The Empire of Time

by David Wingrove

  ‘I’m tired,’ I say.

  ‘Then get some sleep. Or go visit Zarah. I’m sure she’d like to see you.’ And he smiles, as if he knows something that I don’t.

  But I don’t want to see Zarah, however much she wants to see me. I want …

  To sleep. It hits me now. The drug is wearing off, much sooner than I thought it would. Maybe it’s the stress – that business with the Russians – but suddenly I am dead on my feet. I stand and nod to Hecht, then turn and make my way across. But no sooner am I in my room, than I am gone, lost to the void, an atom, endlessly circling.

  Endlessly, endlessly circling.

  53

  And wake, on my feet, a battle waging all about me, the blue coats of the Prussian grenadiers packed densely to either side, their bayonets fixed.

  A sword swings wildly past my right shoulder, a flash of silver in the acrid, smoke-filled air, and I step back smartly, half-crouching, knowing that I’m in real and mortal danger.

  This happens. I do have blackouts. But rarely like this.

  There’s no time for that, however. I have two options: to jump straight out of there or to fight.

  I choose to fight.

  It’s scorchingly hot and the air is filled with the shouts and screams of men, the thunder of cannon fire and the whistle of musket-balls. But where we are, on the Muhl-Berge, the battle rages fiercest, cold steel deciding the issue. It is early afternoon, and the battle is barely an hour old. I know this because of where we are, among the Russian trenches, where four battalions of Frederick’s finest men – his grenadiers – are causing havoc, slaughtering the demoralised Russians to a man.

  I draw my sword and parry a low thrust from one of the few Russians who has the stomach for the fight. Many are just letting themselves be bayoneted. It is sheer carnage where we are, but I know that this phase of things won’t last much longer. Even as we cut our way across the great hump of the Muhl-Berg, Saltykov is redeploying his men in a new line of defence just beyond the sandy little valley called the Kuh-Grunde. From there the combined Russian and Austrian batteries will take their toll of our forces, turning potential victory into bloody defeat.

  But that’s to come.

  The Russian falls, shot from close range by one of my fellows, and I am conscious suddenly that I am in full Prussian uniform, the rough cloth unfamiliar, but I recognise it at once as that of the thirteenth infantry regiment. I look about me and see, far to my left, his sword drawn, encouraging his troops, Major-General August Friedrich von Itzenplitz. He will die today, but right now he grins like a demon, sharing his soldier’s bloodlust.

  I know precisely where I am. I have walked this battlefield a dozen times or more, and even stood on the escarpment beside Frederick, watching as the battle unfolded. But this is different. Never, in all my years, have I been in the thick of the conflict.

  I am dressed as a captain, and I wonder how and why. There’s a gun tucked into my belt, too, a replica, made to look like a pistol from this age. And slowly, piece by piece, it comes back to me. This is Hecht’s plan, not mine.

  As the action begins to die down and the platoons reform, I make my way across to Itzenplitz and, saluting him, request permission to seek out Frederick and give him the news of our success. He smiles and bids me go, then calls me back to thank me for serving alongside his men. And I realise there and then that I must have volunteered for this only last night – and as I leave, making my way through the ranks, the soldiers cheer me and slap my back, like I’m a hero.

  I find Frederick up on the Kleiner-Spitzberg, to the east of Kunersdorf village. Already he has made several major mistakes. His men are exhausted after their long overnight march, and the terrain is not to his advantage – there are long ponds stretching all the way along between our forces and the Russians, and now Frederick has marched his men another six miles simply to attack his enemies on their best fortified flank. Things are going badly wrong. The cavalry are arriving in dribs and drabs and the Kuh-Grunde is about to become a massive killing ground. But when I report to him, he seems elated by his early successes and keen to press his ‘advantage’.

  It is not my role to talk him out of it, but for once I’m tempted. I have been down there, among the dead and dying. I’ve seen the suffering first-hand. Many are dying of the heat and thirst, their wounds untended, their loved ones far away, unaware of their fate. And there’s more to come. A whole afternoon of suffering.

  Ten thousand men will die today, while another thirty thousand will carry the scars of this battle for the rest of their lives. And for what?

