Tsubodai's scouts moved faster than the main force, risking their mounts on the icy ground to bring back the first warning of any organised defences. The city seemed eerily silent, the snow lending such a stillness to the air that Tsubodai could hear hymns being sung. He did not know the language, but the distant voices seemed to suit the cold. He shook his head. The ice road was strangely beautiful in the shadows and moonlight, but it was no place for sentiment. His aim was to crush anyone with the strength to stand before him. Only then could he move on, knowing his flanks and rear were safe.
The city itself was not large. Its cathedrals had been built on high ground above the river, and around them clustered the houses of churchmen and wealthy families. In the moonlight, they could be seen spreading down the hills into a town of smaller buildings, haphazard across the landscape. The river fed them all, gave them life as it would now bring death. Tsubodai's head jerked up as he heard a voice call nearby, high and broken. The panic was unmistakable. They had been seen at last. He was only surprised it had taken so long. The voice yelled and yelled, then was choked off as one of the scouts riding along the banks used the sound to guide himself in. There would be bright red blood on the snow, the first of the night. Yet the watcher had been heard and it was not long before bells began to sound in the distance, tolling a warning through the still darkness. The cathedral was silent, the air heavy with incense issuing from the censer in a trail of white smoke. Grand Duke Yaroslav sat with his family in the pews reserved for him, his head bowed as he listened to the plainsong words of a prayer written eight centuries before.
'If He was not flesh, who was laid in a manger? If He is not God, whom did the angels who came down from heaven glorify?'
The duke was not at peace, no matter how he tried to put the cares of the world aside and take comfort from his faith. Who could know where the damned Mongols would strike next? They moved with incredible speed, making children of the armies he had sent. Three thousand of his finest knights had been slaughtered at the beginning of winter. They had ridden out to find the Mongol army and report their position, not to engage them. They had not come back. All he had were rumours of a bloody streak in the hills, already covered in snow.
Duke Yaroslav twisted his hands together as the heavy incense filled his lungs.
'If He was not flesh, whom did John baptise?' Father Dmitri intoned, his voice strong and resonant in the echoing church.
The benches were full and not just to celebrate the birth of Christ. Yaroslav wondered how many of them had heard of the red-mouthed wolf hunting through the hills and snow. The cathedral was a place of light and safety, though it was cold enough to need the heavy furs. Where better to come on such a night?
'If He is not God, to whom did the Father say: This is my beloved Son?'
The words were comforting, summoning an image of the young Christ. On such a night, Yaroslav knew he should be focusing his thoughts on birth and rebirth, but instead he thought of crucifixion, of pain and agony in a garden, more than a thousand years before.
His wife's hand touched his arm and he realised he had been sitting with his eyes closed, silently rocking like the old ladies at prayer. He had to keep up a calm front, with so many eyes watching. They looked to him to protect them, but he felt helpless, lost. Winter did not stop the Mongol armies. If his brothers and cousins had trusted him, he could have put a force in the field to destroy the invaders, but instead they thought he schemed for power and ignored his letters and messengers. To be surrounded by such fools! It was hard to find peace, even on such a night.
'If He was not flesh, who was invited to the marriage in Cana? If He is not God, who turned the water into wine?'
The priest's voice echoed, rolling in a rhythm of its own that should have been comforting. They would not read the darker verses on the night of Christ's birth. Yaroslav did not know if the Mongol host would attack his cities of Vladimir and Moscow. Would they reach even Kiev? It was not so many years since they had struck so deep into the forests and tundra, killing at will and then vanishing again. There were many stories and legends of the fearsome 'Tartars'. It was all they had left behind the last time. Like a storm, they had struck and then vanished.
He had nothing that could stop them. Yaroslav began to wring his hands again, praying with all his heart that his city, his family might be spared. God had mercy, he knew. The Mongols had none.
Far away, thin shouts could be heard. The duke looked up. His wife was staring at him, her expression confused. He turned at the sound of running feet. Surely he would not be called out at this hour? Could his officers not handle one night without him, while he found solace in the Mother Church? He did not want to rise from the hard-won warmth of his seat. As he hesitated, more running steps could be heard as someone raced up the stairs to the bell tower. Yaroslav's stomach clenched in sudden terror. No, not here, not this night.
The bell began to toll above his head. Half the congregation looked up as if they could see it through the wooden beams. Yaroslav saw Father Dmitri walking towards him and stood quickly, struggling to master his fear. Before the priest could reach him, he bent down and spoke into his wife's ear.
'Take the children now. Take the carriage to the barracks, for your life. Find Konstantin; he will be there, with my horses. Get out of the city. I will come when I can.'
His wife was white-faced with terror, but she did not hesitate as she gathered his daughters and sons, herding them like sleepy geese. Duke Yaroslav was already moving, leaving his pew and striding down the central aisle. All eyes were on him as Father Dmitri caught up with the duke and dared to take his arm. The priest's voice was a harsh whisper.
'Is it an attack? The Tartars? Can you hold the city?'
Duke Yaroslav stopped suddenly, so that the elderly man stumbled into him. On another night, he might have had the priest whipped for his insolence. Yet he would not lie in the presence of the born Christ.
