by K L Conger
He wanted to vomit.
AFTER THE SUN WENT down, Taras and his men still guarded the palace gate at Sparrow Hills. The plain had been eerily quiet since Ergorov’s men cleared away the bodies. The hot wind whipped around them, and despite the dozen men around him, Taras felt alone.
In the distance, the city no longer smoldered, but still smoked. The darkness camouflaged the city. Now only pale, ghostly tendrils could be seen rising against a demon black sky. Taras wondered where Inga was.
“Sir, men coming.”
Taras saw nothing. He glanced questioningly at Artem, then realized the men he referred to came not from outside the gates, but from the palace. Taras left his men to meet them. He guessed there were about two dozen.
“My lord,” the leader bowed his head and put a fist to his chest as Taras approached. He was an officer, but Taras outranked him. “We have been sent to relieve you. We will take up this post for the night. Ergorov commands that your men bed down in the barracks. We will need them again come morning.”
Taras nodded. “Very well.”
“And you, sir, have been summoned to the reception hall.”
“To see Ergorov?”
The soldier cocked his head to one side. He had an unusually long neck and eyes set far apart. Despite his dark beard, he reminded Taras of a bird listening to unseen sounds in the woods.
“I am uncertain who will receive you, my lord.” He spread his hands. “I am only delivering the message.”
Taras explained the situation to his men, then watched them all head off toward the barracks before turning toward the palace. He wanted nothing more than to join them for some much-needed sleep.
He wondered what they'd called him in for. To give a report? Certainly Ergorov could do that. Whatever the general wanted, it couldn’t be good.
Only one in three sconces lit the corridors. They lent enough light to see by, casting a muted glow, and Taras wondered if the tsar and tsarina had turned in for the evening.
As he neared the reception hall, voices reached his ears. Muted at first, but they increased in volume as he neared the room. Perhaps the tsar had not turned in after all. Taras came around the corner, but stood in the doorway, knowing better than to interrupt.
“I don’t care if they’re traumatized because of the fire! My life and that of my wife were threatened today, and I won’t have it. As if the fire wasn’t enough! My own people are turning on me. I want the ring leaders hunted down and executed.”
“But my lord—”
“No. Enough! I am the rightful ruler of Russia, and I will be obeyed.”
The authority in Ivan’s voice silenced the others in the room. He stood on a raised dais that held two thrones and an oblong table covered in maps. Ivan stood near the table, hollering and clenching and unclenching his fists. To Taras’s surprise, the tsarina occupied one of the two thrones. She watched her husband with passivity. The sort due to exhaustion, not disinterest.
Ivan sounded downright unhinged. It unsettled Taras more than it should have. Ivan was still a man, after all. All men lost their temper at times. But the hysteria in Ivan's voice chilled Taras. It was so strange to hear him drop the royal "we" and refer to himself only as "I." It made him seem vulnerable. Taras wondered if he'd dropped it purposely or not. "
The objection had been raised by a priest whom Taras recognized. He'd become one of Ivan’s high priests in the previous months, and Ivan trusted him completely. Sylvester was a stocky, middle-aged man with dark hair that fell to his broad shoulders. White streaked it, but so far, his beard and bushy eyebrows had been spared.
After the outburst, silence reigned for several seconds. Then Ivan’s face crumpled from fury to exhaustion. He raised his long, thin fingers to his face and covered his eyes with his hand. He looked thinner than a few days ago, his face more sunken and gaunt. Dark circles nestled beneath his eyes.
“Why has this happened?” Ivan asked, to the air more than anyone in the room. His voice, so hard and forceful a moment before, became a soft, sobbing moan. It sounded odd to Taras, coming from the most powerful ruler in Russia’s history.
Sylvester took a step toward the dais, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.
“Your Grace, I know this is difficult, but you must hold yourself together—for your people, if not for yourself.”
Ivan’s voice hardened. “I would be much better able to do that, Priest, if I knew why this was happening. Why has God allowed my city to burn, and my people to mutiny?”
