Darker Jewels (42 page)

“Us,” said Boris at once. “And it is typical that the Romans put form before worship. Had you grown up in the Eastern Rite you would never need to ask such a question.” He stood back, indicating the tremendous, ancient ikon of Christ in Glory raising up His mother in Heaven; Christ, in red-and-gold robes with red hair and beard looked more like a beneficent Shuisky Prince than a carpenter from Galilee, and Marya, with her narrow, sloe-eyed face resembled the ancient Russian ruler Vladimir Monomakh’s favorite wife far more than a peasant woman from the Dead Sea. Boris blessed himself and the ikon, and while Rakoczy did the same thing, he said, “We have not lost the way in useless ceremony as the Romans have. We place our trust in the Prophets and the Gospels. Our faith remains true to the teachings of Christ.”

“It is a remarkable Cathedral,” said Rakoczy sincerely.

“There is nothing else like it in the world,” Boris declared with satisfaction. “Not even the temples of China are more beautiful than this.” He had heard only the most exaggerated accounts of the temples in the south of China, but the accounts of tremendous palace-temples of gold with thousands of golden statues of Buddha shining so brightly that it hurt to look at them could not help but impress him.

Rakoczy nodded and let Boris think what he wished: if he had discovered one thing in his three thousand five hundred years, it was the futility of religious debate. He kept to the side of the entrance away from the pilgrims going to Vasilli’s tomb. The Holy Fool had begged his bread and spoken of his visions in the Beautiful Market Square, and had been buried in the old Church of the Trinity where this Cathedral of the Virgin of the Intercession now stood. Some of the older peasants and artisans in the line vociferously recounted hearing Vasilli speak.

“I was barely old enough to handle my father’s grain sacks: hardly more than ten,” one of these men declared. “Yet even I could tell that he was more than one of those who have lost their wits, or never had any in the first place. This man was consumed with the Sight. Devout monks would think a lifetime of prayer were well-spent for that Sight. He cared nothing for power or position or honor, but only for the Sight.” He crossed himself.

“It was more than thirty years ago,” said a man not far from him in the line, encouraging the others around him to share his skepticism. “You cannot remember such things.”

“If you had seen Holy Fool Vasilli, you would never have forgotten him. Never,” the first insisted.

Boris led Rakoczy further into the Cathedral, toward the magnificent ikonostasis. “Czar Ivan thought this his greatest achievement in all Moscovy.”

Rakoczy nodded. “Not without reason.” He glanced around at the ikons on the whitewashed walls, and asked in a lowered voice, “Is it true he put out the eyes of the architect so that he could never do anything more beautiful?”

For a moment Boris said nothing; he hardly breathed. Then he touched his beard, smoothing it as if stroking a nervous cat. “Yes. I have heard that rumor; everyone has, and everyone repeats it, in the Kremlin, in the markets, and in church. But blind a man for something so resplendent?—I never saw it happen.” He looked around the echoing interior. “He was capable of it, of course.”

Again Rakoczy nodded. He paused as the choir suddenly burst out in unaccompanied sixteen-part harmony, extolling the endless compassion of Marya, their supplication to her as vast and relentless as an avalanche.

Boris took his place with the other worshippers, insisting on no position of privilege, telling the young priest who approached him, “If we were within the Kremlin walls it would be another matter. There it is fitting that rank be maintained, for it is the Czar’s as well as God’s. But here, we are all Rus, and all of us come naked and sinful before Judgment.”

The young priest gave the two men a blessing, hesitating at the sight of Rakoczy’s Polish clothing. Then he repeated a short prayer and hurried away.

“Also here we are more invisible than in other places,” Boris added a short while later as the metropolitan intoned the opening phrases of the Mass.

As the liturgy was celebrated inside the Kremlin, this one, outside the walls, was relatively short, lasting little more than an hour and a half. The Metropolitan and his priests led the worshippers in blessing the ikons as they made for the doors, once again passing those waiting to pray at the tomb of Yurodivyi Vasilli.

Boris once again stared up at Christ in Glory and crossed himself. “Some of the pilgrims have said that because of the Turks, Christ must come again soon to save His Church, and to bring faithful Christians to Heaven. But I do not think it will be so.” He looked out into the gathering mist that glared beyond the door. “I think it will be many long years before He comes again, and it will not be the Turk who brings Him. What do you think, Rakoczy.”