  For a gamble. Which is all this is, after all. One mad cast of the dice against the odds. For even Frederick can see what is happening. Only he doesn’t want to. He thinks sheer will and Prussian grit and luck will win the day. But he forgets Zorndorf. His enemy did not run that day and they will not run on this. Four hours from now it will be his troops, shocked and bloodied, who will be staggering from the field of battle, a defenceless mob, mortally afraid of being captured and transported to Siberia.

  But I keep my mind to the task. It is Frederick who matters now, wrong as he is, evil as this day’s work of his will prove, for without him we do not exist.

  I stand close to him, watching as he gives his orders. Finck is to attack with his eight battalions from the north, struggling across the swampy ground to be slaughtered, while the Hauss battalion under von Kleist, a cultured man of letters, will be cut to ribbons by the Russian batteries, Kleist himself mortally wounded.

  It is a butcher’s shop, and even from this height we can hear the screams of the dying and the wounded. But worse – far worse – is to come. Frederick has yet to commit his main army. Only then will the battle turn. Only then will the true horror of things be revealed.

  I stay with him as things develop, witness to his moods. Elation and despair, anger and brute frustration war in his face. News comes of Seydlitz’s failure to penetrate the Russian defences, and of the bullet wound to his hand. Then, as the afternoon wears on, we learn that Major-General Puttkammer, a favourite of Frederick’s, is dead, shot in the chest. All is gloom.

  Late afternoon sees us up on the Muhl-Berge, Frederick encouraging his army on. But they are fleeing now, their discipline finally broken, and though Frederick attempts to make a stand with six hundred men of the Lestwitz regiment, the battle is already lost and he knows it. It’s here and at this time that Frederick is in danger. One horse has already been shot out from under him, and now a second receives a musket-ball in its chest.

  This is the moment. This is the reason I am here. To watch over him at this cusp in men’s affairs. To ensure that he survives these coming minutes.

  As the horse collapses, von Gotz rushes across to help the King from his saddle. There is no let up in the battle. The air is filled with deadly metal. Shaken, Frederick looks to me, smiling weakly, as if to reassure me, then turns, taking the reins of von Gotz’s horse. He allows his Flugeladjutant to help him up into the saddle, then lifts his head and looks about him.

  The grey horse turns, lifting its head proudly, as if it knows it now carries a king, yet even as it does, so Frederick slumps, then slides to his right, tumbling from his mount. There’s a cry of despair and a dozen men come running to help. They huddle around the fallen figure of the king, and as I look down past von Gotz’s shoulders at Frederick, I see with horror that there’s blood on his coat.

  ‘Mein Gott!’

  I turn and look and there, not ten paces from me, dressed in the plain blue coats and orange waistcoats of the Diericke Fusiliers, are Nemtsov, Dankevich and Bobrov, and, just behind them, Gruber. They grin as they raise their guns once more.

  And this time I jump and jump back moments earlier, Ernst at my side, Klaus over to my right, Freisler just behind the Russians.

  Two hours have passed subjectively – perhaps the longest two hours of my life – spent closeted with Hecht, arguing about just how and why and when we’d deal with this, for there’s e
very chance this is a trap – a way of sucking in our forces in one final, make-or-break confrontation. After all, the Russians know that we have to respond – that we can’t let Frederick die. But anything we can do, they can do.

  It’s a gamble, but what else can we do?

  He gives me Ernst because – well – because I plead with him to let me have Ernst there at that moment. Because I trust no one half as much as I trust Ernst.

  And so we step from the air, four against four – even odds for once – and open fire with our replicas. No mussel-loaders these, but modern high-tech lasers, made to resemble their ancient counterparts.

  Nemtsov falls, dead again, and Bobrov staggers, blinded, then topples in a heap. I glance across and see that Klaus is down, and as I look back, so Dankevich aims his weapon at me.

  I watch him die, not by my hand but – with savage irony – by an ancient musket-ball which strikes him square in the temple and carries away the top half of his skull.

  Breathless, I turn full circle, waiting for others to appear, but that’s it – no one else is coming to this fray. Ernst is okay, and Freisler. And there, not twenty yards away, is Frederick, mounting von Gotz’s pale grey horse. Safe now.

