Darker Jewels (13 page)

“You don’t eat enough to keep meat on you,” Boris went on, unwilling to be shunted to other topics. “You have a deep chest and enough bone in you, but you need more than that.” Rakoczy spoke more firmly though his manner remained affable. “I respect your ways and the customs of the Rus. But among those of my blood, dining is a very private thing, an intimate thing. We do not often do it in public.”

“It is a silly custom, if you will think about it. Do not defend it to me. All foreigners have customs that we Rus find strange.” He reached for a bowl of small, deep-red berries mixed with thick sour cream, then retrieved his fork and spoon from the folds of his waistband. ‘What is more noble a gesture than to offer food? It is the first thing a mother does for her child. It is the offering we leave on the grave. Jesus Christ fed the hungry and it is fitting for Christians to give food in His Name. And what is—” He broke off as hammering came from another part of the house. “Your workers are busy.”

“I trust they are,” said Rakoczy, trying to fathom where this was leading. Perhaps Rothger had been right, and their hazard was increasing.

“Have them knouted if they are not. If they live they will serve you faithfully the rest of their lives.” Finally Boris reached for one last pear preserved in honey. “I don’t know how best to broach this, Rakoczy. It has been troubling me since yesterday.” He looked around at the tall, carved chairs that lined the room. “Let us sit and I will explain.”

“I wish you would,” said Rakoczy with feeling.

Boris decided he could laugh at that, and let a chuckle rumble through him as an afterthought. “It is two weeks since you have seen Czar Ivan, is it not?” He selected one of the most intricately carved chairs.

It was seventeen days since Rakoczy had been admitted to Ivan’s presence, but all he said was, “About that, yes.”

“Truly.” He continued to eat. “It is unfortunate, but for the last five days the Czar has...” He chewed noisily as he tried to select an appropriate word that would not be viewed as treason. At last he found it. “The Czar has suffered a great deal because of the visions he has had. It is his son, Ivan Ivanovich. He claims the mace he struck him with hovers over him as the spectre of his son hangs before his eyes. He has been unable to break their hold on his soul.”

“That is a tragedy,” said Rakoczy.

“Your Jesuits have been three times to the Terem Palace, and every time the Little Father has refused them entrance.” This time his hesitation was more awkward than before. “It has been suggested to him—by whom, who can tell?—that the Jesuits are performing rites to strengthen the visions. The demeanor of the Jesuits is severe. They are not at all like the English. It is the unhappy truth that Czar Ivan is beg
inni
ng to believe those who have told him this thing against the priests.”

“That the Jesuits are behind his visions,” Rakoczy repeated to be certain he understood Boris correctly. “And who implies this?”

Boris sighed. “As I have told you, it saddens me to disappoint you but I am not able to say, not with any certainty. I have my suspicions, for everyone at Court has suspicions about everyone else. Rumors of conspiracy are as common as maggots in old meat.” His expression grew somber.

“Boris Feodorovich, what do you want of me?” It was improper of Rakoczy to ask so bluntly. He inclined his head, an elegant gesture that removed some of the sting of his question. “I do not intend to give offense; I am here to serve Istvan Bathory in Czar Ivan’s Court. To do that, I must understand clearly what is expected of me.”

But Boris had not taken umbrage. He leaned back, regarding Rakoczy with his bright, black eyes, measuring him with approval. “I hope that Istvan Bathory knows how fortunate he is to command your service, Rakoczy. Two or three of you loyal to me and I would not fear anyone at Court, including the whole Shuisky tribe.” He slapped the arm of the chair with his left hand, still sticky with honey.

Rakoczy bowed again, more deeply. “I am flattered, Boris Feodorovich, but I am not answered.”

“No, you’re not,” Boris agreed, fixing his gaze on the far side of the room. “Let me put it to you this way: it would be useful to Bathory’s Jesuits if you had another... gift you might present Czar Ivan just now.”

“Jewels,” said Rakoczy, taking Boris’ meaning.

“No diamonds or topazes, nothing light. He claims such gems would strike him blind now.” He licked the last of the honey from his fingers.

“I have three large garnets, rose colored, one slightly flawed, the others perfect,” said Rakoczy. “And turquoise, nine smooth stones the size of my thumbnail, to match the stones in Czar Ivan’s Kazan crown.” He had made them a month ago, anticipating this request.

