And I draw my gun.
Ernst makes a small noise of surprise, and takes a step towards me, but I warn him off.
‘Don’t interfere, Ernst!’
Yet I realise, even as I point the gun at Kravchuk, that he doesn’t have any idea what I am aiming at him. He has never seen a gun and never will again, after today. And so I fire the thing, burning a dark, round hole in the floor beside his feet.
And he yelps and crosses himself, as if suddenly I’ve changed into an ogre. This is dark magic indeed, and he knows now he’s in peril.
‘Bring her!’ I yell, and point the gun directly at his face. ‘Have your slave girl bring her straight away.’
Ernst is shocked. ‘Otto – what the fuck are you doing?’
But I ignore him. I am driven now. The madness is like a tidal bore, filling me, sweeping me along. I have to see her. To discover what she has become without me.
Kravchuk’s eyes are out on stalks. He trembles as he gestures to the girl. She too is terrified, yet she does what she is told and, running from the room, calls out her mistress’s name.
‘Ka-ter-i-na! Ka-ter-i-na!’
I look at Ernst and see how fixedly he’s watching me.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘All this will be undone.’
But it’s not that that’s worrying him. I can almost see what’s going through his head, and I know I’ll have to deal with this just as soon as we get back. But right now there’s only one thing that I need.
It’s mad. Even I know it’s mad. Urd help me, I hardly know the girl. Yet instinct is driving me on, as if naught else is important. She is the centre. She and she alone.
I hear her footsteps come and then she’s there. Older and much larger than she was. Careworn and dowdy now. Yet when her eyes meet mine I know her. As if I have known her since the first day of eternity.
‘Otto …’
I smile at her, then raise my gun and fire, and Kravchuk falls. Dead. Dead like he’s never lived. And in the silence that follows, I look at her and say the words I know I’ve said a hundred times to her.
‘Wait for me, Katerina. You know I’ll always come for you.’
And jump. Back to the platform.
60
I tell Zarah nothing, only that I have to go back: back to the moment before I first arrived. While she’s making the calculations, I go to my room and quickly write two separate notes, then, pocketing one of them, return to the platform.
Zarah smiles at me. ‘Are you ready, Otto?’
And then I’m there, back in Novgorod, ten minutes before Ernst and I will shimmer into being in this room.
Only now we won’t. Not in this reality. For if I change but a single thing, then that strand of time in which I kill Kravchuk will be shunted off into non-existence – into a shadowy realm, inaccessible, unless I were to come and change this back again.
And why should I do that?
I go to the table in the corner, then take the note from my pocket and place it where I know I’ll see it, my name boldly underscored in jet black ink.
I stare at it a moment, wondering for once if it will be enough, then jump back.
To find Ernst waiting for me on the platform. Like me, he wears thick Russian furs.
He grins and holds my arm familiarly. ‘Otto … I wondered where you’d gone.’
For a moment I have the strangest feeling that there’s something wrong – that there’s something I’ve forgotten. And then I smile:
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let’s go fuck with Nevsky’s head.’
61
The note surprises me. I read it through, twice, then hand it to Ernst. He reads it and shrugs.
‘I guess you have your reasons, Otto. But it’s most unusual.’
It is indeed, and I wish I knew more about what happened, but I trust myself. Kravchuk, it seems, is the key. If we can discredit him …
We go to Razumovsky’s, and it’s there that it happens. I fall for Razumovsky’s daughter, Katerina. And find myself once more, alone in my room, staring at my hands, cursing fate for showing me the woman and then taking her from me.
Only there’s the note.
I stand then walk across. I pick it up again and read it through, trying to get some clue from it, only there’s nothing in the words, not even a hint. Yet I do know one thing: all of this has happened once before. And then something went wrong. Something to do with Kravchuk. Something I’ve been warned not to repeat.
You must stay calm, it warns, but already I’m finding that difficult. It’s Kravchuk, you see. For now that I know he’s to marry Katerina, I’ve come to hate the man. It’s irrational, I know, but I can’t help it.
