Russka (15 page)

Just below the village, on a piece of land where the floodwater was shallow, small stakes stuck out of the water. This was the area where vegetables were grown, richly flooded each spring.

Cabbages, peas, onions and turnips would all appear here in due course. Garlic too was grown and later in the year, pumpkins.

On the western, forest side of the river, however, where the banks were higher, a new feature had appeared. Here, where the bank rose to its highest point of some thirty feet above the river, it had been further heightened by a rampart, with a stout wall of oak on top. This fortification, enclosing nearly two acres, had been constructed some fifty years before. It contained, besides some long, low quarters for troops, and stables, two large storehouses for the use of merchants, and a small wooden church. This was the fort. It belonged, as did most of that land, to the Prince of Pereiaslav.

There was one other feature of the village. About fifty yards from the entrance, on a pleasant spot overlooking the river, was the graveyard, where the ashes of the dead were laid in the ground. Beside this spot stood two stone pillars, each about seven feet high and carved so that each appeared to be wearing a tall, rounded hat with a big fur brim. These were the chief gods of the village: Volos god of wealth, and Perun the thunder god. For despite the attempts of the prince’s priests, out in the countryside many a village like Russka still quietly continued the old pagan ways. Even the village elder had two wives.

And it was by the cemetery, this clear spring afternoon, that a single figure was moodily walking.

Someone who had not seen him in the last three years would not have recognized Ivanushka. He had become as tall as his brother Sviatopolk, but in the process he had also become thin and pale. There were dark rings around his eyes and he seemed gaunt and haggard.

But there was something else, even more striking than these physical changes. About his whole person now there was an aura. The way his head hung, his downcast eyes, the careless walk he affected, all seemed to say: ‘I do not care what you think; I defy you all.’ And yet at the same time, this silent voice added: ‘But even my defiance will fail.’

In the last three years, nothing had gone right.

At first one important event seemed to give him hope. After waiting nearly a month in Kiev before being spirited away by Zhydovyn to join his family in Poland, he had discovered that his father, disgusted by the cowardice and treachery of the Prince of
Kiev, had exercised his right to change masters and transferred to the
druzhina
of his younger brother Vsevolod, who ruled the southern frontier city of Pereiaslav.

This did indeed seem a stroke of fortune. Not only was Vsevolod known as the best and wisest of the ruling brothers, but by his Greek wife he was the father of the brilliant young Vladimir to whom Ivanushka had been promised. Surely now that Igor served his father, Vladimir would send for him.

Yet no word had come. Even Igor was surprised. ‘But I’ve joined Vsevolod’s service too recently to demand it,’ he admitted to Ivanushka sadly. Sviatopolk served with his father. Boris went to the court at Smolensk. Yet though his father tried to find him a place at Chernigov, Smolensk and even distant Novgorod, nobody seemed to want Ivanushka.

He thought he knew the reason. ‘It is Sviatopolk,’ he sighed.

Wherever he went, people treated him with a distant kindness that told him they thought he was a simpleton. He could almost hear them thinking: Ivanushka’s a fool. Once he had even confronted Sviatopolk and demanded: ‘Why have you ruined my reputation?’

But Sviatopolk had only looked at him in mock amazement.

‘What reputation, Ivanushka? Surely nothing from my poor tongue, for or against you, would make any difference to the impression you produce yourself.’

As time went on, the expectation of his stupidity began to surround Ivanushka like a wall. He even began to say and do foolish things, as though hypnotized by people’s opinion. He felt trapped and the city of Pereiaslav with its stout earth ramparts became like a prison to him.

Indeed, he was only happy when he was out in the countryside.

It was a year after the move that Igor was put in charge of the defences along part of the south-eastern border. And it was at the centre of this area, now one of the prince’s estates, that the little fort of Russka lay.

It was an insignificant little place, of no interest to anyone – one of dozens of little frontier forts along the borderlands. Indeed, Igor would hardly have troubled to pay it more than a cursory visit if his friend Zhydovyn the Khazar had not reminded him that the warehouses there could serve as a useful depot for the caravans they still hoped to send to the east.

