by K L Conger
The bulk of the attack would be at the eastern gates of the city. Even there, the pathways proved steep, but at least the cliffs could be avoided. Below the fortress, the city sprawled, spiraling outward in cramped streets and narrow avenues, until it reached the thick curtain wall.
On the eastern side of the city lay the plain of Arsk, and beyond that, the dense forest of Arsk. The plain sprawled, wide and open, with little or no cover where invaders could hide or shelter.
Taras sighed. The Russian army was formidable, but the Tatars of Kazan had no reason to fear them. They could see every move the army made almost before they made it. The Tatars believed their city impregnable, and might very well be correct.
“Do you think it will work?” Taras shouted to be heard over the wind. Nikolai raised a quizzical eyebrow. “This plan, I mean.”
Nikolai’s eyes went back to the city below them. “I think Kazan will only be taken after a long siege. We might as well dig in.” He gazed down at the city a moment longer before turning his horse around. Taras followed, and together they headed back toward the tsar’s camp. It sprawled in a place called Khan’s Meadow, a mile from the walls of Kazan.
He and Nikolai cantered easily back to the main camp, slowing as they entered. With nearly one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers living on the site, the camp was nothing short of a small city. Peasants had set up shop and worked busily for the benefit of the army. At every tent, people sewed, cleaned, fixed, shined, and busied themselves with hundreds of tasks. Young soldiers ran around getting ready for the coming battle, while more seasoned officers dozed beneath their hats, enjoying the calm before the storm. The constant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer in the background had become so common, Taras barely noticed it anymore.
“Taras!” Nikolai called, breaking into Taras’ musings.
Nikolai had ridden ahead. He thrust his head to one side, motioning Taras to join him. Taras urged Jasper forward. When he reined in beside the other man, Nikolai nodded toward the middle of the camp where the tsar’s tent stood in all the splendor of the Terem Palace.
“Something’s happening.”
Nikolai was right. The generals clustered around the tsar’s tent, the front flaps of which were flung open. Some sort of council was being held. Taras and Nikolai urged their horses forward until they reached the green in front of the tent. They dismounted, handing the reins of their horses to two nearby grooms.
Two men had escaped from Kazan and come to the tsar bearing news. The first was a Russian prisoner who’d been a captive in Kazan for some time. He'd been set free on the condition that he carry a letter from Khan Yediger Makhmet—whom the people of Kazan proclaimed the ‘true khan’—to the tsar. In the letter, he denounced the tsar’s khan, Shigaley, as well as the tsar and the Orthodox faith.
Ivan, decked out in fine robes as usual, wore a shining metal breastplate over them, along with chain mail and greaves. A conical helm sat on the table in front of him, colorful plumes fanning out of it, waving in the wind. The tsar’s arms—a man trampling a dragon—were emblazoned on each piece of his armor.
“Khan Makhmet declares,” Ivan read aloud, “that he has prepared a banquet for us, his visitors. It is one of bloodshed, no doubt. The Khan seeks to intimidate us by suggesting he will feast on our bones.”
A murmur ran through the group. After a moment, the tsar raised his hands for quiet. “Another man has escaped Kazan. Let us hear what he has to say.”
A short, stocky, black-eyed man who looked like he’d been trampled by a wild horse stepped forward.
“I am Kamay Mirza, a citizen of Kazan. When I heard of the coming battle, I wanted to join the tsar’s forces. I am loyal to the throne of Russia.”
When Mirza proclaimed himself a Tatar, the tension around the tent heightened palpably. When he declared his loyalty, Taras felt the men around him relax.
“Two hundred others within the city walls are also loyal to the tsar. We were rounded up, arrested, and executed—all except myself and seven companions, who, by stealth, managed to escape.”
He turned to face the tsar, who sat on a thick, beautifully carved wooden chair—an apt substitute for his throne here in the wilderness.
“Most noble tsar of all Russia, you have my fealty unto death. I can give you information regarding the weapons, positions, and preparations of your enemies.”
