Byzantium Endures: Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  We entered a tent with two camp-beds of standard army design. Yermeloff scratched himself and frowned. ‘We’ll have to find you a palliasse.’

  ‘You share this tent?’

  ‘With my friend Grishenko.’

  So I was to sleep with Yermeloff and his master. I was to be the slave of a slave. Yermeloff opened an ammunition box. It had not been locked. Anyone could have stolen from it. He took out a bottle of good vodka: a brand I recognised from my Odessa days. I accepted his offer and drank deep from the neck. Alcohol warms and blurs. Cocaine brings coldness and clarity. It was alcohol I needed. Yermeloff told me to wait. He closed the tent-flap behind him as he left, but I watched through a parting. He headed back towards the railway yards, laughing and joking with the soldiers, walking with a brutal swagger which made me suspect his ‘gentle’ manner might actually be the facade. I sat down on one of the beds. I tried to make sense of things. It was impossible. I had been captured by Cossacks. I was only alive because Grishenko thought I could help his prestige, his ambition, while Yermeloff wanted an audience for his sentimental drivel. I could be shot with impunity. I could be tortured. I took another drink and began to laugh. Here was a test of my wits. I would use the alcohol in order to sleep; then tomorrow I would make the best use of some cocaine. I had decided to follow Yermeloff’s lead. Until I could get to safety, I would be as hardened a partisan as the next man. I would elevate myself, not as Yermeloff intended to do, but through my intellect. I would make myself indispensable to these savages. I recalled stories by Conan Doyle and Haggard, where white men fell amongst natives and baffled them with simple scientific tricks. Not Grishenko or even Hrihorieff but The Lost World and King Solomon’s Mines would be my models.

  Yermeloff returned. He took the vodka from my hand. ‘That stuffs hard to come by. I had to trade a woman for three bottles.’ He stood aside as two filthy partisans with rime and spittle in their beards placed a straw mattress and a blanket on the ground. Dumped on top of these was a ragged greatcoat, a sheepskin hat with parts of the sheep still clinging to it, a pair of clumsy felt boots and some moth-eaten fur gloves. ‘Much-prized.’ Yermeloff corked the vodka. ‘Put them on.’

  ‘My own coat...’

  ‘We Cossacks are touchy about people who are too proud to dress like everyone else.’ He spoke insouciantly but with such a significant little gesture of the bottle that I followed his advice. My good coat was removed; the rags were donned. Lice were already crawling on my body. The felt boots were big enough to fit over my shoes. I almost immediately became warmer. ‘Let your beard grow if you can,’ said Yermeloff. I was resentful of this. I had tried to grow a beard. The result had made me look like a cankerous spaniel. It would be two or three years before a proper growth would come. By then, of course, beards were out of fashion, in reaction to those elders who had proven themselves so useless in allowing the War to begin. A small moustache would give character to my face by 1925.

  Yermeloff stood back, looking me over. ‘Wear the hat set high and to one side.’ He pushed it into position himself. ‘Don’t you know the expression: Beware of men who wear their caps over their eyes? A cap pushed up shows you to be a brave, open Russian, a daring Cossack needing no protection from anything. You say your father was a Zaporizhian. Didn’t he teach you this?’

  ‘He’s dead.’ How things had reversed. I brought myself a certain glory from what had been, until now, my shame. ‘He was a Socialist Revolutionary. An assassin. He was shot in 1906 for his part in the uprising.’

  Yermeloff was pleased. ‘You really are what you say! You’re a puzzle, young major. A boy genius, a hardened socialist, and half a Zaporizhian Cossack. What was your mother?’

  ‘Her family was Polish.’

  This seemed significant. He nodded his head but remained silent. I sat down again on the edge of the bed. He uncorked the bottle. ‘Take a small swig this time. I’m mean about vodka of this quality.’

  ‘You shouldn’t leave it untended. It could be stolen.’

  ‘Cossacks don’t steal from each other.’ He was sardonically serious. ‘Zaporizhians have their pride.’ He unbuttoned his coat, wiping at his neck with a piece of rag. ‘Would you dare steal from one?’

  ‘I’m not a thief.’

