by K L Conger
Sergei had grown used to addressing the council. All his life, his father had been a politician. Now the elder Tarasov began to feel his years. He'd slowly taught Sergei to survive after he passed on. Sergei much preferred to be on the battlefield than in the council chambers, but he had to admit scheming created a thrill all its own. Commanding the attention of an entire room; addressing the Tsar; manipulating courtiers to bring his own desires to pass—these things brought a sense of power different than triumph in war, but no less exciting for all that.
He’d been less than pleased when his father first insisted he begin learning the ins and outs of court politics. Even now Sergei would rather be gutting a heathen Tatar or roughing up a woman somewhere, but he'd begun to understand why his father wanted him to learn. These skills could potentially serve him well in the future. Sergei only practiced public speaking and intrigue for now. He still had no eye for interpreting people by their body language, as his father did. For now, Sergei took the reins in public. His father remained his eyes and ears.
“My fellow council members,” Sergei spread his hands, “long has the city of Novgorod angered our noble Tsar. Long have they flouted his wishes and decrees.”
“Flouted? Flouted how?” The question came from Alexey Basmanov. He and his brother Fyodor sat on the Oprichniki council. Both had been resistant to the punishment of Novgorod in the past. Sergei didn’t know why. Perhaps they had family there.
“Come, Basmanov. We all know the Novgorodians. They remain separate from the rest of the empire, independent in many ways. They complained bitterly against taxes to support the Muscovite army during the Livonian wars. They still complain about the Tsar’s rightful exactions.”
“But they do pay them.”
“Yes," Sergei admitted reluctantly before hurrying on. "They are angry the war interferes with their precious trade routes. It’s seems they are more concerned with their own prosperity than with enlarging the borders of our Lord Tsar’s empire.”
Ivan’s gravelly voice came from behind Sergei. “Their behavior smacks of treason.”
Sergei bowed his head low in acquiescence. “My thoughts exactly, my lord.”
“Please, my Lord Tsar,” Basmanov stood, “the Novgorodians complain a great deal, but they are loyal to your empire. I’m sure of it. They’ve never given us reason to believe otherwise. Sergei says they flout the law, but is complaining the same as flouting? All people complain about taxes and anything else that interferes with their daily lives.”
“They refuse to use three fingers.” Sergei said quietly.
Basmanov blinked. “What?”
“When they cross themselves, they use only two fingers. The Lord Tsar has proclaimed all members of the Eastern Orthodox Church must cross themselves using three fingers. The Novgorodians use only two. This is direct rebellion against the Lord Tsar’s decree.”
In a surge of energy, Ivan lunged to his feet. Sergei bowed and backed to the side, surrendering the floor.
“What Sergei Tarasov says is true, Basmanov. We are...spiritually offended. Novgorod must be punished. Still, we must find a definitive casus belli. Have you brought us such a thing, Sergei?”
“Yes, my Lord Tsar.” Sergei straightened and motioned to the guard at the door. Ivan’s eyes followed Sergei’s motions. “My lord, if I may present Master Peter Volynets.”
A dark-haired man who Sergei knew to be in his late thirties, but looked much older due to his lifestyle, shuffled into the room. His walk contained none of the grace the politicians bore. Face riddled with scars, this low class man had been cleaned and polished and dressed up to meet the Tsar.
“Master Volynets has brought you proof, my Lord Tsar, that Archbishop Pimen of Novgorod conspires to bring his city under the control of King Sigismund Augustus, King of Poland and Grand Prince of Lithuania. It is a ploy, my lord, to remove the grand city of Novgorod from my Lord Tsar’s empire.”
Ivan’s eyes glittered with interest. He addressed Peter Volynets directly, a rare honor for a man of the lower class. “You have proof of this, honored serf?”
“Yes, your highness,” Volynets stepped forward. He’d been educated in how to address the Tsar. “In the form of a letter. I learned of its existence while in prison. It had been hidden in the Cathedral of St. Sophia in Novgorod. As soon as I left the prison I retrieved the letter and brought it straight to you, my Lord Tsar.”
