The Empire of Time (30 page)

‘Hark, Oleg! Otto here wants my daughter’s hand!’

Kravchuk stiffens, then looks at me challengingly. ‘He is no Russian, Mikhail,’ he says coldly. ‘And Russians should marry Russians. It is not good to mix the blood.’

I stare back at him, furious. I want to kill him, only I’ve no weapon on me. Besides, it’s Razumovsky’s decision, not his.

I look to my host and realise just how drunk he is. Bleary-eyed drunk. Can’t-hold-your-head-up drunk. He just wants to fall over in the corner and sleep.

‘Wha—?’

‘I said,’ Kravchuk begins, but I cut him short.

‘Don’t interfere. Hear me? You say another word, I’ll kill you.’

‘You’ll what?’ And Kravchuk laughs, and reaches across to take another chicken leg. ‘Kill me, my arse! You’re all hot air, you Germans. As full of shit as a pig’s intestines!’

I stand, glaring at him. But he’s not even looking at me. It’s as if I’m of no consequence, and I feel the urge to tell him that I’ve killed him once already – burned a hole in his fucking head – only he’d think me mad. So I leave before I do something I regret. Only as I go to step into the street, someone catches my arm and I turn to find her there, wrapped in a cloak, a shadow in the darkness by the gate, and she says the words I sense she’s said a hundred times or more.

‘Who are you?’

And I answer her with a kiss, and then I take her hand and lead her out into the darkness of that thirteenth-century night, away from Kravchuk and her fool of a father. And she asks me where we’re going, and I say I don’t know, just away, and I realise that I have left all of my belongings behind, but it doesn’t matter. I have the only thing I need with me. The only thing I value. And when we stop, beyond the bridge, beneath a cresset lamp that burns fitfully in its metal cage, I take her face in my hands and kiss her once again and tell her that I love her, and her eyes, the image of which are burned into my soul, shine back at me in that wavering light as she smiles and softly laughs.

As the dawn’s light fills the room, I wake to find her there beside me, naked, her dark hair spread across my pillow, and I know that I must have died and gone to heaven, for I have not ever seen such beauty.

I watch her for a time, content to see her sleeping there beside me, the memory of what we did in the night filling me.

Razumovsky would kill me if he knew. But she is no longer his. She is mine now. My wife. For all eternity.

And I know that I have crossed some Rubicon of the soul, but it matters nothing. All that matters lies beside me now, her warmth, her sweet reality my compass and my anchor for all time. And I know now what I sensed that very first time I saw her, that nothing will part us now. Nothing.

Even so, I must go and see her father.

She wakes, and her eyes, opening to me, are filled with love. We kiss, and that kiss reminds us of the night, and she and I begin again that sweetest game of all, that game of mouths and tongues and fingers, and our bodies press hard, as if to merge, my need and hers a single, growing force, until she cries out, her body arching under mine, and I groan and feel my seed course into her.

Afterwards she lies there, crying quietly, and I ask her why, and she tells me it’s because she has never been so happy. And I am struck with awe that she is mine. Wiping her tears away, she lifts herself up on to her elbow, looking down at me, a strange intelligence in her eyes.

‘How do I know you, Otto? Where is it that we’ve met? And how, then, did I ever forget you? For surely I must have. It’s just that it seems …
unnatural
.’

I almost laugh and tell her everything: that I hail from a time so distant that more than fifty generations separate us … Only I don’t, for I know that such knowledge would frighten her. And, having won her so completely, I fear to lose her now. Yet she seems to sense something. It is as if she
knows
. But knows what?

‘The priests who taught me,’ she says, one finger gently tracing the length of my jaw, making me shiver at the touch, ‘they claim that everything is pre-ordained. That God alone has set our destiny. Only being here with you I begin to question that. You and I … it’s like we were fated. I’m not even sure what I mean by that, only … I
knew
you, Otto. Knew you at first sight. One moment nothing, and the next …’

She leans closer, lowering her face to mine, her lips to mine, her breasts warm, like silk against my chest. Yet even as I turn and reach across to caress her face, there is a hammering at the door.

‘Behr! Come out! Come out, you bastard!’

I look to her, seeing the fear in her eyes, and try to reassure her.

‘It’s okay,’ I say softly. ‘It’ll be okay.’