Nor can I tell Ernst what I’m feeling.
Her eyes. For a time I see nothing but her eyes. And then I snap back to the now.
Think, Otto, think.
I need to find out all I can about Kravchuk. What he does, who he is, who he knows. Only then will I know what to do about the man.
Only I dream of her, and when I wake – Ernst hammering on the door – it’s her I want to see.
We go to Razumovsky’s, and we give him silver, and we sit and drink, and later, as I step out from the midden, Katerina comes to me and promises to see me the next day, in the street beside the cathedral, and my heart skips a beat at the thought of it.
Only Ernst has other plans.
We go forward six years and meet Razumovsky again. He’s annoyed with us and bitter at his fate, but he directs us to Kravchuk, giving us a note to deliver to his daughter.
We’re on our way there when it hits me.
I stop dead, then turn to face Ernst. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go back.’
He stares at me strangely. ‘Why?’
‘In case I left something.’
‘Another note, you mean?’
I nod. And it is possible, after all. It’s how I do things. Only this business with Katerina and Kravchuk has thrown me. I’m not thinking straight.
‘Go back to my room,’ I say. ‘I’ll meet you there.’ And, stepping into a side alley, I jump.
This time Hecht is there. He wants to know what’s going on.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. And it’s no lie. ‘But I might have left myself something.’
He comes to my room with me, and waits while I read the second note. Only this one’s no more useful than the first. All it says is ‘And don’t take a weapon.’
Hecht reads it and smiles. ‘Brief and to the point, I’d say.’
I hand him my gun and he nods and says ‘Good luck.’ And I go back.
Ernst is waiting for me. Stretched out on my bed and sleeping. I wake him and tell him what I found.
‘Maybe you killed him,’ he says.
And we both laugh. It’s preposterous, but it sets me thinking. What if I did go there and argue with Kravchuk? What if it came to blows? And what if, in the heat of the moment, I’d had to shoot him, to defend myself?
It was possible. Possible but unlikely.
Yet the note had been specific.
We set off again, to Kravchuk’s, sweating in the mid-afternoon heat. Kravchuk greets us personally and ushers us through, welcoming us like long-lost relatives. He’s a tiny little man, a good foot shorter than Razumovsky, and his eyes are shifty, yet he seems genuinely pleased to see us.
‘Come in,’ he says, ‘sit down. You gentlemen will have a cup of wine?’
Ernst glances at me, then bows to Kravchuk, accepting his kind offer. Meanwhile, I look about me, seeking some sign of her, yet when someone comes, it isn’t Katerina, merely a young slave girl of Turkish descent, whose familiarity with her master tells me all I need to know.
She sleeps with him. I can see it by the way his eyes linger on her too long. You might say it is his business what he does, yet all I can think is how hateful the little toad is, because I know instinctively that his pleasure is bought at his wife’s expense. At Katerina’s. This is a house in emotional turmoil; an unhappy, selfish place – the product of
a small man with his small needs.
I feel the sudden impulse to challenge him in his own house, to demand to see Katerina and talk to her alone, yet even as I go to speak, Ernst beats me to it.
‘I hear you’re doing well, Oleg Alekseevich.’
Kravchuk smirks at that and gives a little bobbing nod of his head.
‘I do all right, thank you, Herr Kollwitz. Enough to feed my wife and daughters.’
The words chill me. A tiny spike of ice is driven into my guts. Daughters. He has daughters, then. But what was I expecting? A wife’s a chattel here. One might beat her and even kill her, and no one would interfere. At most her relatives might come knocking on Kravchuk’s door, seeking compensation, but the law would do nothing. So making her do precisely what a wife was meant to do, and bear him children … what was so terrible about that?
Yet the thought of him going near her drives me close to madness. I am so jealous I want to choke him with my bare hands.
‘Would you prefer wine, gentlemen, or beer?’
