Russka (18 page)

And now here was that curious young nobleman, walking slowly towards him. ‘I am Shchek,’ he cried. ‘Remember me?’

How poor Ivanushka looked, and how sickly. Despite his own miserable condition, the peasant felt sorry for him. And for want of anything better to do, while the strange young man stood vacantly in front of him, Shchek told him his story.

When he had finished, Ivanushka stared at the ground for a moment. ‘How strange,’ he murmured. ‘I too have nothing.’

‘Well, good luck to you anyway,’ Shchek said with a grin. For some reason he felt affectionate towards this nobleman in tatters. ‘Remember Shchek in your prayers.’

‘Ah, my prayers.’ The young fellow seemed lost in thought.

‘Tell me again,’ he said at last, ‘how much you owe.’

‘Today, I owe the prince seven silver
grivnas
.’

‘And that would make you free?’

‘Of course.’

Slowly Ivanushka removed the leather bag that hung from his belt, and attached it to Shchek’s.

‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It’s eight
grivnas
. And I have no use for it.’

And before the astonished peasant could say a word, he moved
away. After all, Ivanushka thought, this peasant may as well have it, since I am about to depart this world.

The decurion in charge of the slaves was not a bad fellow, and when he returned a few moments later from the booth where he was drinking, he was genuinely delighted by Shchek’s good fortune. He knew Shchek was a
zakup
and had felt sorry for the man’s bad luck.

‘The Mother of God herself must be watching over you,’ he cried, as he cut Shchek’s bonds and embraced him warmly. ‘What devil’s luck you have, my boy,’ he added. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. We’ll have to tell the prince’s steward in the market.’ He glanced up. ‘And here he comes.’

Shchek had never seen the tall, dark young nobleman who now stalked down on to the jetty; but he noticed that he looked irritable. When the decurion told this nobleman the story, he only glowered at the peasant, then turned coldly to the decurion.

‘Obviously, he stole this money,’ he snapped.

‘The other slaves saw it,’ the decurion suggested.

The noble looked at the slaves with disgust. ‘Their word is worthless.’

‘How could I steal, lord, with my hands tied?’ Shchek asked. The noble glared at him. It was all one to him whether this indebted peasant lived or died, but he had just informed a merchant that there were twenty slaves for sale, and this would leave him one short. He did not like to be inconvenienced.

‘The fellow who you say gave you this money – where is he?’

Shchek looked around. Ivanushka had vanished.

‘Take his purse,’ the noble ordered the decurion. But before he could do so, there was a cry.

‘Look!’ It was one of the slaves. He was pointing excitedly to the river bank below the city. About a quarter of a mile away, a single figure had just emerged from a clump of trees.

‘That’s him.’

‘Fetch him,’ the noble ordered.

And so a few minutes later, to his utter astonishment, Sviatopolk found himself staring at his brother Ivanushka; while Ivanushka, his eyes glazed and his mind apparently far away, looked back at him dully and said not a word.

‘Let the peasant go, he has paid his debt,’ Sviatopolk said
calmly. ‘As for this vagrant,’ he gestured to Ivanushka, ‘throw him in prison.’

His mind was working quickly.

The candles were lit. The icon in the corner glowed softly as the Mother of God gazed out from her golden world into the dark spaces of the large room. On the table, the remains of the meal were being cleared away by the slaves.

Igor was sitting in a heavy oak chair. His long head, all grey now, was inclined forward, his chin resting upon his chest. His eyes were open, watchful, his face still but grim. His wife sat on a chair beside him. One might have guessed that, an hour or two before, she had been weeping; but now her face was pale, drawn, and upon her husband’s orders, impassive.

Sviatopolk was scowling with barely contained fury.

What unlucky curse, he wondered, had caused his father to walk out to the city wall just as they were leading the silent Ivanushka to the little jail where he would have been out of the way? He would have been drowned by now, Sviatopolk thought. For his intention – not knowing that Ivanushka was going to drown himself anyway – had been to take him down to the river that night and hold him under himself. Better for him. Better even for my parents, he had told himself. They’ll find the body, suppose he took his life, and end all this agony over a useless son. Besides, the fool would only ask for money.

