuing from the great blue-and-white tower would fill even the Bolsheviks with an awe of the Almighty?

  Work began that day on producing a suitable vacuum tube. We were hampered on every side. Desertions at the glass-works; promises of copper wire which failed to have any substance; engineers suddenly disappearing; Russian mechanics hearing of some Bolshevik or insurgent victory and trying to get to Odessa or Yalta before all escape routes were cut off. The chaos in the streets returned. Petlyura’s forces were melting away. The French were right not to trust him. In the meantime the bell-tower of St Andrew’s became the housing for my equipment’s alternative power-source: banks of Voltaic batteries, connected with heavy copper wire, operated by a monstrous Nife Switch. In the chamber below I discarded tube after tube, mirror after mirror. Power cables were carried through the sacred corridors and up the steps of that wonderful building, ready to connect to my machine when it was ready. The monks were bewildered, but had been convinced by Petlyura of the necessity for using the place in the war against the Bolsheviks. The tube was secured in a sturdy tripod frame of aluminium and wood and looked makeshift. The mirrors were large at the end nearest the tube and shrank to smaller sizes, tapering almost to a point. Quartz lenses would have worked much better. Some were being ‘requisitioned’ but did not arrive. We looked down over the Podol ghetto. I could almost see my own street, higher up the hill. As one of the soldiers remarked, ‘If we can’t wipe out Antonov, we can finish off a few Jews before we leave.’

  With the help of some cocaine, I worked rapidly at the device. Petlyura himself came to see me three times. On the third I was able to demonstrate some of the machine’s potential by directing the fluorescence onto a sheet of newspaper which almost immediately burst into flames. He was impressed.

  ‘But will it burn Bolsheviks?’

  ‘It’s a question of power,’ I said. ‘It should have limitless capacity so long as it has enough electricity.’

  Petlyura seemed not to have slept. He was sallow. His eyes had a withdrawn look. ‘I shall give you the entire city, the entire Ukraine,’ he told me, ‘if it will work. This will offer the people heart. This will bring the soldiers back.’

  He had become desperate. I began to wonder what my next move should be. At the first opportunity I had my official car take me to Mother’s flat. There I warned her of the possibility of the Bolsheviks re-occupying the city. She laughed at me.

  ‘The Bolsheviks were here before. And we are still safe. So what is there to worry about?’

  ‘It might be necessary, mother, to go to Odessa. The French are in control there. We shall be safe in Odessa.’

  ‘Safe in Odessa?’ For some bizarre and mysterious reason she began to cackle.

  I waited until Esmé arrived and told her my news. It was getting late. I was due back at my equipment. I could not afford to offend Petlyura, especially since he was becoming obviously over-tired. I gave her an outline of what was happening. I begged her to be ready to leave with Mother and Captain Brown, if he would go.

  She was confused. ‘The countryside is full of bandits. I have my work.’

  ‘There’ll be as much work for you in Odessa as here.’

  She saw the point. ‘When should we leave?’

  ‘It might be wise to go before me. I can send for you if things quieten down. I am working … ‘ I held my tongue. ‘There is some hope.’

  ‘I will not go to Odessa,’ said my mother. ‘I have never been to Odessa.’

  I took my watch from my pocket. It was getting too late. ‘What harm will come to you? You can stay with Uncle Semya.’

  ‘Semya has been very kind. I don’t think Evgenia would like me there. She wrote a funny letter about you. And some girl. I burned it. She’s always been jealous.’

  ‘Mother, the Bolsheviks could take Kiev any day, unless my work is effective. I am asking you to be ready to leave. Once they are here, it will be impossible to get on a train.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Esmé agreed. ‘You should do as Max says, Yelisaveta Filipovna. We love you.’

  ‘My laundry,’ she said, ‘is my life. I would be foolish to go to Odessa. Am I to retire to a seaside datcha?’

  ‘You could,’ I said. ‘You would enjoy it.’

  ‘I would not.’

  I had no more time to coax her. ‘You must promise to take Mother and Captain Brown. When you get my message.’ I looked into Esmé’s wonderful blue eyes. I kis
sed her on the lips before leaving.

  Kiev was not so much a city under siege as one which seemed already to have fallen. Haidamaki had looted Podol with such efficiency they had hardly time for their normal pogromist activities. No fires were started, few Jews were killed, unless they seriously interfered with the business in hand. Shadowy groups of men with sacks and rifles dodged back and forth across the street as my motor, flying Petlyura’s official flag: rolled over cobbles which had not been cleared of snow for days. I was glad to return to the relative security of Kreshchatik. It was protected by more disciplined troops. At the half-deserted Savoy I quickly went to the main suite to report my progress to an anxious Petlyura who laughed, turning to Vinnichenko. The curtains were closed. Vinnichenko was peering through them like a spinster at a neighbour. ‘Are we going to hear any more of “co-operation” and “evacuation”?’ Vinnichenko shrugged. He was probably disappointed not to be able to greet Trotsky, Stalin and Antonov personally. Petlyura asked me, ‘How are things in the city?’

  ‘Troops are looting it, Supreme Commander.’

  ‘We should never have trusted the ones who came over from Skoropadskya.’

  ‘We should never have thought we could hold Kiev.’ Vinnichenko turned his back on us both.

  ‘We should have stayed with the peasants and not thrown in with Russians and Jews.’

  Petlyura clapped me on the back. ‘Do not let anyone tell you I have anything against your people.’

  I smiled, feeling my power over him. Was he trying to placate the Russian ‘Katsopi’ billygoats he had so despised? ‘You don’t hate us any more?’

  ‘It’s the peasants,’ he said. ‘Russians and Jews own all the shops, all the factories, all the machinery.’ His voice had begun to rise. He controlled himself. ‘Is the ray ready for final tests?’

  It could not be tested until I had more power. I thought it would be pointless to requisition civilian electricity and harm public morale until the last possible moment.

  Petlyura became immediately calm, as if responding to morphine. He stroked his moustache and gave me an encouraging wink. ‘Off you go, then, professor.’