by Boris Akunin
“A beard and dark glasses?” Varya echoed, also lowering her voice. “Could it possibly be that—what is his name now—Anwar-effendi?”
“Shsh-sh,” said Kazanzaki, glancing around nervously and lowering his voice even further. “I’m certain it’s him. A very shrewd gentleman. Pulled the wool over our correspondent’s eyes very smartly indeed. Only three tabors, he says, and the main forces will not get here soon. A simple enough ploy, but very elegant. And, like dummies, we took the bait.”
“But then, if Paladin is not to blame for the failure of the first assault and Lukan is the traitor, surely it means they were wrong to banish Paladin for killing him?” Varya asked.
“Yes, it does. It’s very tough luck on the poor fellow,” the lieutenant colonel said casually, edging a bit closer. “See how frank I am with you, Varvara Andreevna. And note that I’ve even shared some secret information. Perhaps you might be willing to let me have just a little something in return? I copied out that page from the notebook and I’ve been struggling with it for two days now, and all to no avail. First I thought it was a cipher, but it doesn’t look like one. A list of army units or their movements? Casualties and reinforcements? Tell me, now, what ideas has Fandorin come up with?”
“I’ll tell you only one thing. It is all much simpler than that,” Varya quipped condescendingly, then she adjusted her hat and set off with a sprightly stride toward the press club.
THE PREPARATIONS FOR the third and final assault on the fortress of Plevna continued throughout a sultry August. Although these preparations were shrouded in the strictest secrecy, everybody in the camp was saying that the battle would definitely take place on the thirtieth day of the month, the date of His Majesty the Emperor’s name day. From dawn until dusk the infantry and cavalry practised joint maneuvers in the surrounding valleys and hills; by day and night, field guns and siege guns were moved up. The exhausted soldiers were a pitiful sight in their sweaty tunics and kepis gray with dust, but the general mood was one of vengeful glee: We’ve put up with enough of this—we Russians may be slow off the mark, but once we get moving we’ll squash that pesky fly of Plevna with a single tap of our mighty bear’s paw.
In the club and the officers’ canteen, where Varya took her meals, everyone was suddenly transformed into military strategists—they drew diagrams, dropped the names of Turkish pashas in every sentence, and tried to guess from which side the main blow would be struck. Sobolev visited the camp several times, but he maintained an enigmatic distance. He didn’t play chess anymore, only glanced occasionally at Varya in a dignified manner, and no longer complained about his cruel fate. A staff officer whom Varya knew whispered to her that the major general would be assigned, if not the key role in the forthcoming assault, than at least a highly important one, and he was now in command of two whole brigades and a regiment. Mikhail Dmitrievich had at last earned the recognition that he deserved.
The entire camp was in a state of high animation, and Varya tried her very best to feel inspired by the universally optimistic mood, but somehow she couldn’t. If the truth were told, she was bored to death by all this talk of reserves, troop positions, and lines of communication. She was still not allowed to see Petya, Fandorin was walking around with a face as dark as thunder and answering questions in an incomprehensible mumble, and Zurov only appeared in the company of his patron, Sobolev. He cast sideways glances at Varya like a caged wolf and made pitiful faces at the bartender Semyon, but he didn’t play cards or order any wine—Sobolev’s detachment ran under iron discipline. The hussar complained in a whisper that “Jerome” Perepyolkin had taken over “the entire works” and wouldn’t allow anyone space to draw breath. And his protector Sobolev wouldn’t allow anyone to thrash some sense into him. The sooner the assault came, the better.
The only uplifting event of recent days had been the return of Paladin, who had apparently sat out the storm in Kishinev and then hurried back to the theater of military operations as soon as he heard he had been totally rehabilitated. Varya had been genuinely delighted to see the Frenchman, but even he seemed changed. He no longer entertained her with amusing little stories, avoided talking about the incident in Bucharest, and spent all his time racing about the camp, catching up on what he had missed during his month’s absence and dashing off articles for his Revue. All in all, Varya felt much the same as she had in the restaurant of the Hotel Royale when the men had caught the scent of blood and gone wild, entirely forgetting that she even existed. Yet another proof that by his very nature man was closer to the animal world than woman, that the feral principle was more pronounced in man, and therefore the true variety of Homo sapiens was indeed woman—the more advanced, subtle, and complex being. It was such a shame that she had no one with whom she could share her thoughts. Words like that only made the nurses giggle into their hands, and Fandorin merely nodded absentmindedly.
In short, nothing was happening and she was bored witless.