But fate had intervened. True, his father had been grim-faced about it from the moment he had encountered him. He had marched his youngest son back to their house almost like a prisoner. And now, over the evening meal, the young man had been forced to explain himself.

It had scarcely been necessary for Sviatopolk to accuse him. He had, in his stumbling way, accused himself. Indeed, Sviatopolk had thought it wisest to say nothing against him but to suggest: ‘My brother has lost his way. I think he has almost lost his soul. Perhaps he may regain it as a monk.’ Monks usually died young.

Igor had put the questions, while his wife watched in silence.

Once, Sviatopolk had murmured: ‘Can such a son love his family?’ But the rest of the interrogation had gone on without his aid. And now, at last, the stern nobleman summed up.

‘You have lied to me, and to us all. You have thrown away your
inheritance, which I gave you. You have even stolen. By no word did you tell us whether you were alive or dead, breaking your mother’s heart. And now, having stolen yet again, you give the money to a stranger and try to depart from the very place where your parents are living.’

It seemed to Sviatopolk that no indictment could be more complete. He watched, contented, while no one spoke.

Then Igor forgave his son.

The great Russian winter, terrible in its mighty cold, is also a time of joy. For Ivanushka, it was a time of healing.

At first, during the autumn months after his homecoming, his body and spirit seemed to collapse. The end of his long ordeal, as so often happens, caused a surrender in his system. He fell prey to a cold that soon turned into an illness that made his throat swell up, his limbs ache and his head throb so violently that he blinked with the pain. ‘It feels like an anvil,’ he muttered, ‘upon which two demons are hammering.’

It was his mother who saved him. Perhaps because only she understood. For when his father had wanted to send for one of the Armenian or Syrian doctors of the prince’s court, men skilled in the medicine of the classical world, Olga had refused. ‘We have folk remedies better than the medicine of the Greeks and Romans,’ she said firmly. ‘But send to the monastery if you wish, and ask the monks for their prayers.’ Then she had locked the door of the room where her son lay, and allowed no one else in.

While he tossed and turned, she would remain in the room, a gentle, quiet presence, bathing his brow from time to time, saying little. Sitting by the window she seemed quite contented to stare out at the sky, or read her book of Psalms, or half doze while he lay still. She would speak if he wanted to talk, but she never addressed him, or even looked at him. She was there, yet not there, calm and unmoving.

Outside, the rains of autumn fell, the countryside became a morass of rich, black mud, and all nature seemed like a wet and wilted bird. The skies were grey and heavy, the horizon blank. Somewhere, behind the long grey-black skyline, a huge, white cold was preparing to advance from the east.

Then came the snow. The first day it came over the steppe, in an endless orange glow, and fell upon the damp streets in soft grey
flurries. As Ivanushka stared past his mother’s quiet, pale face, he had the impression that outside, nature was closing a door, shutting out the light from the sky. But alone in his room with her, he did not mind. On the second day came a blizzard. Now the snow storm howled, as though the endless steppe had conjured up and sent an infinite army of tiny, grey demons who intended to hurl themselves furiously upon the citadel and overpower it. But on the third day, a change occurred. The snow fell softly. For a time, in the middle of the day, the sky even cleared enough for a few shafts of sunlight to shine through the clouds. The snowflakes that fell, morning and evening, were large and soft as feathers. And it was after this that he began to recover.

The Russian winter is not, in truth, so terrible. Even the smallest hut, with its huge stove, is piping hot inside.

A week after the snows fell, on a bright sunlit day, Ivanushka, wrapped in furs, was carried to the high walls of Pereiaslav.

How the land sparkled. The golden domes of the churches in the city flashed in the sun under the crystal blue sky. Below, the river was flowing past a gleaming white bank, and in the distance the woods on the other side were a dark, glistening line. To the east and south, over patches of wood laden with fresh snow, the beginning of the mighty steppe could be seen: a huge, white carpet, stretching endlessly, shining softly.

Thus, through the Russian winter, the thick blanket of snow protects the earth.

And through that winter, as the land by the snow, Ivanushka was protected by his mother.

