The Empire of Time

by David Wingrove

  ‘I want your bollocks, trader. I want them on a string about my neck.’

  And he steps aside, to let his goons come at me. And they’re good. There are few fighters throughout history to equal the Mongols for their savagery. But I am trained for this. I’ve been trained since I was four – turning and kicking and punching, using my hands and feet as lethal weapons. This much is pure instinct. And as the last of them falls, clutching his crushed manhood, I turn to Kravchuk and smile.

  ‘You want to cut them off yourself, Oleg Alekseevich?’

  The worm swallows and backs towards the door. He’s drawn his knife, but he has no confidence in using it. It trembles in his hand.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to try?’

  And I want him to make a move, so I can throw him down and choke the life from him. But he’s seen enough and, throwing down the knife, he runs for it.

  I watch him go, then take a shuddering breath. For a moment I stand there, swaying, coming down from that peak of intensity, my body relaxing after the adrenalin rush. And then I turn, remembering her.

  She’s watching me, like she hasn’t really seen me till that moment. And as I step towards her, she flinches, and I say:

  ‘It’s okay, Katerina. It’s only me. We’re safe now.’

  And her face seems to break, and tears come, and I hold her, like a father holds his child, until the storm has passed and she gives a shuddering sigh against me.

  ‘Who are you, Otto? Who are you really?’

  82

  Razumovsky is out with a host of his friends, searching the back streets of Novgorod to find his daughter, but his wife, Masha is there when we call at the house, and she greets Katerina with a single look that takes in everything. She knows. But then, I’m not about to deny it. I plan to brazen this out. What I know is that Razumovsky as good as promised me his daughter until Kravchuk turned up. But now things are different. He might kill me, but he’ll find it hard to find another husband for his daughter, now that I’ve stolen her away. Word will go out. And, after all, it’s better for her to have a live, rich husband, than a dead one who’s worth nothing.

  Or so I hope. For I know that Razumovsky is a passionate man, and would as soon kill a man as listen to reason. He’s done it once before, with Kravchuk, and he could just as easily do it to me.

  And so we wait, while a servant runs off to find his master and give him the news that we’re here. Eventually he comes.

  I am standing there alone when he steps into the room. His friends are behind him, but he turns and waves them away. This is for him to deal with alone. Turning back, he shoots me a fierce look, as if I’m in for it now, yet what he says surprises me.

  ‘You’re a cool one, Otto Behr. To come back here, after what you’ve done.’

  I wait, not saying a word, and he speaks again.

  ‘So? What am I to do? Kill you? Or make a son of you?’

  And he smiles, and I realise that, even as he’s searched the streets, he has been thinking. And maybe – for it’s likely in a town this size – he’s also heard what I did to Kravchuk’s friends. And maybe that too has set him thinking.

  ‘I’ll make her a good husband.’

  ‘That we’ll see.’ But he doesn’t seem aggrieved now. After all, if I marry her, then no harm’s done. Even so, when he takes my hands, he squeezes them a little, just to show me who’s the master here.

  ‘Father,’ I say and bow my head to him, then turn, as Katerina enters, looking first to her father and then, her eyes wide with delight, to me. She rushes over and clings to me, and I look past her at her father, who now stares at me, puzzled by this.

  And I know what he is thinking at that moment.

  Who are you, Otto Behr? Just who are you?

  83

  Hecht’s mad with me, but that doesn’t matter. Now that she’s mine, I can focus on the rest of it.

  The map’s still red, you see, which means that Kravchuk and his fellow agents have failed. But now that I’ve bested him, I can put that right. Now that he knows who’s master, I can be his ally.

  You’ll find that odd, perhaps, yet it’s so. Now that she’s mine, my animosity towards the man has gone. He’s lost that contest, but he needn’t lose the game. In fact, we need him to win.

  But first I have to find him.

  Leaving Katerina with her father, I go to the east of the town, the Torgovaya storona, to the rooms where Ernst and I unearthed him first time round. He’s not there, but I’m told by the innkeeper that he did return, not an hour back, and left almost immediately.

  So where’s he gone?