“God tries us all—”
“You already said that. There must be more to it.”
“I believe there is, Your Grace.”
Ivan dropped his hands and laid his shoulders back. He looked askance at Sylvester.
“The fire, my Lord Tsar, is a punishment, sent by God. The murder of your uncle Yury Glinsky is as well.”
Ivan’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. Taras had never seen the tsar at a loss for words before.
“A punishment? For what?”
Sylvester took a deep breath before going on. “My lord, these past years you have taken revenge for evil deeds done to you and your brother when you were children. That is not good in God’s sight. ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’”
“But,” Ivan sputtered.
“My lord,” Sylvester put up his hands. “Everyone understands. But that did not make it right. If, from hence forth, you want to preserve and protect your throne, your reign, and your people, you must walk in the paths of righteousness.”
Ivan’s crestfallen gaze went to the floor. “You’re saying my deeds may have caused this catastrophe?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Ivan put a hand to his stomach and bent from the waist, as though he might be sick. His hands and lower jaw trembled. Anastasia left her seat on the throne and hurried to his side, laying her delicate hands on his arm. She said nothing, but he reached across his chest and put his hand over hers. Her presence seemed to comfort him.
“My lord,” Sylvester went on, “all is not lost.”
Ivan peered up hopefully.
“If you repent, and walk in the Lord’s ways, he will send you signs and miracles, wonders in the heavens over the great city of Moscow. If you do not, he will send signs of another kind: fire from heaven and demons from hell to punish you. You know, my lord, that I know the secrets of such mysteries, and that I speak the truth.”
Taras studied Sylvester. No one could mistake the authority in his voice. He'd come from Novgorod. Now attached to the Cathedral of the Annunciation, he was known for being something of a mystic. The hold he had over Ivan surprised Taras. The tsar stared at the priest as a child would look to his father.
“Truly, Sylvester?” Ivan fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor. “Holy Father, give me absolution.” It was an agonized request, not a command.
Sylvester crossed the distance between himself and the tsar and touched his fingers to Ivan’s forehead.
“You shall have it, my lord, when you have done your penance.” Sylvester smiled and it changed the shape of his face. Anastasia still clung to her husband’s shoulder. “Send our dear tsarina to bed, my lord. She is exhausted. You must spend this night in prayer. In the morning, we will begin to rebuild our city, and you will begin your repentance. Let this be the start of a new era in which the tsar fears God completely and walks uprightly before him.”
Ivan nodded. “Yes, Sylvester. Yes, tomorrow will be a new day.”
“My Lord Tsar, your people will love you more for being just and righteous, and for helping them rise anew from the ashes of this tragedy. We are Russians, after all. It will take more than the elements to destroy us.”
Ivan smiled. It was genuine and made him look gentle. “Yes, I hope so, Sylvester.”
Ivan got to his feet and turned to his wife. He placed one hand over her ear, his fingers running through her hair, and leaned down to whisper to her. Their stance looked so tender, Taras felt like
an intruder on a private moment. It only lasted an instant, though. Then Ivan kissed her cheek, and she smiled briefly at him.
“The tsarina will indeed go to bed,” Ivan announced as Anastasia left the dais and, followed by her ladies in waiting, floated gracefully from the room. Ivan watched her go with a fond smile on his face. “And I will go to the chapel.” He began stepping down from the dais when another voice stopped him.
“If it pleases Your Grace, I have sent for Lord Taras, as you requested, and he has arrived.” The voice was Ergorov’s. He stood against the wall on the other side of the room. Taras hadn’t noticed him.
Ivan looked up in surprise when Ergorov spoke, as though he too had forgotten his general still stood there. He followed Ergorov’s gaze to where Taras stood in the doorway.
“Ah, yes. Taras. Please come in.”
Taras walked forward until he stood before the tsar. Sylvester moved to the side of the dais so Taras could be presented. Only four people occupied the room, other than the armed soldiers at the doorways.