Ivan bowed his head slightly. “Noble man, God will grant you many mansions for your loyalty. All our best generals are now here—”
Taras thought Ivan glanced at him and Nikolai when he said this, though Taras must have been mistaken.
“—so please begin.”
For the next quarter hour, Mirza spoke. He pointed out where the Khan had positioned his men in greatest numbers, and how many were in each group. They numbered, in all, about thirty thousand. A number well short of the Russian army, but unless the Russians could breach the city walls, the Tatars would easily outlast them. Then came more alarming news.
“There is another army, Your Grace, under command of Prince Yepancha, hiding in the forest of Arsk.”
A ripple of concern ran through the assembled men. This was not good. It meant they would be fighting the Tatars on two fronts. Worse, they had no way of knowing when an attack might come from either direction. Not good at all.
The tsar raised his hands for quiet. He looked every inch a warrior king—rings, vestments, and all. His face remained placid as a lake though, his hands steady when he raised them.
“Please, generals. Let us take comfort. This is indeed an unsettling turn of events, but we expected unforeseen difficulties. We’ve faced them before on the battlefield, and we will face them again. Nikolai, what did you and Taras observe this morning?”
Nikolai stepped forward. “Nothing new, Your Grace. The walls are empty, as though the city lay deserted.”
Ivan nodded. “A ploy, do you think? Or have they already run for cover?” The generals chuckled appreciatively. Nikolai smiled, but did not reply. “What do you think, young Taras?”
Taras’s heart sped up. He was surprised the tsar would address him by name in such a prestigious council. Putting his shoulders back and making sure to speak with a firm voice, he answered. “I think they are hoping we will underestimate them, Your Grace.”
Ivan raised an eyebrow, but did not seem displeased by Taras’s answer. Several of the other generals nodded.
“Indeed,” Ivan’s gaze swept the entire group. “Then we shall not.” He turned to the man who stood at his elbow. “We have the final formations for the army, Prince Mstislavsky?”
Mstislavsky straightened and stepped forward. He had golden blond hair and a baby face. His black eyes belied his straw-colored hair, though, and hinted at a store of wisdom overlooked by most men. Mstislavsky was the field commander for the entire operation and only claimed twenty-five years. Taras had only seen Mstislavsky work from afar. The man possessed a calculating mind that envisioned an entire battlefield— everyone and everything on it—as a whole. He foresaw its needs and the way it would react. Ivan trusted him unconditionally.
“We do, my lord. Despite this new intelligence, I don’t believe we should change it. We will merely divert more men to the main army, which will fight the bulk of the battle. They will need more so they can fight sorties coming from the forest.”
Ivan nodded. “Whatever you think best. Let’s hear it once more so everyone knows where they will be needed tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Ivan’s chair sat a few feet from a massive oak table, hastily constructed from the timber of the surrounding forest when the army arrived. On it lay dozens of maps, held down by rocks, books, and anything heavy enough to weigh down the paper.
Mstislavsky stepped up to the table. He took a paper tube from one side of the table and unrolled it, placing a stone on each corner so it stayed open. Taras, along with the others, inched forward to see. It was a bird’s eye view of the city, drawn, no doubt, by one of the ro
yal cartographers who accompanied the campaign.
“There are nine divisions of the army—the main army, the elite corps, the vanguard, rear guard, right wing, left wing, scouts, and armies under the commands of Khan Shigaley and Vladimir of Staritsa. Each division has its own task, its own position outside the walls, and will be commanded by two generals—a senior and a junior. We have chosen each general for his experience in battle, especially against the Tatars.”
During the long march from Moscow, Ergorov told Taras he'd been considered as one of the junior generals, but it was decided that, since he had no experience against the Tatars, he should not be given the post.
That suited Taras fine. The generals strutted around like petty kings, wearing plumes in their helmets and sitting on gilded saddles atop satin blankets. Taras didn’t know how they planned to do battle amidst such finery, and the sensible garb of a soldier was more than adequate for him.