  I turn back, looking for Gruber. At first I don’t see him, but then I do. He’s also down, lying there on his back, groaning.

  I walk across to him.

  Gruber stares up at me, blood and spittle on his lips. The wound to his chest is a bad one. He’s been burned deeply and he’s ebbing fast, but as he sees me he smiles, as if he’s won.

  ‘Here,’ he mouths, and I kneel, leaning close to make out what he’s saying.

  ‘Your Katerina …’ he says, then coughs. ‘And Cherdiechnost … The Russians know …’

  And so he dies. But I feel a fist of ice about my heart. They know? Urd protect me, let it not be true!

  Part Four

  Katerina

  ‘Te spectem, suprema mihi cum venerit hora, Et teneam moriens deficiente manu.’

  ‘May I be looking at you when my last hour has come, And dying may I hold you with my weakening hand.’

  – Tibullus, first century BC

  54

  Katerina. Let me tell you about Katerina.

  The day is freezing cold, even for March in that northern latitude. Novgorod in winter is cold, with the wind coming off Lake Ilmen and the frozen Baltic, but this day is bitter even by its severe standards. Ice clings to my lashes and brows, and as Ernst and I make our way to the merchant’s house, we pull our thick furs close about our necks and hunch forward, taking care not to slip on the snow-covered logs that constitute the main street.

  Novgorod at this time – and we are speaking of 1237 Anno Domini, or Year 6746 by the old Orthodox calendar – is a sprawling metropolis of thirty thousand souls. But it is still a frontier town. Few of its buildings are made of stone. Like Moscow, it is a town built of wood, a product of the primeval forest that covers all these northern lands.

  But before you get things wrong, Moscow in this Age, important as it is, is little more than a military outpost. Novgorod is the capital of the north, a thriving city-state with massive colonies between the White Lake and Lake Kubenskoe – in the Zavoloch’e, ‘Beyond the Portage’. It was to Novgorod – or, to be pedantic, to Gorodishche, the old town, just to the south, known also as Holmgarthr and Nemogardas, that the Varingians, later called the Rhos, or Rus, first came a full five centuries ago, from their homelands in the Aland Islands and central Sweden. The same men who, in time, became the grand princes of Kievan Rus’.

  For its time, this is a massive city. Only the cities of ancient China are larger. Twenty-five volosti, or districts, sprawl across both banks of the Volkhov river, each a small town in itself. We are heading for the west bank, the Sofiyskaya storona, or ‘cathedral side’ as it’s known, the great square church of St Sophia, with its golden cupolas, looking out across the river to the eastern bank, the Torgovaya Storona, or ‘Trade Side’.

  This is not my first visit. For two years now I have been cultivating contacts in the town, posing as a German merchant from Lubeck. This is Ernst’s project, and I am only one of four agents helping him, but Ernst confides in me, and I repay his confidence by aiding him as often as I can.

  That is why I am there that day, walking at Ernst’s side as we cross the narrow wooden bridge that spans the turbulent Volkhov, heading up past the onion domes of St Sophia to see the merchant.

  Mikhail Razumovsky is a relatively new contact, a rich boyar with trading links in Scandinavia. Ernst met him a week ago through a mutual friend, and they got drunk together. The invitation to supper came three days back. And so it is that we struggle against the wind that whips the snow up from the logs, even as the sun begins to set.

  I pause on the steep path that leads up from the river, seeing the raw beauty in the day. The sun is a low, orange circle balanced on the dark edge of the world. Beneath it, huge bars of red-gold light lay on the rooftops and on the patchwork of lakes and rivers beyond. But it is the forest that awes me most, for it stretches all the way to the horizon, covering the land so densely that the night seems to well up from its dark and endless reach.

  There is no darkness like the darkness of northern Russia, and when night falls one can believe that the world is in the grip of some force far older than Man.

  Two blazing torches light the wooden gateway to our host’s residence. Razumovsky himself comes out to greet us, a tall man with a bushy black beard and fierce dark eyes. He embraces Ernst, slapping his back like they are the oldest of friends, then leads us across the frozen courtyard.