Sergei motioned to a page standing nearby. The page walked to Ivan’s dais and held out a silver platter. Ivan snatched the letter from it and nearly tore it trying to get it open. As he scanned its contents, a sickly-sweet smile spread across his face. Sergei doubted the Tsar realized it.
Saliva filled Sergei’s mouth and he swallowed, fighting to keep his nonchalant, formal-business composure. His groin grew similarly wet at the thought of the coming massacre.
It would be enough. The letter would be the proof, the casus belli Ivan needed to move against Novgorod. Sergei knew Ivan wouldn’t be interested in actual proof—no on could attest that Sergei himself hadn’t written the letter and paid Volynets to speak. He hadn’t, but his father refused to speak of how he’d come across such a letter. The Tsar only needed an excuse. As soon as Volynets showed up with the letter, the massacre waiting in the wings had found its driving force.
“My lord, if I may speak?” Basmanov said. Sergei concentrated to keep from sighing in annoyance.
Ivan didn’t look up. He remained too absorbed in the letter and waved a hand noncommittally in Basmanov’s direction.
Basmanov took it as acquiescence and stood. “Master Volynets, you say you were in prison. May I ask why?”
Sergei’s eyes narrowed. What was Basmanov up to?
Volynets stiffened at the question. “M-my lord?” he stammered, looking at Sergei for help. Sergei cringed inwardly. Volynets was a nervous man and had been coached for certain questions. This was not one of them. Sergei couldn’t give him any help now, in front of the others. He stared levelly at the man, willing him not to say anything stupid.
The Tsar stopped staring at the letter in his hands and paid attention to Basmanov’s interrogation. When Volynets realized Sergei would give him no help, he addressed the Tsar directly. “My Lord Tsar, I am, unfortunately, a man of few scruples. Let us simply say I broke some of the laws of Novgorod and received punishment for my crimes.
“Severe punishment?” Basmanov persisted.
Say no, Sergei thought, say it wasn’t severe.
“Quite severe, my Lord.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Basmanov addressed Ivan now. “This man has an unpaid grudge against Novgorod. How can we be certain of the validity of this letter? That it’s not simply the imaginative work of a man bent on revenge?”
The room stayed silent while Ivan considered. After several minutes, he stood, shaking his head. “The Novgorodians have long been stubbornly independent. We have known for some time they were treasonous—our person has a good eye for such things—yet we’ve had no proof. Now, here it is. This,” he indicated the letter, “is all the proof we require. We believe Master Volynets speaks the truth.” He looked at Volynets. “We understand, my son, how hard this defection must have been for you. We applaud you. Fear not. You will be well rewarded for your loyalty.”
Volynets bowed at the waist, and Sergei had to commend his grace, for such a low born rascal.
“As will you Sergei, and your family,” his glance included Sergei’s father, “for bringing this to our attention.” Sergei bowed his head, affecting modesty, while his mouth swam with saliva.
Ivan raised his voice to the level he used when giving a decree. “Gather the Oprichniki. We have made a decision: we will march on Novgorod and punish them for their disloyalty. This must be done in secret. They must not know of our coming. We will need at least three thousand soldiers. Make your arrangements. We leave in one week’s time.”
Chapter 27
NOVGOROD, FEBRUARY 1550
Almas felt his way
carefully in the dark to the nearest wall, marveling as he had every day for what seemed an eternity that after he’d escaped the worst prison he’d ever known beneath the Kremlin, he’d somehow ended up in another in Novgorod.
With a sigh he put his back against the wall and slid down into a sitting position. Black as tar, dank, and crowded, the cell held nineteen men. Not being able to see, Almas could not judge the true size of the space. The men couldn’t move more than a few inches without bumping into one another.
Since the Russian triumph over Kazan, Ivan had persistently attempted to broaden his borders. Endless raids and skirmishes took place in which the Tatars fought to protect their lands from Russia’s imperialist ambitions. They won some battles and lost others. Neither side enjoyed significant victories.
