Darker Jewels (4 page)

There were nine residents of the house, and three dozen servants to keep it running. It was not as large a household as many, for Anastasi kept his wife and children at his country estate where they would be in less danger away from the Court. Here in Moscovy his widowed cousin Galina Alexandrevna—ten years his senior—served as hostess for his guests and covered certain of his indulgences for fear of beggary. Her daughter, Xenya Evgeneivna Koshkina, was still unmarried at twenty-three and considered a disgrace to the family. She spent most of her time in charitable works, which suggested that she might one day become a nun, thus ending the stigma of her spinsterhood. There were two assistants, distant relatives, who had their wives with them; they were there on sufferance and knew it, and therefore were as compliant as Galina Alexandrevna. An elderly priest occupied two rooms and looked after the spiritual needs of the household; Father Iliya was considered a learned man, which lent a certain importance to his position. The ninth resident was Piotr Grigoreivich Smolnikov, aged and blind now, but once a superb fighter for the Grand Duke, the father of the current Czar. He lived here on Shuisky’s charity in recognition of his heroism and as a way to retain favor with the old soldiers who still controlled the army.

Anastasi Shuisky did not bother to look at his carpenter as the man bowed himself out of the Duke’s presence. He sighed as he took his place at the long table where he had spread out several discouraging dispatches from Poland. There had been no new information for three months, and would be no more as long as winter held the north in its unrelenting grip. He had gleaned as much as he could from the reports, but he went over them again in the hope that there might be material he had overlooked. He was increasingly troubled about the embassy Istvan Bathory would be sending once spring came. Jesuits. That roused his suspicions, and he was a suspicious man; it was not at all what he had hoped for. Jesuits. He shook his head.

“Is something the matter? Have you had bad news?” It was his cousin Galina speaking. She had come into the room like a shadow, standing away from him, her widow’s veils masking her features. Her deferential manner, intended to placate him, served only to aggravate.

“Nothing to concern you,” said Anastasi, finding her presence an intrusion. She was tiresome but necessary, which encouraged him to treat her harshly.

“You looked angry,” Galina observed, making no move to approach him. “I apologize if I have given offense.”

“Not directly, no. But I have important work. I am not to be disturbed.” He knew he was being brusque but made no apology for it. Cousin Galina was his dependent and as such she was required to take whatever he meted out to her.

She bowed to him, not quite as obsequiously as the carpenter had, but as self-deprecatingly. “I regret annoying you; I will be with Father Iliya, for confession,” she said, and started out of the room, her heavy fur slippers whispering on the bare floor.

“Yes. Get on with it.” He made a gesture as if to wave away an annoying insect. Jesuits. They would not be trustworthy. Doubtless they would want to destroy the Orthodox Church. Jesuits went nowhere they did not intend to convert the people. It had been a mistake for Moscovy to attempt a reunion with Rome, as it had not so long ago. Now the Jesuits would use that to gain a foothold here. He picked up one of the dispatches, written in Greek, and went over it for the fifth time. He read carefully, examining each word thoughtfully, looking for hidden meanings or alternate translations of the phrases that might shed more light on what he was being told.

He had fretted himself through the papers for more than an hour when a visitor was announced: “There is a man seeking to speak with you,” said the servant who guarded the doors.

“Who is he?” asked Anastasi, setting the dispatches and reports aside; his attention had been flagging for the last quarter hour and this interruption could be a welcome change from his anxiety.

“He is from Jerusalem,” said the house guardian, meaning from the Orthodox Church, which had centered in that city since Constantinople had fallen to the powers of Islam. “He says to tell you his name is Stavros Nikodemios, a Hydriot.”

“A Hydriot,” said Anastasi with authority, as if he understood what that meant: he had never heard of the island of Hydra. He stood up. “Bring me a basin and a cloth.”

The house guardian ducked his head and went about his task. Only when he had provided the Duke with these things did he return to the entry to escort the visitor to Anastasi.

“Welcome to my house, Hydriot,” said Anastasi Shuisky, touching the hands of the foreigner between his own. “Let me offer hospitality to you.” He turned to the basin and ritually washed his hands, drying them with care on the cloth his house guard had provided, as was proper protection when admitting foreigners to the house.

