by J A Deriu
“If this is true, the army will be huge. You were supposed to bring me good news, like the battlefield plans.”
“Don’t you see? This is good news. With the shah leading, they will be predictable. The battleplans of the local garrisons are irrelevant. The shah’s presence on the battlefield will override them all. They will defend the head. Drag resources from the rest of the army, weakening them, exposing flanks, and creating opportunities for us … I mean you.”
“If you say it like that, I almost want it to be true. You have done well.” She looked at his face. It was brightened by the first light, except for his dark eyes. “When you are recovered, I hope you will consider an appointment I would like to make. It is for a command position in the Montgisard Corps. I am going to bring all of the Volunteers under this command. Otherwise the rabble has become a liability.”
“No need to recover, and no need to consider. I’ll do it.”
“There is the other matter. The ark?”
“This was covered. They said we will have it.”
“It exists?”
“As much as these things exist. They said if it is known that we take it into battle, it will demoralize the Persians, or more the local Abyssinians that fill their ranks.”
“Useful then.”
“It must be held on one condition.” He sighed. “Yes, I know. They said it must not be opened. They warned of this again and again.”
“Interesting.” She hummed, not sure of what else to say. “What was it like to be hung upside down?”
“We are ready, Lord Commander.” The voice of Captain Miles came from behind. He stood cleaning his hands.
She stood. “We have a problem, Captain,” she said. “There are five of us now.”
“I was thinking of that.”
“I have thought of that too,” Pedro said and stepped into the conversation. “I will walk. Greta is the driver. No need for the strange looks. I am the chronicler. I will be Herodotus. I will use my eyes to observe and record this strange country and bring color to our chronicles.”
She placed a hand on the shoulder of Pedro and met his smile. “Yes, you are the chronicler. This was the perfect mission. We are getting good.” She turned to Miles. “Captain, as soon as we get back, send a team to pick up Pedro.”
“I will lead it myself, Lord Commander.”
Chapter Twenty
Nico could see his own reflection in the window against the thick trees that they passed relentlessly. They were only blurred by the puff of black smoke that came from the steam engine of the locomotive. His cabin companion was the Mongol who was called Khan Krum. He was not sure why he had come, but his presence meant that Nico could not disappear. The Mongol had an awareness of Nico’s every breath. He could jump from the train, and the Mongol would have him by the leg before he was in the air. Krum was dressed as a gentleman and holding a book. His cravat looked out of place around his thick neck.
Nico moved closer to the window in a futile attempt to answer where he was being taken. He was aware that he was moving across vast distances and into dangerous territory. He was traveling through the empire of the Ottomans. If it was known who he was, it was certain his demise would be quick as Regina had explained: “A firing squad could not be found speedily enough or a head chopper summoned from his bed fast enough so that fame could be had for those who were there and those that cheered on.”
The train stopped at different intervals. Always a man came into the compartment to inspect, an old, worn-out-looking man wearing an elaborate uniform. Regina and Anton would come behind the man from the compartment across the passageway. They would talk to him in a hushed manner, and he would reply in the same manner. They would take his hand and fill it with coins and currency. He would glance at it for a moment and then shove it into his jacket pocket without looking. The train inspector would leave without further inspection. Food would be brought to the compartment on trays, food with a taste that Nico did not recognize. He ate hungrily. The Mongol ate with dissatisfaction. Nico knew that the Mongol would prefer a half-cooked rack of lamb and a mug of beer. He looked at the Mongol with shared sympathy as he chewed on the beans.
They traveled for days. They train line was longer than he could have imagined. It was the land of his ancestors. Although he did not care, he did fleetingly contemplate how vast it was and how his forebears had once managed to rule all of it. He was soon unconcerned for the landscapes and nursery-rhyme towns they passed and instead wallowed in thoughts of Isabella. He curled his legs onto the seat and pulled his jacket over himself for warmth. He closed his eyes, only to be disturbed by the impatient pacing of the Mongol Khan in the confined space and the argumentative voices of the count and countess that could be overheard in the next cabin. His eyes remained closed. His mind had become toughened, and he could ignore the distractions and pass the time with pleasant thoughts of Isabella.
The train had been stopped. The countess came to the room and spoke to the Mongol in his own language. The Mongol sprang from his seat and gathered his possessions. “We must leave the train,” Regina said to Nico.
It was night. Count Anton was waiting on an empty train platform with an annoyed look on his face and cases at his boots. Regina put her hand on Nico’s shoulder. “This is as far as we can go on the train. It would not be safe from here.”
“The only thing I will say is what I have said countless times. I do not want to be here. If I am the royal you think, I demand that I am taken home.”
She smiled. Her fine features were enhanced under a lamp. “Prince, you should really start speaking in Russian. Let’s go. There will be night watch on the streets.”
They followed the count, who seemed to know where he was leading them. The Mongol tagged behind and lit a rolled tobacco. Nico looked at him, and without saying anything, the Mongol passed it to him and lit himself another one. The streets were empty. The buildings, from what Nico could see in the moonlight, were old and made of irregular stones and thick timbers. A dog barked at them. The Mongol reached for his belt. The count noticed and beckoned him to keep walking.