I let Ernst answer, not trusting myself to speak, and when the girl returns I take the solid silver goblet and join Ernst in a toast to the man, stiffening my features into the rictus of a smile. But Kravchuk’s attention is on Ernst.
‘It’s a few years now since we’ve been in Novgorod,’ Ernst says. ‘Things have changed.’
‘Changed?’ Kravchuk gives a disarming laugh. ‘If you mean that things are better run than before, then that’s true. Under Nevsky, the town is flourishing.’
It seems the truth. Yet we know for a fact that only a select few are benefiting from this recent upturn. For most, the burden of the Mongol tribute lies heavy. And who is it who’s responsible for raising that levy? None other than Prince Alexander Iaroslavich himself – or Alexander Nevsky, as he’s known. The people’s hero.
‘Will you stay for dinner?’ Kravchuk asks. ‘I have friends coming tonight. You might wish to meet them.’
Ernst looks to me, then nods. ‘That is most kind, Oleg Alekseevich. We have some business to transact this afternoon, but later … yes, that would be good.’
Ernst and he shake hands, then toast again, as if the very best of friends, while I look on, longing to crush the man.
Outside, I have to stop and lean against the wall, I feel so faint.
‘Otto? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, fending him off. ‘It’s just the heat.’
I feel as though I’ve walked through a furnace. My shirt is soaking wet and clings to me. Salt stings my eyes. Yet Ernst is dry as a bone.
‘I can’t come,’ I say. ‘Tonight, I—’
‘You must,’ he answers. ‘Kravchuk’s expecting us both, and we won’t get a better chance to find out what’s been happening here. Besides, you’ve a letter to deliver.’
I stare at him, shocked, then take the letter from my pocket. ‘I—’
‘Forgot? I know. I was wondering if you had, or whether you were just biding your time. After all, you can’t just go barging in, demanding to see such a man’s wife. There are ways …’
Yet that’s precisely what I’d wanted.
I shake my head, then start to walk again. Away from Kravchuk’s house. Away from Katerina and her daughters. And the thought of it makes me want to cry. Only I can’t tell Ernst that or he’ll send me home.
Tonight. What new depths of misery will tonight bring me?
62
The table’s laid for a feast. There’s more wealth on display than in a dozen neighbouring households. No wonder Kravchuk hires guards. And, seeing it all there, I begin to wonder just what Kravchuk’s trade is, and realise that I know practically nothing about the man.
Ernst had suggested going back and finding out, but that kind of thing is risky – more risky than going forward. A few inadvertent changes and the whole picture could be different. Besides, we don’t need to be so specific. We need a far more general picture of events.
As it turns out, we’ve met four of the guests before at Razumovsky’s, all those years – those few hours? – ago. They remember us but vaguely, and that’s no surprise, for in this time-line we have barely begun our work. Once again the talk is of Nevsky and the new affluence. There’s no mention of the levy, or of the Mongol threat, and certainly no reference to Nevsky’s part in policing the bought peace. And when I talk finally of the great victory on the ice, they seem to glow with pride at the reminder, and mock Ernst and I gently, for we are Nemets – Germans – after all.
Our enemies. But they do not know that. They think us friends, concerned more with coinage than with the currency of blood.
But we will humble them.
We feast and drink, the roars of laughter from the Russians like a constant gale. But for me it is an hour and more of terrible anticipation, until finally, when I have ceased to expect it, she steps into the room, her two infant daughters clutching her legs.
Silence falls about the table as I turn to look at her. She is older than I remember – a good deal more than six years, it seems, have passed in her face, and she has put on weight. She looks somewhat dowdy and careworn, her hair unbrushed, yet when she turns and looks at me, I know her, as if I have known her since the first day of eternity.
‘Otto …’
And she almost smiles at me. Then, abruptly, she looks down and, gathering her daughters in her skirts, makes to turn and leave the room. But I am on my feet and call to her.
‘Katerina …’
She stops, her eyes averted. Afraid of me now. Every eye but hers is on me now. But it is Kravchuk who answers me.
