by K L Conger
Silence cloaked the palace because of the late hour. Inga could feel people awake in their beds, staring at blank ceilings; frightened boyars, waiting tensely for the Streltsi to burst in and take them to the dungeons; servants wondering what would happen next, and who they would serve if their masters were taken away.
When they reached Nikolai’s rooms, Taras knocked softly. Because Taras and Nikolai were good friends, Inga had been to Nikolai’s rooms several times over the last two years, carrying messages between the two of them. Nikolai rarely answered the door. He simply called out for whoever knocked to enter. Tonight was different. After a long pause, the door opened a few inches. Nikolai’s narrowed eye peered out from it, oozing threat. When he recognized Taras, the threat evaporated. His face softened and he stepped back, holding the door open for Taras to enter.
Taras pulled Inga around in front of him, pushing her through ahead of him, as if too afraid to leave her alone in the hall for a single moment.
Nikolai shut the door firmly but quietly behind them, and Inga’s eyes widened. Yehvah sat in front of the fire. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to find the other woman here.
“Are you all right?” Nikolai addressed Taras.
“For now. Nikolai, what is Ivan doing?” His voice sounded angry. “So much for his grief dissipating.”
“I don’t know about his grief," Yehvah said grimly. "His capacity for violence is certainly not lessening.” Her expression looked bleak. Inga sat by her on the hearth, taking her hands.
“I’m afraid that capacity might only grow,” Inga said.
“I agree.” Nikolai nodded, then turned to Taras. “I got a hold of the list of families being brought in. Neither of us is on it.”
Inga exhaled, relieved. Yehvah gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. Her look said she understood. She'd no doubt felt the same tension about Nikolai’s safety.
“None of the boyars directly around the Tsar, at the palace or in court, have been accused. It’s easier to accuse those of treason who are not here, bowing and scraping to prove their loyalty every second.”
Taras walked toward the fireplace where Inga and Yehvah sat while Nikolai talked, but did not sit beside them. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the mantle. Inga recognized the stance. He took it often when he thought hard about something, turning it over in his head.
“Nikolai,” Taras said quietly. “Are any of them truly guilty of treason?”
Nikolai glanced away. After a moment, he shrugged. “Who’s to say? If the Tsar thinks they are, then—”
“But what evidence does he have? What intelligence is pointing the finger at them?”
Nikolai stared at the wall, refusing to look up.
“Nikolai,” Taras glared at his friend, his voice accusatory. “You saw the list. What else did you find out?”
Nikolai sighed. “The Tsar claims the voice of God has come to him in his morning prayers, telling him who the traitors are.”
Taras stared at Nikolai, his eyes widening with the news. “So he doesn’t know for sure.”
“Come, Taras,” Nikolai sighed in frustration. “Even your kings and queens of England claim divine right to rule, do they not?”
Taras turned fully from the fire. “Yes, but—”
“Then who’s to say Ivan isn’t hearing the voice of God?”
Taras’s head fell back. Conflict flitted across his face like the shadows of birds in summer. He made no reply. Perhaps he had none.
“None of us,” Nikolai included Inga and Yehvah, “is in trouble. Not yet. The best we can do is bide our time and be smart. You’re right. I thought Ivan would calm down, come to his senses before long. I was wrong. Obviously it will get worse before it gets better. If it ever gets better. Taras.”
Taras turned to Nikolai.
“You must show loyalty to the Tsar. If you want to stay off his traitor-list, actively show him he has nothing to fear from you.”
Taras didn’t answer. He stared straight ahead of him at nothing. A cold fear wriggled its way into Inga's stomach. Taras usually maintained peaceful relationships with those at court—for the sake of his investigation if nothing else—but if his honor or personal morals were at stake...
“I have a question,” Inga said quickly, afraid Taras and Nikolai would argue if Taras didn’t answer soon. “Why is the Tsar using the Streltsi? They’re his personal bodyguards. Why not use you, and the rest of the standing army?”