  I jump back an hour and wait and watch him go inside, then, less than two minutes later, leave hurriedly. I follow, keeping well back, as he makes his way to the western gate. There he waits, pacing back and forth, as if he’s meeting someone.

  Ten minutes pass, fifteen, then someone comes. I recognise the man from the first time we visited Razumovsky’s house. It’s Ernst’s friend, the tysiatskii, Novgorod’s military commander. Kravchuk talks to him a while, huddled close, talking to his ear, his whole manner urgent, and then the tysiastskii turns and hurries away, leaving Kravchuk alone once more.

  I wonder just what’s happening, and how the tysiatskii knew he’d be there, when the town’s bells start to ring.

  I turn, looking back over the roofs of the houses and see the reason why. There is a fire down near the river, in the direction of the Peterhof – the foreign quarter. I watch for a while, seeing the dark pall of smoke swirl upwards in the morning sunlight, then turn back.

  Kravchuk’s behind me, no more than ten paces away. As I turn he stops, looking at me uncertainly. I don’t know what he intended – to surprise me, perhaps – but I can see he’s still afraid of me, and so I put up my hands in a gesture of peace.

  ‘We’ve no need to be enemies,’ I say. ‘I’ve got what I came here for.’

  He doesn’t answer, so I continue.

  ‘I could help you, Kravchuk. Smooth the way for you. Get you introductions. Even help you find a wife.’

  Anyone, I think. Anyone but Katerina.

  He wets his lips, then shakes his head. ‘I don’t need your help, trader. I’ve friends of my own.’

  ‘You mean Batu’s men?’

  His eyes widen with surprise at the warlord’s name. He didn’t think that anyone here in Novgorod had ever heard that name before.

  ‘Oh, I know what you’re doing, Kravchuk. But it doesn’t matter. You and I want the same thing. For the Horde to be victorious. That letter you carry from the Great Khan. I’ll help you deliver it. I’ll help you get it to Alexander Iaroslavich.’

  This is too much for him, however, and I can see he’s torn between running and staying to fight me. Only he’s seen what I can do, and he clearly doesn’t rate his chances.

  ‘How do you know all this? Who told you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘All that matters is that I know. Everything. And I’m willing to help you.’

  But he’s still suspicious. Up until a moment ago I was a deadly rival, so why should he trust me now? Only I’m saying all the right things.

  ‘Your friend, the tysiatskii, where has he gone?’

  Kravchuk glances to his left, then to his right, as if he suspects some trap; as if, while I’ve kept him talking, I’ve brought up men to surround him. But it’s only his paranoia.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I saw you, talking to him. And then he hurried off. Why?’

  But Kravchuk’s not about to say.

  The smell of burning is stronger and the great pall of smoke has risen so high now that it starts to block the sunlight. Kravchuk glances toward it, then looks back at me.

  ‘Tonight,’ he says. ‘At Razumovsky’s. We’ll speak then.’ And he turns and hurries away, back towards the river. Towards where the fire burns fiercest.

  84

  That evening, Razumovsky holds a great feast, announcing to his astonished
friends that I am to marry his daughter just as soon as I’ve converted to the faith. A massive cheese is brought out and laid upon the table, its ritual slicing symbolising our obruchenie – our betrothal – and later a priest arrives and takes me aside and tests me, and, satisfied with my responses, says I am to be baptised into the Russian Orthodox faith tomorrow at dawn. In fact, things are moving so fast that I forget about Kravchuk until, returning to the feast, I see him, seated quietly at one corner of the great table, the big Mongolian at his side.

  Talk at the table is of the great fire that swept the Peterhof that morning. The inn I was staying at was among those buildings destroyed, and I thought, perhaps, the Khan’s men might have perished in the conflagration, but I can see that one at least survived, and so I go across and, standing before Kravchuk, bow to him in greeting.

  ‘I see you’ve got what you wanted,’ he says tonelessly.

  ‘It would seem so.’

  I look to the Mongolian, trying to gauge what his response to me now is. He seems okay, but these men are fiercely proud, and he’ll not forget what I did to him earlier, so I give him the slightest bow of respect.