“The main army will be stationed here, outside the east and south walls,” Mstislavsky continued. “The rear guard and left wing will be outside the east wall, while the scouts will be here, in the marshes to the south. They will face the eastern acropolis.” Mstislavsky touched each place with the point of his dagger as he named it. “The vanguard will be stationed to the north.
“We do not believe the Tatars will come out against us en mass. They have the advantage of staying behind their walls. They will take advantage of our idleness. When we least expect it, they will jump out from hidden recesses. This is how the Tatars fight: quick sorties and sudden ambushes, long enough to reduce our numbers by only a few. This may seem an ineffective tactic, a fly to swat away, but it can be deadly. Even if such attacks only kill a dozen men, many over time will chisel away at our forces until we are at a disadvantage. This is the kind of attack we must guard against.”
The officers nodded and murmured to each other. Taras digested the information, storing it away for the future.
“So how do we defend against it?” The question came from a general whose name Taras did not know.
“The walls,” Mstislavsky clasped his hands behind his back, “are twenty-four feet thick. The Tatars can see every move we make from their bastions above. The only way through the walls is to blow them up with gunpowder.” Another murmur went through the group. “Each army will dig gabions of earth. These earthworks must be eight feet high, and at least that number in diameter. They will act as a defense against sudden attacks from the walls, as well as obscuring some of our activities, and keeping the weapons stores safe and unseen.
“Once the gabions are in place, the sappers will start working. They will dig tunnels beneath the walls, wherein we will put gunpowder to blow it up. Then they will no longer be able to hide, and we can take the city.”
“Good.” Ivan said. “Let’s review the details for each division. We want to be certain everyone is clear on what is expected tomorrow.”
The meeting lasted another hour. Taras only half listened. He’d gone over the strategy so many times he had it memorized. He wondered what tomorrow would bring. He’d seen several years of battle in England, but this would be war on a battlefield he’d never known, amongst men he’d never before fought beside, and against an enemy he’d never faced.
Fear wormed its way into his stomach. A similar feeling came every time he readied himself for battle, but this time it came stronger than ever before.
It was not something he'd expected.
THE NEXT MORNING, IN the pre-dawn murkiness, the Russian army moved out. Soldiers on armor-clad horses siphoned out of camp in a mass exodus toward the city of Kazan. The soil of Kazan would be watered with the blood of Russians today. Taras fell to his knees to pray for strength before dressing and leaving his tent.
He’d slept little. Inga stole into his tent a few hours before dawn and lay down beside him. She worked harder than he did these days. He turned to her in the darkness.
“Are you afraid?” she asked, her voice soft.
He considered her question. He knew she meant to ask if he was afraid of death. He had a deep foreboding about what would happen before this siege ended, but it did not translate into fear for his own life.
“No.”
“I am.” He reached across the small space between them to touch her face, his hand cupping her jaw and partially covering her neck. He rose up and moved to lie beside her, their bodies touching, and wrapped his arms around her. At first, she went rigid, and he thought she might protest. Gradually, she relaxed, and finally twined her arms through his, resting her head against his shoulder.
He wanted to make love to her so badly, his chest hurt, but the time was not right. A new thought occurred to him: he hoped he would not die tomorrow, because it would mean he wouldn’t spend another night in her arms. After a while, Inga’s breathing became slow and steady. Taras’s never did. A few hours later, he rose to pray. Then he donned his armor.
Only the upper classes could afford chain mail, but it was required of all cavalry. Being an officer, Taras’s wages had afforded him some. Over it he wore a deep blue kaftan coat that reached to his ankles. Lined with fur and divided from the waist down so he could straddle a horse, metal scales lined the coat. It weighed nearly as much as his chain mail. The two great flaps drape his thighs for protection. On his head, he wore the conical helmet of the Russians, tapering to a long, straight cross at the top.