Yehvah answered. “Because the standing army is made up mostly of the sons of boyars and minor nobles. They would not want to arrest their own kind for execution. The Streltsi, on the other hand, is almost exclusively middle and lower class workmen. They are happy to arrest rich families that have kicked them into the dust their entire lives.”
Nikolai nodded. Taras looked thoughtful.
So, Ivan’s diabolical mind did still work. He wasn't insane. At the least, his logic and political intelligence were still intact. Inga sighed. Every time she thought life in the Kremlin couldn’t be any darker, it somehow found a way to get worse.
As Taras and Nikolai discussed what they thought might happen at the execution, Inga’s eyes wandered around the room. Nikolai's library never ceased to amaze her. Books were stacked everywhere. Her eyes fell on a volume of Russian myths that dated back to the days of Rurik. She'd read it as a teenager, when Yehvah brought it for her. The copy she'd read looked exactly like Nikolai's. The cover had even worn through on the same corner.
The connection sounded in Inga's head like the blow of a hammer on its anvil. She'd wondered for years when Yehvah obtained her education, and from whom. She and Taras often discussed where she borrowed her books from. Why hadn't she realized before? Nikolai.
Yet, he and Yehvah were not on speaking terms for years, not until Taras came and a wolf attacked Yehvah in Kazan. Inga wondered, not for the first time, what happened between Nikolai and Yehvah all those years ago to keep them apart for so long. Inga knew Nikolai had married once, and his wife died young. Surely that had something to do with it.
“Just don’t draw Ivan’s—or anyone’s—attention,” Nikolai was saying. “Stay calm, watch your back, and we’ll all make it through this alive. Whatever insanity the Tsar is exploiting right now, I believe we can ride it out. We must be patient. And smart.”
Taras nodded, not looking happy.
A few minutes later, Inga and Taras stood to leave. Inga hugged Yehvah.
“It’ll be all right,” Yehvah whispered. “You’ll see.”
Inga smiled her encouragement. “I know.” A lie, but she didn't want to ruin Yehvah's attempt at kindness. Inga's heart had fluttered nervously all day with the news of Ivan’s accusations and the pending executions, worried that even if Taras was not yet a target, he could become one. Now, after speaking with her friends—her family, really—she felt better. Not by much, but some. Perhaps, as Nikolai said, if they kept their eyes down, this would pass, and life would return to normal.
She smiled at Nikolai on her way out, feeling too awkward to hug him. He didn’t seem to mind. He gave her a smile and a respectful nod. Inga took Taras’s outstretched hand and together they slipped once again into the dim, shadowy corridor.
Chapter 17
THE DAY OF THE EXECUTIONS dawned cold, but the sun did shine. It proved a bizarre schism of logic that would characterize the day. Winter’s chill in the air, but a bright, cheery sun; Russia’s soldiers dressed in their finery, except with a bleak job to do; Moscow’s citizens coming out to Red Square in throngs, only to witness the gruesome public executions of their own people.
Taras sat atop his horse at the edge of Red Square. The officers of the Tsar’s army lined the space, ready to intercede if things got out of hand. A raised platform had been constructed not far from the mouth of the Kremlin, where the gates led into the palace courtyard. The platform, not much more than a wooden dais, stood five feet above the ground, with wooden steps built up the side. Its only function would be to ensur
e everyone in Red Square had a clear view of the executions.
Taras's gut felt knotted. He'd seen death before, battle, even execution. Something about this felt so wrong. Surely Nikolai had the right of it. Ivan did what he deemed necessary and they ought not judge him for it. Taras didn’t believe it.
The executions were scheduled to begin at ten o’clock. Fifteen minutes shy of that, the doors of the Kremlin opened and Ivan was carried out atop a cushioned, gilded chair. Dressed in his finest costume, he glittered with gold and silver sequins. His substantial red velvet cloak appeared thick enough for curtains on the palace windows, and his pointed boots were made from animal pelts. His unruly red hair had been combed and his beard clipped. He looked harsh, angry, annoyed, but stately. Every inch the omnipotent sovereign today.
