by K L Conger
Kiril thought he recognized this man. He felt sure he’d seen this man's face weeks ago, when the oprichniki first pulled Kiril’s family from their shop.
"You're the cobbler's boy, are you not?"
Kiril merely gazed up at him.
"Answer me, boy."
Kiril forced himself to nod.
"And did you apprentice to your father? Do you know how to cobble shoes?"
Again, Kiril didn't think he'd be able to find his voice. He moved his head in the affirmative.
The man nodded firmly, as though he'd expected as much. "Good. You're coming with the Tsar's army. Most of our shoes have worn through in past weeks and we’ll need more on the road. If you have any belongings you’d like to pack, do it now, and meet me by the gate in ten minutes."
The man strode away.
Kiril stumbled to his feet. He couldn’t imagine going with the Tsar's army after what they'd done to his people, to his city, to his family.
And yet...he didn't want to stay in Novgorod now, with the corpses of all the people he'd known staring up at him.
His family lay somewhere, buried under a pile of their peers. The thought of coming face-to-face with their corpses both saddened and terrified him.
Kiril ought to stay and honor them by rebuilding. By helping to bury them and re-making the life they’d once known. Kiril didn't want that. He feared if he stayed in Novgorod, he’d go mad.
Without knowing where he was going or being conscious of the direction his feet took him, he eventually found himself standing just inside the main entrance to the city. He could have gone back to his father’s shop and found some tools or other personal items. He had time. Yet Kiril didn’t want to. Better to leave it all behind. The memories, the life he’d once known.
Looking around, he wondered how he would travel. Simply follow the army on foot? Most likely.
Kiril jumped when a horse rode up beside him.
"You! Boy, here!"
Kiril peered up to into the face of the oprichniki guard who’d ordered him to the square. The man rode astride an enormous black stallion, the signature of the oprichniki. A severed, dried dog’s head hung from the saddle's pommel, and Kiril noted the broom the Tsar’s elite force carried sticking out from a saddle bag. The man held the reins of a small pack pony. It whinnied beside him.
"You can ride her out of the city, boy,” he held the reins out toward Kiril. “But no farther. As soon as we get to the Tsar’s camp outside the city limits, she’ll be laden with supplies. You’ll have to walk with the other camp followers at that point.”
Woodenly, Kiril took the mare’s reins and mounted her. When Tsar’s men moved out of the city, she merely began to walk, keeping pace with them without Kiril having to urge her forward.
Kiril had become a spectator in his own life. He didn’t care. He let the pony and the wind and the Tsar take him where they would. None of it mattered anymore.
KIRIL ENTERED THE WALLS of Pskov, just under a thousand furlongs from Novgorod, behind the Tsar and his oprichniki. He felt confused by what he saw, as well as by the strange stillness. Every house they passed on their way to the center of the city presented the same thing; a table set up in front of each door, laden with bread and salt. The inhabitants knelt beside or behind the table in apparent supplication. Not that Kiril could see every house in Pskov, of course—it was nearly as large and prosperous as Novgorod had been, which meant the houses went on for hundreds of sazhens in every direction.
Kiril guessed the people of Pskov were begging for the Tsar’s mercy. After Novgorod, Kiril didn’t believe a single ounce of mercy still resided in Ivan’s breast. True, he’d spared Kiril and a few others, but only after massacring most of the city. Ivan believed passionately in setting an example.
Kiril walked the miles between Novgorod and Pskov with the other camp followers, doing any work the Tsar’s army asked of him. Many brought him shoes that needed mending, or occasionally, materials to make new shoes. Because he didn't have his father's tools or the resources the shop supplied, he was forced to improvise.
He used small stones as hammers to pound nails into the soles of boots, but material for the nails themselves grew trickier and trickier to come by. The men who needed their shoes mended brought him small studs, iron filings, and sometimes even black thorns. He made do. Kiril’s lessons at his father’s side had been thorough, and he received regular compliments on his cobbling work from the Russian soldiers.
He assumed they would travel straight to Moscow. Only yesterday, he’d learned of this stop in Pskov. Apparently, Ivan saw Pskov as the second city, after Novgorod, to be guilty of betraying the Tsar.