“I know that whatever I think, it will change nothing,” he answered gently. “These things are mysteries. If the pilgrims feel safer or more certain of their purpose, what is the harm in their belief that God is waiting for diem when they get where they are going?” So many memories crowded his thoughts, from the unseen god in the sacred grove at the dark of the night and the year, to the masked faces in Babylon, to the thousands at the Temple of Imhotep, to the Greek acolyte up to his elbows in the blood of goats, to hermits made famous by their austerity and piety, to the Turkish dancers whirling for endless hours, to the Dominicans following Savonarola down the Via del Battistero toward the Piazza della Signoria, each carrying paintings to be burned . . . “Their faith is admirable, if it is not used against—” As he stepped out into the light-riddled haze he heard his name called sharply.

Standing a short distance away in a muddy depression between two high drifts of snow, Father Pogner stood with Father Kovnovski and Father Felikeno to support him. He was wrapped in his pluvial over his cassock and he carried a tall crucifix, the corpus in silver, the cross in gold. He glistened in the shiny fog as he advanced on Rakoczy. “You are not worthy to take Communion. You are unworthy to be Catholic, but I have not the authority to excommunicate you—not yet. Rest assured that when the roads are clear, I will address the Archbishop, and he will deal with King Istvan. Your days of impunity are drawing to a close, traitor.” He held up the crucifix.

The worshippers leaving the cathedral took a ragged step back, and most of them blessed themselves. The pilgrims turned away, most of them scandalized by the intrusion of Polish Catholics on the sacred grounds of the cathedral.

“Bring a dozen of your fellows,” Boris said to his Guard in an undervoice. “Do these men no harm, treat them with respect, but get them out of this place or we will have a riot.”

The Guard officer nodded. “At once,” he said.

“At the walk,” Boris cautioned him. “No need to attract attention before you want it.” He motioned them off and then walked over to Rakoczy’s side.

“If I had been granted that right, I would pronounce the anathema right now. As it is, I have instructed the embassy that you are to be regarded as excommunicated already. They are to have no contact with you, send you no messages, deal with you—on those rare occasions when it should be necessary— through messengers who cannot be contaminated by the lack of faith and the evil of your intent.” He was screaming in order to be heard over the bells which rang from all over Moscovy as mid-day Mass came to an end. The discordant wobbling tone of the bell at the badly damaged church of Saint Varvarka the Martyr was a jarring addition to the rest, but no Moscovite complained.

“You have disgraced the Church!” Father Pogner shouted. “You have disgraced all Poland!”

“It is a pity he does not speak in Russian,” said Boris in a low tone, his mouth narrowed in disapproval. “No more than a dozen people here speak Polish, I’ll wager. As it is, there will be many who claim to have understood him, and there will be rumors about this, not all of them welcome to you—or to me.” Father Pogner continued his denunciation, his face growing rosy with cold and choler. He pointed at Rakoczy. “You deserved to lose your lands in Transylvania. You have abused the trust of King Istvan! You deserve to be an exile and a vagabond!” Rakoczy touched his hands to his ears and shook his head, as if he could not make out what Father Pogner was saying.

“You are a disgrace to Transylvania and your blood!” Father Pogner declared so loudly that his voice broke.

Something changed at the back of Rakoczy’s penetrating eyes; a darkness unrelated to the color came into them. Very slowly and carefully, he started forward, his stride deceptively easy. “Rakoczy,” said Boris behind him. “Let the Guard handle it.” Rakoczy nodded and kept on walking, direcdy to Father Pogner, ignoring Fathers Kovnovski and Felikeno. He had not raised his hood when he left the cathedral and now snowflakes and shards of sleet clung to his dark, loose curls. He dropped to his knee and kissed the hem of Father Pogner’s pluvial; next he rose so that he could kiss the feet of the crucifix as well. If the cold metal burned his lips he gave no sign of it. Then he turned to the badger-haired priest and said very softly and distinctly, “Remember that you are the one who forced this meeting: I will say this to you once, Father Pogner. I do not disgrace my blood. I do not abjure my vows—to anyone.” He dropped to his knee once more and again kissed the hem of the pluvial. He looked up. “Not even to you.”

