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Novgorod, February 1550
Taras gazed down at the Tsar’s encampment from the ridge above, studying it with worry. When the arctic, Siberian wind whipped across the rise, he pulled his sable cloak tighter against the cold, holding it closed at the neck. It clasped there anyway, but the bitter January wind kept whipping it off his shoulders. Being the commanding officer of the supply train, he rode out in front on horseback. An icy place to be. He hardly felt his fingers anymore. His toes, concealed in thick leather boots, were little better. For the hundredth time, he smashed his fur shakpa further down on his head to keep the wind from claiming it.
The Tsar’s camp sprawled on the bank of the Volkhov River, set up in the shadow of ancient ruins. The river ran through unsettled country here. A mile and a half to the north, it transected the city of Novgorod.
The ruins had once been a great castle, built by Prince Rurik, the ancient founder of Russia and supposed ancestor of the Tsar. Taras couldn’t call the name of the primeval castle to mind. It sprawled across the snow-covered meadow, its ancient glory manifested only in chunks of stone littering the bank of the Volkhov. The tallest standing portion stood only one third the height of the Terem Castle and leaned drunkenly out over the river, like a being contemplating suicide but with no power to follow through.
From what Taras could tell, the Tsar’s camp stood nearly empty. Neither the Tsar, nor any of the Oprichniki soldiers occupied it. With the city so close, Taras assumed the army went there. Only a few servants and retainers moved bleakly among the tents.
Taras couldn’t make out much from this distance. All movement he saw looked slurred, stilted in some way, as though all those left in camp were drunk, or unstable. He supposed, with the army away, perhaps a few of the servants took liberties. Even that seemed odd, and surely not all of them should be moving like that. The stillness of the scene did not calm him, though. On the contrary, it quickened his heartbeat. Setting his jaw with grim determination, he nudged Jasper’s flanks with his heels and started down the rise.
No one outside the ranks of the Oprichniki knew of the Tsar’s expedition to Novgorod until the Tsar arrived at its walls. Ivan used the scenic route, through the modest town of Klin, and then through the city of Tver. He took great pains to bypass the larger cities so his army of three thousand could move through the countryside stealthily. When Ivan arrived at Novgorod, he sent a courier back to Moscow for supplies.
Nikolai led the first supply train, which left Moscow three weeks before Taras. When the second one was ready, the clerks put Taras in charge and told him his supply train was smaller than Nikolai’s because the Tsar only planned to be in Novgorod a short while longer. By the time Taras arrived, the Tsar would be ready to leave within the week, and most of the supplies needed for the journey home could be gathered from Novgorod itself. Taras looked forward to seeing Nikolai, who would no doubt give him a true report of the Tsar’s deeds here.
The closer Taras got to the city, the less he wanted to arrive. Even if he hadn’t known the way, he could have simply tracked Ivan by the trail of carnage left in his wake. The cities of Klin and Tver had been utterly devastated. To keep anyone from sending messages about the army’s passage, Ivan ordered a general massacre, leaving no one alive. Men, women, and children alike lay beside clergymen and town leaders in the streets. Ivan even ordered the animals slaughtered, though much of the livestock accompanied the army to Novgorod.
Taras supposed he should be used to Ivan having no problem doing this to his own people, but it still sickened him. The only reason Ivan could have for murdering the people of Klin and Tver—other than his own sick entertainment—was to keep his journey secret. At all costs, Ivan wanted the city of Novgorod ignorant of his pending arrival, no matter the human cost. If things were this bad en route, what would he find when he reached the city?
The inactivity of the encampment meant the Tsar and his men must be inside the walls. The thought made his pulse race and his stomach feel delicate. Yet, he could hardly drop the shipment on the ridge and head back to Moscow. He made his way toward the graveyard of an encampment on the bank of Volkhov and hoped for the best. The supply wagons—sledges, in truth, since several feet of white powder still lay between them and the earth—followed.
As they neared the camp, a rider emerged on horseback and galloped toward them. As horse and rider neared, Taras recognized Nikolai and smiled with relief. Nikolai's course intersected with Taras's at the edge of the large meadow in which the camp sprawled. As Nikolai drew close enough for Taras to make out the details of his face, Taras’s stomach constricted further.
