by Peter Darman
Rudolf stood beside the young novice.
‘You disagree with the actions taken in the village?’
Conrad stared into the blackness of the forest. ‘It is not my place to question the decision of Master Berthold.’
‘Answer the question, Conrad. Your attempt at cleverness makes you look foolish.’
‘Last summer,’ said Conrad, ‘Brother Lukas led a party that rescued Liv womenfolk who had been captured by the Estonians. Bruno died in that operation. That was a good day. But now we take women and children ourselves and in doing so become as base at the pagans. That cannot be right.’
‘You are correct, Conrad. It is not right,’ said Rudolf. ‘And yet circumstances force us to experience the bitter taste of expediency. All you need to know is that our actions are to safeguard the future of Wenden and therefore the whole of Livonia.’
‘I do not understand.’
Rudolf sighed. ‘You will one day.’
‘What would God say?’
‘Pagans are unbelievers,’ replied Rudolf, ‘and can be treated accordingly. Or so says the Church. Suffice to say that I take no pleasure in what we have done but I have a duty to my order. I hope God understands.’
Conrad nodded but thought that it was wrong to take women and children from their homes. What would be done with them? He was just a novice and thus his opinion did not matter. But he thought of his mother and sister and was uneasy. Then he thought of how he had annoyed Henke and felt even more uncomfortable.
It took three days to get back to Wenden. Three days of listening to wailing women, crying babies and enduring the freezing cold. On the second day it began to snow and Master Berthold ordered that all the captives were to be issued with cloaks, which meant that Conrad and his companions had to give up theirs, as did the brother knights.
Hans, who did not have an ounce of fat on his body to insulate him from the cold, was most unhappy. ‘Why are the prisoners being treated so well, what is so special about them?’
‘I have no idea,’ answered a shivering Conrad.
The sergeants also surrendered their cloaks, though this did not stop the women crying or their infants screeching. When they finally saw the welcoming ramparts of Wenden the whole party was mightily relieved, none more so than Berthold because not one of the captives had been lost to the cold. They were housed in the huts used to quarter the mercenaries, the latter being instructed that they would have to live in tents until the matter was resolved.
‘I heard that you and Henke had an altercation,’ remarked Lukas as he stood before the boys in the snow during their first training session after returning from the raid. It was still snowing but the flakes were small and were being blown around by an icy eastern wind.
Conrad did not understand what ‘altercation’ meant so just stared at Lukas with a vacant look on his face.
Lukas raised his eyes to the sky. ‘It means argument.’
‘I would not say that, Brother Lukas.’
‘I would,’ replied the brother knight. He pointed his sword at all the boys before him. ‘What have I told you all? The cornerstones of our order are obedience, poverty and chastity, in that order. As soldiers you must obey orders.’
He pointed at Conrad. ‘Lucky for you that Henke was in a good mood, otherwise he would have given you a good hiding for your insubordination.’
‘Is it right to make war upon women and children, Brother Lukas?’ asked Conrad, who hoped he had not spoken out of turn.
Lukas looked at the tall, gangly youth who had come to Wenden a poor orphan but who was turning into a fine soldier, if he could keep his mouth in check. He could also see from the expressions on their faces that the other boys were thinking the same as Conrad.
‘I do not have to explain anything to you, Conrad, or any of you,’ said Lukas, who sheathed his sword and folded his arms across his chest. ‘You want to know what was the purpose of the raid? I will tell you. It was to capture women and children to sell as slaves.’
Conrad was appalled. ‘Slaves?’
‘That is right, young Conrad. Slaves. We will sell them to the Russians who will transport them south to the slave markets of Byzantium where there is a thriving market for white-skinned women and infants.’
‘Why?’ said Hans.
‘For money, of course,’ replied Lukas. ‘Money to pay the mercenaries who defend this castle and the wages of the workers who are building it. Unless you think that everyone at Wenden is working for nothing.’
In truth Conrad had paid no thought to who paid for the mercenaries, the civilian workers or for the materials that arrived by riverboat having been shipped from Germany. He just thought. Just thought what?
