The Empire of Time (22 page)

Late afternoon sees us up on the Muhl-Berge, Frederick encouraging his army on. But they are fleeing now, their discipline finally broken, and though Frederick attempts to make a stand with six hundred men of the Lestwitz regiment, the battle is already lost and he knows it. It’s here and at this time that Frederick is in danger. One horse has already been shot out from under him, and now a second receives a musket-ball in its chest.

This is the moment. This is the reason I am here. To watch over him at this cusp in men’s affairs. To ensure that he survives these coming minutes.

As the horse collapses, von Gotz rushes across to help the King from his saddle. There is no let up in the battle. The air is filled with deadly metal. Shaken, Frederick looks to me, smiling weakly, as if to reassure me, then turns, taking the reins of von Gotz’s horse. He allows his
Flugeladjutant
to help him up into the saddle, then lifts his head and looks about him.

The grey horse turns, lifting its head proudly, as if it knows it now carries a king, yet even as it does, so Frederick slumps, then slides to his right, tumbling from his mount. There’s a cry of despair and a dozen men come running to help. They huddle around the fallen figure of the king, and as I look down past von Gotz’s shoulders at Frederick, I see with horror that there’s blood on his coat.

‘
Mein Gott!
’

I turn and look and there, not ten paces from me, dressed in the plain blue coats and orange waistcoats of the Diericke Fusiliers, are Nemtsov, Dankevich and Bobrov, and, just behind them, Gruber. They grin as they raise their guns once more.

And this time I jump and jump back moments earlier, Ernst at my side, Klaus over to my right, Freisler just behind the Russians.

Two hours have passed subjectively – perhaps the longest two hours of my life – spent closeted with Hecht, arguing about just how and why and
when
we’d deal with this, for there’s every chance this is a trap – a way of sucking in our forces in one final, make-or-break confrontation. After all, the Russians
know
that we have to respond – that we can’t let Frederick die. But anything we can do, they can do.

It’s a gamble, but what else can we do?

He gives me Ernst because – well – because I
plead
with him to let me have Ernst there at that moment. Because I trust no one half as much as I trust Ernst.

And so we step from the air, four against four – even odds for once – and open fire with our replicas. No mussel-loaders these, but modern high-tech lasers, made to resemble their ancient counterparts.

Nemtsov falls, dead again, and Bobrov staggers, blinded, then topples in a heap. I glance across and see that Klaus is down, and as I look back, so Dankevich aims his weapon at me.

I watch him die, not by my hand but – with savage irony – by an ancient musket-ball which strikes him square in the temple and carries away the top half of his skull.

Breathless, I turn full circle, waiting for others to appear, but that’s it – no one else is coming to this fray. Ernst is okay, and Freisler. And there, not twenty yards away, is Frederick, mounting von Gotz’s pale grey horse. Safe now.

I turn back, looking for Gruber. At first I don’t see him, but then I do. He’s also down, lying there on his back, groaning.

I walk across to him.

Gruber stares up at me, blood and spittle on his lips. The wound to his chest is a bad one. He’s been burned deeply and he’s ebbing fast, but as he sees me he smiles, as if he’s won.

‘Here,’ he mouths, and I kneel, leaning close to make out what he’s saying.

‘Your Katerina …’ he says, then coughs. ‘And Cherdiechnost … The Russians
know
…’

And so he dies. But I feel a fist of ice about my heart. They
know
? Urd protect me, let it not be true!

‘
Te spectem, suprema mihi cum venerit hora
,
Et teneam moriens deficiente manu.’

‘May I be looking at you when my last hour has come, And dying may I hold you with my weakening hand.’

– Tibullus, first century
BC

Katerina. Let me tell you about Katerina.

The day is freezing cold, even for March in that northern latitude. Novgorod in winter
is
cold, with the wind coming off Lake Ilmen and the frozen Baltic, but this day is bitter even by its severe standards. Ice clings to my lashes and brows, and as Ernst and I make our way to the merchant’s house, we pull our thick furs close about our necks and hunch forward, taking care not to slip on the snow-covered logs that constitute the main street.