Nikolai, like Taras, was both a boyar and a soldier. As soldiers, their physiques stayed trim and muscular, unlike most other boyars whose food sat perpetually around their belt lines. Nikolai usually looked healthy, well fed, and in top physical condition. When Taras caught sight of his face, Taras could have sworn he stared at a dying man.
Nikolai had lost weight in the three weeks since Taras had seen him. He looked smaller, slighter of build, and his clothes hung on him. The lines of his neck, and those around his eyes had deepened noticeably, as though he wasn’t sleeping. Dark circles underscored his eyes, which held a ghostly, haunted look. Even when Nikolai gazed directly at him, Taras didn't think his friend truly saw him, but rather stared through him, at something Taras couldn’t comprehend.
Their horses drew closer until they stood side by side, facing in opposite directions. Nikolai stared at Taras, silent and blank-faced. No smile, no greeting, no recognition.
“Nikolai?”
Nikolai stared directly at Taras, but still jumped in his saddle when Taras spoke, as though the sound of Taras’s deep voice stunned him.
“Nikolai, are you all right?”
“I’m...” Nikolai trailed off and his eyes left Taras’s. They wandered the snow-covered meadow around him and Taras didn’t think he would finish the thought. “As you see,” he finally said. When his eyes returned to Taras’s face, fear made Taras colder than the wind ever could. Nikolai’s eyes had turned from blue to gray and they undulated with the presence of something unseen. They reminded Taras of the sea after a storm, when sea monsters danced beneath the surface, making the water heave and swell for no obvious or explicable reason.
“I see you, my friend,” Taras said. “And you look terrible. Are you ill?”
Nikolai shook his head. “No. Not ill.”
Taras’s eyebrows arched. He glanced around, trying to understand, but Nikolai’s gaze had fallen again. Taras leaned out of his saddle, trying to get under Nikolai’s line of sight. Nikolai looked up at him again.
“Nikolai, what’s wrong?”
Nikolai's eyes grew moist. Taras had known Nikolai for several years now. He’d never seen the man cry. Now Nikolai's eyes watered. The fear in Taras’s middle expanded.
Taras's shoulders trembled, but whether because of the bone-chilling cold or the soul-piercing fear, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was both. “Where’s the Tsar?”
The less personal question brought Nikolai out of his stupor. “In the city.”
Taras rubbed his hand across his mouth and jaw, frustrated. Nikolai should be giving him his orders. His short, nonspecific answers were unnerving. “Does he want the supplies left here, or brought into the city?”
“He wants them in the city. I’m to lead you there.”
Nikolai still sat there, astride his horse, like a statue, his eyes far away.
“Should we...go?”
When Nikolai met his gaze again, his eyes held such agony that Taras's heart ached. Nikolai’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Please, could we stay out here a little longer? It’s quiet here, peaceful.” His eyes swept the muted hills and valleys of the surrounding landscape. “I will forever associate snow-covered meadows with...peace.”
The way Nikolai hesitated before finishing the last word made Taras think he wanted to say more. “What kind of peace? What do you mean?”
Nikolai looked at Taras again. Tears coursed freely down his cheeks. “The kind only found outside the walls of hell.”
Taras stared at his friend. The supply train came to a halt several yards behind them. The wind would carry their conversation away from the supply wagons, but those in front might see Nikolai’s tears.
“We can stay as long as you want, Nikolai.”
The other man nodded his thanks, then turned his horse to face the same direction as Taras’s. They sat side by side, looking toward the city. Taras still fought to keep his cloak closed against the wind. Nikolai engaged in no such struggle. The wind whipped the other man’s cloak around his shoulders. It flapped violently out behind him like an ominous standard. Nikolai seemed oblivious. Nikolai’s hands were bare, and a vague worry tickled the back of Taras’s mind. Nikolai might get the freezing sickness in his fingers if he didn’t cover them sufficiently. Taras wondered how long Nikolai had waited out here for them. Taking off his gloves, Taras passed them to Nikolai.
