The Empire of Time

by David Wingrove

  And I know it’s true. Only I want her to live. I want it more than …

  Well, more than life itself.

  I look down at my hands, knowing that I’ve got to go back. I’ve got to change it.

  Yes, but how?

  Tomorrow, she said. She was meeting me tomorrow, in the lane by the cathedral. I look up at Hecht and nod. ‘I’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘I just need to rest for a while.’

  64

  Only I hardly sleep at all. I keep seeing it – that awful, helpless look in her eyes. And I burn to make it not so. Never have I felt this urge so powerfully. But I know I must take care. Ernst is sure to have said something to Hecht, and if Hecht thinks for a moment that this might get in the way of me doing my job, then he’ll pull me from the project.

  And I can’t allow that. I have to see her again.

  So when Ernst sends a message, I take my time, as if I’m unconcerned, and when finally I get there, he looks at me quizzically.

  ‘Otto, where have you been?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ I say. ‘It was a shock, that business. I guess …’

  And then I shrug and smile. ‘Hecht’s right. We need to focus on Nevsky. If we can build on those contacts we’ve made …’

  I see the relief in Ernst’s eyes, and know he’s been worrying about me. Yet even as he begins to spell out the next stage of things to me, I find myself only half listening, some part of me transfixed by the thought of seeing her again.

  And so we go back. To Novgorod, in the winter of 1237, and there, in the tiny lane beside the cathedral, I stand in the shadow of that great white-painted building, its golden onion domes raised high above me into the blue, as I wait for her to come.

  It’s bitterly cold, and I am not quite sure when the service will end, but I know that I would wait for ever just for a single glimpse of her.

  You’re mad, I tell myself, time and again, as I pull my furs closer about my neck and stomp my leather-booted feet, trying to keep warm. Nor do I know quite where this madness leads, only that it must have meaning. If not, then why feel such painful intensity?

  I ponder that a while, as if I can make sense of it, then give it up. If Hecht is right, then everything’s genetics – cell calling to cell – and all our human instincts just a means our DNA have found for propagating themselves at the expense of other ‘lesser’ strands. We’re but the vehicle that they use.

  If so, then powerful genetics are at work here, for each single cell of mine cries out for each of hers. Or so it feels.

  But now the great wooden doors swing open, and slowly the congregation – the great and good of Novgorod, in their fine furs and expensive trappings – emerge from that warm, candle-lit, inner darkness out into the snow and the cold mid-morning glare.

  I crane my neck, trying to get a sight of her, but it’s hard to make out who is who among that fur-clad throng. But then a small group breaks off and begin to walk up the side of the cathedral, directly towards me.

  I step back into the shadows, not wishing to be seen if it’s not her. And it seems as if I’m right, for the small party passes me by, talking among themselves. I step forward once more, gazing down the lane towards the milling crowd, trying to make out Razumovsky, and even as I do, so I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to find her there before me.

  White fur rings her perfect face, framing the dark curls of her hair as she looks up at me from those deep blue eyes.

  ‘Katerina …’

  The word’s a breath, pluming in the air between us. Her eyes quiz me once more, their tiny, darting movements making me catch my breath. It’s as if she sees the whole of me in that moment. And then she smiles. Such a smile as lights a thousand years.

  ‘Who are you, Otto? What do you want?’

  And I want to tell her everything. Only I know she’ll think me mad. So I say what’s in my head and watch her smile turn to wonder.

  ‘I want you, Katerina. I want you for ever.’

  65

  We do not kiss. We barely even touch. There is that one brief moment, and then she is gone, hurrying to catch up with her maids before she’s missed. Yet in that instant we are pledged to each other. For all time.

  ‘Well?’ Ernst asks, when I return to him. ‘Did you make contact with him?’

  ‘He wasn’t there,’ I lie, as if I’d bothered looking for the posadnik. ‘We’ll have to go to his house.’

  Ernst sighs but doesn’t question me. I’ve never lied to him before, and there would seem no reason why I should be lying now, so he accepts what I’ve said. Only I don’t feel comfortable with it. Ernst is my closest friend, and I hate such shabby subterfuge. But what other option have I?

