Walking briskly ten paces behind Pulaski, the noose lightly encircling my neck, I tried to tell myself that I had been fortunate. I had not been killed. I had not been raped. I had not been molested in any way after Pulaski issued his orders. I was to be saved for “something special,” and although I realized I might soon wish fervently that I had been killed there in the clearing, that spark inside me burned on, the instinct for survival fanning it, preventing me from giving up and allowing myself to be strangled by the noose. I wasn’t going to give up. I couldn’t. My situation might look hopeless, but as long as there was breath left in me I would hold on tight … and hope.
Escape, of course, was currently out of the question. Even if I were able to break free from my captors and elude them, I would be alone in the middle of a frozen wilderness, without food, without a chance of survival. Perhaps when we reached the camp I would be able to steal a horse and a rifle and some food, improbable though that seemed. You’re still alive, Marietta, a voice deep inside told me. You’re going to keep right on walking and keep right on praying and somehow you’re going to pull through.
Pulaski raised his arm in the air, signaling it was time to stop again. I crumpled gratefully to the ground, sitting on the hard-packed snow. Pulaski distributed the canteens and hunks of cheese and strips of dried beef, and after all the men had been provided for, he came over to where I was sitting and tossed a thin strip of meat and a piece of cheese into my lap and handed me a canteen, allowing me to take only a few sips before he jerked it away from me. He stood a few feet away, watching me with disgust as I greedily devoured the cheese and gnawed the tough dried meat.
Hands resting on his thighs, he twisted his lips contemptuously. Look at the great lady now, those fanatical black-brown eyes seemed to say. Thick, unkempt black hair slanted across his forehead, and the thin face was even paler than it had been the first time I saw him, skin stretched tautly across broad, flat cheekbones. His back must be a solid mass of ugly pink scars, I thought, remembering the whistling sound of the lash, the flecks of blood I had seen on the snow after he had been cut down. Turning, he stalked away to speak to one of his men, leaving the end of the rope on the ground.
I finished the cheese and dried beef, still hungry, thirsty as well. How long would it be before we reached the camp? It must be nearing six now. The sun was already low in the west, long shadows stretching across the snow. Exhausted, my feet and ankles throbbing, I savored this brief respite from walking, but all too soon Pulaski grabbed the end of the rope again and gave it a brutal tug, forcing me to clamber to my feet.
We resumed our march, the shadows growing longer across the narrow road, the sky turning a deeper gray Perhaps half an hour passed, and then Pulaski gave a signal and we turned off the road and started through the woods to our right, moving through that sparkling crystal wonderland that gradually took on a pinkish orange glitter as the sun began to sink. The ground seemed to slope upward, and there was a multitude of frozen bushes, some of them towering ten feet high, gleaming brilliantly. Shadows spread thickly as we moved deeper into the woods. The pinkish orange light faded, growing dimmer and dimmer. The air seemed to thicken, tinted a hazy violet-blue by twilight.
We had been moving through the woods fifteen minutes or so when the sound of voices reached us from the distance, coming from the direction of the road. Pulaski halted, cocking his head, alert. The other men gripped their weapons tightly, and then, after a few moments, Pulaski said something I couldn’t understand and everyone relaxed. The trees were widely spaced in this section, large open areas between the thick, icy trunks, and soon we could see the band of peasants approaching us, a noisy, boisterous group brandishing their crude weapons gaily and, from the looks of it, unsteady on their feet. Pulaski’s men greeted them lustily, three or four rushing back to meet their comrades. Moments later we were surrounded by the throng.
There were perhaps twenty-five of them, a rowdy, filthy, dishevelled mob who stank of liquor and sweat and garlic. One of them was waving a distinct brass poker surmounted by a small brass eagle with wings spread wide, a poker I had last seen standing on the hearth in Orlov’s library. This, then, was part of the mob who had attacked the house. They were all quite curious about me, asking who I was, what I was doing here, why I hadn’t been killed. Pulaski gripped the end of the rope firmly, scowling, warning the newcomers-to keep away from me.
“She is Orlov’s woman!” he thundered. “I take her to Pugachev. Do not touch her!”