Ivanushka liked to visit this place. He would help the men repairing the fortress wall, or wander along through the woods, enjoying their peaceful quiet. And since Igor did not know what else to do with his youngest son, he would send him down there from time to time to help Zhydovyn receive shipments at the warehouse.

Which was the cause of his misery today. He had been in charge of receiving a consignment of furs that morning while the Khazar was away. He had heard the villagers and the men who brought the furs downriver laughing together; he had seen them look at him with amusement. And somehow, though he could never make out how it happened, two valuable barrels of beaver furs had gone missing. Now the Khazar was due back shortly, and he had no idea what to say.

It was just as he was gloomily pondering this matter that he saw the peasant.

Shchek was of medium height with a broad, stocky, square body upon which rested a round face with broad cheeks, soft brown eyes and a wavy aureole of black hair that stood up like a soft brush; he wore a linen shirt and trousers, with a leather belt outside the shirt, and bast shoes. There was something about his whole body, thickset and square though it was, that seemed to suggest a gentle, if possibly obstinate character. He was standing at the corner of the graveyard, and watching young Ivanushka carefully.

In Shchek’s mind was a very simple thought: They say this young man’s a fool. But I wonder if he has any money. For Shchek was about to be ruined.

Shchek the peasant was, like most of his kind, a free man. True, his status was humble. The very name of the class to which he belonged – the
smerdy –
meant ‘the dirty ones’! But he was free, in theory, to live where he wished and sell his labour to whom he chose. He was also free to incur debts.

He ran over them in his mind. The horse, first. That had not been his fault: the animal had gone lame and died. And since he was obliged to supply a horse to the prince for his soldiers in time of war, he had to buy another. But that had only been the start. He had gone drinking in Pereiaslav. Playing dice too. Then bought his wife a silver bracelet out of guilt; and obstinately borrowed again, and gambled again, to retrieve his money.

Now, as a member of the village commune, he owed the prince’s steward a tax on his plough, and he knew he could not pay it.

Thoughtfully, he moved towards the youth.

When Zhydovyn returned that evening and discovered the loss of the furs, he could only shake his head. He liked Ivanushka but it seemed to him that his prospects were poor. And though nothing was said, Ivanushka sensed that he was unlikely to be sent to Russka again.

Only one thing puzzled the Khazar. He could understand the theft of the furs, but how was it that the money Ivanushka had been left was short by two silver
grivnas
? The young man said he had lost them, but how the devil could he have done that? It was a mystery.

Ivanushka did not mind. He had known after the furs had gone that his own cause was lost. He had felt sorry for the peasant. At least the fellow could pay his taxes now.

And he scarcely thought about the incident again.

Today, it was said, there would be a miracle. The people confidently expected it. And with good reason. For today they were honouring the remains of the two royal martyrs, the sons of the mighty St Vladimir, Boris and Gleb, whom the Slavs already called saints.

It was half a century since they had died; now their remains were being taken to their final resting place, a newly constructed wooden church at the little town of Vyshgorod, just north of Kiev.

Would there be a miracle? Surely there would. But what form would it take?

In the upper circles of the nobility and the church it was known that the Greek Metropolitan, George, had grave doubts about the martyrs’ sanctity. But what could one expect from a Greek? And besides, whether he believed it or not, he had had to perform the ceremony.

They were all there: the three sons of Yaroslav, grandsons of St Vladimir himself – Prince Izyaslav of Kiev and his brothers, the
Princes of Chernigov and Pereiaslav; Metropolitan George; Bishops Peter and Michael; Theodosius of the Caves Monastery, and many more – all the greatest dignitaries in the land of Rus.

The procession wound its way up the hill. A light drizzle was falling, nestling softly on the heads of those who made their way slowly up the slippery path. Despite this fine rain, it was warm. It was May 20.

First came monks, shielding their candles. Immediately after them, dressed in plain brown cloaks, came the three sons of Yaroslav. Upon their shoulders, like humble men, they carried the wooden casket containing the remains of their Uncle Boris. After them came deacons, swinging censers, then priests, and behind them Metropolitan George himself and the bishops. Behind them, at a certain distance, followed a company of noble families.