  To give her up …

  Only that’s not going to happen. I know that now. It’s the only certainty I possess right now. I have no plan, no way of making her mine, only an absolute and unshakable belief in Fate. She will be mine. How, I do not know, but it will happen.

  I could look, of course. See if and how and when … or so you think. Only it isn’t so. Right now she isn’t mine, she’s Kravchuk’s. To have her I must act, must sully the timestream. To gain her I must triumph over Kravchuk. But how? How can I manage that without first killing the little weasel?

  Oh, I want to kill him. How could I not, having seen him murder her? But I am not that kind of man. Or so I think. For I am learning things about myself. Things I never guessed.

  Ernst and I agree to visit the posadnik; to knock at his gate and seek an audience with the great man. It’s rather more direct than Ernst likes, but there seems no alternative. No one’s offering us an introduction. Why, even Razumovsky’s shy of it. And without gaining the posadnik’s friendship, there’s no way we can get to Nevsky.

  And that’s the next stage of Ernst’s plan.

  We take expensive gifts to bribe his steward.

  And so it is that we find ourselves inside his palace. A palace made of wood, of course – more fort than castle – yet with a touch of grandeur for all that, for this is a powerful man. He rules alongside the prince – both appointees of the veche, the council of boyars that rules Novgorod.

  He greets us sullenly, never leaving his big, carved wooden chair, as if he’s little time for such as we. We are only traders, after all. And Nemets, too, come to that. He sees us as an unfortunate necessity. Beyond that … well, his distaste is evident in the way he looks at us, like we’re the lowliest of insects. But that doesn’t matter. We could buy the likes of him ten times over. That is, if we wanted to alert the Russians.

  They’re here. We know they are. After all, it is as much in their interests to defend Nevsky as it’s in ours to bring him down. That’s the nature of the game. But who their agents are and what their strategy – that we do not know.

  The posadnik is a thin fellow of indeterminate age. His bright red beard suggests an aristocratic background – these are Rus, after all – yet I know for a fact that his grandfather was born a common man.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asks disdainfully.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord,’ Ernst says, bowing low, ‘but these are dark, uncertain times, and—’

  ‘Uncertain times?’

  We have his full attention now.

  ‘I mean, what with the horde …’

  He stares at Ernst fiercely. ‘We are a long way from Kiev.’

  ‘But not from Moscow. Word is it was burned to the ground. With not a single house remaining. In such circumstances …’

  The posadnik leans right forward in his chair and points at Ernst.

  ‘Enough! Now state what you want or leave!’

  It is blunt enough, and I almost laugh at his pomposity, only we need this man.

  Ernst nods, then says it outright. ‘I wish to purchase a letter of protection. From yourself, my lord. To allow us to travel to Vladimir.’

  He sits back, happy now he knows what hold he has over us.

  ‘I see. Well, you ask a lot, trader. In these times, as you say …’

/>   But these are only words. What follows is a haggle, as common as any in the marketplace, and when we finally settle it’s at a price far lower than we were prepared to pay. Ernst bows and wishes the posadnik health and many children, and promises to bring the silver by the following morn. In return, the posadnik will prepare a letter for us.

  But why Vladimir? Because that’s where Nevsky is right now. Beside his father, Yaroslav, who’s such a popular man, his servants will poison him, a dozen years from now.

  It will be another three years before Prince Alexander Iaroslavich is appointed Prince of Novgorod, but ours is the art of preparation, and right now we aim to sow the seeds of future circumstance. We must meet the man on numerous occasions, such that when we finally need to act, the prince will trust us, maybe rate us as his friends.

  It is snowing as we leave the posadnik’s house, and the town, spread out below us, seems almost magical. I have seen many sights over many centuries, yet this, I have to say, is truly beautiful. A feast for the eyes. Or is it something else that makes me think so?

  I turn to Ernst and hold his arm a moment. ‘Go on back,’ I say. ‘There’s something I need to do.’

