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Moscow, January 1550
“Step forward, Sergei,” the Tsar’s voice rang loud, yet his lips barely moved. Ivan hunched on his gilded throne, swathed in a thick, sable cloak. His skin looked ashen, his cheeks sunken. He might have been an invalid. Whispers circulated that, under the cloak, Ivan’s body looked skeletal, like it ate itself from the inside out.
Sergei Tarasov knew first-hand the rumors were true. The Tsar was a living skeleton. It didn’t bother Sergei. So long as the animated corpse of unified Russia continued to allow Sergei to lead the Ophrichniki raids, he could be the devil incarnate, for all Sergei cared.
Sergei stepped forward, bowing low. “Thank you, my Lord Tsar. I would like to bring your highness’s attention to a matter I know has long occupied you.”
Ivan remained still as a statue, his lips moving only enough to show life. “And what is that?”
“Novgorod.”
Ivan’s lips moved again, though not in speech. They curled into a sneer, peeling back from his teeth. Everyone knew Ivan had long viewed the city of Novgorod as a thorn in his side. He’d searched a long time for a reason to bring the prosperous city to its knees.
“If I may address the council, your grace?” Sergei spread his hands and dipped his head obsequiously.
Ivan shifted positions for the first time since the meeting began, sitting up straighter and leaning forward. “You may.”
Sergei turned to address the entire room. Twenty men stared back at him, all senior members of the Oprichniki order, including Sergei's father. Tonight's meeting of the Oprichniki council had been called in secret.
Sergei had grown used to addressing the council. All his life, his father had been a politician. Now the elder Tarasov began to feel his years. He'd slowly taught Sergei to survive after he passed on. Sergei much preferred to be on the battlefield than in the council chambers, but he had to admit scheming created a thrill all its own. Commanding the attention of an entire room; addressing the Tsar; manipulating courtiers to bring his own desires to pass—these things brought a sense of power different than triumph in war, but no less exciting for all that.
He’d been less than pleased when his father first insisted he begin learning the ins and outs of court politics. Even now Sergei would rather be gutting a heathen Tatar or roughing up a woman somewhere, but he'd begun to understand why his father wanted him to learn. These skills could potentially serve him well in the future. Sergei only practiced public speaking and intrigue for now. He still had no eye for interpreting people by their body language, as his father did. For now, Sergei took the reins in public. His father remained his eyes and ears.
“My fellow council members,” Sergei spread his hands, “long has the city of Novgorod angered our noble Tsar. Long have they flouted his wishes and decrees.”
“Flouted? Flouted how?” The question came from Alexey Basmanov. He and his brother Fyodor sat on the Oprichniki council. Both had been resistant to the punishment of Novgorod in the past. Sergei didn’t know why. Perhaps they had family there.
“Come, Basmanov. We all know the Novgorodians. They remain separate from the rest of the empire, independent in many ways. They complained bitterly against taxes to support the Muscovite army during the Livonian wars. They still complain about the Tsar’s rightful exactions.”
“But they do pay them.”
“Yes," Sergei admitted reluctantly before hurrying on. "They are angry the war interferes with their precious trade routes. It’s seems they are more concerned with their own prosperity than with enlarging the borders of our Lord Tsar’s empire.”
Ivan’s gravelly voice came from behind Sergei. “Their behavior smacks of treason.”
Sergei bowed his head low in acquiescence. “My thoughts exactly, my lord.”
“Please, my Lord Tsar,” Basmanov stood, “the Novgorodians complain a great deal, but they are loyal to your empire. I’m sure of it. They’ve never given us reason to believe otherwise. Sergei says they flout the law, but is complaining the same as flouting? All people complain about taxes and anything else that interferes with their daily lives.”
“They refuse to use three fingers.” Sergei said quietly.
Basmanov blinked. “What?”
“When they cross themselves, they use only two fingers. The Lord Tsar has proclaimed all members of the Eastern Orthodox Church must cross themselves using three fingers. The Novgorodians use only two. This is direct rebellion against the Lord Tsar’s decree.”
In a surge of energy, Ivan lunged to his feet. Sergei bowed and backed to the side, surrendering the floor.
“What Sergei Tarasov says is true, Basmanov. We are...spiritually offended. Novgorod must be punished. Still, we must find a definitive casus belli. Have you brought us such a thing, Sergei?”