At times it was as though he were a child again. They would sit by the fire, or by the window, and read the fairy stories or recite the
byliny
that he had known as a boy.

The firebird, the tales of snow maidens, of bears in the forest, the stories of princes in search of wealth or love: why was it that these childish tales, now that he was older, seemed so full of wisdom? Their very language, with its subtle sense of movement, wry humour and gentle irony, seemed to him now to be trembling with life and colour, like the endless forest itself.

Death came once to the family that winter, when Sviatopolk’s wife suddenly sickened and died. Though he had hardly known her, Ivanushka would gladly have gone to comfort his brother but
Sviatopolk did not seem to wish it, and so Ivanushka had said no more.

Slowly, the long winter passed and Ivanushka, in this little womb prepared for him, recovered his life and emerged, in early spring, while the snow was still upon the ground, ready to join the world again.

His brow was clear, his eyes bright, and although he was a little subdued and often thoughtful, he felt cheerful, whole and strong. ‘Thanks to you,’ he told his mother, ‘I have been reborn.’

The world of Pereiaslav into which he emerged was a busy one.

While the princes had fought over golden Kiev, cautious Prince Vsevolod had kept his grip on Pereiaslav, the hub of the southern frontier forts, and raised the city to new importance. Compared to Kiev, of course, it had only a few fine churches, and most of its buildings were of wood. But the stout, square fortress town represented a force to be reckoned with. Above all, the church there was so powerful and so loyal to the Patriarch in Constantinople that the Metropolitan of Pereiaslav was sometimes more favoured in the imperial city than that of Kiev.

As he walked through the broad main square and gazed at the stout little Church of the Virgin by the prince’s palace, or the chapel they were building over the gate, Ivanushka felt a sense of well-being. He would visit the glass makers and lovingly handle the brightly coloured pieces bound for a church or nobleman’s house. He even found a workshop which made bronze clasps for books, and bought one for his mother. They were pleasant days.

And yet, strangely enough, he was no sooner recovered than he began to experience a vague sense of unease. He could not put his finger on it: the sense was only a vague intuition. But as the days passed he began to get the distinct feeling that there had been some intrigue concerning him – as though, while the snow covered the earth, someone had been burrowing dangerous channels underground. What the devil could it be?

At first, however, he had put the suspicion out of his mind. For the news his father shortly brought him was wonderful indeed.

‘I’ve done it,’ the boyar proudly told his wife. ‘Prince Vsevolod is so much my friend I can even beg a place for Ivanushka!’ And to his son he had joyfully declared: ‘You are to join young Prince Vladimir after all. Sviatopolk is in his
druzhina
and has done well. Now’s your chance to prove yourself too.’ And Ivanushka had beamed with delight.

It had been just two days later that his father had casually remarked: ‘By the way, while you were ill, your brother and I paid off all your creditors, you know. Your name’s quite clear now.’

Supposing this to be a reference to Zhydovyn and one or two others, Ivanushka had thanked his father and thought little more of it. It was only when, the next day, his mother made a reluctant reference to his debts that he had thought of asking to see the list.

And now he saw what had been going on. For the list was staggering.

At the top, of course, came the debt to Zhydovyn. But after that came a list that took his breath away. People that he had never seen, in places he had scarcely visited, had claimed either that he had robbed them or that they had lent him money. In all but two cases, he knew that their claims were false. ‘Who found these creditors?’ he demanded.

‘Sviatopolk,’ his father told him.

So this was the dark labyrinth that had been burrowed in the ground all winter.

His brother had been thorough. It seemed he had been to every town in the land of Rus. The amounts were not large. Sviatopolk had been clever. But their number was astonishing. ‘You owe your brother a debt of thanks,’ Igor told him sternly. ‘He insisted on paying half of these himself.’

‘He feels responsible for you, too,’ his mother added.

Ivanushka understood. His experiences had made him a little wiser. ‘I fear a great many of these folk have cheated my brother,’ he remarked sadly. But seeing they did not believe him, he said no more. The incident was closed.

It was the next day that, at last, his father took him to meet the young prince whom, on account of his royal Greek mother, men called Vladimir Monomakh.