Lukas unfolded his arms. ‘The uniforms you wear, the weapons you wield and the horses you ride all have to be paid for.’ He looked at Conrad. ‘Remember that, Conrad Wolff, the next time you wish to give a sermon to a knight of the Sword Brothers.’
The prisoners remained at Wenden for a week, and then a group of bearded men wrapped in overcoats, fur-lined cloaks and high boots arrived and clapped them in irons. After inspecting the captives and stripping some of the women naked they paid Master Berthold gold and took them away, packed onto sleds pulled by ponies. Even though they were brutes they took great care to ensure that the Estonians were covered from head to foot in furs to prevent them freezing to death on their journey. Conrad stopped practising with Hans and turned to watch the long column of sleds depart Wenden, catching site of the young woman he had first seen in her hut in the Estonian village they had raided. She was clutching her two young children to her chest and wore a look of utter misery. In that moment he could have wept for her and for the life that she would be condemned to. Her face stayed in his minds for days afterwards.
*****
Domash Tverdislavich dismissed the soldier in the lamellar armour and pointed helmet. The ruler of Novgorod, Prince Mstislav, had sent him to inform Domash that the prince himself would be arriving at his palace that very afternoon. Novgorod had been founded nearly four hundreds years ago as an outpost of the great kingdom of Kiev Rus, but was now a powerful, self-ruling city in northern Russia. Located on the River Volkhov, it was surrounded mostly by swamps, which largely prohibited agriculture. But Novgorod was rich, its fur trade the most lucrative among all the Russian principalities. Its goods were shipped to the Gulf of Finland, overland to the Dvina and thence to the Baltic, and even south as far as Kiev and Byzantium. Its kremlin – castle – was built of stone and its magnificent Cathedral of St Sophia was one of the wonders of the world.
Domash’s family had always been members of Novgorod’s veche – parliament – comprised of the city’s boyar families who appointed a knez, or prince, to rule them. For twenty years that man had been Prince Mstislav. Now nearly sixty years old, he usually stayed in Novgorod surrounded by his aristocrats, bishops and scholars, for Novgorod was a centre of literacy and printing as well as a place of iron processing, woodworking, tanning and jewellery production. But now he was about to arrive at Pskov.
Domash tapped the arm of his chair. Gleb chuckled.
‘Why would the prince travel a hundred and twenty miles through the snow to see you? You must have committed a major transgression.’
Domash frowned at the white-haired man leaning against the wall beside his throne. Technically he was the posadnik – mayor – of Pskov, sent by the prince to rule the city that was the ‘younger brother’ of Novgorod. However, Domash ruled Pskov like a prince, rarely deferring to the city on the Volkhov.
‘Be quiet,’ he snapped.
‘Still, you have had a reasonably long reign,’ continued Gleb, ‘it is no shame to be taken back to Novgorod in chains for your crimes.’
Domash glowered at him. ‘Crimes?’
Gleb left the wall and began pacing up and down in front of the mayor, counting with his fingers as he listed Domash’s wrongdoings.
‘Let’s see. Seducing most of the daughters of Pskov’s boyars. Raiding adjacent terri
tories without permission. Ignoring the proclamations of the church, though I will grant you that is only a minor offence. Stealing from church lands. Dealing in slaves. Need I go on?’
Domash waved a hand at him. ‘No, you need not. I don’t know why I tolerate you.’
Gleb walked back to the wall and picked up his gusli, his multi-stringed instrument. ‘Oh, I think you do.’
Domash sneered as the white-haired oaf began plucking at the strings of his instrument. But the truth was that Gleb was worth his weight in gold. He was a Skomorokh, one of the ancient strolling performers who entertained people with songs, comic plays, tricks and dances. No one knew the precise details of their origins but the people believed them to be the last custodians of Russia’s pagan past, a link to a bygone age of gods, forest fairies and river monsters. The Orthodox Church hated them, giving them the disparaging name ‘devil servants’, but the truth was that the Skomorokhs had enormous influence among a populace that still clung to hundreds of years of superstition and mysticism.