A few people cheered when he emerged. He did not acknowledge them. Most of the people gaped in awe, to have the Tsar so near. A thick line—three men deep—of Streltsi stood between the Tsar and the crowd. They stood decked out in glittering chain mail and held wicked-looking spears at their sides.
When Ivan was settled, the executioner, a thick-armed man from Siberia, ascended the steps of the dais. Once on top, he donned a black mask. The table at his side held knives, hooks, and other weapons of torture. Six dogs barked and lunged against the ropes tying them to one leg of the wooden scaffold. A small area on that side of the platform had been cordoned off and kept free from onlookers. Taras couldn't guess its purpose, and didn't want to.
Then the hour arrived. In Russia, a family bore guilt by association. If the head of the family committed a crime, his entire household shared in the blame. And the punishment. Most of those scheduled for execution today were friends and relations of Adashev.
Taras did not know any of their names. He'd not bothered to learn. Their entire families would be wiped out in the cold sunshine of Red Square today.
The first family marched up onto the dais. The father, a tall, stocky, balding man, led them. Even from far back on the east side of Red Square, Taras made out sunken eyes and natural creases under the eyes that had deepened into dark chasms. The man's wife, blond hair tangled and her once-expensive emerald dress in tatters, followed him up the steps. Her head hung, her shoulders slumped. They had three children. Two looked to be in their teen years, the other a year or two younger.
A herald stepped up beside the dais. In a loud voice, he read proclamations decreeing the family's treason against the most holy Tsar of unified Russia, by virtue of collaboration with the traitor Adashev.
Taras paid little heed to what the herald read—all formality and justification for the Tsar’s murderous deeds.
His stomach squeezed into tighter knots as the executioner pushed the husband forward roughly, forcing him to his knees. No last words were permitted, even to his family. By the awkward, painful way he moved, it was obvious he'd been tortured. Once the condemned boyar knelt, the executioner picked up his ax.
The youngest child—a boy of not more than ten or twelve with his mother’s blond hair—started to scream. Two soldiers held the boy back, gripping him by the arms. Taras’s chest ached.
The two older children—a boy and a girl—did not move or cry out. Their eyes looked dead, and they watched their younger brother in a resigned way, making no move toward him. The wife stood trembling, but still somehow graceful, head down and shoulders shaking delicately. She did not move to hug her children, or speak to her husband. She sobbed delicately, utterly defeated.
A moment later, to the ooh of the crowd, the man's head rolled across the scaffold. A collective shudder ran through the crowd as the headless body fell forward. The youngest boy's shrieks became shriller.
The sound echoed in Taras’s heart. Similar screams ripped through his chest when his mother died. He hadn’t been much older than this boy. Perhaps mercy lay in killing the entire family at once. The children would not live with having their parents’ brutal deaths always before their eyes.
No, that’s wrong. At least when his mother died, Taras looked to the future. It had been cold and bleak, but he had the freedom to vow he would find his mother’s killer someday. It brought priceless comfort to him. This boy, whose parents would die in front of him, was dying himself, and held no control over his life or death. Taras couldn’t think of anything worse than this kind of helplessness.
Ivan ordered the wife to kiss her husband’s decapitated head. When she didn’t move, the executioner took her by the arm and threw her forward, nearly to the edge of the dais, where the head had rolled. He yelled at her until she put her arms out wide in front of her, leaning her weight on them, and bent down between them to kiss her husband’s cheek.
As her lips touched the corpse, the ax swung again, and her head joined her husband’s on the dais. All three children yelped at this, but even the youngest had stopped screaming and thrashing. He hung in his captors’ grasp, his eyes red and lifeless.
Taras wanted to tear his eyes away, but couldn’t. Jasper’s reins shook and jumped in his grip. He pulled his gaze from the carnage to study them. His hands trembled violently. He gripped the reins harder. Now he'd torn his eyes from the stage, he could not bring himself to look back. The execution of each of the children followed, starting with the youngest. It happened swiftly. Taras only saw out of the corner of his eye, studying his gloved hands furiously while fighting the pressure building up behind his eyes.