“Taras, my friend, we have heard from several people over the last two days of your deeds.”
“My deeds, Your Grace?”
“Yes. We have been told that you and your men ran through the burning streets of Moscow pulling would-be victims out of fiery chasms. Then you came here straight away to be part of our personal guard. General Ergorov has told me that, during the riot today, you showed us great loyalty.”
“Your Grace, if I may?”
Ivan tipped his head, every inch the gracious monarch.
“Many people ran through the streets trying to help the victims. And I did not come to Sparrow Hills straight away—not until after I slept. I acted no differently than so many others.”
“Ah, but your loyalty is different. You cannot explain away the riot, young Taras, and even so, you are a foreigner.” Taras didn’t know what that had to do with anything, and it must have shown on his face. “Forgive us. We don’t mean to insult you. We simply did not expect that kind of loyalty from one who grew up in another land.”
Taras concentrated on not shifting his weight from foot to foot. He’d never been comfortable being the object of praise.
“My Lord Tsar,” he tried again, “I came to Russia to serve you. And you are . . . who I serve.” It sounded foolish to Taras, but the tsar looked impressed.
“So we see. Well,” he seated himself on his throne. “We reward those who show us unswerving loyalty, Master Taras.” He glanced at Sylvester, who stood placidly beside the dais. “This is Sylvester. He is one of the leaders of our Chosen Council. Do you know what the Chosen Council does, Taras?”
Taras did, but not in detail. Sylvester and a man named Adashev led it. They were the two men in Russia closest to the tsar. From what Taras could glean, the council was a governing body that advised the tsar on all matters of importance. All monarchs had advisors; Ivan had the Chosen Council.
“Only broadly, my lord.”
Ivan nodded, his disheveled red hair flying back and forth. “That’s all right. You can learn as you go. Taras, We want you to join the Council.”
Taras’s surprise mirrored Ergorov’s and Sylvester’s faces as they spun toward the tsar with wide eyes. This was exactly what Taras didn’t want. Why could he not live the simple life of a soldier, and let the political arena alone?
“Your Grace, I do not think I have much to contribute—”
“Nonsense. You have proven yourself capable in many regards and especially on the battle field, so the military will be your area of contribution.”
“But, Your Highness, surely one of more years and experience than myself—”
“Not at all, Taras. As much as we value the experience of older men, the council is made up of men your age. It is the younger men who fight on the battlefields of life, and they also who will live with the consequences of them, so why should older men make all the decisions?” Ivan leaned forward in his chair. “What say you?”
Taras glanced around, looking for some way out. The astonished faces of Ergorov and Sylvester stared back at him. The tsar asked, but Taras understood he had no choice in this. He was expected to say yes. Who would balk at such an honor and a chance to be so close to the tsar?
“I . . . would be honored, my Lord Tsar.”
“Good. That’s settled, then. Sylvester, from now on, Taras is part of the Council and will need to be summoned for every meeting.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Sylvester studied Taras from under furrowed brows.
Does every Russian courtier practice that look in the mirror?
“Now, Taras, we suggest you get some sleep. Tomorrow we will begin to rebuild our city. The coming months will be grueling for us all.”
Taras bowed from the waist, his mouth as dry as Egypt’s deserts, and waited until the tsar exited the room before turning to leave. Sylvester and Ergorov watched him go, their eyes boring into the back of his neck. He cleared the palace and headed toward the barracks. Sleep, the farthest thing from his mind.
Chapter 29
MOSCOW, MAY 1548
Taras scratched his beard, trying not to shift in frustration. The meeting had run long. Important? Yes. Interesting? Not especially. Having been a member of the Chosen Council for nearly a year, Taras had become used to long, dry, political problems. The only meetings of this kind in which he took much interest were the ones concerning military matters, because his expertise was valued.