The idea filled Kiril with horror. He hadn't truly wanted to come with the Tsar’s army to begin with, and felt more ashamed with each passing day to serve the man who killed his family. Would Pskov now suffer the same fate as Novgorod?
Kiril felt trapped. He couldn't stay. He couldn't go. If he were less of a coward, he’d steal a knife and take his life. He'd been taught by his mother since childhood that such a thing constituted a sin. That he’d burn in hell for it. Kiril believed his parents and sister resided in heaven, and he desperately wanted to see them, so he would remain alive for the time being.
Kiril entered the main square of the Pskov. Ivan had arrived well ahead of him, of course, and the throne-like chair he’d used in Novgorod had been set up in the square. As Kiril moved into the square, Ivan magnanimously took his place on it.
A well-dressed man stood in the center of the square, waiting to welcome the Tsar. The man wore finely woven robes. Perhaps the leader of Pskov, or a wealthy merchant. His beard, though it fanned over his chest in the traditional fashion, looked well-groomed and clean.
The man fell immediately to his knees in front of Ivan’s chair, pressing his forehead to the ground. His chest-length beard immediately soaked in the slushy snow carpeting the cobblestones.
"Rise," Ivan commanded in a sonorous voice.
The man obeyed, raising his torso to face Ivan, yet remained on his knees, keeping his gaze on Ivan’s feet. So, the well-dressed man possessed both bravery and wisdom. If the man had met Ivan’s gaze, he might have been executed.
"And what does Pskov have to say to the Supreme Tsar of all Russia?" Ivan asked.
With tears in his eyes, the man bowed his head. "Do as you will with our lives and our property. Everything we possess is yours, as are our persons!"
Kiril saw his own surprise mirrored in Ivan's expression. Clearly, these people didn't intend to put up a fight.
"Our people have set up tables with offerings of the bread and salt of hospitality," the spokesman went on. “We submit wholly to the will of the Divinely-anointed Tsar."
Hospitality, yes. Kiril suspected that’s what the offerings meant. The custom had been similar in Novgorod.
Ivan rose to his feet and spread his hands. "We confess, we are touched by this offering. When our armies halted at St. Nicholas Monastery in Lubatov last evening, we heard your church bells tolling. Even then, our heart was touched. We believe it is God's way of instructing us to show mercy to Pskov. Her people have shown their loyalty, despite what some of their leaders might have done in the past.” He stepped forward and put a hand on the spokesman’s head. "Be comforted, our son. Because of your loyalty, your city will be spared this day."
The well-dressed man began to sob and once again fell prostrate in the snow.
Ivan, seeming downright cheerful, declared he would visit the Church of the Trinity to hear a te deum. Kiril looked to Evgen, who motioned for him to stay outside.
Evgen, the guard who’d recruited him for the Tsar’s army, took a particular liking to Kiril. While Kiril did have to give up the mare he’d ridden out of Novgorod, Evgen found him another pony to ride. This way, while Kiril still cobbled for anyone who needed it, he’d also become something of a groom for Evgen, riding beside him in case he was needed. Wherever Evgen went, Kiril followed, unless instructed otherwise
, like now.
An hour later, Evgen emerged from the Church of the Trinity and motioned Kiril forward. “The Tsar has decided to visit the cell of the monk Nicholas. You will accompany me.”
Kiril nodded, feeling somewhat curious in spite of himself. Curiosity. The first thing he’d felt since leaving Novgorod. The monk Nicholas was reputed to have mystical powers.
The Tsar’s request also confused Kiril, though. Nicholas’ name was known throughout Russia and he openly opposed the actions of the oprichniki. Being a sainted man, Ivan wouldn’t dare harm Nicholas, so why go to see him?
Like all dungeons in Russia, Nicholas’s cell lay below ground and could be accessed only by ladder. Ivan and his closest retinue of oprichniki climbed down. Several of their servants, Kiril included, also went. They were instructed to stand along the back wall of the prison and stay out of the way until one of their masters needed them.
Kiril could not see Nicholas clearly, but caught glimpses between the dark, hulking figures of the oprichniki.