AT DAWN ON THE THIRTIETH OF August Varya was woken by an appalling rumbling. The first cannonade had begun. The previous evening Erast Petrovich had explained to her that, in addition to the usual artillery preparation, the Turks would be subjected to psychological pressure—that was the very latest word in the art of war. At the first ray of sunlight, when the Muslim faithful were supposed to perform their nimaz, three hundred Russian and Romanian guns would start raining a hail of fire on the Turkish fortifications; at precisely nine hundred hours, the cannonade would cease. In anticipation of an attack, Osman Pasha would dispatch fresh troops to his forward positions, but nothing would happen. The allies would stay put and silence would reign over the open expanses of Plevna. At precisely eleven hundred hours, the bewildered Turks would be deluged by a second hail of fire that would continue until one in the afternoon. That would be followed by another lull. The enemy would be carrying away his wounded and dead, hastily patching up the damage, bringing up new guns to replace those that had been destroyed, but still the assault would not come. The Turks, who were not notable for their strong nerves and, as everybody knew, were capable of a brief impulsive effort but balked at the prospect of any prolonged exertion, would naturally be thrown into confusion, perhaps even panic. The entire Mohammedan command would probably ride down to the front line and gaze through their binoculars, wondering what was happening. And then, at fourteen hundred thirty hours, the enemy would be hit with a third hail of fire, and half an hour later the assault columns would rush at the Turks, whose nerves by this time would be frayed to tatters.
Varya had squirmed, imagining herself in the place of the poor defenders of Plevna. It would be really terrible, waiting for the decisive events for an hour, two hours, three hours, and all in vain. She certainly wouldn’t have been able to stand it. It was a cunningly conceived plan—you had to give the genuises at HQ their due.
“Ba-boom! Ba-boom!” rumbled the heavy siege guns. “Boom! Boom!” the field guns echoed more thinly. This will go on for a long time, Varya thought; I ought to have some breakfast.
Not having been informed beforehand of the artful plan of artillery preparation, the journalists had left to take up their position before it was light. The location of the correspondents’ observation point had to be agreed in advance with the command, and following long discussions it had been decided by a majority of votes to request a small hill located between Grivitsa, which was at the center of the forward positions, and the Lovcha highway, beyond which lay the left flank. At first most of the journalists had wished to be sited closer to the right flank, since the main blow was obviously going to be struck from that side, but McLaughlin and Paladin had succeeded in changing their colleagues’ minds, their main argument being that the left flank might well be of secondary importance, but Sobolev was there, which meant that there was bound to be a sensation of some kind in that direction.
After taking breakfast with the pale-faced nurses, who shuddered at every explosion, Varya set out to look for Erast Petrovich. She did not find the ti
tular counselor in the staff building or in the special section. On the off chance he might be at home, Varya glanced into Fandorin’s tent and saw him calmly seated in a folding chair, holding a book in his hand and dangling a moroccan-leather slipper with a curled-up toe from his foot as he drank his coffee.
“When are you going to the observation point?” Varya asked, seating herself on the camp bed because there was nowhere else to sit.
Erast Petrovich shrugged. His fresh, rosy cheeks were positively glowing. The ex-volunteer was obviously thriving on camp life.
“Surely you’re not going to sit here all day? Paladin told me that today’s battle will be the largest assault on a fortified position in all of history. Even more stupendous than the capture of Malakhov.”
“Your Paladin likes to exaggerate,” replied the titular counselor. “Waterloo and Borodino were on a larger scale, not to mention the Leipzig Battle of the Nations.”
“You’re an absolute monster! The fate of Russia hangs in the balance, thousands of people are dying, and he just sits there reading his book! It’s positively immoral!”
“And is it moral to sit and watch from a safe distance while people k-kill one another?”
It was a miracle. There was actually a trace of human feeling—irritation—in Erast Petrovich’s voice. “Thank you very k-kindly, I have already observed this spectacle and even p-participated in it. I did not like it. I prefer the company of T-Tacitus.” And he demonstratively stuck his nose back in his book.
Varya leapt up, stamped her foot, and strode toward the door, but just as she was on the point of leaving Fandorin said: “Take care out there, will you? Don’t wander from the correspondents’ viewing point. You never know.”
She halted and glanced back at Erast Petrovich in amazement.
“Are you showing concern?”
“B-but honestly, Varvara Andreevna, what business do you have up there? First they’ll shoot their cannon for a long time, then they’ll run forward and there’ll be clouds of smoke so that you won’t be able to see anything, you’ll just hear some of them shouting ‘Hurrah!’ and others screaming in agony. Very interesting, I’m sure. Our work is not up there, but here, in the rear.”
“A rear-line rat.” Varya uttered the phrase that suited the occasion and left the miserable misanthrope alone with his Tacitus.
The small hill occupied by the correspondents and military observers from neutral countries proved easy to find—Varya spotted the large white flag in the distance while she was still on the road that was choked solid with ammunition wagons. It was flapping feebly in the wind, and below it she could make out the dark mass of a fair-sized crowd, perhaps a hundred people, maybe more. The controller of traffic, a captain wearing a red armband on his sleeve who was hoarse from shouting as he directed the shells to their initial destinations, smiled briefly at the pretty young lady in the lace hat and waved his hand.
“That way, that way, mademoiselle. But be sure not to turn off the track. The enemy artillery won’t fire at a white flag, but a shell or two could land anywhere else once in a while. Just where do you think you’re going, you stupid oaf? I told you, six-pound shells go to the sixth battery.”