  ‘Otto?’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ I say. ‘An hour at most.’

  He nods reluctantly, then reaches out and holds my upper arm. ‘Take care, Otto. This is a dangerous Age.’

  Yes, and quite wonderful, I think. And I turn away and in less than twenty paces I am lost to his sight.

  But then you know where I am headed. To Razumovsky’s.

  I reach there as the man himself is about to set out.

  ‘Otto,’ he says, ‘what can I do for you, my friend?’

  ‘It’s Kravchuk.’

  ‘Kravchuk? What of the man?’

  ‘I’m sorry to impose like this. I mean, I know the man is to become your son-in-law, but …’

  Razumovsky stares at me oddly. ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve heard things. In the taverns. And Ernst and I were about to do some business with him, and I thought …’

  ‘What have you heard?’

  I sigh heavily, as if I hate saying what I’m about to say, then launch in. ‘I’m told he’s dissolute.’

  Razumovsky laughs. ‘Aren’t all young men? But when he’s married …’

  ‘I’m told he keeps a mistress. A Turkish woman. And that he beats her.’

  Razumovsky’s mouth opens then closes again. He quickly walks across and closes the door that leads out to the passageway, then comes back, standing closer to me. When he speaks again his voice is quieter than before.

  ‘What he does is his own business. But I thank you, dear friend, for bringing it to my attention. It cannot have been easy for you.’

  ‘I was in two minds …’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘And so I went to the priest at St Sophia’s and I told him what I knew, and he told me that if it troubled my soul so much I ought to come and see you, Mikhail.’

  He nods solemnly, my mention of the priest enough to convince him now that what I’ve done is right.

  ‘Well,’ he says, after a moment. ‘What a business, eh?’

  ‘Only I thought you might have known …’

  He looks at me a moment, just the slightest flush of anger in his face, then shakes his head. ‘You think I would have let her marry him if I’d known? What kind of man do you think I am?’

  ‘Then what’s to do?’

  He sighs, then sits, putting his hands in his head, and I truly feel sorry for doing this to him.

  Only it is true, in a way.

  Kravchuk will be a bad husband to his daughter and he is dissolute.

  It’s just hidden by the years.

  But I hate having to lie, even if it’s for a good cause.

  Razumovsky looks up at me, bleary-eyed. ‘God help me, Otto. If this is true …’ And he stands and paces the room a moment before stopping and looking to me again.

  ‘I guess I could buy him off, only … well, a promise is a promise.’

  ‘And what does she think?’

  ‘She?’ He laughs, then sits again. ‘She’s not been well. Not since the other evening. She stays in her room all the while, pacing back and forth. The only time I’ve seen her is when she came to church with us this morning.’

  I almost smile, but that would give the game away. Instead I spin another lie.

  ‘Maybe I can help.’

  ‘Help? In what way, my friend?’

  ‘I was a healer once. Back in Lubeck.’

  Razumovsky stares at me, then shrugs. ‘I don’t know, Otto. It’s just, well, what am I to do about Kravchuk? If I had known …’

  ‘Confront him,’ I say. ‘Give him a chance to clear his name. I’d say that was the fairest course, wouldn’t you?’

  His eyes light at that, and he stands and slaps my back. ‘I shall. And I’ll do it right away. Oh, and Otto – will you be here when he comes?’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise, Mikhail?’

  ‘Who knows what’s wise when it comes to such matters. But I know something. I would welcome one impartial observer at that meeting.’

  66

  And so it is, that evening, much to Ernst’s surprise, we are at Razumovsky’s again, waiting for Kravchuk to appear. Razumovsky has given him no notice of why he’s summoned him, and he clearly has no idea, for when he comes he’s rather too cocky, thinking himself the certain master of this house. Which is something that, in all of this, I had forgotten. When Razumovsky dies, Kravchuk will inherit. So it is in this society. And Katerina would have no say.

  I watch the little bantam enter the room, see his surprise to find me there. Ernst is in one of the back rooms, drinking wine while this matter is sorted out.