The Greek visitor nodded, unsurprised at this behavior. “Thank you for receiving me, Duke,” he said in passable Russian. “It has been a very difficult journey. We nearly had to wait out the winter in Kursk. If our mission were not so urgent we would surely have done so.” He held out a letter. “From Yuri Kostroma. It will tell you why I am here.”

Anastasi took the letter and read it, his face deliberately blank. His cousin informed him that Nikodemios had very useful information from Jerusalem and the Patriarch. He implied that there could be support gained from the center of the Orthodox Church and suggested that at this time such an alliance would protect Holy Russia. He stated his own growing concerns about the state of the Czar’s health. He urged Anastasi to hear Nikodemios out before making up his mind about what the man had to say. He closed with standard good wishes and a warning that he was afraid of what might happen with the Little Father so far gone in lunacy. “I gather you have had some discussion with my relative?”

“We have not concluded all our dealings, as some of what we do will be determined by you.” Nikodemios said it like an experienced courtier.

“I should think so, if this letter is any indication,” said Anastasi, pointing to his house guard and ordering him by gesture to bring a chair for his guest. “I am puzzled. What made you travel at this time of year? And why have you come here? Why do you visit me?”

“Necessity, Duke. You have read the letter. You must have some sense of my purpose here. There is need for immediate action.” He sat down, looking directly at his host. “It is essential to be aware of—”

Anastasi cut him off. “Your necessity might not be mine. If you are here in the hope of enlisting my support for those who seek guidance from the Church in Jerusalem, you come in vain. Mos- covy is the Third Rome after Constantinople was lost. My cousin and I have never agreed on this point. The Orthodox Church in Jerusalem has no right to impose its will on Moscovy. It is for the Orthodox Church in Russia to determine how the Church will respond to any trouble. At this time I will not support Jerusalem. There is too much at stake, things that Jerusalem cannot know and must not judge.”

Stavros Nikodemios regarded him narrowly. “Am I to believe you are content to wait for God to decide? To leave matters as they are? Do you truly stand by the Czar? Even now?”

“Of course,” said Anastasi, his expression darkening. “He is the might of the country. Even now.” The last was especially pointed, directed at Nikodemios with strong intent. “Those who believe otherwise are traitors and fools.”

“Fools and traitors,” Nikodemios mused, his remarks addressed to the walls instead of Anastasi. “Why do you suppose that?”

“I am a Duke in Russia, and I am a Shuisky. We are loyal to the throne. Czar Ivan has pushed back the Tartars and reclaimed land that was stolen from us. He has brought us to glory. Everyone, boyar and oprichnik, knows that Czar Ivan has remade the world for us. I would be beneath contempt if I strove in any way to compromise what the Czar has done.” He walked the length of the room, ignoring the sound of mallets in the unfinished chamber. “You come here to bring me information, and you begin by speaking against the Czar. That is idiotic. If you were not a foreigner, you would be knouted to death for such treason. You could be held accountable for every word you speak.”

“But you will not speak against me,” said Nikodemios. “You are too wary to risk losing what I might tell you, for you are ambitious. You want to protea your cousin Yuri as well as the rest of your family. It suits your purpose to claim you uphold the throne. And so you continue to declare for Czar Ivan, though you know he is lost.”

“He is not lost.” His voice had risen nearly to a shout and he gestured abrupdy as if driving off an attacking animal. “His grief has consumed him. There is a burden of guilt from which he cannot free himself without greater expiation than he has made. He feels the weight of his sins very deeply, and that leads to melancholy. In time he will regain his composure.”

“Regain his composure?” Nikodemios said. “How can you tell me that, when it is apparent to anyone that he is a lunatic.” He, too, was growing angry.

“He is in the throes of grief. It has strained his mind.” Anastasi Shuisky was most insistent. “Czar Ivan is a great man. Great men endure more than most of us, and what they suffer is greater for them than for most of us. He has had not only his family, but all Russia to care for. Therefore his grief is larger than yours or mine would be.”

Nikodemios spat. “I have been a messenger for the Metropolitan for nine years, and I have seen the Czar change. Don’t pretend that he is the same man he was three years ago. I know what he has become, and so do you. You puzzle me, refusing as you do to accept that the Czar is crazed. Especially since you have sent dispatches to Istvan Bathory.”

This stopped him. “Never!” Anastasi was purple with rage and he made himself put distance between him and his guest. “What calumny is this?”