Russian soldiers captured Almas not far from the Livonian frontier with a small contingent of his countrymen. Descended from the Cossacks who once inhabited all the Eastern lands, including Russia, he considered himself a soldier of the Tatar Empire, or what remained of it. His ancestors passed down stories of seeing the first yellow-haired, blue-eyed men and women and not knowing where they came from. Now Ivan’s horde threatened their lands, their people, and their culture.
Almas would rather die fighting than become a prisoner, but, as when Kazan was taken, he'd been wounded, forced into slavery, and herded into a crowded prison with others of his race he’d never met before.
Now he dwelt in Novgorod. He didn't know how long he’d been here. For weeks, his group had been shuffled from town to town. Once in Novgorod, they were thrown into this dark cell and forgotten. The lack of light made it impossible to discern the passage of time. A week? A month? They ate regularly, if poorly, and Almas made a full recovery from his extensive injuries. And for what? He’d found his health only to come into an existence of darkness and misery.
All the prisoners felt it: a stirring syndrome. They wanted so badly to be out that every man experienced moments when he swore the walls were closing in. Unable to run, stretch their legs, do anything except hunch in the cell, every moment felt a breath away from madness. Yet, what could they do? Prisoners held no sway over their own fate.
Then things got worse.
Up until recently, a great deal of noise surrounded them. The other prison cells had also brimmed with people, mostly Livonian prisoners captured during the war. None of the Tatars, including Almas, spoke Livonian, though several could pick a few words and phrases out of the darkness.
Nearly five hundred prisoners in all shared the prison, including women, children, and the elderly. The Livonian children were the source of the noise. Sometimes it became unbearable—screaming, crying, wailing. Almas clasped his hands over his ears to shut it all out.
Then it ceased completely. A week before—or so Almas guessed—the Livonian prisoners, all of them, had been taken. There commenced a great ruckus in herding them out of their cells. Once gone, the silence became intimidating. After hours and hours, Almas missed the cries of the children. It had been noise, yes, but the noise of life. Now only the silence of emptiness prevailed. The prisoners did not return. They might have been moved to another prison or another city, or put to work as slaves. Almas didn’t think so. Five hundred? Moved all at once? Surely not.
Besides, the guards spoke of the arrival of the Russian Tsar mere days before the Livonians disappeared. Almas couldn't believe it a coincidence. He'd heard tales of Ivan and his exploits. The guards refused to confirm it, but Almas highly doubted the Livonians walked the earth anymore. Not in human form, anyway.
The waiting proved the most frustrating. Since Ivan’s arrival, Almas and his fellow Tatars were fed less often—only when the guards remembered, in fact. Every man in the cell had been a soldier. Bold and strong, they'd concealed items about their persons. Things considered innocuous by the guards, but which soldiers could use as weapon if the situation required. Such things proved immaterial in a jail cell, however. Until and unless they were freed, they would have no chance to use their weapons or their military intellects.
The thought of wasting away, waiting to die in a tiny room because he'd been forgotten threatened to drive Almas mad. More than once he’d felt pain in his forearm, only to realize he dug his own nails into his skin, drawing blood. Still, the waiting ambled on.
Almas put his head against the wall and thought of his wife and sons back home. They remained safe in a tiny village, protected by other family members, or he hoped they did. Assuming Ivan’s Oprichniki hadn’t ransacked his village, of course. It lay far to the East, out in the wilderness, and Almas doubted Ivan’s army reached so far. Still, he couldn't know. Almas hadn't been home in months. He didn’t believe he ever would be again. Melancholy consumed him, and Almas forced his thoughts away from the loneliness of missing his family.
Taras. A decent young man with great potential who’d been seduced by Russia’s seductive lifestyle. Almas wondered what happened to him, even pitied him, but always thought of him with fondness. After Taras helped him escape Moscow, Almas returned to his family. When he left them again to go fight the Russians, his goodbyes had been brief. Yet, his wife and sons cried. They'd never done that before, not in all the times he’d left home. At the time, he'd been sure it resulted from his having been captured by the Russians for so long. Now he understood better. Somehow, they'd known he wouldn't return this time.