For all the mysticism around Nicholas, Kiril felt shock at the man's outward appearance. He would have thought such a revered religious man would look more...heavenly.
Ivan, too, appeared shocked, gaping through the wooden bars at the half-naked, emaciated man.
Nicholas wore a bushy beard, yet had little hair on his head. What he did have looked so dirty, Kiril couldn't make out its true color. The chain around Nicholas's neck attached to someplace in his cell Kiril couldn't see, and madness glinted in the man’s eyes. He reached through the bars, holding a piece of raw meat out to Ivan.
Ivan gasped, looking affronted. "I'm a Christian," the Tsar said. "I do not eat meat during Lent."
“No," Nicholas said. He didn’t laugh, but his voice sounded like a cackle, even when he simply spoke. "You do much worse. You feed on human flesh and blood, forgetting not only Lent, but God himself." Nicholas stepped up and wrapped twig-like fingers around the wooden bars. "If you touch so much as a hair on the head of a single child in Pskov, I prophesy that you, noble Tsar, will be struck with thunderbolts from heaven. God is most displeased."
Ivan’s face contorted with anger and he raised his staff, which came to a point at the bottom. Kiril had seen the Tsar use it more than once to impale those who displeased him. He now moved as if to thrust it through the bars and stab Nicholas.
Surely the Tsar didn’t mean to impale a sainted man! Kiril noticed Ivan’s oprichniki stiffen and shift warily from foot to foot. They obviously shared Kiril’s discomfort at Ivan’s apparent intention.
Before Ivan could do more than brandish his spiked scepter, thunder rumbled in the distance. It must be loud indeed for them to hear it so clearly underground.
Ivan froze. After what felt like an eternity, he slowly lowered his scepter to the ground. At length, he spoke, his voice strangely quiet. Almost reverent. Kiril strained to hear it.
"We raised our hand against an Archbishop, and let a Metropolitan be strangled. Yet God humbles us with this holy fool.” Ivan heaved a deep breath. “God speaks through the simpleminded more often than through the rich clergy. Just as the spokesman in the square revealed God's will that we show mercy to Pskov, so God also speaks through this...stammering intercessor.” He whirled to face his oprichniki. "Evacuate the city immediately. We will restrict ourselves to minor looting on the outskirts.”
Bowing their acquiescence, the oprichniki shuffled up the ladder, gathering up their servants along the way. Feeling confused, Kiril followed Evgen obediently.
Within hours, the army traveled toward Moscow, though Kiril knew they would stop periodically to loot.
Riding beside Evgen on the short, brown pack-pony—the horse was lame and sway-backed, but plodded along valiantly—Kiril contemplated all he'd seen in past days. The Tsar remained a formidable man. Yet, Kiril wondered if Ivan might be mad.
Ivan held a certain logic to him, though. Kiril noticed that when people appealed jointly to Ivan’s emotions and his piety, the most profound results were produced.
Kiril tucked the information away for the future, while more thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.
FEBRUARY 1550, VOROTYNSKY Estate, Outer Moscow
General Mikhail Vorotynsky rose from his table in the dining hall. He walked to the large window overlooking the vast Russian countryside while the servants cleaned up the meager breakfast of borscht and black bread behind him. His wife, Glasha, watched him from her seat.
His mind swept over the events of past years. What happened, what went right, what went wrong. All of Russia lauded Vorotynsky as one of the heroes of the campaign against Khazan. He took the first tower of Arsk during the bloodiest battle of the war. The Plains of Arsk became a slaughter ground. Vorotynsky proved his honor and loyalty to Russia that day. How did it all go so terribly wrong after the war ended?
Glasha crossed the room to stand at his side. Though he did not look at her, he heard the swish of her green satin dress as she moved. Glasha put a hand on his shoulder and he turned toward her. "You’re quite introspective these days, husband,” she said softly, scrutinizing his features with her ever-gentle eyes.
He gave her a tight smile, fighting for sincerity. “I suppose I am. What else have I to do, since Ivan exiled us here?”
“The Tsar is fickle, Mikhail,” Glasha said firmly. “It could have been worse. He might have killed us. Beheaded us both in Red Square.”