‘No one is indispensible,’ said Domash, menace in his voice.
The truth was, though, that his rule in Pskov was made much smoother by having Gleb at his side. Most Skomorokhs travelled from town to town, but some rich boyars asked them to live in their households, as Domash had done with Gleb. He remembered the day of his arrival: a stormy, rain-swept evening when a drenched Gleb turned up at the gates of his palace, requesting entrance. The guards had let him in without asking any questions for they believed him to be a servant of Perun, chief of the ancient pagan gods who ruled the world from his citadel atop the World Tree. They saw his rich blue tunic, his gusli and his white hair and were convinced that Perun had sent him. Everyone knew that the god had silver hair and a golden moustache. What’s more, the name Gleb means ‘heir of god’. Perun was also the God of Thunder, Lightning and War and Gleb’s arrival on such a stormy night was an omen that could not be ignored. For his part Domash saw his arrival as a golden opportunity to strengthen his authority.
Gleb began singing as he played his instrument. ‘The prince is going to take you away, take you away, take you away.’
‘I should have your head for your insolence.’
Gleb stopped playing. ‘Talking of which, don’t forget you have an execution to witness today.’
Domash looked confused then waved forward one of his advisers, a middle-aged man with a thick beard and fur hat.
‘There is an execution this afternoon?’ he asked.
‘Yes, highness.’
‘What crime has the condemned committed?’
The adviser looked embarrassed. ‘Sodomy, highness.’
Domash screwed up his face. ‘Disgusting.’
A cluster of priests standing near the throne began nodding in agreement, which was noticed by Gleb.
‘They should execute all the sodomites in the clergy. I have been told that it is rife among the priests and monks.’
There were loud gasps from the clergymen as Gleb began playing his gusli once more, singing very loudly as he did so.
‘The priests are all sodomites, the priests are all sodomites.’
The guards standing around the walls were trying hard not to laugh but Domash saw nothing amusing in his disrespect. He rose from his throne.
‘Silence! Gleb, you are dismissed.’
Gleb smiled mockingly at the priests, bowed to Domash and skipped from the room. How the clergy would have loved to consign him to the fire but they knew that he had the protection of the mayor and was loved by the people. This made his blasphemy even harder to bear. The fertile agricultural land that surrounded Pskov was dotted with tiny churches spreading the word of God, but sometimes they appeared as Christian islands in a pagan sea.
Domash dismissed the clergymen and advisers and then went to collect Gleb before making his way with an armed guard to the city square where executions took place. He always liked to be seen in public with Gleb so the people would be reminded that he had an adviser sent to him by the gods. It was all nonsense, of course, but the people were simple minded and easily fooled. Though they could take to violence with alarming rapidity if roused.
The roofs of the wooden buildings were covered in snow and the day was freezing as they made their way from the palace to the city square. The main thoroughfares in the city had wood-paved streets to prevent them turning into seas of mud and slush during the winter months, and Domash and his retinue now walked on them as people began to gather around and follow him. He had a score of spearmen with him but he always became nervous when the lower orders of the city, with their pockmarked faces, filthy clothes and obnoxious body odour, got too close.
Gleb was in his element, shaking hands, smiling at women and kissing babies held up to him by their mothers. Some tried to touch the cloak of Domash, which sent a shiver down his spine.
‘Filthy scum.’
‘Good crowd today,’ said Gleb loudly.
They reached the square that was heaving with people, a priest standing on the scaffold in the company of four executioners who stood around a wooden frame that occupied the centre of the scaffold. The crowd were babbling excitedly but the executioners looked bored. A viewing platform had been erected directly opposite the scaffold, a row of seats arranged on the wooden planks. Domash ascended the steps and took his place in the middle seat, the other chairs being occupied by the city’s richest boyars and their wives. They rose when he appeared, smiling and bowing their heads to Pskov’s ruler. He acknowledged them but was still thinking about the purpose of the prince’s visit when the ashen-faced prisoner was manhandled onto the scaffold.