  Kravchuk greets me cautiously, then turns to wait for Razumovsky, staring towards the door, ignoring me.

  ‘So what is it you do?’

  He almost twitches. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I am curious. You seem a prosperous man.’

  He half turns, but does not quite deign to look at me. ‘I do well enough,’ he says.

  ‘So I see by your furs. Silver fox, is it not?’

  He smiles this time and nods. ‘I have several, actually. But this, yes, this is a fine fur.’

  And expensive, I think. So what does he do? Something he doesn’t want the world to know about, perhaps?

  But I do not get to question him much more, for Razumovsky appears.

  ‘Mikhail!’ Kravchuk says, going to embrace him, but Razumovsky raises a hand, and Kravchuk steps back, confused.

  ‘Mikhail?’

  ‘There have been rumours, Oleg Alekseevich.’

  ‘Rumours?’ And now he turns and glares at me, as if he knows whence they’ve come. ‘Rumours of what?’

  ‘I thought you might explain yourself. About the woman you are said to keep.’

  Kravchuk looks astonished.

  ‘Well?’ Razumovsky says, his dark eyes watching the smaller man. ‘Will you not deny it?’

  But it seems that Kravchuk’s lost his tongue. He stands there staring at Razumovsky, and I realise with a start that it’s true – it’s actually true! My wild surmise was right. He has a woman that he keeps!

  I laugh and both men look to me.

  ‘Who is this fellow?’ Kravchuk asks.

  ‘A friend,’ Razumovsky says. He’s watching Kravchuk closely now. ‘But you’ve not answered me. Or perhaps you have.’

  Kravchuk laughs, but it’s so lacking in sincerity it falters before the sound has died. His eyes move restlessly between Razumovsky and the floor. ‘You know how it is, Mikhail. A man has needs.’

  But it’s a poor excuse, and not one Razumovsky is about to accept. This is his daughter’s honour we are talking of, and if this news gets out and she still marries him, then he, Razumovsky, will be a laughing stock. Besides, he loves his daughter. He would not let her suffer the humiliation.

  ‘You shit! Yo
u fucking little shit!’

  And, without warning, Razumovsky swings his arm and smacks the little bastard straight across the chops with his open hand. It’s a stinging blow, and Kravchuk cries out and buckles instantly, clutching his face.

  ‘The wedding’s off! I’d rather you married my neighbour’s pig than had a sniff of my daughter!’

  But Kravchuk is backing away. ‘You cunt,’ he mumbles. ‘I’ll get you, see if I don’t …’

  But Razumovsky is not listening. He aims a kick at Kravchuk’s departing backside, then picks up a chair and throws it after him, even as he runs across the courtyard towards the gate.

  ‘And don’t think of coming back, you little toad!’

  But Kravchuk is not coming back, and inside I feel a joy that’s inexpressible. He’s gone! The little bastard has gone!

  67

  Only he hasn’t. Kravchuk is a weasel, after all. And, what’s more, he has friends in high places. The posadnik for one. And when Ernst and I visit the posadnik the next morning, Kravchuk is there, standing beside his chair, and I know that we’re in trouble.

  ‘Are these the ones?’ the posadnik asks.

  ‘They are, my lord.’

  ‘Then I shall leave this matter to you.’

  And with that, the posadnik stands and leaves the room. Kravchuk stares at us a moment, then grins and takes the old man’s seat.

  ‘Well, well,’ he says. ‘Fancy us meeting again so soon.’

  I’m about to walk away, when Ernst brings my attention to the letter in Kravchuk’s right hand. He holds it casually, as if it’s of no moment, but we both know what it is. It has the posadnik’s seal upon it, after all.

  ‘And how is your friend this morning?’ he asks, after a moment’s silence.

  ‘My friend?’ I ask, seeing that he’s addressing me.

  ‘Yes. That loser Razumovsky. I thought, maybe, he’d have a change of mind. Send me an apology. But the man appears to have no manners.’

  I stare back at him, astonished by the words, but he’s not finished yet.

  ‘I’d try and reason with him, only such a man scarcely knows what’s in his best interests.’