It is on one of those occasions that he raises the matter of Krylenko and what I intend to do about him.
‘I intend to do nothing. Why, do you think I should?’
Bakatin nods. ‘At the very least the man should be taught a lesson. But that’s not my point. He’ll be waiting for us, somewhere up ahead. You can be sure of it. He and his sons.’
‘So we take care.’
‘I think we should do more than that. I think we should ambush the rogue.’
‘But if he’s waiting for us, hiding somewhere in the trees, watching us sail past …’
‘You have spare clothes, Otto? You and Katerina?’
I nod.
‘Good. Then listen. I have a plan …’
170
But the ambush doesn’t happen – not that evening – and while Bakatin and his sons make camp and keep guard, Katerina and I take the opportunity to bathe.
It’s a long journey, and even when lazing about on the boat you can still begin to smell after a day or two. Which is why we try to wash every day and bathe every third day at the least. Katerina, new to such hygiene measures, has taken to the ritual in a big way and is as excited as a child. She likes her washing me, and I …
Well, how can I lie? I love the sight of her pale, beautifully formed limbs glistening wetly, the delight of her wonderfully curved body crouched above the river’s edge. How could I not be aroused by such a sight? And so we make each thing we do a sensual game, and if it usually ends with her in my arms, beneath me, where’s the harm in that? Only this time we are on our guard. Krylenko’s still a threat, and there’s nothing he’d like more, I’m certain, than to come upon us naked, in the act of lovemaking, so this once we simply wash, though, as ever towards the end of the ritual, Katerina squats before me, watching as I shave, endlessly fascinated by it.
‘You should grow a beard,’ she says, and when I laugh, she adds, ‘It would make you look more Russian.’
I smile and, tilting the small circular mirror, study my chin for tufts of hair, the razor-sharp blade in my left hand.
‘I am a Nemets. A German. This is how we look. Besides, I thought you liked the smoothness.’
‘I do, only …’
‘Only what?’
But she doesn’t say, merely reaches out and gently touches my face where I’ve missed a bit.
‘There …’
I lower the mirror and look directly at her. For a moment I almost – almost – tell her about Peter – Peter the Great, that is – and his amazing gesture on his return from the ‘Great Embassy’, his grand tour of the West. It’s pertinent – a story about beards – but it won’t happen for another four hundred and fifty years.
‘I’ll grow one,’ I say. ‘One of these days.’
I can’t tell her why I don’t. That I couldn’t jump back, sporting a beard. Because that would make Hecht suspicious.
‘Otto?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why didn’t you get married, back in Germany?’
171
It’s quiet in those moments before it begins. Very quiet. The river, which, just north of Surazh, had been narrow and fast-flowing, is broader here and muddied, like a sheet of molten lead. In the heat of the early afternoon the boat moves sluggishly, the big, off-white sheet of the sail hauled down, the four oarsmen – Bakatin and his sons – heaving us at great effort through the water.
There’s the faintest of breezes up on deck, but it’s against us, blowing from the north-east, and where Katerina and I sit in the bottom of the boat, our knees drawn up beneath us, the supporting struts of the body of the cart only inches above our heads, it’s still and stiflingly hot, like an oven.
Bakatin and his sons are quiet, too. Oddly so, for they seem a merry bunch and prone to sing at the drop of a hat, but they’re like silent automata just now. Hung-over, maybe. For a brief moment there is nothing but the rustling of the trees on the banks to either side, the rhythmic pull of the oars through the water, which rushes and gurgles past us. The day is hot and still. And then it happens.
There’s a massive, splintering crash up ahead, followed almost instantly by a series of huge splashes – three or four at least – that send a great wave of water back at us. At once Bakatin’s up and yelling to his sons, getting them to dig in the oars and backstroke, only as slow as we’re moving, we’re still moving too fast, the boat has too much momentum, and it crashes into the tangled barrier of fallen trees that now completely blocks the river.
The shock throws Bakatin off his feet. He gets up, cursing, his face filled with a dark anger.