  ‘You want to talk?’ Kravchuk asks.

  ‘Not here,’ I say. ‘Outside.’ And, as the Mongolian makes to accompany him, I add, ‘Alone.’

  The Mongolian shakes his head, but Kravchuk places a hand on his arm and nods.

  We step outside, into the warm darkness of the evening. The courtyard stinks, but we ignore it. Kravchuk is first to speak.

  ‘You said you could help me? How?’

  ‘I can get you introductions. Meetings with the men you want to see.’

  He laughs. ‘You’re a Nemets. You don’t even know these people.’

  ‘Oh, I do. Much better than you think. And I also know that you’re in danger. There are agents here – Rus’ agents – who want to kill you.’

  That makes him think. ‘They know who I am? What I’m doing here?’

  ‘Yes.’ But the truth is I don’t know. I’m only guessing now. I am assuming that the Russians got to Kravchuk. That they worked out what was going on.

  ‘It’s like I said earlier. I want what you want. I want the Horde to succeed.’

  ‘And is that why you’re marrying a Russian?’

  I smile, but he doesn’t see it in the darkness. We are but voices.

  ‘Expediency,’ I say, not wishing to let him know just what I feel. Not wishing to give him any power over me. ‘If I’m to function here, then I need to blend in.’

  ‘I see.’ And he does seem to understand that. After all, it’s what he’s doing. Even so, he’s not entirely satisfied, and now he asks the crucial question. ‘So who are you working for?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  He hesitates, then, quieter. ‘The Poles? The Livonians?’

  I lower my voice, as if I don’t wish to be overheard. ‘No. But close. I report to the Grand Master himself.’

  It’s a half-truth, and I’m proud of it, makeshift as it is.

  ‘I see,’ Kravchuk says, and there’s a new respect in his voice. ‘I should have guessed.’

  ‘Maybe. But now that you know, there seems no reason for us to be enemies. You and I, we want to bring these barbarians to their knees, no? To humble them. What better way than to undermine their princes, eh?’

  And he laughs. A soft and quiet laugh that sounds like genuine amusement. And I begin to laugh also, and when Razumovsky comes out to find me, he finds Kravchuk and I arm in arm, laughing together, as if we’re drunk.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ he says, putting his arms about us both. ‘It’s good to see you two becoming friends! But come inside now. Come! It’s time for the toast.’

  We return inside, and there is my beloved, her single plait, the symbol of her maidenhood, unplaited now, the lace kokoshnik removed from her head. As I step towards her, so she holds out a heavy gilded cup. There has been no time for a devichnik – a maiden’s party – but she has bathed, as is the tradition, and now she offers me a drink of her bathwater. In another time, another age, this might seem ludicrous, but here this is seen as an almost magical rite, a throwback to their ancient worship of Lado, the fertility god. I take the goblet reverently, cupping her hands gently in my own, and sip, my eyes smiling at hers all the while, drinking of her, knowing that by this time tomorrow she will be mine.

  85

  I am up an hour before dawn, preparing myself. First light finds me kneeling in the front bench of St Sophia’s, Razumovsky at my side, the tall, dark-bearded priest six paces distant, praying to the altar before he turns and beckons me across. There is the smell of burning incense, the flicker of candles in golden sconces. All goes well, and within the hour I step from the church, the taste of wine and communion bread strong in my mouth. Razumovsky looks at me and grins, then strides on in front, leaving me to catch up.

  The wedding is to be that afternoon, in St Sophia’s, and invitations are hurriedly sent out. I find the haste of it almost indecent, but Razumovsky’s not to be denied. Now that he has me, he wants to keep me and make sure. He doesn’t want me rushing off on some trading venture, only to find his unwed daughter swelling out, the townsfolk gossiping.

  Not that I’m against the idea. Oh Urd no. I want her more than anything I’ve ever wanted, and the thought of marrying her that afternoon is like a dream. Indeed, it is my dream. Only Ernst is still missing, and I’ve not a clue yet what the Russians are up to. And Hecht wants me back.

  But he can wait. This once they all can wait.