Boris stood with his arms folded, hands once again gloved. He considered the outrage he saw in Father Pogner’s prominent eyes. “A pity you do not often kill priests in the West. That one would be better off.”

“That one is the leader of the embassy I am sworn to serve,” Rakoczy said evenly as he rejoined his friend. “In the name of King Istvan.”

“The embassy,” said Boris thoughtfully. “Not the man.” He saw his guard returning and made three quick signals: the soldiers veered off and formed a line near the three Polish priests.

“And I cannot desert the embassy, for it would compromise more than my word,” Rakoczy said. “As you cannot set aside your duty to Czar Feodor because Nikita Romanov is unpleasant.”

“An apt comparison, up to a point,” said Boris, and flapped his arm in the direction of the priests. “Move them out of here. See that they return to their embassy without incident.”

Father Pogner swung his tall crucifix like a pike as the guard approached. “You will all keep back.
Back!”
He faced Boris across the expanse of grubby snow. “It pleases you to use Rakoczy. You think he is your creature. He is a
cur.
And he will turn on you as he has turned on the Church and Poland.”

Father Felikeno broke and ran, wanting only to get away from the gathering crowd in the Beautiful Market Square.

“Let him go,” Boris advised his guard without emotion. “He will manage.”

“You are the servant to the Devil!” Father Pogner shouted; he might have meant Boris instead of Rakoczy. “You are a tool of evil.”

Rakoczy deliberately directed his attention away from Father Pogner. “Father Kovnovski,” he said to the younger man, his voice very calm and level, “tell me: do you think you can return Father Pogner without incident to the embassy if the Guard escort you?”

Father Pogner started to scream a protest, but Boris held up his hand and sharply ordered silence. For once the haughty old priest was held wholly in check by the strong arm and large gloved hand of a Cossack Guard. He shoved against the soldier to no effect; he could not speak or move, and his crucifix was kept upright by another Guard, serving to deepen the insult Father Pogner felt; not only was he being treated like a barbarian interloper, but his God was being mocked by these idolaters.

With a strained laugh Father Kovnovski made a deprecating motion. “There’s no reason to send the Guard along. Once away from here he will not lose his composure. He’ll be reasonable. It isn’t necessary to . . . have the soldiers lead us.”

“I’m afraid it is,” said Boris in excellent Polish. “The pilgrims are very offended by what you have done, and I cannot permit you to walk the streets without protection while they are so affronted.”

Father Kovnovski looked deeply miserable; he was embarrassed, frightened, and cold. Much as he admired Father Pogner, at this instant he wanted nothing more than to abandon the old priest to his fate. When the ambassador had requested his company, there had been no mention of this confrontation. He squared his shoulders and regretted again that he had not worn the long rabbit-skin cloak he had purchased just three weeks before; he was shivering from cold, not fear. “If that is what you advise . . .” He spat, then looked at Rakoczy, his eyes doing the begging his voice could not.

Rakoczy shrugged. “Accept the offer. Under the circumstances, Boris Feodorvich is being very magnanimous. You might tell Father Pogner that. Not that he will believe it,” he added sardonically, glancing once at the ambassador.

“Father Pogner will not regard this . . . kindly.” His manner was as ingratiating as he could make it and the opinion he offered was still bound to be unwelcome. He stared at Rakoczy. “If you could apologize to him?”

“I?” Rakoczy inquired cordially, shaking his head gently once. “For what cause? I have done nothing to offend him. If he believes otherwise, I am grieved that his mistaken apprehension has brought us to such a pass as this.” He drew on his black Florentine gloves. He bowed slightly to Father Kovnovski. “Let me know if there are any incidents against you—any of you—or the embassy.”

Boris clapped his hands and shouted brisk orders to the guard;

he marched forward a short way and looked around the Square. “I do not want anything to happen to these foreigners. Those who harm them bring shame to the little Father, and his honor will be avenged.” His big, gloved hands were on his hips and he was already muffled in his shuba so that he looked like a large, bronze-and-black bear.

There was jostling in the long line of pilgrims as the various men who had been watching turned away, demonstrating their indifference to what they had seen.

The Guard closed around the priests, the leader presenting himself to Father Kovnovski with a flourish. The Guard holding Father Pogner frog-marched the old man to Father Kovnovski’s side.