Telling Katerina to stay where she is, I duck out from under the cart and quickly look about me. There are more than a dozen figures among the trees to our left, and a similar number to the right. Krylenko has got reinforcements.
Things are going badly wrong. This isn’t the kind of ambush Bakatin was expecting, nor have we prepared for it. They’ve boats ready to launch on both banks, and as Krylenko’s boat pushes off from our left, I make a quick decision. Not the Kolbe, but something almost as good under the circumstances. The staritskii.
I’m breaking rules, I know, but sometimes it’s a question of expedience. Fists and feet won’t do right now, not with the numbers they’re throwing against us.
I crawl back under the cart, slip the catch to the secret compartment, and reach inside. It takes me a moment to undo the strap and open the bundle, but then it tumbles out into my hand, long and smooth with its fine, needle-like nose and its thick handgrip. It doesn’t look very elegant, but it’s highly effective.
‘Stay where you are,’ I say to Katerina, kissing her forehead. ‘And don’t – for any reason – come out!’
I turn back just in time. Krylenko’s boat is almost on us. They’re manoeuvring to place themselves directly alongside. One of his sons reaches out to grab hold of our gunwhales and secure the boat against his own, but even as he does, I aim the staritskii and blow his arm off from the elbow down.
The noise out on the water is deafening and everyone turns to stare at me – Bakatin and his sons, as well as Krylenko and his men. They look to the thing in my hand, then to the screaming man’s missing arm, the severed elbow of which is spurting blood, and they don’t make the connection. They think I must have thrown something – an axe, maybe, or a very sharp knife – only there’s a strong burning smell in the air. I change the setting on the staritskii and aim again.
Krylenko’s furious. He’s almost spitting as he points to me and yells at his men to get me. He’s screaming that he wants me dead, but midway through his rant he falls back, dead, a neat, coin-sized hole burned straight through his forehead and out through the back of his skull.
If it’s a fight to the death, I don’t believe in fighting fair, not even with decent men, let alone some bad fucker like Krylenko.
But I’ve barely time to think. Even as Krylenko falls, the prow of the second boat ploughs into ours, knocking us all off our feet again. There are shouts and screams and then one of them jumps across, a boat-hook in one hand. I aim up at him from where I’m sprawled on my back and burn a long, steaming gash from his groin to his neck. He falls back, clutching at himself and screaming, his clothes on fire, his eyes wildly staring, unable to believe what’s happened to him.
And he’s not alone. They are beginning to panic now. Several of them leap from the boats into the water, making swiftly for the shore.
I get up on to my knees, knowing that I’m likely to have a better centre of gravity thus than standing and, seeing Krylenko’s eldest, let him have it full power.
There’s the smell of roasting flesh and he topples, dead, into the water, his burning entrails sending up bubbles of steam from below the surface.
That ends the fight. With Krylenko and his eldest dead, the others flee as if from Satan himself. And to make sure that they don’t come back, I fire the staritskii one last time, turning one of the trees on the shore just beyond them into a flaming pyre. They run,
screeching, into the forest.
In the silence that follows, I look about me and see them all watching me, astonished and fearful, as if I’ve changed my shape. Bakatin, brave as he is, looks almost comically upset.
‘Sweet Mary, Mother of our Lord,’ he says, in a tiny, cracking voice. ‘What is that?’
‘It’s a gun,’ I say. ‘A weapon. Like a bow. Only instead of shooting arrows, it shoots fire.’
‘A weapon?’ Bakatin asks, disbelief heavy in his voice. He frowns deeply, trying to take it all in, but I have turned away, looking to Katerina. She is cowering beneath the cart, staring up at me, completely shocked, unable to believe what she has witnessed. Her eyes flick toward the staritskii then back to meet mine.
‘It’s okay,’ I say quietly. ‘It isn’t magic.’
But she’s looking at me like she doesn’t believe that. After all, she’s seen the vivid flashes of light, the way it ate away at the men’s flesh like some awful, burning acid, and how it cut a neat hole through Krylenko’s head. No normal tool – no weapon she’s ever heard of – could do such a thing. No, this is big magic and I some kind of sorcerer.