Not that he wasn’t interested in Russia’s trading practices, international relations, or social reforms. He possessed enough education to have an opinion on such things, but others on the council were far better qualified to speak of them, so Taras was overlooked on these matters. Today’s subject had to do with the copying of manuscripts, a task generally left to the church scribes. Apparently, they weren’t always as accurate as they should be, and bad manuscripts were being circulated. Since many of them had to do with scripture, this was a serious problem, and Ivan was determined to remedy it.
“Every manuscript must be checked against the originals,” the tsar said. “Only accurate copies may be used.”
Ivan enjoyed good health. Round-faced and red-cheeked, his frame had filled out. Unlike Taras, he was still clean-shaven, but then he was still a boy by most men’s standards.
Taras began letting his beard grow not long after the Burning of Moscow. Nikolai told him of the talk at court. Russians were extremely superstitious—Taras learned that quickly—and they believed it a sin to shave one’s beard. Boys were one thing, but Taras now claimed thirty winters, and the Russians thought it improper for him to have a smooth face. Taras preferred to keep himself shaved—his beard always grew in itchy—but he wanted to be accepted, and shaving was not a pillar of his personal code of ethics.
So, he grew a beard. Not a long, thick thing, fanning over his chest as the Russians wore theirs. Rather, he kept it clipped close to his jaw and well groomed. If it wasn't exactly what they had in mind when they criticized him, at least they accepted it as an “English style” beard. They respected him more for it.
The past year had been filled with the tasks of rebuilding Moscow, and trying to secure peace with Kazan. Everyone felt certain Russia would go to war against the Tatars. There were constant border skirmishes, and the tsar led three different forces into their country, but it hadn’t come to open battle. Instead, the tsar built a Christian city—Sviazhsk—on a hill outside Kazan, right in the middle of infidel territory. He laid siege to Kazan long enough to gain support from inside and put a puppet Khan on the throne, one loyal to Russia.
Furthermore, the city of Sviazhsk served as a way station for trade between Moscow and its eastern conquests, as well as a military outpost should war ever ensue. It seemed Ivan had acquired peace without loss of a single Russian life.
Then, another upset. Khan Shigaley murdered his own nobles to secure absolute power. They rioted and demanded a less blood-thirsty ruler. Ivan deposed Shigaley and sent a vicero
y in his place. Prince Simeon Mikulinsky travelled to Kazan even as Taras sat in this boring meeting.
Taras had the feeling that peace with Kazan would always be elusive, but it was under control for now.
“Well,” Sylvester, who conducted the meeting, said, “are there any more items to be discussed?”
No one answered, and Taras was grateful.
The meeting adjourned, and benches were pushed back with loud screeches of wood on wood. Taras picked up his coat and headed for the door. He wanted to see Inga before he went out again.
“Your Grace!”
The outburst sounded so desperate, Taras whirled around in alarm. Several others of the Council reacted the same way, putting hands to swords before realizing it was Ergorov, followed by Makary, the Metropolitan.
“What is it?” Ivan demanded, looking as taken aback as everyone else.
“My lord, the Tatars have revolted again.”
“What?”
“The viceroy dallied on his way to the city, and others ran ahead of him, spreading rumors that he and his retinue would murder the Tatars in their own cities. When he got there, they had barred the gates. They won’t let him in. They are determined to defend themselves against Russian rule.”
“It is worse, Your Highness,” Makary spoke now. The Metropolitan had a grave, authoritative voice that matched his lean figure and stark white hair.
The tsar, who slumped upon hearing Ergorov’s news, straightened, putting his shoulders back. “Tell me.”
“Sviazhsk has become a den of iniquity. All of Russia rejoiced when you proclaimed that the Tatars release their Russian slaves, and thousands of Russians poured out of Kazan into their homelands. Now, many of them are enjoying their freedom in the spring weather of Sviazhsk. It has become as Sodom and Gomorrah. The men are even shaving off their beards to please their concubines. It is madness, my lord. It must be stopped.”