To Rakoczy’s surprise, Boris shook his head slowly. “Hold them; no doubt they will be welcome later.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “'What else? Have you darker jewels? Not jade or lapis, but ones holding light?”

Rakoczy did not answer at once. “I have a beryl, a tiger’s eye, of a true, dark gold color, translucent, with a single spear of light through it. The stone is about”—he held up his thumb and first finger curved together—“this size.” He said nothing about the four attempts he had made before achieving this stone.

“Dark gold,” mused Boris. “How dark?”

“Darker than wild honey,” said Rakoczy, a slight smile tweaking the comer of his mouth. “If the jewel were not full of light an ignorant man might mistake its color for brown.”

Boris laughed his approval. “Yes. That ought to hold the Czar’s attention for a time. Be sure the Jesuits are with you when you present it, and make them kneel to kiss the hem of the Little Father’s kaftan. He will not listen to the tales of their enemies so readily, at least not for a while.” With a sudden, energetic motion, Boris was on his feet. “I knew you would be wise.”

Rakoczy bowed, but continued to watch Boris carefully. “Tell me: why do you confide in me? It honors me and puzzles me at once. The Court mistrusts this embassy, yet you visit here when it might be better to stay away.”

Boris pursed his lips, walking back to the table where he pretended to be considering another helping of nuts preserved in malieno spirits. “You ask because you understand that I am not trusted at Court. You suppose this might tip the scales against me.” His laughter this time was curt and unpleasant. “No one is trusted at Court, but I am trusted less because of my Tartar mother. So you think it strange that I come here. But who better? Already they suspect the worst, so I use their suspicions to my advantage, and strive to learn as much as I can in order to offer wise counsel.”

“I see,” said Rakoczy, who knew better than to pursue this partial answer. “You are gracious to tell me.”

“I have reason to want your good opinion, as the English say,” declared Boris with the assumption of candor. “If you can still say that a year from now, we must both count ourselves fortunate.” He swung around to face Rakoczy squarely. “I will arrange an audience for you on Tuesday, after the fourth Mass of the day. Bring the dark golden beryl. And tell no one you bring it at my recommendation. If you are asked, say that it is King Istvan’s wish, not mine.”

“If that is what you—” Rakoczy began.

“It is what you will do,” Boris ordered curtly, turning abruptly on his heel and striding toward the ikons flanking the door, crossing himself in front of the Archangel Gavril. The ikon had been made by a master and long ago, judging from the style of the writing identifying the Archangel, whose wings of blue and green feathers hung behind him like exotic armor; there was a long, curved brass horn in his hands. Boris stared at the grave, long, other-worldly face of the ikon surrounded by a halo of hammered gold and topazes. “Why do you choose Gavril, of all the Archangels?”

“His feast is at the dark of the year, as was my birth.” It was the truth, as Boris’ answers had been the truth. He bowed to his guest.

“The Archangel of the Resurrection,” murmured Boris as he went to cross himself before the ikon of Saint Feodossi of the

Caves. “A strange choice, for all the feast coincides with your birth.”

This time Rakoczy’s smile was genuine. “Indeed.”

Text of a letter from Father Pogner to Ferenc Rakoczy Hrabia Saint-Germain, delivered by Father Krabbe.

To the exiled Transylvanian who abuses the trust of King Istvan Bathory, I am unable to send my blessing.

By what authority do you order us to appear with you at the Palace of Facets tomorrow? It is not yourplace to decide how the affairs of this mission are to be accomplished. What you call your consideration for us is nothing more than a display of most un-Christian pride andfor such sin you must beg the pardon of us all before you can be received as a true Catholic again.