They walked for a long time, left the town, crossed a bridge, and followed a road that was bordered on each side by thick woodland. An owl hooted as the group passed. There was no talking among them.
Nico could see that there was tension between the count and countess. The way that they avoided eye contact but could not avoid the habit of glancing at each other reminded him of when he argued with Isabella. She was better at it than he. It took too much energy to curb his impulses and welcome her forgiving touch. The count and countess were different. It seemed neither of them would relent. The countess took a long gulp from a flask and passed it to Nico. He tilted back his head and savored the taste of the vodka. When he had straightened, the hand of the Mongol was outstretched in front of him, and he passed the flask into it.
They parted from the road and walked along an uneven dirt path, which was messed by horse droppings that were too hard to avoid. Nico did not care, and after a while he took back the flask from the Mongol. They followed a moss-covered fence made of rocks until a thick-stoned building loomed out of the night. Dark clouds sat behind its towers. Regina banged on a nail-studded wooden door. The windows were black. Anton sat on a wooden bench. The Mongol took the flask from Nico.
He stood behind Regina. “Where are we? Why are we here?”
She faced him while she banged on the door again with her fist. “For your initiation,” she said. The door creaked a little open. A soft voice came from inside. Regina answered firmly in Russian. A cowled figure stepped out. Only a pointy nose could be seen. There were further exchanges of words. The man’s head turned to Nico and then quickly away. He recognized the cowl as that of a monk, like the monk Grigory would wear. The door was held open, and they entered. It was darker inside than the night outside. There was the smell of ancient decay. Nico wa
s not sure if it was the room or the monk.
A candle was lit. There were more monks, all cowled, all hunched like old men and standing in the faint light. They said nothing as Regina beckoned for the first of the monks to lead them farther into the monastery. They passed loose-hanging tapestries and dark passageways. They were led to small rooms. The monk held up the candle to show the stone walls and wooden floor. His face was wrinkled worse than a prune. His eyes could have been blind. A mat was rolled across straw with a bowl nearby. It looked like a prison cell. “This one is yours,” Regina said to Nico. “Rest. We will talk at breakfast.”
“What do you mean ‘initiation’?” Nico asked.
“We will talk at breakfast.”
He was left standing alone in the small room. The monk had lit a candle that burned on a windowsill. The door was closed. The Mongol had kept the flask. He lay on the mat, not tired, and wrapped a rough-feeling sheet over himself for warmth.
It had not been more than a few hours when the door was opened. He had only then fallen into a sleep. It was Regina. “Are you hungry? This is a monastery. Breakfast is early.”
Nico groaned. The stone hallways were as icy as the cell. Warmth only came when they entered a room with a fire. The monks sat at tables. All of them were old men and decrepit like the one who had opened the door for them in the middle of the night. They ate from wooden bowls. Anton and the Mongol were seated in a corner. The Mongol Khan looked disdainfully at his bowl. Nico and Regina sat. The monks kept their heads down.
A scrawny arm placed a bowl in front of Nico. It was full of mush. He smelled it. He had become used to poor food, except for the interlude of the khan’s court, where he had eaten well. “All right then,” Regina said, keeping her voice low. “You want to know where we are and why we are here. This may be the most important stop of the journey. Do you have any idea of where we are?”
She was talking to Nico. He tasted the food and shrugged.
“This is the Monastery of Verkhoturye. We have crossed Siberia,” she said. “This is the place of most holiness in all of the fatherland. You must convince the people that you are their leader and have come to free them.”
“I am not their leader, and I have not come to free anyone. I am not free myself,” Nico said. He looked for a moment at the Mongol, who was still resentfully handling his bowl. “Why is he here?”
“He is here to safeguard his investment,” Anton answered. “And be careful of what you say. I think he understands.”
“You said ‘initiation,’” Nico said. “What do you mean?”
Regina momentarily glanced at Anton. “You are to be leader of the Russians. They are a spiritual people. This has not been suppressed. The supernatural lives strongly in these lands. Their leaders must obey to this.”
“Again, this is nothing to do with me.”
“Eat your breakfast, and we will see,” she said.
The monks moved through the corridors like frightened ghosts. When they passed one, the monk stood still and kept his head low. The pointy-nosed monk was leading them. There was no conversation. They seemed scared of the group. Was it the Mongol or the countess? They stepped outside into a wan sunlight. Nico thought that this land of his ancestors was bleak. There was a twisting dirt path in front of them. The Mongol parted from them, and with his hands casually resting on his belt, he wandered down a side path into the woods, perhaps to chase animals or to experience the local flora.
A wooden church stood on a craggy hill. Untidy goats watched them pass. The smells of the antiquated land assailed him. The monk with surprising strength pushed the groaning doors of the church open. His yellow teeth showed as he strained with the effort.
It was gloomy inside. A few candles flickered, and there were no windows to the outside. The count and countess seemed to know where to go and marched to a side passageway. Nico thought that with the Mongol gone, he had a chance to run. Only the old monk watched him. Yet his predicament was – Where would he go? He was worlds away from knowing how to survive. The only way he slept, ate, or had any hope was the count and countess and the Mongol khan.