A ripple of anticipation went through the crowd as he was stripped naked and ropes fastened around each of his ankles, which were then thrown over the wooden frame. The chattering and excitement among the crowd grew louder as the priest began reciting prayers and two of the executioners pulled on the ropes to hoist the condemned up by his ankles. Now upside down, ropes were tied around his wrists that were then secured to hooks on the bottom of the frame’s uprights. The ropes around his ankles were wrapped around the crossbeam of the frame so the prisoner was held firmly in place, upside down with his legs apart.
The chief executioner turned to look at Domash who nodded his assent. This was the signal for one of his assistants to pick up a two-handed wood saw that had been lying on the straw that had been scattered over the scaffold. He lifted it up and passed it to a second assistant standing on the other side of the prisoner. They each took a firm grip on the handles and then began sawing through the condemned, the iron teeth cutting through his genitals and groin with ease.
The prisoner screamed loudly and thrashed around as the ghastly sentence was carried out, blood gushing onto the executioners and priest, the shrieking drowned out as the crowd erupted in wild cheering and applause. The wooden frame shook as the prisoner was gripped by superhuman strength as he tried to escape the awful punishment being visited upon him. The executioners used measured strokes as they forced the saw’s teeth through his belly and chest, each stroke ripping out guts, bits of bone and vital organs as they cut down. Domash never ceased to be amazed by how much blood a human body contained, most of which now seemed to be on the fronts of the executioners and the straw that had been sprayed crimson. The priest had retreated to a safe distance down the steps that led from the scaffold, the crowd pelting him with vegetables and snowballs for his cowardice. Then the prisoner stopped moving as the saw’s teeth cut through his spinal cord and his torment was over. The guests on the viewing platform clapped politely as the executioners cut down the cadaver and threw it on a waiting cart, which would take it to the city rubbish dump beyond the walls.
A guard appeared behind Domash and whispered in his ear.
‘He’s here?’
The guard nodded. Domash rose from his chair and pointed at Gleb, who was flirting with one of the boyar’s wives.
‘You are with me.’
The ruler of Pskov left the pla
tform just as a young woman on the scaffold was stripped to the waist and had her wrists secured to the bloody frame prior to being flogged, her eyes bulging in fear at her debasement and the prospect of her back being cut open. Domash walked briskly back to the palace, annoyed that his entertainment had been so rudely interrupted. When he arrived at the throne room he found Prince Mstislav sitting in his place, lamellar armour of steel scales encompassing his great bulk. With his thick black hair and bushy beard Mstislav looked like a bear, as befitting Novgorod’s coat of arms of two black bears either side of a throne. He may have been almost sixty but the prince looked every inch the fierce warrior who had fought the Cumans, Bulgars and Polovtsians.
Domash halted in front of the throne and bowed his head. ‘Hail Mstislav, Prince of Novgorod.’
Mstislav nodded. ‘I trust my city of Pskov thrives,’ he growled.
Domash smiled. ‘Indeed, highness, and its people will be delighted to see their prince within their walls.’
‘Though their mayor is not delighted that someone else is sitting in his chair,’ added Gleb mischievously from behind Domash.
The latter spun round and glared at him but Gleb just smiled and Mstislav chuckled. He knew all about the Skomorokhs and although his bishops did not approve of them he knew they had enormous influence among the common people. The prince raised himself up.
‘Then let us withdraw and leave the throne to your jester,’ said the prince, smiling at Gleb.
He and Domash retired to a small dining hall adjacent to the throne room where slaves brought hot broth and large cups filled with kvass. Mstislav ate heartily, tearing great chunks from the loaves placed before him and dipping the pieces in the broth.
‘Your reports concerning the Estonian tribes have been most illuminating,’ he said to Domash.
‘They have united under a single leader to fight the crusaders, highness.’
Mstislav emptied his bowl of broth and held it out for a slave to take and refill. ‘My army is but a short distance away.’
Domash was surprised. ‘Your army, highness?’