“Put these on.”
Nikolai obeyed with all the emotion of a boulder. Taras doubted he even realized his hands felt warmer.
“The Tsar chose this place specially,” Nikolai said quietly, and Taras leaned out of his saddle to hear over the constant, hollow friction of the wind. “He wanted to set up camp by the ruins. He thought it fitting.”
Taras’s mind searched Russian history, trying to understand. “Because he rules Russia, much as Rurik did?”
Nikolai smiled bleakly, shaking his head. His eyes studied the ruins, as if he could see them aging. “The legend is that the ancient people of Novgorod came out to Rurik. They claimed their city was great and prosperous and beautiful, but had no law. They begged Rurik to come rule them.” Nikolai turned his head to look at Taras. “Ivan thought this place fitting in an ironic way. Here, where his ancestor brought order, he created anarchy.”
Taras’s shiver had nothing to do with the wind. Ivan’s anarchy never proved the political type.
Eventually Nikolai started toward the city. He simply moved forward with a sigh that held the weight of the universe. Taras followed in silence with the supply train in tow. Though they were only a mile and a half from the gates, the deep snow caused trouble for the horses and it took them nearly an hour to get there.
As they neared the city, gilded domes and tall steeples Taras knew belonged to white-washed churches came into view. Novgorod was a beautiful city, and one of Russia’s most ancient. It stood for hundreds of years before anyone settled Moscow. Despite its antiquity, most still considered it one of the most resplendent cities in the Eastern world, or so its inhabitants claimed.
Taras visited the city only once, with his parents. His father, who'd grown up in Novgorod, took Taras and his mother through the streets with all the pride and vigor of any man showing off his hometown. Because his father advised the Tsar, they'd lived in Moscow and their trip to Novgorod had been brief. Before it ended Taras found himself convinced the claim was true: Novgorod truly was the most beautiful city of the East. It’s domed architecture and gleaming white walls sparkled in the sunlight. As a teenaged boy, Taras thought it the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Moscow seemed drab by comparison.
Now, nearing the walls, Taras saw that architecture clearly. From outside, everything looked calm, peaceful, and beautiful as ever. Taras didn't trust the outward appearance, though. Something felt wrong. Not something. Everything. Only not in a way he could see. Experience told him stillness should never be confused with tranquility. Stillness could be deceptive, and it never brought peace by itself.
Not that it was truly still. The wind howled with a ferocity that made Taras uneasy. Feeling compelled to dispel the silence, he called out to Nikolai. “What does Ivan have against Novgorod? What are they being punished for? No one seems to know.”
Nikolai remained silent so long, Taras didn’t think he meant to answer. When he spoke, his voice sounded hollow. “Novgorod has long been independent, full of free thinkers, such as your father.”
Taras frowned. “They’re still under Ivan’s rule, though. How does he see them as free thinkers?”
“Novgorod is governed by a council, for one thing. This council makes decisions together for the city.”
“Like in Rome?”
Nikolai shook his head. “It’s not a republic. The council is not representative of the citizens. They come together and make their decisions based on what’s best for the city, not necessarily what the Tsar wants.”
Taras nodded, understanding. “They do not bow to the autocrat in all things.”
Nikolai gave Taras a sidelong glance. “Ivan is not known for leniency in matters of his power. Novgorod is too free. He sees it as disloyalty—treason, even.”
They’d nearly reached the gates, and the smell of decomposing flesh reached Taras’s nose. He wrinkled it, the knots in his gut twisting tighter. His heart raced. Never in his life, not even when on the front lines of battle, had he wanted to wheel his horse around and gallop for the hills more. The fear settled on his tongue like a bad taste, and the feel of darkness around the city felt so thick, it felt almost tangible, like they rode through sludge instead of wind.
“Nikolai, what will I see in there?”
“Something you will never forget.”
They arrived at the heavy wooden gates of the city. Fifteen elbow-spans tall, and nearly as wide when standing open, it would take several men working together to move either door. They stood closed and barred. The heavy gates were not the ones the supply train needed to pass through. Beside them sat a smaller entrance. It still consisted of two doors, small enough for a single man to easily open. The space would be only wide enough for the sledges to pass through single file.