  ‘We’re not thieves. We forage, particularly in ghettos. We make appropriations, particularly from unguarded trains.’

  ‘I was taught to respect Cossack honour. You need not remind me of, nor should you mock at, true Zaporizhian ethics. Those men out there are scum.’

  ‘The Cossack hosts began as scum. When Moscow sought their help against the Tatars she made them into wholesomely romantic figures. They do the same to this day to trappers and cowboys in America.’

  This was ridiculous. But it was best to say nothing. Yermeloff took out one of his black-and-silver flintlocks. He sighted along the barrel. ‘These are useless if you try to handle them like modern firearms. According to logic, it would be impossible to hit anything with one. That’s why these are mine. As some men can master a particular horse, I can master these. They are the symbol of my survival!’

  I was unimpressed. Later, Paris and Berlin would be like nineteenth-century arsenals. Every ‘ataman’ would be selling his booty as family heirlooms.

  The tent flap opened. Grishenko swaggered in. He had a coarse-featured girl with him. He said nothing, but Yermeloff buttoned up his coat and signed to me. We left. Grishenko chuckled and spoke to the girl in Ukrainian. Her answering giggle was ghastly. I would not have expected this sound from so experienced a whore.

  Yermeloff looked at the sky. It was grey as the snow. He cursed, ‘I left the vodka. Grishenko’s bound to drink the lot.’

  ‘I thought Cossacks never stole from each other.’

  Yermeloff walked ahead. Again he was the bully-boy. He said in a harsh voice. ‘Grishenko’s my friend. What I have is his.’

  ‘And what he has?’

  Yermeloff stopped, then he laughed. ‘His.’ He came back to put an arm round my shoulder. I remembered Mrs Cornelius and her fox-pelts. I longed to see her Mercedes. I longed for Odessa and my mother and Esmé. Yermeloff led me towards the water-tanker. ‘We’ll try some of the ordinary.’ Bandits took no notice of me. I had reduced my outer appearance to the level of their own. A tin cup was passed from the crowd around the wagon. The vodka was no worse than that I had had on the train. Potoaki would by now be in Odessa, enjoying the benefits of the Rule of Law while plotting its destruction. The Revolution had been a work of modern art; convulsive, undisciplined, emotional and formless. Lenin and Deniken were trying to repaint it to their own tastes. Trotsky had been the catalyst for this whole war and how he enjoyed himself, standing on the roofs of trains, making speeches to soldiers from motor-cars, stalking ahead of his generals. What a fool that Jew looked to anyone with half an eye. A goose in the heron-pond. He was ridiculous in his glasses, his beard, his uniform. An irritating, self-opinionated buffoon. I could not see why Mrs Cornelius found him attractive, unless it was his power. He was a bungler. Almost every disaster after 1918 can be blamed on him. They called him the greatest general since Joshua: it is an insult to Joshua. Lenin loved him. They were two of a kind. Antonov was an intellectual but he knew how to fight. Mrs Cornelius should have taken up with him. But perhaps Antonov was too strong. She liked men, in those days, she could manipulate. She had a weakness for a fool. She liked them safely married. I do not think Antonov was married. I know nothing about him. Stalin probably had him killed in one of those trials. I avoided Russians between the wars. I would sometimes even claim to be Polish or Czech. I could not stand the sympathy of those who took up with émigrés; they made me self-conscious. I want to be myself; not the representative of a culture.

  We approached a railway siding where a proclamation had been pinned to a telegraph post. The vodka was affecting my stomach. I mentioned this to Yermeloff. ‘You’re hungry,’ he said. ‘We’ll get some food here.’

  A carriage once belonging
to a first-class train was being used as a canteen. From the galley came hideous smells. I felt far worse. Yermeloff swung up the steps. Not wishing to be left alone and yet terrified of what I should have to eat, I followed him. We seated ourselves amongst a group of Cossack officers who ate soup and complained about it. A boy brought us two bowls and a piece of bread each. The soup was dark yellow, containing pieces of pale meat. I tried to gather my courage. Yermeloff joined some of the others in laughing at me. ‘He’s new. An engineer. Major Pyatnitski.’ I grinned with dry lips. This caused them further amusement. I drank a little of the broth and felt no worse for it. The taste was loathsome. I nibbled the meat. It was oddly tender. I swallowed and hastily ate some bread. It was hard. It had the texture and flavour of cheap soap.