‘Katerina …’
But it’s no good. I’ve frightened her badly, and when I crouch down and make to gently touch her, she cries out and moves her whole self back, as far away as she can in that cramped space.
I am tempted to jump back and change it all. I could make Bakatin stop the boat a mile downstream and sneak up on Krylenko and his men.
Only I can’t. If I did, Hecht would want to know why. And then he’d find out about Katerina.
How do I know that? How can I be sure? I don’t, and I can’t, and yet I’m absolutely certain of it. If I go back, he’ll start asking questions, whereas as it is …
As it is, he thinks I’m with Ernst, travelling overland to Moscow to meet up with Prince Alexander – Nevsky – who is spending the winter months there. Hecht wants me to establish myself at Nevsky’s side and win his trust, so that I might subsequently undermine him. All this before the great battle on the frozen lake. Before the single event that will change this whole section of history.
Katerina isn’t in this scheme, not in any shape or form. Hecht doesn’t know about Katerina, and if he did he’d want to know who she was, and whether I’d checked her out properly. And knowing Hecht, he’d sniff me out, discover my true reasons.
And if it came to a choice, I know for a certainty that Hecht would view her life as a trifle, as merely a single piece in the greater game, to be surrendered – sacrificed – if necessary.
And if he found out that she was my woman …
I daren’t think of it. And so I can’t jump back. Not unless her life’s in danger. Not unless there’s really no alternative.
I look down at the staritskii and sigh. It’s not one of ours, of course. I took it from a Russian agent – from Pelshe, the little snake – shortly before he coughed his last bloodied breath. But it’s a handy weapon and I’ve used it often since.
I turn and look to Bakatin.
‘Fyodor,’ I say, my voice ringing with command. ‘Let’s get the boat ashore and see what damage has been done. It would be good to be away from here before nightfall.’
172
For the next few hours we barely talk. We shipped a lot of water in the collision and there’s considerable damage to the cargo. We sort out what can be saved and, after making repairs, set up camp among the trees. We’re all tired and miserable, and I can see that all they want to do is get some sleep, but I decide to confront the issue head-on, there and then. I call Bakatin and his sons to me and, standing there, explain what’s happening.
By now it’s getting dark, and in the light of the fire I can see how uneasy they are. Their eyes watch me warily, their body language defensive.
Katerina won’t come off the boat. She hasn’t moved from beneath the cart since I tried to touch her, and though it worries me, I know I’m going to have to take my time and win her trust back slowly. But first, Bakatin and his sons.
‘All right,’ I say, deciding that a kind of brutal frankness will serve me best. ‘You want to know what happened back there. It must have looked to you like magic, only sometimes magic isn’t what it seems …’
I take a silver coin from my pocket and, closing my hand and quickly opening it again, make it ‘disappear’. The three sons give a little gasp. Bakatin himself stares, interested suddenly.
For the next ten minutes I show them tricks with cards and coins – things I learned as a child from old Molders, back in the Garden. Then, to take the mystery away, I show them how each trick was done, and see how they relax.
‘So it was all a trick?’ Bakatin says.
‘In a way.’
He stares at me thoughtfully, scratching at his great black beard, while his sons look to him, and when finally he shakes his head and grins, so they too grin.
‘Okay. So you’re not a sorcerer, Nemets. But will you show me the weapon? Let me study it myself?’
‘Of course. But you must be very careful, and do exactly as I say.’
‘It won’t destroy me, then, like it did Krylenko and his eldest?’
I smile. ‘Not unless you point it at yourself.’
‘Like a wand,’ Bakatin says, narrowing his eyes.
I go to the boat and, trying not to notice Katerina crouched beneath the cart, her dark eyes staring up at me fearfully, I unwrap the staritskii again and carry it across.
‘Here. It’s safe right now.’
Bakatin stares at it long and hard, turning it in his hands, then looks back at me. ‘Safe?’