As Nikolai dismounted to open the small doors, Taras’s eyes were drawn to the large gates on the left. It struck him as odd that he could see the outline of each door with perfect clarity, especially near the bottom. The snow had been cleared away, as though something melted it around the doors’ base. A dark substance—black in color—seeped through, outlining the doors perfectly. Taras thought it might be tar and wondered what purpose such a thing would serve—trying to seal the gates somehow perhaps?
It wasn’t until he passed into the city that he understood the substance was blood. So much of it covered the ground, it literally seeped out of the city.
When Taras passed through the wall of Novgorod a pace behind Nikolai, what he saw took his breath away. His breath, his heartbeat, his will to move forward. He thought the light of the sky might have dimmed. He couldn’t even gasp in horror.
Bodies carpeted the earth inside the city wall. Not a single patch of ground could be seen. The sea of corpses stretched as far as Taras could see, piled almost high enough in places to be at eye level, and Taras still sat atop his horse. Every building, wagon, barrel, tree, and street overflowed with torsos, limbs, and staring eyes. He thought this must merely be the dumping ground, but every corner he turned, every alley he peered down, looked exactly the same. In the distance, the dead hung out windows and covered rooftops.
The stench became unbearable—exponentially worse once inside the wall. Taras’s hand flew to his mouth. His eyes watered and his nostrils burned. He gagged, fighting not to sick up.
The Tsar had been here for weeks. Some of these corpses were that old. They were putrefying. Every stage of decomposition could be identified. Some of the freshest ones still looked human. Others crawled with maggots. Still others had bloated, bulging with unseen forces. Some were rotted down to the bone. Screaming skulls peered out from otherwise human bodies. Taras couldn’t tear his eyes from the ghastly sight.
How could there be this many bodies? He’d expected brutality, but this must be most of the city’s population.
To make matters worse, the ground was not dry. As at the Andreev estate, the snow melted where it met hot blood. No snow remained inside the gates of Novgorod. Some of the corpses swayed and ebbed on the water, like leaves on the sea. What looked like a narrow river had been cut like a path through the bodies.
Afraid Jasper might trip on obstacles unseen beneath the water, Taras dismounted and his boots disappeared up to the ankle in red liquid. No wonder it oozed out of the gates. The earth could not absorb so much blood all at once.
Nikolai took his horse firmly by the bridle. Taras did the same with Jasper. The smell of blood made the horses skittish. They bucked and whinnied as they moved into the city. Taras gently stroked Jasper’s muscular neck. Normally he spoke to his horse in low tones—Jasper responded to the sound of Taras’s voice—but he couldn’t force air through his throat. He couldn’t even work moisture back into his mouth. His touch had to be enough.
As it turned out, the river path had been cut to accommodate the sledges. Beneath the bloody water—or watery blood—sat smooth mud they could easily navigate. Up ahead, Nikolai dismounted as well. Taras followed him as they wove their way carefully between the two banks of human carnage.
Novgorod took the shape of two half-moons, the flat sides of which flanked the river. The frozen surface of the Volkhov gleamed dully in the light of the overcast sky. Several tall bridges joined the two sides of the city. When their supply train reached the river, Nikolai turned north, leading them along the bank.
The bodies didn’t thin out. If anything, their numbers became denser as Taras drew closer to Novgorod’s center.
As they plodded along, Taras kept thinking he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It came from the river itself. The top layer was one frozen sheet of ice. Strange shapes writhed beneath the surface—dark, sinuous figures that moved with the river’s undercurrent. Taras wondered vaguely if demons or ghouls swam beneath the ice. Nothing surprised him now, and his hands hadn’t stopped trembling since passing through the gate.
Near the center of the city stood a particularly large bridge, probably the biggest one in the city. The ice below it had broken into chunks. The black water swirled with the sharp, frozen tips of miniature icebergs.
Hundreds of Oprichniki soldiers lined the banks of the river at the bridge’s foot. In a raucous mood, they shouted and whistled as they watched the apparent festivities, as though thousands of staring corpses weren’t piled mere feet from them.