His weapons consisted of his sword—brought from England—a harquebus, and an ax, which he strapped across his back. He also wore a saber at his hip. Other men carried these in addition to spears and daggers, and even carbines. The long muskets were deadly, but Taras only took what he could handle easily from horseback. It would be difficult enough on the battlefield without trying to use unfamiliar weapons.
When he was ready, Inga, wrapped in a blanket against the cold of the coming winter, saw him off. He put his hands on either side of her neck and kissed her before mounting Jasper.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
“I will be,” he whispered back, then left her in front of the tent.
Taras turned his horse to fall in beside Nikolai, who must have seen the exchange.
“You’ve grown closer to her.” Nikolai’s voice came so softly that at first Taras didn’t think Nikolai addressed him. When he realized, he glanced at Nikolai in surprise, unsure how to respond. It sounded like a question.
“Yes,” was the only response he could muster.
“You must be careful, Taras. That could be dangerous.”
“Nikolai,” Taras pulled on the reins to halt Jasper and turned in the saddle. The sky had begun to lighten, and he could see Nikolai’s face now. “We are literally going into battle, and you think a kitchen maid is what’s dangerous to me?”
Nikolai smiled briefly, a rarity for him. “Very well. But Taras, you must understand that if you do well here . . .” He trailed off and looked around, as if worried someone might be listening. Soldiers mounted up, heading for the edge of camp. None stood close by.
“If I do well here, what?”
Nikolai sighed. “You will be in a position of much greater power than ever before. The tsar has already shown you favor. People have noticed. If you now distinguish yourself in battle, you will please him further.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. But if you continue on the path you’re on, it will lead to great favor at court. Eventually, you will be expected to marry someone . . . suitable.”
Taras didn’t answer. With the battle looming like a black cloud, he'd thought of little else for months. He still did not appreciate the conversation, though.
“I know this is none of my concern, Taras. I’m warn you because I know what it’s like to—"
“You’re right, Nikolai. This is none of your concern.” Taras urged his horse forward again. A moment later, Nikolai rode beside him. “We have a battle ahead. Best to keep our thoughts on that.”
“Yes. You are right.” Nikolai said nothing e
lse for the rest of the morning.
THE ARMY ASSEMBLED, formed into columns, and began its march with all the activity, noise, and detail that accompany such things. By mid-morning, they were half way to the walls of Kazan.
The column halted, and Ivan rode out beside it. He sat astride a black warhorse covered in the same gilded armor Ivan wore. A golden kaftan covered the tsar from shoulder to knee, though Taras doubted it was armored. The tsar’s helmet was made of gold as well, and the cross at the tip glinted in the sunlight. Ivan had let his beard grow in, as most men did when winter loomed. Because of his young age, it remained wispy at best.
“My people,” Ivan called out, “I am ready to give my life for the triumph of Christianity. Strive together to suffer for piety, for the holy churches, for the Orthodox Christian faith, summoning God’s merciful aid with the purest trust in Him. Strive on behalf of our brothers, those Orthodox Christians who have been made captive for many years without reason, and who have suffered terribly at the hands of the infidels of Kazan. Let us remember the words of Christ, ‘Greater love hath no man than this: that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ Therefore, let us pray to Him with a full heart for the deliverance of the poor Christians, and may He protect us from falling into the hands of our enemies, who would rejoice over our destruction.
“We bid you serve us as well as God will help you. Do not spare yourselves for the truth. If we die, it is not death, but life! If we do not make the attempt now, what may we expect from the infidels in the future? I have marched with you for this purpose. Better I die here than live to see Christ blasphemed, and the Christians, entrusted to me by God, suffer at the hands of the heathen Tatars of Kazan. No one can doubt God will hear your continuous prayers and grant us His aid. I shall bestow great rewards on you. I shall favor you with my love, and provide you with everything you need, and reward you in every way possible, to the extent that God in His mercy offers His aid. And I shall take care of the wives and children of those of you who die.”