“Look at her!” one of the newcomers cried in a coarse, rumbling voice. “I want her!”
He staggered over to Pulaski, prepared to argue. Tall and slender, wearing high black boots, snug black breeches and a bulky sheepskin coat that had been dyed black, he looked a touch less disreputable than the others, although his cheeks were streaked with mud and the wide black sheepskin hat pulled down over his brow shadowed his eyes. He pounded Pulaski on the back affectionately and called him comrade and said comrades were supposed to share. He tried to grab the end of the rope. Pulaski gave him a terrific shove that sent him reeling back. He slammed into a wall of bodies, yelled a curse and then grinned good-naturedly and slung an arm around the neck of one of his friends and began to bellow an indecent Russian ballad.
“Anyone else tries to touch her, I will kill!” Pulaski declared. “Is it clear?”
“Who put him in charge?” the peasant in black sheepskin cried.
“Quiet, Nikki!” his friend warned. “Here, have the rest of this vodka.”
Arm still hooked around his friend’s neck, the peasant called Nikki took the greasy bottle and tilted it to his lips, gulping down the remaining vodka. Lurching unsteadily, half strangling his comrade, he hurled the emptied bottle into the woods and roared that he needed some ass.
“They’ll be plenty of whores at the camp, Nikki, and a good-looking devil like you can have your pick.”
“I wanted that whore,” Nikki wailed, on the verge of tears now. “I never get anything I want. My soul is bleak. I think maybe I slit my throat and bleed on the earth of Mother Russia.”
“If you don’t shut your mouth, Pulaski’ll slit it for you.”
Nikki began to sob and his friend led him to the back of the crowd and we moved on, noisily now, everyone but Pulaski talking merrily; several of the men finishing bottles of vodka which, I learned, they had taken from the basement of a house they had burned this afternoon. Night was falling fast, and torches were lighted, shedding a bizarre dark orange glow over the motley crowd trekking through the woods. Led by Nikki, the men began to sing loudly, drunkenly. Pulaski marched sternly, jerking the rope, disgusted by the high spirits and playful antics of the newcomers. Serious, intense, a zealot with a burning mission, he had no patience with such frivolity.
Another hour and a half passed, perhaps longer, and the woods grew thicker, the frozen shrubs higher, and we turned, following a frozen river to the south. Ahead, through the trees and dense shrubbery, I could see camp-fires burning on the other side of the river, tiny yellow-orange flowers blossoming in the night. There must have been fifty at least, and as we drew nearer I could see crude huts and tents in the flickering glow. A shot was fired. A guard challenged us. Pulaski identified himself and we were allowed to pass. Horses neighed and whinnied and moved about restlessly as we trudged past a large enclosure, and I saw half a dozen sturdy sleighs lined up in front of it, some piled high with blankets.
Moments later we entered the camp itself, a huge, sprawling collection of tents and hastily assembled huts covering several acres of ground, more or less arranged in a vast circle. A crude barricade of logs had been thrown up around the entire area, camouflaged by frozen shrubbery that had been cut and propped against the outer sides. Hidden as it was in the depths of the woods, the camp would be almost impossible to locate during daylight hours, and none of Catherine’s army were likely to be gallivanting about these woods at night. Hundreds of peasants were milling noisily about the camp, most of them clutch
ing earthen bottles, gulping heartily. They yelled obscene greetings as we passed, weaving drunkenly in front of the campfires. Pulaski held on to the rope and ignored the cries, shoving several men out of his way, provoking both laughter and ire.
There were pigpens, chicken coops, cows, a storage house where sacks of grain and corn and beans were stored. Everyone was drunk, it seemed. I wondered where they got their vodka here in the middle of nowhere, and that question was answered as we passed an enormous still, the vats bubbling vigorously even at this hour. Pugachev was wise enough to realize he couldn’t control so vast a mob without providing them with vodka, the manna of the masses, and with women, who were in great evidence, slatternly, slovenly, hefty creatures with greasy hair, painted faces and tattered, garish clothing, some of them so drunk they could barely stand. They railed at me in hoarse, hostile voices, resenting my looks, my clothes, longing to tear me to pieces.