  ‘Where are you from, comrade?’ This from a burly Cossack wearing beard and moustachios in the old Tsarist style. He was handsomely uniformed, though with the inevitable red cockade in his cap and an armband on his sleeve.

  ‘From Kiev.’

  ‘They make young majors there.’

  ‘Without much effort,’ I told him. ‘I was a civilian engineer.’

  ‘Who did you work for?’ The question was not emphatic but I was unsure of its meaning. I looked to Yermeloff who rescued me with: ‘His father was an SR.’

  ‘Oho,’ said the Cossack, ‘so nepotism exists even in revolutionary circles. Where’s your dad now?’

  ‘He was killed in ‘06. My mother’s in Odessa.’

  He looked at me sympathetically. ‘Don’t fret, little major. We’re on the way. Those niggers won’t get their hands on our women.’ French Zouaves were rumoured to be running amok, having formed an alliance with Odessa’s Jews. Asia and Africa, they said, were shitting on Russian soil. ‘Nikolaieff first, or Kherson, to get fresh supplies. Then we’ll be in Odessa. We’re the biggest army in Ukraine. They won’t stop us.’

  I thought of my Esmé, my angel, in the grip of some grinning, befezzed negro. My stomach went sour. For some reason I was able to finish both soup and bread more easily. I felt as Yermeloff had predicted, much better for the heat. Yermeloff spoke to the man who had addressed me. ‘Did you read the proclamation, Stoichko? What did it say?’

  ‘The usual. How well we’re doing. How good we are. How we bring honour to Ataman and aid to Barotbist. How we’ve recruited Bolshevik help in sweeping Chaos from the land.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘The 4th and 15’th are to entrain for the “new front” at six-thirty tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Stoichko cleared his throat. He picked up a piece of bread I had abandoned. ‘South. There are forty rumours as usual.’ He munched. ‘How’s that bastard Grishenko?’

  ‘Relieving the pressures of manhood in the tent.’ Yermeloff wiped his lips. The others became silent.

  I looked out of the grimy window. Two priests walked past, chatting together. They might have been in a tranquil country street. I was heartened to see them. They were of the Greek faith. Later I would notice them blessing some red flag or other. There are priests and priests, just as there are Cossacks and Cossacks. But a bad priest, in my own view, is bad indeed: he will use God’s word to utter the commands of the Devil. How cheerfully those priests accepted Bolshevism. The few who did not were liquidated or attacked by their fellows. I should love to hear Kiev monks singing the Dies irae again. Can anything match that combination of architecture and music celebrating so harmoniously the works of Man and God? Or Rachmaninov’s Vespers? Even an atheist, even a Jew, would be moved. I have heard some people call it extreme. They fail to understand there are no extremes in Russia. We must all control our minds, limit our perceptions, not broaden them. Islanders rarely understand this. Americans have maintained the island mentality. They build walls round everything. I know those estates where you cannot visit a friend without telling a guard, just as you must at a madhouse. Walls are madness. Madness is a wall. Life is too short.

  Stoichko, still with a full mouth, said to Yermeloff, ‘Want to bunk in with us? We’ve some spare gear.’

  Yermeloff shook his head, took off his cap and scratched. He also was running with lice. Lice are not so bad. Often they are the only company one can trust. They frighten people not used to them. But they are only uncomfortable in large numbers. You keep them down by catching and killing them. This relieves the boredom of a soldier’s or a prisoner’s life. Some members of a military band I knew would draw race-tracks on drumskins and race their crabs, as some race mice or frogs. Large amounts of money would change hands. The owners would claim to be able to recognise favourite runners. I do not believe that. To me, one louse is much like another. Cleanliness, according to the English, is next to Godliness. But there are sects in Russia who think exactly the opposite. There are very rich sects who cut off their private parts to be closer to God. The money they make goes to their families. I find that disgusting. But it is understandable.