'If they are here, I cannot hold them, father, no. Look to your flock. I must save my own family.'
The priest fell back as if he had been struck, his mouth open in horror. Above their heads, the bell tolled on, calling despair across the city and the snow. The duke could hear screaming in the distance as he raced outside, his riding boots skidding on the icy cobbles. His family's coach was already moving, a black shape slipping into the darkness with the driver's whip-crack echoing on either side. He could hear his son's high voice fading into the distance, unaware of the danger as only a child can be.
Snow had begun to fall again and Yaroslav shivered as he stood there, his mind racing. For months he had heard reports of the Mongol atrocities. The city of Riazan had been reduced to smoking rubble, with wild animals tearing at bodies in the streets. He had ridden there himself with just a few of his guards and two of them had vomited into the snow at what they saw. They had been hard men, used to death, but what they had encountered was utter desolation, on a scale they had never known. This was an enemy with no concept of honour, who fought wars and destroyed cities to crush the will of an enemy. The duke stepped towards the snorting mount of his aide. It was a stallion, uncut, fast and black as night.
'Dismount,' he snapped. 'Return to the barracks on foot.'
'Yes, your grace,' the man said immediately, swinging his leg over and jumping down to the snow.
As the duke mounted in his place, finding the saddle still warm, the aide stood back and saluted. Yaroslav didn't look at him, already turning the animal and digging in his heels. The hooves clattered on the stone road as he trotted away. He could not gallop on the ice without risking a fall that could kill both him and the horse. He heard shouting voices nearby and then a single clash of steel on steel, a sword blow that carried in the frozen air from God alone knew how far away.
Around him, the sleeping city was waking up. Candles and lamps appeared in the windows and swung in the hands of men as they came out to stand in the street and shout questions to each other. None of them knew anything. M
ore than once, they stumbled and fell as they tried to avoid the black horse and its rider.
The barracks were not far away. He half-expected to see his family's coach up ahead. The driver could force his horses to more speed, held steady by the weight of the carriage and those within. Duke Yaroslav prayed under his breath, asking the innocent virgin to take care of his little ones. He could not hold the city against the wolves that came in the snow. All he could do was escape. He told himself it was the correct tactical decision, but the shame of it burned him even against the cold.
As he rode, he ignored the voices calling behind him. There would be few survivors, not now the enemy had come in the depths of winter. No one could have expected it, he told himself. He had gathered his main army near Kiev, ready for the spring. They sat in a winter camp behind vast wooden palisades, almost three hundred miles to the south-west. He had just two thousand men in Moscow and they were not his best troops. Many were injured soldiers wintering in the comfort of the city rather than the army camps, where dysentery and cholera were a constant threat. The duke hardened his heart to their fate. They had to fight, to give him time to get free. He could only hope that the Mongol army had not yet blocked the roads out of the city. One of them must still be open, for his family.
Moonlight gleamed through the falling snow above him as he crossed a wooden bridge, the frozen Moskva river below. He glanced at it as he clattered over the ancient wood and stiffened in the saddle at the sight of the white river covered with horses and men. They were already spreading onto the banks like spilt blood, black in the night. He could hear more screaming as they tore into homes near the river. He put his head down and rode on, drawing the ornate dress sword on his hip. In terror, he saw dark figures clambering over the wooden bridge railings: two, no four, men. They had heard his horse, and as he saw them, something buzzed by his face, too fast even to flinch from it. He hoped the black horse made a difficult target and dug in his heels again, suddenly heedless of the slippery ground. A man loomed up on his right flank and Yaroslav kicked, feeling a spike of pain up his leg as the impact twisted his knee. The man fell away in silence, his chest crushed from the blow. The duke was through then, the white road opening before him as the bridge came to an end.
He felt the arrow strike as a shudder in his mount. The animal whinnied in pain, snorting harder and harder with every step. The gallop slowed and Yaroslav kicked and leaned forward, trying for the last burst of speed. His hands had held reins from a young age and he could almost feel the life drain out of the stallion as it struggled on, panic and duty keeping it going. He rounded a corner, leaving the bridge behind, but the animal's great heart could take him no further. The stallion went down hard, without warning, the front legs collapsing. Yaroslav tumbled, tucking in his head and trying to roll as he hit. Even with the snow, the ground was like iron and he lay winded and stunned, knowing he had somehow to regain his feet before they came looking. Dazed and helpless, he struggled up, wincing as his knee crackled and shifted under him. He would not cry out. He could hear their guttural voices just around the corner.
He began to stagger away, more from instinct than with any sense of purpose. His knee was on fire and when he reached down to it, he bit his lip to stop a shout of pain. It was already swelling. How far was the barracks? Walking had become agony and he could only shuffle on the bad leg. His eyes filled with unwanted tears as he was forced to put his weight on it, lurching over it with each step and beginning again. If anything, the pain worsened until he thought he might pass out in the snow. Surely he could not endure much longer? He reached another corner and behind him he heard the voices grow louder. They had found the horse.