A lurching sound from far away brought everyone’s head up. Though they could not see one another, Almas sensed the motion. It sounded like the outer door to the prison had opened. Someone approached. A minute later, pale orange light played on the prison wall beside the cell. Torches. The heavy tromp of boots and the brightening of the room announced more than one person. Almas fought the urge to shade his eyes. The light of the torches was pale by most standards, but it burned brighter than anything this cell had seen since the Livonians piled out.
The guards spoke in rough Russian. They ordered Almas and the others out of the cell. The prisoners, not shackled, were escorted at spear point. When they reached daylight, Almas was blinded. He hadn't been outside in so long, his eyes refused to adjust. Day had faded to evening. The sun had either set or mostly set, but brilliance of the sky still burned Almas's eyes. After several minutes passed, he still squinted, his eyes nearly shut.
The square outside the prison looked like an arena. On one side stood a raised dais. Ivan Grozny sat atop it on a dark, throne-like chair, looking like he might fall over dead at any second. He wore a coat of mail, spattered with dried blood. Around him stood hundreds of spectators, mostly Oprichniki soldiers. They looked demonic. Almas had heard tales of their appearance and exploits. He’d assumed the stories were embellished. He'd been wrong.
The guards shoved the Tatar prisoners into a clearing at the center of the mob. Almas immediately became aware of a terrible stench. He knew its source: decaying flesh. Dark mounds rose ominously all around them. He saw them through the lines of soldiers, but his eyes wouldn’t adjust well enough to make out details. Dead animals, perhaps?
“Hail, prisoners of Tatar!” The crowd silenced when a dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes, pale skin and pointed features held up his hands and addressed them. Almas didn’t know who he was, but he acted as the Tsar’s spokesperson. “You are accused of high treason, for refusing to surrender to the divine Tsar of all Russia. The penalty is execution.”
The crowd cheered and Almas smelled his own death in his nostrils. This pretense of a trial Held no justice. This would be an execution.
“Where are the Livonian prisoners?” The man who spoke was one of the Tatar prisoners from Almas's cell. Almas didn’t know the man’s name—they'd never exchanged names—but Almas recognized him all the same. He’d been the leader in the cell. He’d encouraged them, prepared them, and kept them from killing one another. Almas thought of him simply as the Voice. It felt good to put a face to the man, and fitting for him to take the lead here as well. Short with dark hair and eyes, the Voice had a r
ound face and skin tinged with yellow.
The Tsar’s spokesman turned a sinister smile on the Voice and Almas shivered. There was something monstrous in that smile. The spokesman turned to the Tsar and bowed. “I beg your indulgence, my Lord Tsar?”
After a pause, Ivan nodded. “Skuratov, if you bore us, we'll cut it short.”
“I assure your grace it won’t take long.” Skuratov turned and addressed the Voice again. “You want to know where your fellow prisoners are, Tatar? Don’t you see them? They’re all around you.”
Chills crashed along every part of Almas’s body like waves. He'd not travelled to the sea since he was a boy, but he remembered the overwhelming din of the water against the rocks. He felt like one of those rocks.
The decaying mounds of flesh—it was the Livonians.
The crowd laughed heartily at the Tatars’ dismay. Even Ivan smiled cruelly.
The Voice seemed to understand as well. Sorrow stole into his round features. “Women and children made up that group. What right do you have—” He didn’t get any farther. Skuratov picked something up. The object spun through the air. It hit the Voice in the chest with a solid thunk and he fell to his knees. Almas’s vision still hadn’t cleared completely, but the weapon struck him as too small to be a knife, not long enough for a spear. Almas guessed a small ax of some kind.
Though he’d guessed it much earlier, Almas understood with perfect clarity that he would not leave this arena alive. He stepped out, chest out and head back, in front of the other Tatars and raised his voice, wanting Ivan to hear it.
“You want to kill us? Very well. We shall die. Understand this, Grand Tsar of Russia: you may slaughter us upon the altars of both our churches, but the blood of every innocent victim will rise against you one day. Their cries reach the ears of the god of the universe. May he curse you for what you’ve done!”