‘They died rather than resist their brother. Now they shine like beacons over the land of Rus.’ ‘Boris, look down upon me, a sinner.’ ‘Lord have mercy.’ These and other pious remarks from the crowd reached the ears of the tall, gloomy-looking boy who walked up the slope beside the handsome family in the company of nobles behind the coffins. ‘Perhaps today we shall see a miracle.’ ‘God be praised.’

A miracle. Perhaps God would send a miracle, but not, Ivanushka felt sure, if he was there.

Nothing good happens when I’m around, he thought despondently, and his shoulders drooped as he trudged upwards.

In the last year, things had become even worse. A few weeks after the embarrassing incident at Russka, he had overheard a brief conversation between his parents.

‘There’s so much good in Ivanushka,’ his mother was pleading. ‘One day he’ll do something and you’ll be proud of him.’

‘No, he won’t,’ Igor’s voice had replied. ‘I’m certain now. I’ve given up.’ He heard his father sigh. ‘I can’t get anyone to take him. And I know why. I can’t trust him myself.’

He heard his mother murmur something then his father replied: ‘Yes, I love all my children. But it’s hard to love a child who always lets you down.’ Indeed, Ivanushka thought miserably, why should anyone love him?

He began asking for things – money from his mother, a horse from his father – to test their reaction and see if they loved him.
But soon this too became a habit. He grew lazy, and did as little as possible for fear of failing yet again.

He often loitered in the market at Pereiaslav. It was a busy place; on any day one might see a shipment of oil or wine arrive from Constantinople, or a cargo of iron taken from the swamps near the river and bound for Kiev. There were workshops where they made glass, as fine as any in the land of Rus; there were stalls where merchants sold bronze clasps and jewellery; and there were the foodstalls.

But as he watched, Ivanushka gradually became aware of a secondary activity going on all around him. One stall holder always short-changed his customers; another sold short measure. A gang of boys roamed by the stalls and stole fish from the vendors or coins from their customers with absolute impartiality. He came to watch all these arts, to admire the neatness with which they were practised. And the thought arose in his mind: These people depend upon no one for their living; by taking, they are free – free as the horsemen on the steppe.

Once, he even stole some apples himself, to prove how easy it was. No one detected him.

Yet the emptiness of his life was still a misery to him. He still felt, inside himself, that same vague longing he had had as a child: the desire to find his destiny.

And so it was that at last, three weeks before the ceremony for Boris and Gleb, and having seen all other opportunities evaporate, he had finally told his parents: ‘I want to be a monk.’

After all, it was the only thing that anyone seemed to think that he could be.

And the effect had certainly been remarkable.

‘Are you sure?’ his father had asked him in a tone that suggested Igor was only anxious that he should not change his mind. Even his mother, whatever her private misgivings, did not object.

Indeed, it was as if he had been born again. By that very evening his father had formed a plan. ‘He can go to Mount Athos in Greece. I have friends both here and in Constantinople who can help him. From there,’ Igor smiled with satisfaction, ‘he might yet make a great career.’ And the next day his father took him to one side to assure him: ‘You need have no fear about your journey, Ivan. I shall see you are well provided for. And there will be a gift for the monastery too.’

Even Sviatopolk, no doubt glad to see the last of him, came up and said, in what appeared to be a friendly voice: ‘Well, brother, you’ve probably chosen the right course after all. One day we’ll all be proud of you.’

They were proud of him. And now, in two more days, he was due to leave. Why then, as he walked up the hill behind the two saints, did he look as miserable as ever?

Only once, passing a guelder rose, did he seem for a moment to smile.

Would there be a miracle?

Ivanushka had never seen one. If God sent a miracle, then perhaps his faith would be restored.

I am going to bury myself in a monastery, he thought gloomily. Perhaps, in a few years, they will make me live underground in a cave. I shall certainly die young – all the monks do.

Would it be worth it? If only God would speak to him, reassure him, lighten his spirits. If only He would send a sign.