Varya shook the reins of the meek little light-chestnut horse she had borrowed from the infirmary stables and set off toward the flag, gazing around her curiously.
The entire valley on this side of the range of low hills, beyond which lay the approaches to Plevna, was dotted with strange-looking islets. It was the infantry lying on the grass by companies, waiting for the order to attack. The soldiers were talking among themselves in low voices and every now and then she heard unnaturally loud laughter from one side or another. The officers were gathered together in small groups of several men, smoking papyrosas. They looked at Varya, riding past sidesaddle, with surprise and mistrust, as if she were a creature from some other, unreal world. The sight of this stirring, droning valley made Varya feel a bit sick and she clearly glimpsed the angel of death circling above the dusty grass, gazing into the men’s faces and marking them with its invisible sign.
She struck the little horse with her heel in order to get through this ghastly waiting room as quickly as possible.
But then, at the observation point, everybody was excited and full of gleeful anticipation. There was a picnic atmosphere, some people had even made themselves comfortable beside white tablecloths spread out on the ground and were already tucking in. “I didn’t think you were coming,” said Paladin, greeting the new arrival. He was as agitated as all the others, and Varya noted that he was wearing his famous old rust-colored boots.
“We’ve been hanging around here like idiots since the crack of dawn, and the Russian officers only began moving up at midday. Mr. Kazanzaki paid us a visit a quarter of an hour ago and we learned from him that the assault will only begin at three o’clock,” the journalist prattled on cheerfully. “I see you were also aware in advance of the plan of battle. It’s too bad of you, Mademoiselle Barbara—you could have given us a friendly warning. I rose at four o’clock, and for me that is worse than death.”
The Frenchman helped the young lady dismount, seated her on a folding chair, and began to explain: “Over there, on the hills opposite us, are the Turkish fortified positions. You see, where the shell bursts fly up in the air like fountains? That is the very center of their position. The Russo-Romanian army extends in a parallel line about fifteen kilometers long, but from here we can only survey a part of that immense space. Note that round hill—no, not that one, the other one, with the white tent. That is the command post, the temporary headquarters. The commander of the Western Division, Prince Karl of Romania, is there, and so are the commander in chief, Grand Duke Nicholas, and the emperor Alexander himself. Oh, the rockets, there go the rockets! A most picturesque spectacle, is it not?”
Lines of smoke were traced out in the air above the empty stretch of land that separated the opposing sides, as if someone had cut the vault of heaven into slices like a watermelon or a round loaf of bread. Lifting her head, Varya saw three colored balls high above her—one close, the next a little further away, above the imperial headquarters, and the third right on the very horizon.
“Those, Varvara Andreevna, are balloons,” said Kazanzaki, who had appeared beside her. “They correct the artillery fire from them using signaling flags.”
The gendarme looked even more repulsive than ever, cracking his knuckles in his excitement and flaring his nostrils nervously. He had caught the scent of human blood, the vampire. Varya demonstratively moved her chair farther away, but he appeared not to notice the maneuver. He came up to her again and pointed off to one side beyond the low hills, where the rumbling sounded particularly loud.
“As always, our mutual friend Sobolev has sprung a surprise of his own. According to the plan of action, his role is to appear to threaten the Krishin redoubt, while the main forces strike their blow in the center. But our ambitious little general couldn’t wait, and this morning he launched a frontal attack. Not only has he broken away from the main forces and got himself cut off by the Turkish cavalry, he has put the entire operation in jeopardy! Well, now, he’ll hear about that, all right!”
Kazanzaki took a gold watch out of his pocket, tugged agitatedly on the peak of his kepi, and crossed himself.
“Three o’clock! They’ll go in now!”
Varya looked around and saw that the entire valley had begun to move: The islets of white tunics began heaving and fluttering, moving up quickly to the front line. Pale-faced men were running past the low hill, following an elderly officer with a long drooping mustache who was limping along nimbly at the front.
“Keep up, get those bayonets higher!” he shouted in a shrill, piercing voice, glancing around behind him. “Sementsov, keep formation or I’ll rip your head off!”
And now there were other company-sized columns running past, but Varya carried on gazing after that first one, with the elderly officer and the unknown Sementsov.
The company spread out into a line and set off at a slow run toward the distant redoubt, where the fountains of earth began spurting up even more furiously.
“Right—now he’ll give it to them,” someone said beside her.
In the distance the shells were already bursting fast and furiously and Varya could not see much through the smoke spreading across the ground, but her company was still running in neat formation and nobody seemed to be shelling it.
“Come on, Sementsov, come on,” Varya whispered, clenching her fist tight.
Soon “her” men were completely hidden from sight by the backs of other columns that had spread out into lines to advance. When the open space in front of the redoubt was full to the halfway mark with white tunics, shell bursts began springing up like neatly trimmed bushes in among the mass of men: a first, a second, a third, a fourth. And then again, a little bit closer: a first, a second, a third, a fourth. And again. And again.