Novgorod at this time – and we are speaking of 1237 Anno Domini, or Year 6746 by the old Orthodox calendar – is a sprawling metropolis of thirty thousand souls. But it is still a frontier town. Few of its buildings are made of stone. Like Moscow, it is a town built of wood, a product of the primeval forest that covers all these northern lands.

But before you get things wrong, Moscow in this Age, important as it is, is little more than a military outpost. Novgorod is the capital of the north, a thriving city-state with massive colonies between the White Lake and Lake Kubenskoe – in the
Zavoloch’e
, ‘Beyond the Portage’. It was to Novgorod – or, to be pedantic, to
Gorodishche
, the old town, just to the south, known also as Holmgarthr and Nemogardas, that the Varingians, later called the
Rhos
, or
Rus
, first came a full five centuries ago, from their homelands in the Aland Islands and central Sweden. The same men who, in time, became the grand princes of Kievan Rus’.

For its time, this is a massive city. Only the cities of ancient China are larger. Twenty-five
volosti
, or districts, sprawl across both banks of the Volkhov river, each a small town in itself. We are heading for the west bank, the
Sofiyskaya storona
, or ‘cathedral side’ as it’s known, the great square church of St Sophia, with its golden cupolas, looking out across the river to the eastern bank, the
Torgovaya Storona
, or ‘Trade Side’.

This is not my first visit. For two years now I have been cultivating contacts in the town, posing as a German merchant from Lubeck. This is Ernst’s project, and I am only one of four agents helping him, but Ernst confides in me, and I repay his confidence by aiding him as often as I can.

That is why I am there that day, walking at Ernst’s side as we cross the narrow wooden bridge that spans the turbulent Volkhov, heading up past the onion domes of St Sophia to see the merchant.

Mikhail Razumovsky is a relatively new contact, a rich boyar with trading links in Scandinavia. Ernst met him a week ago through a mutual friend, and they got drunk together. The invitation to supper came three days back. And so it is that we struggle against the wind that whips the snow up from the logs, even as the sun begins to set.

I pause on the steep path that leads up from the river, seeing the raw beauty in the day. The sun is a low, orange circle balanced on the dark edge of the world. Beneath it, huge bars of red-gold light lay on the rooftops and on the patchwork of lakes and rivers beyond. But it is the forest that awes me most, for it stretches all the way to the horizon, covering the land so densely that the night seems to well up from its dark and endless reach.

There is no darkness like the darkness of northern Russia, and when night falls one can believe that the world is in the grip of some force far older than Man.

Two blazing torches light the wooden gateway to our host’s residence. Razumovsky himself comes out to greet us, a tall man with a bushy black beard and fierce dark eyes. He embraces Ernst, slapping his back like they are the oldest of friends, then leads us across the frozen courtyard.

We are expecting a small, private meal with our host, but we are not alone. A dozen or more faces – heavily bearded, some familiar, others not – grin back at us from about the long table as we enter the room. A huge log fire blazes in one corner of the room, crackling fiercely, its smoke rushing up into the ceiling gap, yet the men still wear their heavy furs at table.

‘Ernst!’ one of them, a big man with an impressive bright red beard calls out. ‘Come! Sit with me!’

The table is stacked high with food and wine. There’s meat enough to feed a small army, let alone this gathering. This is not the ‘supper’ we were promised, but a feast – a
bratchina
.

I look to Razumovsky and smile. ‘We have not met before, Mikhail. My name is Otto.’

And, taking off my gloves, I shake his hands firmly and then embrace him, holding him close a moment, as is their fashion.

Razumovsky grins. ‘I’m glad to meet you, Otto. You speak our language well for a
Nemets
.’

‘I try,’ I say, then let myself be led to a place beside my host.

Ernst is deep in conversation with the big man. I don’t recognise him, but Ernst clearly knows him well.

Razumovsky leans close, speaking to my ear. ‘I didn’t know your friend, Ernst, knew the
tysiatskii
.’

I look again, surprised. So the big man is Novgorod’s military commander, second only to the
posadnik
in the civil administration of the town. The two men work with the prince to govern Novgorod and, like him, are elected by the
veche
, the council of boyars.