  Yermeloff cracked a louse or two as he considered Stoichko’s offer. Then he declined. ‘Grishenko’s never long.’

  ‘No girl could live,’ said one of the others, ‘if he was. I had a little Jewess after him. I thought she was moaning with pleasure. Then I realised her arm was broken. He’s a bastard. She was willing. Willing enough, at any rate. You don’t need to use force.’ He was proud of his professionalism as a rapist. ‘One wave of a bayonet works wonders. Poor little thing. I told Yashka to be careful with her when it was his turn. I felt a fool.’

  In spite of my interest in their conversation I got up. I asked where the latrine was. Yermeloff looked at my face. ‘That vodka must be bad. You’d better get out. I’ll join you in a minute.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘You won’t have time to find it. Just go. These comrades will be upset if you vomit all over them.’

  Amidst more laughter I stumbled to the exit. The entire dining-car had been ruined. More than one person had been sick here before. The thought of the soup was too much. I reached the observation platform, then up came vodka, soup and bread. I was shivering. I pulled the old coat about me. I looked back. Yermeloff could not see me. Ahead, in the dusk, was the town. There were Bolsheviks and presumably fairly civilised officers there. My legs were weak, but I began to run until I was safely invisible, with two or three lines of coaches between me and Yermeloff. I pushed through a broken fence, went past a gabled house where a stuffed eagle looked at me from a ground-floor window, and into a side-street. Alexandriya was sacrosanct. Only Hrihorieff and his senior staff used it. There were few signs of riff-raff from the camp. I wondered if Yermeloff would come after me to shoot me. Two motor-vans went by. Their engines were running perfectly. Had Yermeloff deliberately let me go? I thought I heard my name called from the yards. There was so much babble I was probably mistaken. Had Yermeloff baited a trap? Were he and Grishenko playing a macabre trick? I felt he had been deliberately lax. Possibly Grishenko had lost interest in me and Yermeloff knew it. Consequently he did not care if I left.

  I followed the street. There were wooden blocks paving the main road. Those blocks, cleared of snow, were like heavenly clouds. I was in civilisation. I stopped a Cossack who was relatively smart. I told him I was Major Pyatnitski. He pretended the name was familiar as I had hoped. ‘Has Ataman Hrihorieff returned yet?’ I asked.

  ‘I do not think so, comrade major.’

  I pretended impatience. ‘Where’s the telegraph-post? General Headquarters?’ I followed his eyes. He looked towards a building flying a large red flag. ‘There?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Very well.’ I did not salute. I let my coat fly open, although I was freezing. It displayed my ‘classless’ suit and revealed me, I hoped, as a commissar. The combination of clothing was perfect: I was an intellectual, yet a man of the people. I paused to feel into the lining of my jacket for another ‘single-dose’. I used my handkerchief again to inhale the cocaine. Much strengthened, I continued on my way. With a nod to the infant
ryman on guard, I went through a wicket gate, strode up a path to be greeted by a podporuchik (lieutenant) in full green and gold Cossack regalia. ‘I’m Major Pyatnitski.’ I spoke firmly. My intention was merely to get to the telegraph and send a message, allegedly of political import, to Uncle Semya. ‘I’m the engineering officer. Ataman Hrihorieff told me to report here.’

  The podporuchik was hardly older than I. He listened carefully, then escorted me into a hallway crowded with ordinary domestic furniture, including a stuffed bear. Alexandriya was a town fond of stuffed animals. There were one or two deer-heads on the wall. The place had evidently been a small hotel. We entered an office where young ladies, like young ladies in any office in the world, were at work with typewriters and ledgers. One used an abacus to help her compute figures which she transcribed rapidly onto a large sheet of paper. She reminded me of Esmé. Hrihorieff was no simple bandit. Here was an efficient military headquarters. We passed through that hard-working throng, through a waist-high wooden barrier, up to a tall desk. An officer in a torn jacket from which epaulettes had been removed looked at me through tired, mild eyes. He fiddled at his heavily-waxed moustache. He moved some papers in his fingers. He was about fifty. ‘Comrade?’ He spoke awkwardly, taking note of my suit. ‘You are from Kherson? Are the supplies here already?’ He consulted a typed list.