Vorotynsky nodded, a touch impatiently. Yes, he understood. He and Glasha argued a version of this conversation a dozen times since arriving at these estates.
Ivan banished Vorotynsky without reason or evidence. Mikhail had plenty of vices. Especially in his wild, younger years. He could be justly accused of many things. But not disloyalty. Not that. The accusation rankled more than he knew how to convey to his sweet wife. It burrowed ever more deeply under his skin and kept him awake most nights.
Glasha merely felt relieved to be living out a peaceful life in the countryside. Vorotynsky ought to share her relief, yet he felt restless. How did a soldier, whose career involved death on the battlefield, find peace in the countryside after being accused of treason?
Vorotynsky longed to clear his name. He often laid awake at night, fantasizing about ways in which to do it. He imagined smoking out traitors, fighting great battles, or even saving the Tsar’s own person from assassins. The dreams varied, but they always ended the same way: with Ivan welcoming Vorotynsky back to Moscow with open arms.
Perhaps it would happen. Perhaps not. He felt so powerless to change his situation. Ivan remained God’s representative on earth. Anything he decreed might as well have come from the Almighty. If only Vorotynsky could find some way to change Ivan’s mind!
He knew his wishes were foolish, and he fancied himself a man of logic. His fantasies might as well be the foolish fever of young men, seeking glory on the battlefields of Mother Russia. Still, Vorotynsky loathed the idea of going to his grave with people whispering the word ‘traitor’ over his resting place.
He hadn’t lost everything, of course. In the years since the campaign against Khazan, he’d become overseer of the Great Abatis Belt, the natural barrier between Russia and its Eastern enemies. Vorotynsky spent most of his days both building and maintaining a barricade made of felled trees stretching hundreds of miles along the Oka River. It protected Moscow from steppe raiders and other dangers. Vorotynsky used mounds of earth, palisades, watch towers, and natural features such as lakes and swamps to his advantage. Nearly thirty thousand men under his command guarded the line.
Russian scholars compared it to Roman limes, or the Great Wall the nation to Russia’s south had reportedly constructed. Vorotynsky remained a simple soldier. He couldn’t speak to such things. He only knew the Belt stretched in a vast line and required constant vigilance.
And yet, his efforts always fell short. Russia’s border reached long enough that any determined and savvy raider could find a way through if they remained vigilant and patient. It wou
ld happen sooner or later.
Perhaps guarding the Abatis Belt would be his lot in life, but he prayed for a chance at absolution. The opportunity had not, as yet, presented itself.
“I do not think God would have let us die that way, my dear,” he answered Glasha. “We are innocent. I believe God keeps us alive so I might prove it.”
Glasha’s eyes flew open wide. “You should not say such things, Mikhail,” she snapped. “Trying to regain Ivan’s favor will only result in disaster.”
“I do not wish to regain Ivan’s favor,” he said sharply, knowing she’d seen through the lie. “Only to serve my country in some way.”
Glasha cocked her head to one side, her face taking on a patient look. She only gave him that look when she knew what left his lips wasn’t truth. Her hair, like his, had become streaked with gray in the last few years, just as the lines around her eyes and mouth had deepened. Her hair and face looked equally perturbed with him now.
Vorotynsky only wished to protect her. She never liked it when he went off to battle. After twenty years together, Glasha still dissolved into tears every time he left, never finding the strength to keep her emotions in check. Vorotynsky gazed out the window again, if only to escape the hurt, worried look in her eyes.
He moderated his voice. “My apologies, my dear. These accusations still bother me. I don’t want to go to my grave with them on my shoulders.”
Glasha’s face contorted in horror. “I don’t want you to go to your grave at all!” she exclaimed.
Vorotynsky turned to her, putting a consoling hand on her shoulder. “No one is going anywhere right now. Be at peace.”
Relief smoothed the lines of her face. She still cast worried looks at him, though. Even over her shoulder as she left the room.
Vorotynsky sighed. He spent most of the morning gazing out his window. After all, he had little else to do.
PRINCE ANDREY KURBSKY, son of the Ruriki princes who founded Novgorod, stared out from the window of his wooden fortress. For the first time in months, he truly felt good.