I look around the table, reassessing the situation. Far from being a simple supper, Razumovsky has gathered together a small yet impressive group of men. Five of them, at least, I know to be on the
veche
, and of the others, at least two are merchants of considerable wealth. I smile and nod, acknowledging each in turn, then look to Razumovsky.

It is not their way to be direct, and so I do not ask him what the purpose of the gathering is. Instead I ask a simple question. ‘Your family, Mikhail … they are in good health?’

Razumovsky grins at the question, his poor, yellowing teeth showing through his thick black beard. ‘Most well, thank you, my friend. Indeed, you will meet them in a while. They would have greeted you ordinarily, but we were not sure when you would come, and besides, Masha is supervising the slaves. But here now … here they are!’

He stands, and a moment later all about the table rise to their feet as two women enter, small trays of drinks held out before them. Heads bow respectfully, and I lower mine in accord with their custom. Yet as I raise it again, I look across and meet her eyes …

And catch my breath, for there, before me, is such a beauty as I’ve never yet beheld. Her eyes are like the bluest of lakes, and yet so deep …

And in that single, fateful moment I am lost to her. I do not even know her name, only that, in that instant, her soul has touched mine, and fused.

She looks down, blushing, even as her father goes to her and, grinning with pleasure, parades her for his fellow boyars.

I stand there, unable not to stare, conscious that if any there were to study me, they would see at once my fixed attention on her. Even so, I cannot help myself. I drink in the sight of her.

‘Ernst, Otto, may I present my eldest daughter, Katerina.’

Katerina
. The very word seems to glow with special meaning. Yet now I feel embarrassed. I look away, flustered, disturbed by the suddenness, the very strength of what I am feeling.

‘And this,’ he continues, ‘is my wife, Masha.’

I look back and see how the girl is staring at me now, her eyes wide, questioning.
What has happened?
she seems to ask.
Who are you and what do you want of me?

Yet even as our eyes make contact, she quickly looks away.

Her eyes – I speak as if she is but a pair of eyes. But it is so. Her hair is dark and lustrous, her figure the full figure of Russian womanhood. A beauty she is, without doubt, yet it is her eyes I fall in love with.

‘She does you credit, Mikhail,’ one of the guests – Vavilov, I think it is – cries out. ‘She’ll make young Oleg Alekseevich a good wife!’

Her eyes find mine. There is shock in them now and pain, the very mirror of my own, for in those brief, few seconds I have both found and lost the woman of my dreams.

‘So she will!’ Razumovsky crows, his self-satisfied grin seeming to mock me. ‘The banns are to be read next week in St Sophia’s, and the wedding will follow in the spring.’

He puts his arm about his daughter’s shoulders and squeezes her to him, oblivious of her suffering. ‘May they have many children!’

Goblets are raised, and all about that table a dozen bearded faces grin broadly as they robustly echo Razumovsky’s hideous words.

‘Many children!’

I can remember little else of that evening Only that my heart has been torn from me. On returning to our rooms in the Peterhof, I lock my door and refuse to talk to Ernst. He knows that something has happened, but what it is, he can only surmise. I am no lover, after all. If anything I have a reputation for being a cold fish when it comes to love. Besides, he’s drunk, and far from capable of riddling it out.

‘Otto … what is it?’

But how can I answer? It seems ridiculous even to me. Do I know this girl? Then how can I say I am in love with her? Besides, there are strict rules – laws more than guidelines – to which we travellers must adhere, and the most important of those is not to spill our seed anywhere in the past. Things can be complex enough without messing up the gene pool.

And if sex is forbidden, how much more so love?

I know my duty. My duty is to forget the girl and get on with things. I am not here to fall in love. I am here to help Ernst undermine the current Prince of Novgorod, Alexander Iaroslavich. But I am hurting so badly I cannot focus on my duty. All I can think of is that I have met someone, and that that someone – Katerina – seems to want me as much as I want her. To no avail. For she’s to be married shortly.

I should have gone back, right then. Jumped back to the platform and confessed to Hecht. They might have treated me, erased my memory of her, perhaps, or cured me by some subtler means. Yet I do not want to be cured. It is as if some strange sickness has overtaken me. Wherever I look I see her eyes, staring back at me, as naked in their love for me as mine for her. And even when I close them, there she is.