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The day of the executions dawned cold, but the sun did shine. It proved a bizarre schism of logic that would characterize the day. Winter’s chill in the air, but a bright, cheery sun; Russia’s soldiers dressed in their finery, except with a bleak job to do; Moscow’s citizens coming out to Red Square in throngs, only to witness the gruesome public executions of their own people.
Taras sat atop his horse at the edge of Red Square. The officers of the Tsar’s army lined the space, ready to intercede if things got out of hand. A raised platform had been constructed not far from the mouth of the Kremlin, where the gates led into the palace courtyard. The platform, not much more than a wooden dais, stood five feet above the ground, with wooden steps built up the side. Its only function would be to ensure everyone in Red Square had a clear view of the executions.
Taras's gut felt knotted. He'd seen death before, battle, even execution. Something about this felt so wrong. Surely Nikolai had the right of it. Ivan did what he deemed necessary and they ought not judge him for it. Taras didn’t believe it.
The executions were scheduled to begin at ten o’clock. Fifteen minutes shy of that, the doors of the Kremlin opened and Ivan was carried out atop a cushioned, gilded chair. Dressed in his finest costume, he glittered with gold and silver sequins. His substantial red velvet cloak appeared thick enough for curtains on the palace windows, and his pointed boots were made from animal pelts. His unruly red hair had been combed and his beard clipped. He looked harsh, angry, annoyed, but stately. Every inch the omnipotent sovereign today.
A few people cheered when he emerged. He did not acknowledge them. Most of the people gaped in awe, to have the Tsar so near. A thick line—three men deep—of Streltsi stood between the Tsar and the crowd. They stood decked out in glittering chain mail and held wicked-looking spears at their sides.
When Ivan was settled, the executioner, a thick-armed man from Siberia, ascended the steps of the dais. Once on top, he donned a black mask. The table at his side held knives, hooks, and other weapons of torture. Six dogs barked and lunged against the ropes tying them to one leg of the wooden scaffold. A small area on that side of the platform had been cordoned off and kept free from onlookers. Taras couldn't guess its purpose, and didn't want to.
Then the hour arrived. In Russia, a family bore guilt by association. If the head of the family committed a crime, his entire household shared in the blame. And the punishment. Most of those scheduled for execution today were friends and relations of Adashev.
Taras did not know any of their names. He'd not bothered to learn. Their entire families would be wiped out in the cold sunshine of Red Square today.
The first family marched up onto the dais. The father, a tall, stocky, balding man, led them. Even from far back on the east side of Red Square, Taras made out sunken eyes and natural creases under the eyes that had deepened into dark chasms. The man's wife, blond hair tangled and her once-expensive emerald dress in tatters, followed him up the steps. Her head hung, her shoulders slumped. They had three children. Two looked to be in their teen years, the other a year or two younger.
A herald stepped up beside the dais. In a loud voice, he read proclamations decreeing the family's treason against the most holy Tsar of unified Russia, by virtue of collaboration with the traitor Adashev.
Taras paid little heed to what the herald read—all formality and justification for the Tsar’s murderous deeds.
His stomach squeezed into tighter knots as the executioner pushed the husband forward roughly, forcing him to his knees. No last words were permitted, even to his family. By the awkward, painful way he moved, it was obvious he'd been tortured. Once the condemned boyar knelt, the executioner picked up his ax.
The youngest child—a boy of not more than ten or twelve with his mother’s blond hair—started to scream. Two soldiers held the boy back, gripping him by the arms. Taras’s chest ached.
The two older children—a boy and a girl—did not move or cry out. Their eyes looked dead, and they watched their younger brother in a resigned way, making no move toward him. The wife stood trembling, but still somehow graceful, head down and shoulders shaking delicately. She did not move to hug her children, or speak to her husband. She sobbed delicately, utterly defeated.
A moment later, to the ooh of the crowd, the man's head rolled across the scaffold. A collective shudder ran through the crowd as the headless body fell forward. The youngest boy's shrieks became shriller.
The sound echoed in Taras’s heart. Similar screams ripped through his chest when his mother died. He hadn’t been much older than this boy. Perhaps mercy lay in killing the entire family at once. The children would not live with having their parents’ brutal deaths always before their eyes.
No, that’s wrong. At least when his mother died, Taras looked to the future. It had been cold and bleak, but he had the freedom to vow he would find his mother’s killer someday. It brought priceless comfort to him. This boy, whose parents would die in front of him, was dying himself, and held no control over his life or death. Taras couldn’t think of anything worse than this kind of helplessness.
Ivan ordered the wife to kiss her husband’s decapitated head. When she didn’t move, the executioner took her by the arm and threw her forward, nearly to the edge of the dais, where the head had rolled. He yelled at her until she put her arms out wide in front of her, leaning her weight on them, and bent down between them to kiss her husband’s cheek.
As her lips touched the corpse, the ax swung again, and her head joined her husband’s on the dais. All three children yelped at this, but even the youngest had stopped screaming and thrashing. He hung in his captors’ grasp, his eyes red and lifeless.
Taras wanted to tear his eyes away, but couldn’t. Jasper’s reins shook and jumped in his grip. He pulled his gaze from the carnage to study them. His hands trembled violently. He gripped the reins harder. Now he'd torn his eyes from the stage, he could not bring himself to look back. The execution of each of the children followed, starting with the youngest. It happened swiftly. Taras only saw out of the corner of his eye, studying his gloved hands furiously while fighting the pressure building up behind his eyes.
He wanted to be out of this place, wanted it more than anything, but he could not leave Red Square without making a statement that would surely put him on the execution list next. Not daring to cover his eyes or turn his head, he kept his face pointed in the general direction of the dais, averting his gaze as the executions proceeded.
The crowd, he realized, was being affected in a unique way. Most crowds loved a good public execution. They taunted and raved, cheering the executioner on. It began that way, but the brutality of this execution took its toll. Many in the crowd frowned, looking disturbed, gazed about to see if anyone else shared their sentiments. No one left, though; no one cried out in objection; and no one else, that Taras saw, so much as averted their eyes. They merely stared, a look of disturbed sorrow, bordering on horror, painted across their faces.
The executions went on all morning. With the second family, the children were killed first, as their parents watched, their bodies thrown to the dogs. The adults followed. When the dogs had more meat than they could consume in several days, the bodies were collected and tossed into the river.
Not all the deaths proved as swift as decapitation, either. By the time the executions ended, blood stained the entire top of the dais and ran down the sides. Hunks of something Taras couldn’t identify from so far away also littered the platform. Wads of flesh, no doubt, but whether from outside the body or in, he couldn’t tell, and didn’t want to.
The crowd filed silently out of Red Square. They did not talk or exchange glances. Their eyes looked wide and haunted, their thoughts lost somewhere in their own souls’ contemplation of what they'd witnessed. Taras watched them, sure his face held a similar look.
He prayed Inga had not watched the executions.