He followed them down a set of steep wooden stairs. He needed the railing to keep his footing. The count held up a lamp in front. The monk moved with ease behind him. The stairs came to a landing and then more stairs, even steeper. They were going deep underground. The count had stopped. In front of them was the outline of a cavern. The count moved to the side and lit a lamp. The room was long. The monk started muttering. The count moved slowly forward with his lamp and lifted it into the air with trepidation. At the end of the room was a long cask. “Move forward, Prince,” the count said. “You must look upon his face.”
Nico looked at the countess for an explanation. “Be quick. This must be done. If the Ottoman overlords found us here, it would be a ghastly death.”
She pushed him toward the cask. He took some steps and stopped when he realized it was a coffin. Regina’s hand was at his back, and he was forced to take another step. The top of the coffin was cloudy glass. He now understood what the count had said.
“This is Saint Simeon,” Regina said. “The folk will know that he has given you the courage that will deliver all of us from evil.” She firmed her hand at his back. “Now look upon his face.” The count held the lamp above the coffin. Regina’s hand moved to the back of his head and bent his face toward the saint. He recoiled immediately. The sight was ghastly. “He died in the year of the Lord … what year did he die, Anton?”
“The seventeenth century, darling. I don’t know the exact year.”
The face that had looked back at Nico was a face covered in deep furrows. It was leathery, browned, and timeworn. As he pulled away, Nico smartly thought that if he was three hundred years old, there should be nothing left. How was there this macabre face at all?
“Simeon is a saint of such power,” Anton said, “that his body will not corrupt. When he was first buried, his coffin rose from the ground and then again. Now he rests here. Look closely, Prince. He will give you the courage that you need.”
Nico did not look at the ugly face again, knowing that it would only bring him nightmares.
“I want to leave this place,” he said after they had climbed the stairs and the monk had shut the wooden doors of the church behind them.
“This is the last rest you will have for some time, Prince,” Count Anton said. “You will prepare for the war ahead. This place will fortify you for the tasks to come.” Nico glanced at the dilapidated buildings against the gray sky. “It does not look special now,” the count continued. “This monastery was once grand. The domes of the cathedral could house thousands. It has become a hovel under the heathen boot of the Ottomans. And the church we visited is as old as the apostles. The Archangel Church of Saint Michael.”
Regina felt his arm with a firm grip so that he stopped. “Saint Michael, defend us in battle,” she said, as if reciting, “that we may not perish, and be our safeguard against the wickedness of the devil.” She ended with faint laughter.
He was confined to his cell for the rest of the day except for the bland meals with the silent monks. Only the afternoon meal was made interesting by the Mongol, who had caught something himself and cooked it over one of the fires. He offered some of the burnt meat to Nico, and it was a break from the porridge.
He lay on the mat. He had been told by the count and countess to rest and contemplate after his meeting with the long-dead saint. He tried to think of beautiful Isabella, but he could not shake the picture of the ugly head of the saint from his mind. This and his lack of exertion for the day made it impossible for him to sleep.
At a time that was well into the night, the door to his cell opened. Someone stood looking at him. He had no light and no chance to know who it was. He heard soft breathing. He opened his mouth. “Be silent,” she said and closed the door.
He felt the palm o
f her hand against his chest. He was propped up by his elbows. She pushed him so that he was flat. She placed each of her knees on either side of him so that they were hard against him, and he could not move. Her chest was pressed onto his. Her face touched his. He lifted his hand. She stopped it, and her fingers circled his wrist. He was pinned. Her cold lips moved over his face and bit at him. She moved her body roughly, which forced his to rock. His clothes were pulled. He felt a shudder across his body. He had only ever kissed Isabella. The countess Regina was nothing like Isabella.
The countess lit a candle. Scent-smelling wisps of smoke curled from it. Her hair was loose and the front of her shirt open. Nico had not said a word. She lit a cigarette from the candle and glanced at him impersonally. There was no noise from the monastery. Nico noticed something that she had brought into the room. It was protruding from a carry bag that she had left against the door. She reached for it and pulled it fully from the bag. It was a short stick, the size of two hands, and tightly bound with leather. A thin strap was attached to the end. She held it out for Nico to see. He opened his mouth but said nothing. She turned away from him and knelt with her legs tightly compressed. She lowered her shirt so that the paleness of her back was showing and held out the whip. “You do it,” she said.
“What? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Use this to lash my back. Do it with all of your energy.”
“No. Why would I do that?”
“This is the way. I have sinned. Now I must repent.”
“That is stupid. You should not have come here.”
“I am a disciple of the Whips. This is the way. If one does not sin, one cannot repent.”
“I am going to sleep. Now go away.” He lay down on the mat and turned so that he looked away from her. He was hoping that she would leave. He heard the slap of the whip and looked up for a moment to see that she had hit it across her own back. Her pale skin was reddened with the line of the strap. She lashed it again, and he turned away. “You are mad. Go away.” He said nothing else as she continued to whip herself. She gasped with each stroke. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the sounds.