“This one burns!” a harridan shouted.
“First she services the men, then she burns!” another yelled.
“Aristocratic bitch! Our Little Father makes her pay!”
“Death to the noble harlot!”
The women were far more terrifying than the men, who seemed very amused by their shouting and obscene gestures. Belligerent as they were, none of the women dared to approach me. Pulaski’s men, Nikki, and a few of the others formed a tight guard, marching on either side of me, their weapons and menacing expressions restraining anyone who might come too close.
As we neared the center of the camp, I saw an enormous wooden stake thirty or forty feet high, obviously hewn from the trunk of a single tree. At the top, a sturdy wooden arm twelve feet long branched out to the left, making it resemble a gigantic, inverted L. I wondered what its purpose could possibly be. A gallows? It seemed much too high for that, but it was sinister nevertheless, a forbidding sight that caused me to shudder. Beyond it, fifty yards away, two wooden cages stood, each approximately six feet square. One of them was empty, the other occupied by a gaunt-faced, silver-haired man in soiled, gold-trimmed green velvet who clung listlessly to the wooden bars and looked more dead than alive.
Fifty yards on the other side of the stake, and dominating the whole camp, stood a magnificent scarlet-and-silver-striped tent, as large as a small house. It had a high peaked roof, and surmounting the peak, like some bizarre weather vane, reared a large Imperial Eagle of solid gold. Another eagle, wings spread wide, was embroidered in golden thread directly above the door flap of the tent. Two men in handsome uniform guarded the door, one on either-side. The uniforms were almost identical to those worn by Catherine’s private guard, although considerably more ornate. These symbols of Imperial tyranny here in the middle of the rebel camp? I found it odd, and then I recalled that Pugachev was supposed to be the reincarnation of Peter III, the “Little Father” of the people who had come back to free them from “the German woman,” the daughter of the “Evil One,” who had had him murdered because he wanted freedom for all his subjects.
Pulaski led me over toward the tent and, stopping about ten yards in front of it, let go of the rope and told the men to watch me. He stepped over to the door and identified himself to the guards. One of them stepped inside, returning a moment later to show him in. I loosened the noose and lifted it over my head, tossing it aside defiantly. Pride would not allow me to show the fear I felt, and I was determined to be brave. I stared at the men around me with cool hauteur, my chin held high. Several of them hurried away to join their friends and drink vodka and roust the whores, leaving only Nikki and three other men to guard me. The former kept his head low, the wide brim of his black sheepskin hat hiding most of his mud-streaked face. He was still unsteady on his feet, weaving to and fro.
Three women moved purposefully toward me, gaudy creatures in gypsy attire, skirts vivid splashes of color, fake golden earrings swaying from their lobes. The leader was a tough-looking specimen with abundant raven hair piled high on top of her head. Her scarlet mouth twisted contemptuously, her emerald eyes alight with hatred. The men guarding me grinned and made no effort to prevent the women from approaching me. One of them chuckled and told his companion it was going to be fun watching Tamara deal with me. Nikki nodded vigorously and almost fell down.
“I am Tamara!” the leader announced, swishing her purple skirts. “And I want that cloak!”
I knew I had to stand firm. I knew I couldn’t let her get the best of me or the whole pack of them would descend.
“It belongs to me,” I said coldly. “Go earn your own.”
“Slut! You dare defy Tamara?”
I ignored her. She circled me slowly, her shoulders rolling, hips swaying, the bangle bracelets clattering. I didn’t move, my expression icily composed. The woman stopped in front of me and placed her hands on her hips and made a clacking noise with her tongue, and then, smirking at her two hefty companions, she made a grab for my cloak. Her fingers never touched it. I balled my hand into a tight fist and slammed it into her jaw with all my might, sending her crashing to the ground. She sprawled there, groaning. The men roared with laughter, yelling taunts at the fallen gypsy. Tamara got up on her knees and shook her head to clear it and then scrambled toward me with nails extended. I kicked her on the side of the head. Hard.