You inform me that the purpose of this meeting is to present the Czar with yet another bauble for his treasury on the pretext of providing him with sovereign remedies for his madness. You deceive no one with such obvious ploys. Everyone knows that this is nothing more than a bribe given for the purpose of persuading the Czar to honor the treaty he has made with Poland and Sweden. To claim any other cause for your actions serves only to convince the Russian Court that their suspicions regard- ingforeigners are correct, and that we are nothing but deceivers who deal without integrity .or steadfast purpose. Full well do I recognize your desire for aggrandizement and Courtly influence. Hrabia Zary has revealed his worst fears to me, saying that he is convinced that you are here to make yourself a fief in your exile, a place where you would once again have position and respect instead of the empty titles and lost estates that now are your lot. You would carve for yourself a position between the Polish and Russian thrones where you can be the only mediator, dictating to these worldly Princes. It is madness to trust in madness, Count. You bow to Czar Ivan, placating him with this gem or that, and have a day’s favor for it. What does it matter that the treasures offered to God and His Church must be sacrificed? And how many more of these precious stones have you secreted away?

This gesture also fires greed in the Russian Princes, who are eager to have such treasures for themselves. How long wiU it be, do you think, before the Nagoy and the Shuisky and the Romanov families demand jewels to gain their favor? Perhaps the Kurbskys as well wiU seek baubles from you. You may have spawned a monster, and at the expense of King Istvan and the Pope, who cannotforeverprovide such riches to you. This ridiculous fiction you are minded to spread—that the jewels are of your manufacture—has been accepted by a few of these ignorant Russians, but others are less credulous than you assume, and they, just as we, scoff at your claims and know you for an opportunist and a charlatan who abuses the confidence and the wealth of Pope and King.

Does that word offend you, Count? Charlatan. Fraud. Deceiver. Perhaps traitor is not too great a condemnation, for you have shown yourself willing to bargain with the treasures of this world for the merit of the soul. Unless you are lost to aU honor, each condemnation should lie on your conscience like a hot brand. The burning of your soul should sizzle and stink, for I tell you now that vice marks the man as much as the hazards of life. Does it horrify you to know that these stains are on your soul—your soul, Count? If it does, you must examine your conduct and reform it so that my disapprobation is no longer deserved. Iam not easily convinced of amended purpose, and to that end I warn you that no display of piety or pretended virtue will satisfy me. You must fully abjure this chicanery and publicly acknowledge your contemptible schemes. You mustformally apologize to the Czar and King Istvan, making restitution to them for all you have done. To the Church you must be truly penitent. We Jesuits are trained to be alert to just such sophistry as remorseless men employ, and we uproot it as a farmer uproots encroaching vines, knowing that without such measures his crop is lost. An insincere admission wiU deliver you into the hands of the Russian authorities and the justice of the Czar.

Yet even the most rigorous ofpriests occasionally falls prey to the wiles of the very thing he should most abhor, and your suborning of one of this embassy is ample proof of your determination to implicate all of us as your accomplices. That one of our number has been taken in by your machinations saddens me but it does not astonish me, for it is apparent that you have

also fooled the Rus who flock to you, eitherfor your riches orfor your skills. Given the love of luxury we see everywhere in this barbaric city, it is not difficult to guess which attracts these Rus the most.

When I have received word that you have made a start in returning to virtue and humility, then I will answer such an arrogant summons as the one you have sent. In the meantime, I will pray daily for the salvation of your soul and hope that God’s mercy is greater than His patience.

In the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Casimir Pogner, Society of Jesus September 27, by the new calendar, in the Year of Grace 1583, by the hand of Father Dodek Komel, S.J., at Moscovy.

7

Vasilli Shuisky’s palace was inside the Kremlin walls, halfway between the Savior Gate and the Annunciation Cathedral, in a triangular plot that included stables and a small barracks as well as a proper terem. It was here that Vasilli received his cousin Anastasi on a dank morning in early October.

“I suppose you’ve been told?” Vasilli asked when he and Anastasi had finished blessing the ikons. He rubbed his hands together to keep off the chill.

“You mean the great embassy presentation?” said Anastasi with a nasty smile as he shrugged off his enveloping sheepskin shuba. “Yes, I have been told. Full Court, all regalia. Banquet for eight hundred, half of whom are foreign.” He looked down at his hands as he tugged off the heavy gloves he wore. “Women, too, at the presentation, according to the summons.”

“Women, too,” said Vasilli heavily. “Ivan Vasilleivich is losing all sense of propriety along with his wits, ordering women to attend the presentation. Does he want to compare his jewels to theirs, I wonder?” This sarcastic question needed no answer.