Dozens of resigned-looking Novgorodian men lined the length of the bridge. A wooden platform—almost a scaffold—had been built at the bridge’s apex. Women and children lined the platform, looking terrified. All the Novgorodians, both the women and children on the scaffold and the men watching with lifeless eyes, were bound hand and foot. Taras watched in horror as the Oprichniki kicked the women and children, one by one, into the river.
Most went screaming into the black water. A few were impaled on the ice chunks. Bound like that, the victims could not swim away but a few floated to the surface. When this happened, a group of Oprichniki soldiers stood ready. They balanced precariously at the edges of the ice under the bridge, armed with hooks, clubs, axes, and knives. Victims that surfaced or made any attempt to climb out of the water were hacked to death or pushed under the water until they drowned or the churning water sucked them beneath the thick ice. With every scream and sickening thunk, the Oprichniki bystanders cheered and brandished weapons like madmen.
None of the Novgorodian men screamed when their women and children went into the icy water. Most watched with resignation. Tears streamed down the cheeks of some. Others looked oblivious to what happened around them. A few pitched themselves over the side of the bridge, not waiting for the Oprichniki’s prodding.
The black ‘ghouls’ Taras saw earlier had been bodies. Inches below the surface, the river carried them away. Taras thought of the amount of movement he’d seen. Thousands upon thousands of bodies. It must have been. Would Ivan send an entire civilization, frozen and silent, floating down the Volkhov?
Taras’s eyes fell on a woman who stood at the top of the scaffold, high above the river. He noticed her because she looked a lot like Inga. For one heart stopping second, he thought it was her. He took several steps forward before realizing this woman’s hair was a different shade and her face held deeper lines than Inga's did.
The woman clutched a small girl with blond hair in her arms, not more than five years old. Inga’s children would probably look like that. As he watched, soldiers tore mother and daughter away from one another. The soldiers easily held the little girl. She screamed so loudly that, even from a distance, Taras picked her voice out above the noise of the crowd. They continued as the soldiers tore her mother from her and threw her over the side of the platform. The woman hit a chunk of ice, but was not impaled on it. She glanced off and disappeared into the swirling void below. The little girl squirmed away from the soldier and lunged to the edge of the platform where she sat on hands and knees, tears streaming down her face, looking over the edge. Taras didn’t expect the woman to resurface, but she must have because suddenly the little girl's expression turned hopeful. She thrust a tiny hand toward the river, screaming the same word over and over.
“Mat! Mat! Mat!” The Russian word for mamma.
With a callous laugh, the Oprichniki soldier who'd restrained the child kicked her savagely in the behind and she tumbled, head over heels, into empty space. Taras turned away, shutting his eyes. He wouldn’t have been able to see her land anyway, as he couldn’t see whether her mother resurfaced, because the spectators blocked his view of the water. He still turned away. He couldn’t look toward such savagery and expect to keep control of his stomach.
When she hit whatever she hit, the soldiers lining the bank cheered.
A hand on Taras’s arm made him jump. Nikolai looked empathetic. And haunted. Taras felt a surge of sympathy for Nikolai. He’d been in Novgorod for weeks. Taras didn’t think he would stay sane in a place like this for so long.
“Come,” Nikolai said, “we must take the supplies into the inner city.”
“I don’t want to go farther in,” Taras gasped. They'd only come as far as the outer city. What waited for him further in?
“It doesn’t get any worse,” Nikolai assured him, “but then it doesn’t get any better either.”
Taras let his head fall into his palm, covering his eyes with his hand. He couldn’t breathe. He shut his eyes, but the corpses still jeered at him.
“Come,” Nikolai said again, “we must take the supplies in. We have no choice.”
With that, Nikolai started forward again. Taras followed him. No choice. An excuse for many things in Russia.
After what felt like hours of wading through the corpse-lined streets, Nikolai halted again. Men came out to direct and unload the sledges and Taras officially reported to the Master of Supplies, who would take control of the train from there.