“Yes, my Lord Tsar.” Sergei straightened and motioned to the guard at the door. Ivan’s eyes followed Sergei’s motions. “My lord, if I may present Master Peter Volynets.”
A dark-haired man who Sergei knew to be in his late thirties, but looked much older due to his lifestyle, shuffled into the room. His walk contained none of the grace the politicians bore. Face riddled with scars, this low class man had been cleaned and polished and dressed up to meet the Tsar.
“Master Volynets has brought you proof, my Lord Tsar, that Archbishop Pimen of Novgorod conspires to bring his city under the control of King Sigismund Augustus, King of Poland and Grand Prince of Lithuania. It is a ploy, my lord, to remove the grand city of Novgorod from my Lord Tsar’s empire.”
Ivan’s eyes glittered with interest. He addressed Peter Volynets directly, a rare honor for a man of the lower class. “You have proof of this, honored serf?”
“Yes, your highness,” Volynets stepped forward. He’d been educated in how to address the Tsar. “In the form of a letter. I learned of its existence while in prison. It had been hidden in the Cathedral of St. Sophia in Novgorod. As soon as I left the prison I retrieved the letter and brought it straight to you, my Lord Tsar.”
Sergei motioned to a page standing nearby. The page walked to Ivan’s dais and held out a silver platter. Ivan snatched the letter from it and nearly tore it trying to get it open. As he scanned its contents, a sickly-sweet smile spread across his face. Sergei doubted the Tsar realized it.
Saliva filled Sergei’s mouth and he swallowed, fighting to keep his nonchalant, formal-business composure. His groin grew similarly wet at the thought of the coming massacre.
It would be enough. The letter would be the proof, the casus belli Ivan needed to move against Novgorod. Sergei knew Ivan wouldn’t be interested in actual proof—no on could attest that Sergei himself hadn’t written the letter and paid Volynets to speak. He hadn’t, but his father refused to speak of how he’d come across such a letter. The Tsar only needed an excuse. As soon as Volynets showed up with the letter, the massacre waiting in the wings had found its driving force.
“My lord, if I may speak?” Basmanov said. Sergei concentrated to keep from sighing in annoyance.
Ivan didn’t look up. He remained too absorbed in the letter and waved a hand noncommittally in Basmanov’s direction.
Basmanov took it as acquiescence and stood. “Master Volynets, you say you were in prison. May I ask why?”
Sergei’s eyes narrowed. What was Basmanov up to?
Volynets stiffened at the question. “M-my lord?” he stammered, looking at Sergei for help. Sergei cringed inwardly. Volynets was a nervous man and had been coached for certain questions. This was not one of them. Sergei couldn’t give him any help now, in front of the others. He stared levelly at the man, willing him not to say anything stupid.
The Tsar stopped staring at the letter in his hands and paid attention to Basmanov’s interrogation. When Volynets realized Sergei would give him no help, he addressed the Tsar directly. “My Lord Tsar, I am, unfortunately, a man of few scruples. Let us simply say I broke some of the laws of Novgorod and received punishment for my crimes.
“Severe punishment?” Basmanov persisted.
Say no, Sergei thought, say it wasn’t severe.
“Quite severe, my Lord.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Basmanov addressed Ivan now. “This man has an unpaid grudge against Novgorod. How can we be certain of the validity of this letter? That it’s not simply the imaginative work of a man bent on revenge?”
The room stayed silent while Ivan considered. After several minutes, he stood, shaking his head. “The Novgorodians have long been stubbornly independent. We have known for some time they were treasonous—our person has a good eye for such things—yet we’ve had no proof. Now, here it is. This,” he indicated the letter, “is all the proof we require. We believe Master Volynets speaks the truth.” He looked at Volynets. “We understand, my son, how hard this defection must have been for you. We applaud you. Fear not. You will be well rewarded for your loyalty.”
Volynets bowed at the waist, and Sergei had to commend his grace, for such a low born rascal.
“As will you Sergei, and your family,” his glance included Sergei’s father, “for bringing this to our attention.” Sergei bowed his head, affecting modesty, while his mouth swam with saliva.
Ivan raised his voice to the level he used when giving a decree. “Gather the Oprichniki. We have made a decision: we will march on Novgorod and punish them for their disloyalty. This must be done in secret. They must not know of our coming. We will need at least three thousand soldiers. Make your arrangements. We leave in one week’s time.”