He wanted to be out of this place, wanted it more than anything, but he could not leave Red Square without making a statement that would surely put him on the execution list next. Not daring to cover his eyes or turn his head, he kept his face pointed in the general direction of the dais, averting his gaze as the executions proceeded.
The crowd, he realized, was being affected in a unique way. Most crowds loved a good public execution. They taunted and raved, cheering the executioner on. It began that way, but the brutality of this execution took its toll. Many in the crowd frowned, looking disturbed, gazed about to see if anyone else shared their sentiments. No one left, though; no one cried out in objection; and no one else, that Taras saw, so much as averted their eyes. They merely stared, a look of disturbed sorrow, bordering on horror, painted across their faces.
The executions went on all morning. With the second family, the children were killed first, as their parents watched, their bodies thrown to the dogs. The adults followed. When the dogs had more meat than they could consume in several days, the bodies were collected and tossed into the river.
Not all the deaths proved as swift as decapitation, either. By the time the executions ended, blood stained the entire top of the dais and ran down the sides. Hunks of something Taras couldn’t identify from so far away also littered the platform. Wads of flesh, no doubt, but whether from outside the body or in, he couldn’t tell, and didn’t want to.
The crowd filed silently out of Red Square. They did not talk or exchange glances. Their eyes looked wide and haunted, their thoughts lost somewhere in their own souls’ contemplation of what they'd witnessed. Taras watched them, sure his face held a similar look.
He prayed Inga had not watched the executions.
Chapter 18
Moscow, December 1549
A month later, Taras found himself in exactly the same place—atop his horse in Red Square, preparing for the executions. In three weeks, the tsar orchestrated four public shows of brutality. The Tsar’s death lists grew daily. No one was safe. Ivan systematically eradicated every boyar family that posed the faintest threat to him. Red Square became the threshing floor of hell.
The tension felt nearer today than on previous days. While Taras's stomach clenched and he wanted to vomit at every execution he witnessed, he had, in some perverse way, begun to grow used to them.
Today was different, though. The death always commenced at ten o’clock. Now it was past that and they still hadn’t begun. Because no one showed up. The announcement had been given as usual, but Moscow's residents stayed home. They'd become dis
gusted with Ivan’s constant and brutal executions.
Ivan seethed anger. From across the Square, Taras felt the Tsar’s rage, saw it in the way he paced back and forth in front of the palace gates, heard it in the way he screamed obscenities at those around him who offered explanations for why people might have stayed home.
The weather was cold.
It looked like snow.
The people had seen many executions and figured there would be plenty more.
It didn’t matter what the excuse, Ivan did not accept them. Rather, he yelled orders at his generals. Taras couldn’t hear them from so far away. The senior officers passed them to the rest of the army.
Ergorov appeared not far from where Taras sat atop his horse. “All right, men," the bald general boomed. "We have been ordered to go into the city and bring the people out to watch the executions.”
Taras frowned. “We are to force them to come here, sir?”
Ergorov gave Taras an unhappy look. “Yes. The Tsar demands it. Every man woman and child who can be found must come watch the executions. On pain of death.”
Nikolai rode up next to Taras as he turned his horse to comply.
“This is asking for disaster,” Nikolai said grimly.
“It’s asking for riots,” Taras agreed.
Nikolai nodded as the two of them rode out into the city.
Twenty minutes later, hordes of people were herded through the streets like livestock, pushed before mounted Russian soldiers. A low roar hung in the air as the people fought, protested, even screamed, but not as much violence took place as Taras feared. Most people, though complaining, came without a fight. If they could only get them back to Red Square in a calm manner.
“But sir,” a tailor complained when Taras ordered him to the execution. “The Tsar’s executions, though I’m certain they are just, are brutal. I do not wish my little ones to be present. If my wife and I attend, there is no one to watch the children.”