His task complete, Taras went to stand beside Nikolai. At length, Nikolai moved through the dense crowd of Oprichniki filling the main square of Novgorod. Something happened down in front. Taras did not particularly want to know what. He also didn’t think he could escape the carnage anywhere in the city, so he stayed close to Nikolai, not wanting to be left behind.
They didn’t make it all the way to the front, but came close enough to see what was happening. Ivan stood in the center of the square, surrounded by the crowd. He looked as ghoulish as ever. His red hair stood up from his head and the bones of his skull tried to push through his face. Eyes that had once been blue and bright now looked dark and dead. His clothes, plainer than what he usually wore, were spattered with bright red blood. The choice of attire had to be intentional. Ivan greatly enjoyed taking part in the torture himself.
On his knees in front of Ivan knelt a man whose clothes, though now ruined, had once been expensive. Thick fur and shiny satin were torn around the man’s torso, dripping water. He shivered at Ivan’s feet. Apparently, the man had been thrown into the river. Ivan ordered him pulled out before he drowned. As Taras listened, it became apparent that the man was hiding the whereabouts of his personal fortune and Ivan wanted it. Nikolai leaned toward Taras.
“Fyodor Syrkov," Nikolai whispered. "He’s the richest merchant in the city. His fortune is one of twelve thousand silver rubles.”
Despite his disgust, Taras raised an eyebrow. None of the boyars in Moscow could boast a fortune that size. This might be the wealthiest man in Russia, aside from the Tsar himself.
Ivan held his hands up and silence fell in the square. When he spoke, he addressed the man cowering at his feet, though is voice carried clearly across the square. “Did you see anything in the river, Syrkov? What did you see?”
Taras thought of all the bodies under the ice. He shuddered to think of being thrown in with them.
“I saw evil spirits living in the deep waters of the Volkhov River,” Syrkov’s voice shook, then turned to a snarl. “They are about to rise to the surface to steal the Tsar’s soul from his body!”
Thick silence filled the square while the crowd waited for the Tsar’s reaction. Taras felt a pang of admiration for Syrkov. Few were bold enough to stand up to Ivan. No doubt the man knew he was dead either way at this point. He held his ground, raising his chin several inches, though his body trembled with cold.
As Syrkov spoke, Ivan’s face darkened. The Tsar had never been impressed nor amused by boldness. He preferred those who sniveled and trembled before him, begging for his mercy and magnanimity.
The Tsar opened his mouth, pausing for effect. “Bring the cauldron.” The crowd erupted in cheers.
Oprichniki soldiers filled the largest cauldron Taras had ever seen—larger around than Jasper's belly—with water and set it over a fire. They forced Syrkov to stand knee deep in it. Long before the water boiled, Syrkov gave in. Taras didn't hear the details, but then the Tsar wouldn’t want the crowd to know the money's location. The Oprichniki might try to loot it before he got there.
When Ivan had the information he wanted, he gave Syrkov a sinister smile. Then he turned to several Oprichniki beside him. “Hack him to pieces. Throw the remains into the river.”
Taras felt no surprise when Sergei appeared and moved to obey. He did so gleefully and without hesitation, his black robes glistening wetly in day’s waning light. As demonic as Sergei looked in Kazan, his look had intensified now. Taras turned away, pushing through the crowd and away from the square. He needed to get away from the mob.
He didn’t realize Nikolai had followed him until he stumbled onto a vacant side street—vacant of living bodies, anyway—and heard the other man’s footsteps behind him. Even away from the throng, the city remained crowded. Corpses stared from everywhere except the sky, but Taras couldn’t look up as he walked or he would trip and end up face-down on top of bodies missing limbs.
As claustrophobia set in, Taras walked aimlessly, not caring where he ended up. He only wanted to escape. He tried focusing on the architecture. Even that didn’t work. Crimson blood spattered the churches eight feet high and more. It was inescapable.
As they passed a particular church, Taras noticed the doors were barred. Nikolai walked up beside him, following his gaze.
“Why are the churches sealed?” Taras whispered. He couldn't make his voice any more solid.
Nikolai swallowed. “When he arrived, Ivan first rounded up the clergy and closed the cathedrals. He didn’t want people to have a sanctuary to escape into.”