‘Herr Behr – what is this?’
‘I have a letter,’ I say, looking at her, not him. ‘A letter from her father.’ And I hold it out towards her.
She looks up and meets my eyes again, and what I see there dismays me, for I see that he has broken her. Destroyed whatever spirit she once possessed. Even so, she looks at the letter longingly.
‘Here,’ I say gently. ‘Take it.’
Kravchuk stands, his chair scraping back, his goblet clattering to the floor.
‘Give me that!’
I swallow, then take a further step towards her, willing her to take the letter, but Kravchuk snarls at me.
‘I said give it to me! Now!’
I turn and stare at him. He’s trying to act big in front of his friends, but something in his voice gives him away. He wants to be stern, but there’s a slight edge of hysteria to his words. And so I slowly walk across and, giving him the slightest bow, hold the letter out for him to take.
He snatches it and rips it open, slowly mouthing the words to himself. And then he laughs and, turning to his friends, gives a mocking smile.
‘The nerve! The old fool wants to meet her! Well, fuck that! He’s meeting no one. Least of all my wife.’
And he crumples the note and throws it into the fire. I hear Katerina’s cry of dismay, then see her begin to run towards the flames, yet even as she makes to pass his chair, he turns and lashes out, catching her about the side of the head.
My hand goes to my belt, but the gun’s not there. Yet even as I take a step towards him, my arm raised, I see her get up from the floor. Her face is dark, her eyes ablaze. Someone shouts a warning, and it’s only then that I see what’s she’s holding.
The burning log strikes Kravchuk directly in the face. He screams and falls back and as he does, so two of his servants rush forward, pinning Katerina’s arms, while another goes to help his master. But Kravchuk beats him off and, standing, pulls out his short sword.
The sharpened edge winks red in the firelight.
She struggles, pulling an arm free, then glares at her husband, defiant now. One eye of his is closed, and his hair still smoulders, but from the look in his face I can tell that all thought of pain’s forgotten now. He simply wants to hurt her.
‘I never loved you,’ she says quietly, triumphantly almost. ‘It’s him I loved.’
And she points at me.
Ernst jumps, his warning to me fading in the air, but I’m not going anywhere. I lash out at one of them, then duck, trying to get at him. But I’m too slow. As in a dream I see him grab her hair and tug it back, exposing her pale white throat.
‘Nooooo ….’
Arms grab me, hold me, stop me moving forward.
‘Katerina!’
But the word is barely formed when Kravchuk turns and glares at me, and draws the glistening blade across her throat.
63
I sit on the platform, my head in my hands. A crowd of women surrounds me, concern in every face. Zarah lifts my chin and looks at me, but I turn my head aside.
‘Noooooo …’
I am in agony. Somewhere, in some other universe, she is dead, her throat cut by that half-man Kravchuk, her children grieving, just as I grieve for her now.
I sit there and sob like a child, and they hold me and try to comfort me, until Hecht comes and, waving them away, sits beside me, his arm about my hunched shoulders, his soft and quiet voice speaking to my ear.
‘What happened, Otto?’
The words come shuddering from me, as if on jagged strings.
‘The bastard killed her.’
‘Killed who?’
‘Razumovsky’s daughter.’
‘Ernst says …’ Hecht hesitates. ‘No matter. So what are you going to do?’
I know the answer. At least, I know what Hecht wants me to say. But that’s not what I’m thinking. I want to jump right back there, my gun in my belt, and burn a hole between that bastard’s eyes. I want to see him fry. And I want her to live. I don’t want her to die. Not in any universe. But I say what I’m expected to say.
‘We go back,’ I say quietly. ‘Get Nevsky. Concentrate on that.’
‘Good,’ Hecht says. ‘For a moment …’
I meet his eyes, a question in mine.
‘No matter,’ he says once more. ‘Focus on Nevsky. The woman …’ Hecht sighs. ‘They all die, Otto. You can’t prevent that.’
The Empire of Time Page 19