  And now the hours crawl slowly, as if Time’s an uphill gradient, and when the bells of the town sound for the midday service, I wonder just how it can be that the seconds can drag so, such that they seem a good twice their normal length. And, of course, I am not to see her yet, not until the ceremony, and as some one is always calling in to congratulate me and bring me presents, there is no way I can slip back and visit Hecht.

  And so I wait, and wait some more, until the hour comes and, dressed in my finest clothes, I accompany Razumovsky’s steward to the church.

  It’s only then that I realise I’ve no one to give me away. It ought to be Ernst if anyone, but, looking across at the hastily filled benches, I spot one face I’ve come to know too well. Kravchuk.

  Impossible, I think. But someone will have to do the job. Besides, there’s a kind of irony to this. Before I changed things, my bride was his. So maybe Fate intends this.

  I walk across and, whispering to his ear, ask him if he will stand in for my father. He straightens, looking strangely flattered by my request, then nods and, standing, follows me back across.

  And so we stand there, Kravchuk and I, at the head of that great aisle, as the incense burns and the choir moans its strange, alien refrains, and my love, my darling Katerina, walks towards me, her arm in her father’s arm.

  Slowly she comes as in a dream, her dress, hastily adapted from some party gown, seeming to float across the dark stone floor, her hair, braided with silver chains, flowing out from the pokoinik – the marital veil – she wears. And as she draws parallel to me, her eyes meet mine and smile, like the promise of an everlasting summer.

  I am bewitched. I have never seen such a glorious sight. As we stand there, she to the left, I to the right of the priest, each of us holding a lighted candle, so I understand that all of my life, all of my travels throughout the length and breadth of Time have led to this one, single moment. This is the centre of it. The focus. All else leads to or away from here, like the hub of a great wheel.

  We exchange rings – obruchei – and then join our right hands as the priest places a lightweight crown on each of our heads, then switches them, blessing us with incense and wishing us ‘a peaceful and long life’ and ‘children and grandchildren to fill your house with abundance and beauty’. All this transpires, and yet for me the service passes in a daze. Somnolent, I say the magic words and make her mine. Till death do us part. And even Kravchuk’s presence there – a man I’ve killed
, a man I’ve seen kill her – does not affect my happiness. Indeed, his presence seems to be the seal on things, for if the wedding has his blessing, then surely nothing can unbind this.

  Even so, as I turn, Katerina’s arm in my arm, and face the congregation, my smile is tempered by the knowledge of Time’s inconstancy. If I could win her from the very teeth of Time, then what’s the chance of keeping her? What tricks and twists might yet unbind this moment?

  I cannot bear the thought. A cloud crosses my face. But Katerina seems not to notice. She beams with happiness at my side, and, looking at her, I cannot help but feel that this was meant.

  The great table’s set once more, stacked high with food, a regular bratchina. And as I drink the first of a dozen toasts, the room packed with Razumovsky’s friends, so my darling is taken off, to be prepared for her bridal bed, and the thought of it is more intoxicating than any wine, and I long to be there, alone with her, and not here in this stifling room with these endless, foul-smelling, bearded, grinning men.

  An hour passes, and I find I’m feeling drunk. It’s hard to deny Razumovsky and, as he fills my goblet once again, I look about me, wondering when she’ll be ready.

  Yet even as I turn, there’s a commotion in the doorway and the crowd parts to reveal the tysiatskii and several of his men in full armour, their swords drawn, and I wonder what in Urd’s name is going on. As the noise dies, so he takes out a scroll and unfurls it and, clearing his throat begins to read, and even as he does, his men push through that throng and lay their hands on me.

  Razmovsky stands there, shocked by what he’s hearing, staring at me in open-mouthed astonishment, even as I struggle to break free. But it’s done now, and I know exactly who has done it. Traitor I am, according to the tysiatskii’s words. An agent of the Teutons. I turn my head furiously, looking for him, and find him, smiling in the corner, and curse him, and tell him I’ll cut out his heart and feed it to his lifeless mouth. But Kravchuk merely laughs, his wet mouth showing red as he raises his silver goblet in a toast.