“You sent word to King Istvan of Poland. Last summer. It was carried by merchants.” He said it with great satisfaction, smiling at Anastasi’s wrath. “What was in that letter, I wonder? And why did you send it? What did you hope to achieve from it? Were you seeking an ally? They say that Poland wishes to unite with Russia so that the Ottomites may be driven back into Asia. Was that your purpose? To arrange such a—”

“It would be treason to suggest such a thing to Istvan Bathory. I would never betray Czar Ivan. It is a lie.” His hands closed convulsively and his eyes smoldered, his shoulders hunched. “If you repeat your suspicions, I will denounce you as a spy. They will flay you for that.”

“They might do that in any case, if your Czar takes the notion. It could happen to anyone. He has the power to order your ruin and death, does he not? Now that he has lost his wits, his caprice is endless.” Nikodemios examined the backs of his hands as if there were hidden treasures there. “When men are crazed, they think unaccountable things.”

He knew that he should not answer these charges, that he should summon the guards and have the Greek taken to prison, but he thought of his cousin, and recklessly he said, “Crazed or not, he is Czar. He is our strength against the Tartars and the Poles and the Swedes. If the Poles were to advance now, Czar Ivan would rally his men and his powers. He would lead us to victory.”

“No man would follow him, not the way he is. The soldiers would hear him rave and they would not lift their swords to fight. No troops, not Rus, not Slavs, not Tartars, would follow him now. They would fear for their lives, and with cause.” Nikodemios directed his gaze at Shuisky’s feet. “Do you think it possible his heir could manage to lead the army?”

“There are many leaders the Little Father might select to lead the army. He need not send his only living son.” He stood straighter. “I would welcome command.”

Nikodemios laughed, his tone nasty. “I am certain you would. And the Czar would have to be more insane than he already is to give it to you. He would find your sword at his throat before the evening Mass.” His laughter turned to a malign chuckle. “Do not protest your loyalty again, Duke. I know what you seek. You seek the sceptre and crown. You intend to rule. That is the goal of all Shuiskys.”

“It is my wish to serve the throne,” Anastasi insisted, this time with less heat than before, and more craftiness, his mercurial temperament playing with the Greek messenger, enjoying his confusion as it became desperation.

“Though Feodor Ivanovich rings bells and avoids his wife, you intend to support the throne? When Feodor is Czar?” He rose from the chair. “When you come to your senses, Duke, inform me of it. Jerusalem is the best ally you will find in these uneasy times. Your cousin is aware of that if you are not. And if you intend to look higher, you will need Jerusalem with you, or you will fall. For as long as the Church prevails, Jerusalem will be a power to reckon with in Moscovy.”

“The power of the Czar is greater, and Ivan Grosny is worthy of wielding it,” said Shuisky, deliberately using Ivan’s nickname—Grosny: awe-inspiring.

“Grosny. Perhaps once. But no longer, I think.” He fingered the fur lining of his cloak. “Is caressing jewels so much different than ringing bells?” Nikodemios inquired sarcastically. “Be grateful that Istvan Bathory has not advanced any farther than he has. The hope you place in Ivan is false. You have seen the Czar, you know how he behaves. You have seen him stare at nothing and claim he sees his son Ivan bleeding in front of him. You have heard him praying in the dead of night, crying aloud at the sky for God to seize him. You know that he is mad, and yet you will not challenge his Right.”

“Not while Feodor Ivanovich remains his heir. I have sworn an oath and I will not abjure it.” He found it difficult to keep from bragging of his own, complex plans regarding the distressed Czar. It was wrong even to think about it, for Greeks were subtle and might well find a way to discover his thoughts, to use them against him.

“Feodor Ivanovich will not rule,” said Nikodemios. “Everyone knows that he will never live to hold the sceptre. He has not two reasonable thoughts in his head. He speaks badly when he

speaks at all. Perhaps Czar Ivan will have sense enough to appoint a regent before his madness makes such a decision impossible. Whatever the case, Feodor will never hold power. He is incapable of rule, and everyone agrees that he will not reign. He belongs in a monastery or a farm, somewhere he can ring his bells in peace. Think, Duke. His wife is more capable of ruling than he, and she is nothing more than a woman, and half Tartar to boot. Resign yourself: Feodor will not reign, no matter what Ivan may do. The nobles will rebel before that occurs.”