The duke had seen the burnt dead in Riazan. He forced himself to go faster for a few steps, but then his leg crumpled as if he had no control over it. He hit the ground hard and bit his tongue, feeling sour blood fill his mouth.
Weak and still dazed, he turned over and spat. He could not kneel to gasp and recover. His knee was still too painful even to touch. Instead, he reached out to a wall and dragged himself up with his arms. At any moment, he expected to hear running footsteps as the Mongol animals caught him, drawn by the scent of blood perhaps. Yaroslav turned to face them, knowing he could run no longer.
From the deep shadows by the wall of a house, he saw a group of Mongols on foot, leading their horses as they followed his tracks. He groaned at the sight. The snow was still falling, but his prints would be visible for another hour, more. They had not yet seen him, but a child could follow that path. He looked around desperately for some bolt-hole, painfully aware that all his soldiers were at the barracks. His family would already be on the road west and south to Kiev. If he knew Konstantin, the grizzled old soldier would send a hundred of the best men and horses with them.
Yaroslav did not know if the rest would stay and fight or simply melt away into the darkness, leaving the citizens to their fate. He could already smell smoke on the air, but he could not drag his gaze from the men hunting him. In his delirium, he thought he had come further, but they were no more than fifty or sixty paces away. They were already pointing in his direction.
A rider came trotting down the road from the bridge. Yaroslav saw the men straighten from where they stared at his tracks. To his eyes, they looked like dogs faced with a wolf and they stood with their heads down. The man snapped orders at them and three of the four immediately began to move. The last one stared into the shadows that hid the duke as if he could see him. Yaroslav held his breath until his senses swam. Finally, the last man nodded grimly and mounted his pony, turning the animal back to the bridge.
The duke watched them go with mixed emotions. He could hardly believe he would live, but at the same time he had discovered the Mongols had discipline, ranks and tactics. Someone higher up had told them to take and hold the bridge. The brief chase had dragged them away, but the structure of some sort of regular army had found them and dragged them back. He had survived, but he had yet to face them in the field and the task ahead had suddenly become a great deal harder.
He staggered as he set off again, the pain making him swear under his breath. He knew the street of weavers. The barracks was not too far away. He could only pray there was someone still there waiting for him. Tsubodai stood alone in a stone tower, looking out over the frozen city. To reach the window, he had inched past a massive bronze bell, dark green with age. As he stared across the night, parts of it were lit by flames, spots of gold and flickering yellow. He drummed his fingers on the engraved surface of the bell, listening idly to the deep tone that went on for a long time.
The vantage point suited him perfectly. In the light of distant flames, he could see the result of his sudden strike along the ice road. Below him, Mongol warriors were already running wild. He could hear their laughter as they tore silk hangings from the walls and threw goblets and chalices across the stone floors, unimaginably ancient. There was screaming below, as well as laughter.
There had been little resistance. What soldiers there were had been slaughtered quickly as the Mongols spread through the streets. The conquering of a city was always bloody. The men received no gold or silver from Tsubodai or their generals. Instead, they expected to loot and take slaves wherever he led them. It made them hungry as they stared at city walls, but when they were inside, his officers had to stand back.
Not one of them could control the minghaans after that. It was their right to hunt women and men through the streets, drunk on wine and violence. It offended Tsubodai's senses to see the warriors reduced to such a state. As a commander, he had to keep a few minghaans sober in case a counter-attack appeared, or a new enemy hove into view in the morning. The tumans had drawn lots for those unlucky ones who would stand and shiver all night, listening to the screams and revelry and wishing they were allowed to join in.
Tsubodai thinned his lips in irritation. The city had to burn, he had no qualms about that. He cared nothing for the fate of the citizens within. They were not his p
eople. Still, it seemed…wasteful, undignified. It offended his sense of order to have his tumans run riot the moment a city wall fell. He smiled wearily at the thought of how they would respond if he offered them regular pay and salt instead of loot. Genghis had once told him he should never give an order they would not obey. He should never let them see the limits of his authority. The truth was that he could have called them back from the city. They would form up at his order, dropping everything, drunk or sober, to ride back. They would certainly do it once. Just once.
He heard raucous laughter coming closer. A woman's voice whimpered and he blew air out in irritation as he realised the men were coming up the steps. In just moments, he saw two of his warriors dragging a young woman as they looked for a quiet place. The first one froze as he saw the orlok, standing at the bell-tower window of the cathedral. The warrior was roaring drunk, but Tsubodai's gaze had a way of cutting through the fog. Caught by surprise, the man tried to bow on the steps and stumbled. His companion behind him called out an insult.
'I will leave you in peace, orlok,' the warrior said, slurring and dipping his head. His companion heard and fell silent, but the woman continued to struggle.
Tsubodai turned his gaze on her and frowned. Her clothes were well made, of good materials. She was the daughter of some wealthy family, probably already killed before her. Her dark brown hair had been bound in a silver clasp but it had torn half-free, so it hung in long tresses, swinging as she tried to pull away from the grip of the warriors. She looked at Tsubodai and he saw her terror. He almost turned and let them retreat. The warriors were not so drunk that they would dare move until he dismissed them. He had no living children himself, no daughters.
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