“The clergy?”
“Yes. Monks, abbots, abbesses, nuns, all of them. On January seventh, he gave the order to have them clubbed to death.”
Taras shut his eyes, trying not to envision the horror of such a thing.
“All the surrounding monasteries are empty now,” Nikolai went on, “silent wastelands of the dead.”
They pressed on, picking their way through rotting bodies and pieces of corpses. Eventually Taras came to a building that looked like a prison. The small piles of bodies outside it obviously belonged to prisoners. Raw strips of flesh around their ankles and wrists showed that clearly enough. Taras squatted down between the two piles of corpses.
“Why kill the prisoners? If he’s punishing Novgorod...isn’t the enemy of his enemy his friend?”
Nikolai came to stand beside Taras, but didn’t squat down. “The larger group were Livonian prisoners of war. The other was made up of captured Tatar nobles. The Tatars attacked their executioners. They were outnumbered.”
Taras nodded. “They died courageously.”
“Or in a vain attempt to save themselves.”
Taras gazed up at Nikolai in bewilderment. “Is that what you believe?”
Nikolai sighed. “I don’t believe anything, Taras. It depends on how you interpret things.”
Taras ground his teeth, then straightened his legs aggressively. “And how do you—”
He didn’t finish the question. His eyes fell on one of the Tatar corpses. Stepping around Nikolai, he walked to the smaller pile of bodies and bent to push dark hair out of the eyes of one of the dead men.
Almas.
Taras straightened, letting his head fall back. The last conversation he’d had with Almas, the last thing Almas said to him, flashed through his memory like lightening.
“You are a decent man, Taras. I can see you are conflicted. Never lose that decency. Never let anyone take it from you. Not ever, not for any reason. If you lose it, I fear your soul will soon follow...”
Almas’s final words echoed, driving home so forcefully that Taras grasped his chest, finding it hard to breathe. Almas had been right. If Taras continued to live like this, he would lose his soul. He sanity would go along with it. Everything needed to change. Now. No more rationalization. No more putting up with the terror Ivan gleefully spread. Taras refused to do it anymore.
A ruckus behind them turned both men's heads. The road they walked was one of many radiating out from the main square like the spokes of a wagon wheel. In the distance, they could see the square with its milling throngs pushing and shifting for a better view of the execution. Ivan was leaving. He would not pass close to Taras and Nikolai, but they saw him clearly, walking across their line of vision from left to right, heading farther into the inner city. More blood dripped from his clothes than had only minutes before, which meant he'd taken part in the ‘hacking’ of Syrkov.
A hideous anger, the likes of which Taras had never known, lit in his chest. It smoldered from his core and radiated out to his fingertips, making his body tremble more violently than before. He lurched toward the square and the now-retreating figure of the Tsar. He didn’t have a clear plan in mind. He only knew he wanted to get his hands around Ivan’s throat. Ivan no longer qualified as a king, or a man. If he died, perhaps this festival of gore would end.
A soft voice in Taras’s head told him if he attacked the Tsar in a throng of Oprichniki, he would fail. That he would die both because of and despite that failure. Taras didn’t listen. He couldn't. He was past listening to reason, past justifying the carnivorous deeds of a fallen Tsar. Someone must do something.
Taras got all of two strides before Nikolai’s hands closed around his upper arms, yanking him back him backward several steps.
“Let me go!” Taras screamed. “I’m going to kill him!”
Ivan did not hear Taras, lost in the throng of voices. Several Oprichniki with their backs to Taras and Nikolai turned in surprise and curiosity.
Nikolai was a strong man, but Taras was determined. Younger than Nikolai, he had a larger build. Despite Nikolai’s strength, Taras got away from him. Untwisting himself from Nikolai’s grasp, he shoved the other man away from him with all the force he could muster. Nikolai staggered back several steps, barely keeping his feet. Taras turned and strode toward the square again. Half a dozen large Oprichniki soldiers gazed at him, now. Their faces didn't look alarmed, but grim, as though sensing what they saw was worthy of their attention. They fingered swords and daggers as they waited to see what Taras would do next. Taras didn’t care if he was outnumbered. He lunged toward them anyway.