But I know I’m in trouble, and while normally I could just jump right out of there, I cannot leave her. That’s Kravchuk’s voice, and if he’s come, he’ll not be alone. He’ll have his Mongol friends with him.

‘Get dressed,’ I tell her. ‘Then go over to the corner. They’ll not harm you.’

‘But Otto …’

My voice grows hard as the hammering comes again. ‘Do as I say! We’ll be all right.’

She dresses hurriedly, and once she’s ready, I go to the door and draw the upper bolt.

Kravchuk is there, of course, and his three friends. He stares at me, surprised to find me naked, then steps inside and sniffs the air. A cruel smile appears on his lips.

‘Oh dear … Our friend Razumovsky
won’t
be pleased.’

I face him squarely. ‘What do you want, Kravchuk?’

‘I want your bollocks, trader. I want them on a string about my neck.’

And he steps aside, to let his goons come at me. And they’re good. There are few fighters throughout history to equal the Mongols for their savagery. But I am trained for this. I’ve been trained since I was four – turning and kicking and punching, using my hands and feet as lethal weapons. This much is pure instinct. And as the last of them falls, clutching his crushed manhood, I turn to Kravchuk and smile.

‘You want to cut them off yourself, Oleg Alekseevich?’

The worm swallows and backs towards the door. He’s drawn his knife, but he has no confidence in using it. It trembles in his hand.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to try?’

And I want him to make a move, so I can throw him down and choke the life from him. But he’s seen enough and, throwing down the knife, he runs for it.

I watch him go, then take a shuddering breath. For a moment I stand there, swaying, coming down from that peak of intensity, my body relaxing after the adrenalin rush. And then I turn, remembering her.

She’s watching me, like she hasn’t really seen me till that moment. And as I step towards her, she flinches, and I say:

‘It’s okay, Katerina. It’s only me. We’re safe now.’

And her face seems to break, and tears come, and I hold her, like a father holds his child, until the storm has passed and she gives a shuddering sigh against me.

‘Who are you, Otto? Who are you
really
?’

Razumovsky is out with a host of his friends, searching the back streets of Novgorod to find his daughter, but his wife, Masha is there when we call at the house, and she greets Katerina with a single look that takes in everything. She knows. But then, I’m not about to deny it. I plan to brazen this out. What I know is that Razumovsky as good as promised me his daughter until Kravchuk turned up. But now things are different. He might kill me, but he’ll find it hard to find another husband for his daughter, now that I’ve stolen her away. Word will go out. And, after all, it’s better for her to have a live, rich husband, than a dead one who’s worth nothing.

Or so I hope. For I know that Razumovsky is a passionate man, and would as soon kill a man as listen to reason. He’s done it once before, with Kravchuk, and he could just as easily do it to me.

And so we wait, while a servant runs off to find his master and give him the news that we’re here. Eventually he comes.

I am standing there alone when he steps into the room. His friends are behind him, but he turns and waves them away. This is for him to deal with alone. Turning back, he shoots me a fierce look, as if I’m in for it now, yet what he says surprises me.

‘You’re a cool one, Otto Behr. To come back here, after what you’ve done.’

I wait, not saying a word, and he speaks again.

‘So? What am I to do? Kill you? Or make a son of you?’

And he smiles, and I realise that, even as he’s searched the streets, he has been thinking. And maybe – for it’s likely in a town this size – he’s also heard what I did to Kravchuk’s friends. And maybe that too has set him thinking.

‘I’ll make her a good husband.’

‘That we’ll see.’ But he doesn’t seem aggrieved now. After all, if I marry her, then no harm’s done. Even so, when he takes my hands, he squeezes them a little, just to show me who’s the master here.

‘Father,’ I say and bow my head to him, then turn, as Katerina enters, looking first to her father and then, her eyes wide with delight, to me. She rushes over and clings to me, and I look past her at her father, who now stares at me, puzzled by this.

And I know what he is thinking at that moment.

Who are you, Otto Behr? Just who are you?

Hecht’s mad with me, but that doesn’t matter. Now that she’s mine, I can focus on the rest of it.

The map’s still red, you see, which means that Kravchuk and his fellow agents have failed. But now that I’ve bested him, I can put that right. Now that he knows who’s master, I can be his ally.