I hesitate, choosing my words. ‘It’s … asleep, if you like. When it is, it’s perfectly harmless. But when it’s awake …’
I take it back from him, then turn and, squeezing it gently – activating it – I aim it across the river and let off a bolt.
In the twilight the flash of searing laser-light is much brighter than it was earlier, leaving an after-image on the retina, but it’s the explosion that awes them. The tree is practically up-rooted, splintering into matchwood which, in the great ball of heat from the explosion, ignites in a shower of flaming leaves and branches, which fall hissing and sizzling into the water. It’s spectacular, and when I turn to look at them, I see how each of their faces is filled with awe.
‘You want a go?’ I ask Bakatin.
He swallows, then nods.
‘Here,’ I say, placing it in his hand carefully. ‘Let me show you. You lift it thus, and aim it, and then you squeeze. So …’
I let my hand fall away as he lifts the staritskii and, squeezing, lets off another bolt.
It seems to leap from his hand to the tree, which jumps into the air in a great ball of flame.
This time, the three sons cry out gleefully and whoop, jumping up and down excitedly like children.
Bakatin turns, looking at me, grinning broadly.
‘Fyodor,’ I say abruptly, seeing where he’s pointing the staritskii. ‘Keep it pointed away from us. Look … let me take it from you.’
Bakatin does as he’s told, jerking the weapon round to face the far shore again.
‘How does it do that?’
I pluck the weapon from his trembling hand, then answer him. ‘It’s like I said. It gathers in the air and binds it together, then sends it out as a stream of fire.’
‘Ah …’ But I see that for all my attempts to disabuse him of the notion, it’s still magic to Bakatin. Powerful magic. He tries to look at me, but his eyes are drawn back across the river to the flaming stumps and the dark patch of smouldering undergrowth that are all that remain of the two trees.
‘Ah …’
173
That night, for the first time since the start of our journey, I sleep ‘alone’, in the bottom of the boat, alongside Bakatin and his sons.
We wake early and make breakfast in the half light before dawn. I’m about to go and check on Katerina when I see her, leaning out over the side of the boa
t, retching into the water.
I sigh and look away, upset by the sight. Have I scared her that much? Is she that afraid of me?
I must do something. Only for once I don’t know what. As she retches again, I slip away, returning to where Bakatin and his sons are packing up. Bakatin looks to me, a knowing look in his eyes, then throws me my pack. He seems to want to say something, then decides against it.
We set off before the sun has risen, the river wreathed in mist as the day begins. I take a turn at one of the oars, and am still there, toiling away, as we approach the trading post at Velizh.
Bakatin calls on us quietly to ship our oars, and we do so, drifting slowly past the jetty and the clutch of ragged huts.
Velizh is abandoned, not a sign of anyone, and further upstream, Krylenko’s compound – a small palisaded fort, built on a turn in the river – is likewise bereft of life.
Word of our coming – perhaps of the great sorcery I worked – has clearly gone ahead.
‘They are afraid of you,’ Bakatin says. ‘You can imagine what was said.’
The trouble is I can, and hope that the ripples won’t spread too far, the rumours get too much out of hand. It was a mistake, I know, to use the weapon, but it was my only option. Now I must hope that word of it dies down – that nothing gets into the history books, even as a footnote – in case the Russians get to hear of it and send an agent back to check things out.
We burn the compound to the ground, then row on until, just after noon, the wind picks up, blowing from directly behind us, allowing Bakatin to ship oars once more and raise the sail.
Katerina is asleep, turned on her side in a foetal position beneath the cart. For a time I crouch there, staring at her, moved by her beauty. Then, from habit, I take my journal from my pack and begin a new entry.
I’m partway through when I hear Katerina waking. I turn in time to see her turn about and stretch. Her eyes open and for the briefest instant she looks directly at me, a faint smile coming to her lips. Then memory kicks in, and she turns her face away, her whole body stiffening, withdrawing into her shell.
The Ocean of Time Page 6