The breath whooshed from Taras’s lungs as Nikolai’s full weight hit Taras in the back, his arms wrapping around Taras’s middle. The two men slammed into the nearest building, Nikolai's weight flattening Taras against the rough brick. Nikolai wrestled him into the narrow alley between the two buildings, taking advantage of the fact that Taras gasped for air.
The two of them staggered drunkenly together down the alley, Taras trying to break free of Nikolai’s grasp while Nikolai forced him away from the main square. A side entrance to the building on their right was barred. Thick planks covered the door so no one could enter.
Nikolai threw Taras roughly to the ground. Red mud spattered Taras’s pants, soaking his backside and soiling his cloak. His palms dripped with sticky red water.
Breathing raggedly through gritted teeth, he glared up at Nikolai, who busily used his dagger as a lever to pry the wooden planks off the door. When enough of them came loose, he kicked the door in.
Eyes blazing, he picked Taras up by the shirt and threw him bodily through the door. Taras skidded several feet, coming to a sudden stop when he slammed into a pew. He raised his eyes. The cathedral looked huge, dark, and silent. The door had been barred because this was one of Novgorod’s many churches, sealed up weeks ago. The inside looked to be the size of one of the smaller reception rooms in the Terem Palace. Pews filled most of the space. At the front stood the usual alter and cross. The back held a vat for holy water. He saw no icons anywhere. They'd been taken as booty, no doubt, by Ivan’s soldiers. Only shadows.
A loud boom behind him brought Taras’s head around. Nikolai had slammed the door. He rested his forehead and both arms, from elbow to wrist, against the great wooden ingress. His chest heaved. After a few seconds, he turned to Taras.
“Are you calm, now?”
“Calm?” Taras snarled. “How can you expect me to be calm?”
“Everything you did, Taras, everything you said out there, is treason. True, unequivocal treason. They’ll kill you for that.”
“Then let them.”
Nikolai’s eyes widened.
Taras’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe some things are worth dying for.”
Nikolai shook his head. “This isn’t.”
Instantly Taras’s anger returned. “Maybe not for you.”
“That’s not what I mean. Taras, if you die for challenging the Tsar, you’ll die a senseless death beside a thousand other senseless, meaningless deaths. It means nothing to Ivan. Your martyrdom will go unknown and unnoticed.”
Taras turned away, shaking his head and running his hands through his hair, knocking the fur shapka from his head. It fell to the floor with a dull thud. He didn’t notice.
“This is life, Taras.”
“No. This is death.” He glared at Nikolai from ten feet away. “This is the whim of one bloodthirsty man. How can you continue to justify his actions?”
“He is the Tsar. He is the mouthpiece of God on earth—”
“No! That’s an excuse. I won’t accept it anymore.” Taras shouted. “The God I serve would never condone this!” Nikolai stayed silent and Taras crossed the space between them. “The God of the Old Testament, the Christian God...you think this is His will?”
Nikolai refused to meet Taras’s gaze.
“If it were,” Taras whispered, “he would cease to be God.”
Nikolai did look at Taras now, in surprise. “That’s blasphemy.”
Taras shook his head, exhaustion washing over him. “No. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. I do not believe in a God that would want this kind of suffering.”
“Then why doesn’t He do something to stop it?” Nikolai’s soft voice trembled.
Taras remained silent a long time, pondering. “Perhaps He’s simply not here on earth right now.” When he glanced up, Nikolai’s eyebrows had arched again. Taras threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t have the answers, Nikolai. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live this way. I’m finished with it. All of it.”
Taras stepped around Nikolai and headed for the door.
“What will you do, Taras? Will you lose your life for your convictions?”
Taras turned. Nikolai’s face looked pinched, anxious. “No. Not today. But I won’t stay here either. I ride for Moscow this minute. I’ll decide what to do when I get there.” He turned and strode through the door and out into Novgorod’s mass graveyard.
“Taras. Taras, wait!” Nikolai’s voice faded behind him as he pushed fiercely through the city-shaped graveyard.