“This one has much spirit!” one of the men cried as the other two women dragged their unconscious leader away. “Me, I would love to have her fighting in a pile of hay!”
“Me, too!” Nikki exclaimed. “I would break her spirit and ride her until I was saddle sore! Would you like that, woman?”
“Go fuck yourself,” I told him.
Nikki slammed a hand against his heart and reeled backward in a parody of shock. “Did you hear her?” he yelled hoarsely. “Did you hear what she said? A lady, and she uses such a word! What is happening to our country? What is Mother Russia coming to? This I cannot believe!”
The others hooted loudly, and Nikki lost his balance and fell on his backside, his black sheepskin coat flying open to reveal the white lawn shirt beneath. He thrashed about, the brim of his sheepskin hat slipping down over his twisted nose. Every group has a clown, and Nikki played his role to the hilt. I paid no attention to his antics, looking across the clearing to the two wooden cages. The prisoner in velvet was kneeling on the floor of his cage, still clinging listlessly to the wooden bars. Two mangy-looking dogs snarled at him, and a woman with a long stick was poking him through the bars. He didn’t even seem to notice the vicious jabs.
The man was clearly an aristocrat, probably captured on one of the raids. I wondered how long he had been here and what they planned to do with him. It wasn’t going to be anything pleasant, of that I was certain. What was the purpose of that horrible stake that towered so high, the wooden arm extending at the top? In the bright orange glare of the blazing campfires it was like some giant, malevolent symbol of doom. I lowered my eyes, trying to hold back the panic that threatened to overcome me. I could put on a proud, brave front, I could show spirit and defend myself against the loathsome Tamara, but inside I was stricken with terror. How long before it overcame me completely?
Throughout the camp there were drunken cries and raucous laughter and the sounds of brawling and fornication. It was like some gigantic, open-air institution for madmen, like Bedlam in London, only here they weren’t kept in chains. Here they ran free, hooting and hollering, fighting and fornicating in the open, onlookers cheering and shouting lewd comments as a man mounted a whore on the ground in front of a fire. I had great sympathy for the peasants I had seen on my journey through Russia and ardently believed something should be done to alleviate the suffering and starvation, but … but these crazed, drunken creatures were like animals.
Nikki had recovered himself and stood quietly nearby, his head lowered, a drunken grin on his wide lips. The other men were impatient with their duties and eager to join the obscene festivity all around. Tamara had recovered, and she stood in front of a filthy hut, staring at me with murderous emerald ey
es, muttering curses under her breath. Pulaski came out of the tent, spoke to one of the guards and then, taking my arm roughly, dragged me to the silken flap and lifted it and shoved me inside, following close behind.
Candles blazed brightly in half a dozen pure gold candelabra, shedding a rich golden glow over the cluttered but dazzlingly sumptuous interior. Exquisite rugs, piled two or three deep, covered every inch of the floor, and wonderful tapestries agleam with gold and silver thread hung on the walls, some overlapping. Fires burned in ornate silver braziers, filling the tent with warmth, and a heady, sickeningly sweet perfume wafted through the air. Priceless pieces of furniture were jumbled together, every available surface piled high with glittering art objects of every description, each a treasure. Still more were stacked carelessly on the floor in tottering heaps.
Two guards in uniforms like those worn by the men outside stood at attention, one on either side of an immense throne so covered with gilt it appeared to be carved of solid gold. The man sitting on the throne was solidly built, with massive chest and shoulders, the fingers of his right hand curling around the shaft of a bejeweled scepter crowned by a ruby the size of an egg. He had broad, peasant features, a neatly trimmed black beard and the most remarkable brown eyes I had ever seen. Large and luminous, they glowed with a fervor not known by normal men, beautiful eyes, hypnotic. The eyes of a saint, I thought, or of a completely demented religious fanatic. The “Little Father” wore a gold-embroidered caftan and a high-peaked gold cap with a wide brim of golden mink. The peak of the cap was encrusted with precious gems, and more gems flashed on his thick fingers and on the heavy pendant dangling from his neck.
When Love Commands Page 49