  We are expecting a small, private meal with our host, but we are not alone. A dozen or more faces – heavily bearded, some familiar, others not – grin back at us from about the long table as we enter the room. A huge log fire blazes in one corner of the room, crackling fiercely, its smoke rushing up into the ceiling gap, yet the men still wear their heavy furs at table.

  ‘Ernst!’ one of them, a big man with an impressive bright red beard calls out. ‘Come! Sit with me!’

  The table is stacked high with food and wine. There’s meat enough to feed a small army, let alone this gathering. This is not the ‘supper’ we were promised, but a feast – a bratchina.

  I look to Razumovsky and smile. ‘We have not met before, Mikhail. My name is Otto.’

  And, taking off my gloves, I shake his hands firmly and then embrace him, holding him close a moment, as is their fashion.

  Razumovsky grins. ‘I’m glad to meet you, Otto. You speak our language well for a Nemets.’

  ‘I try,’ I say, then let myself be led to a place beside my host.

  Ernst is deep in conversation with the big man. I don’t recognise him, but Ernst clearly knows him well.

  Razumovsky leans close, speaking to my ear. ‘I didn’t know your friend, Ernst, knew the tysiatskii.’

  I look again, surprised. So the big man is Novgorod’s military commander, second only to the posadnik in the civil administration of the town. The two men work with the prince to govern Novgorod and, like him, are elected by the veche, the council of boyars.

  I look around the table, reassessing the situation. Far from being a simple supper, Razumovsky has gathered together a small yet impressive group of men. Five of them, at least, I know to be on the veche, and of the others, at least two are merchants of considerable wealth. I smile and nod, acknowledging each in turn, then look to Razumovsky.

  It is not their way to be direct, and so I do not ask him what the purpose of the gathering is. Instead I ask a simple question. ‘Your family, Mikhail … they are in good health?’

  Razumovsky grins at the question, his poor, yellowing teeth showing through his thick black beard. ‘Most well, thank you, my friend. Indeed, you will meet them in a while. They would have greeted you ordinarily, but we were not sure when you would come, and besides, Masha is supervising the slaves. But here now … here they are!’

  He stands, and a moment l
ater all about the table rise to their feet as two women enter, small trays of drinks held out before them. Heads bow respectfully, and I lower mine in accord with their custom. Yet as I raise it again, I look across and meet her eyes …

  And catch my breath, for there, before me, is such a beauty as I’ve never yet beheld. Her eyes are like the bluest of lakes, and yet so deep …

  And in that single, fateful moment I am lost to her. I do not even know her name, only that, in that instant, her soul has touched mine, and fused.

  She looks down, blushing, even as her father goes to her and, grinning with pleasure, parades her for his fellow boyars.

  I stand there, unable not to stare, conscious that if any there were to study me, they would see at once my fixed attention on her. Even so, I cannot help myself. I drink in the sight of her.

  ‘Ernst, Otto, may I present my eldest daughter, Katerina.’

  Katerina. The very word seems to glow with special meaning. Yet now I feel embarrassed. I look away, flustered, disturbed by the suddenness, the very strength of what I am feeling.

  ‘And this,’ he continues, ‘is my wife, Masha.’

  I look back and see how the girl is staring at me now, her eyes wide, questioning. What has happened? she seems to ask. Who are you and what do you want of me?

  Yet even as our eyes make contact, she quickly looks away.

  Her eyes – I speak as if she is but a pair of eyes. But it is so. Her hair is dark and lustrous, her figure the full figure of Russian womanhood. A beauty she is, without doubt, yet it is her eyes I fall in love with.

  ‘She does you credit, Mikhail,’ one of the guests – Vavilov, I think it is – cries out. ‘She’ll make young Oleg Alekseevich a good wife!’

  Her eyes find mine. There is shock in them now and pain, the very mirror of my own, for in those brief, few seconds I have both found and lost the woman of my dreams.

  ‘So she will!’ Razumovsky crows, his self-satisfied grin seeming to mock me. ‘The banns are to be read next week in St Sophia’s, and the wedding will follow in the spring.’