You’ll find that odd, perhaps, yet it’s so. Now that she’s mine, my animosity towards the man has gone. He’s lost that contest, but he needn’t lose the game. In fact, we need him to win.

But first I have to find him.

Leaving Katerina with her father, I go to the east of the town, the
Torgovaya storona
, to the rooms where Ernst and I unearthed him first time round. He’s not there, but I’m told by the innkeeper that he did return, not an hour back, and left almost immediately.

So where’s he gone?

I jump back an hour and wait and watch him go inside, then, less than two minutes later, leave hurriedly. I follow, keeping well back, as he makes his way to the western gate. There he waits, pacing back and forth, as if he’s meeting someone.

Ten minutes pass, fifteen, then someone comes. I recognise the man from the first time we visited Razumovsky’s house. It’s Ernst’s friend, the
tysiatskii
, Novgorod’s military commander. Kravchuk talks to him a while, huddled close, talking to his ear, his whole manner urgent, and then the
tysiastskii
turns and hurries away, leaving Kravchuk alone once more.

I wonder just what’s happening, and how the
tysiatskii
knew he’d be there, when the town’s bells start to ring.

I turn, looking back over the roofs of the houses and see the reason why. There is a fire down near the river, in the direction of the Peterhof – the foreign quarter. I watch for a while, seeing the dark pall of smoke swirl upwards in the morning sunlight, then turn back.

Kravchuk’s behind me, no more than ten paces away. As I turn he stops, looking at me uncertainly. I don’t know what he intended – to surprise me, perhaps – but I can see he’s still afraid of me, and so I put up my hands in a gesture of peace.

‘We’ve no need to be enemies,’ I say. ‘I’ve got what I came here for.’

He doesn’t answer, so I continue.

‘I could help you, Kravchuk. Smooth the way for you. Get you introductions. Even help you find a wife.’

Anyone
, I think.
Anyone but Katerina
.

He wets his lips, then shakes his head. ‘I don’t need your help, trader. I’ve friends of my own.’

‘You mean Batu’s men?’

His eyes widen with surprise at the warlord’s name. He didn’t think that anyone here in Novgorod had ever heard that name before.

‘Oh, I know what you’re doing, Kravchuk. But it doesn’t matter. You and I want the same thing. For the Horde to be victorious. That letter you carry from the Great Khan. I’ll help you deliver it. I’ll help you get it to Alexander Iaroslavich.’

This is too much for him, however, and I can see he’s torn between running and staying to fight me. Only he’s seen what I can do, and he clearly doesn’t rate his chances.

‘How do you know all this? Who told you?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘All that matters is that I know. Everything. And I’m willing to help you.’

But he’s still suspicious. Up until a moment ago I was a deadly rival, so why should he trust me now? Only I’m saying all the right things.

‘Your friend, the
tysiatskii
, where has he gone?’

Kravchuk glances to his left, then to his right, as if he suspects some trap; as if, while I’ve kept him talking, I’ve brought up men to surround him. But it’s only his paranoia.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I saw you, talking to him. And then he hurried off. Why?’

But Kravchuk’s not about to say.

The smell of burning is stronger and the great pall of smoke has risen so high now that it starts to block the sunlight. Kravchuk glances toward it, then looks back at me.

‘Tonight,’ he says. ‘At Razumovsky’s. We’ll speak then.’ And he turns and hurries away, back towards the river. Towards where the fire burns fiercest.

That evening, Razumovsky holds a great feast, announcing to his astonished friends that I am to marry his daughter just as soon as I’ve converted to the faith. A massive cheese is brought out and laid upon the table, its ritual slicing symbolising our
obruchenie
– our betrothal – and later a priest arrives and takes me aside and tests me, and, satisfied with my responses, says I am to be baptised into the Russian Orthodox faith tomorrow at dawn. In fact, things are moving so fast that I forget about Kravchuk until, returning to the feast, I see him, seated quietly at one corner of the great table, the big Mongolian at his side.

Talk at the table is of the great fire that swept the Peterhof that morning. The inn I was staying at was among those buildings destroyed, and I thought, perhaps, the Khan’s men might have perished in the conflagration, but I can see that one at least survived, and so I go across and, standing before Kravchuk, bow to him in greeting.