The Empire of Time (25 page)

Silence falls about the table as I turn to look at her. She is older than I remember – a good deal more than six years, it seems, have passed in her face, and she has put on weight. She looks somewhat dowdy and careworn, her hair unbrushed, yet when she turns and looks at me, I know her, as if I have known her since the first day of eternity.

‘Otto …’

And she almost smiles at me. Then, abruptly, she looks down and, gathering her daughters in her skirts, makes to turn and leave the room. But I am on my feet and call to her.

‘Katerina …’

She stops, her eyes averted. Afraid of me now. Every eye but hers is on me now. But it is Kravchuk who answers me.

‘Herr Behr – what is this?’

‘I have a letter,’ I say, looking at her, not him. ‘A letter from her father.’ And I hold it out towards her.

She looks up and meets my eyes again, and what I see there dismays me, for I see that he has broken her. Destroyed whatever spirit she once possessed. Even so, she looks at the letter longingly.

‘Here,’ I say gently. ‘Take it.’

Kravchuk stands, his chair scraping back, his goblet clattering to the floor.

‘Give me that!’

I swallow, then take a further step towards her, willing her to take the letter, but Kravchuk snarls at me.

‘I said
give
it to me!
Now!
’

I turn and stare at him. He’s trying to act big in front of his friends, but something in his voice gives him away. He wants to be stern, but there’s a slight edge of hysteria to his words. And so I slowly walk across and, giving him the slightest bow, hold the letter out for him to take.

He snatches it and rips it open, slowly mouthing the words to himself. And then he laughs and, turning to his friends, gives a mocking smile.

‘The nerve! The old fool wants to meet her! Well, fuck that! He’s meeting no one. Least of all my wife.’

And he crumples the note and throws it into the fire. I hear Katerina’s cry of dismay, then see her begin to run towards the flames, yet even as she makes to pass his chair, he turns and lashes out, catching her about the side of the head.

My hand goes to my belt, but the gun’s not there. Yet even as I take a step towards him, my arm raised, I see her get up from the floor. Her face is dark, her eyes ablaze. Someone shouts a warning, and it’s only then that I see what’s she’s holding.

The burning log strikes Kravchuk directly in the face. He screams and falls back and as he does, so two of his servants rush forward, pinning Katerina’s arms, while another goes to help his master. But Kravchuk beats him off and, standing, pulls out his short sword.

The sharpened edge winks red in the firelight.

She struggles, pulling an arm free, then glares at her husband, defiant now. One eye of his is closed, and his hair still smoulders, but from the look in his face I can tell that all thought of pain’s forgotten now. He simply wants to hurt her.

‘I never loved you,’ she says quietly, triumphantly almost. ‘It’s
him
I loved.’

And she points at me.

Ernst stares at me, astonished, but the room’s in sudden turmoil. Men make to grab me and drag me down, but I pull away, even as a woman servant gathers up Katerina’s daughters and takes them, kicking and screaming from the room.

Ernst jumps, his warning to me fading in the air, but I’m not going anywhere. I lash out at one of them, then duck, trying to get at him. But I’m too slow. As in a dream I see him grab her hair and tug it back, exposing her pale white throat.

‘Nooooo ….’

Arms grab me, hold me, stop me moving forward.

‘
Katerina!
’

But the word is barely formed when Kravchuk turns and glares at me, and draws the glistening blade across her throat.

I sit on the platform, my head in my hands. A crowd of women surrounds me, concern in every face. Zarah lifts my chin and looks at me, but I turn my head aside.

‘Noooooo …’

I am in agony. Somewhere, in some other universe, she is dead, her throat cut by that half-man Kravchuk, her children grieving, just as I grieve for her now.

I sit there and sob like a child, and they hold me and try to comfort me, until Hecht comes and, waving them away, sits beside me, his arm about my hunched shoulders, his soft and quiet voice speaking to my ear.

‘What happened, Otto?’

The words come shuddering from me, as if on jagged strings.

‘The bastard killed her.’

‘Killed who?’

‘Razumovsky’s daughter.’

‘Ernst says …’ Hecht hesitates. ‘No matter. So what are you going to do?’

I know the answer. At least, I know what Hecht wants me to say. But that’s not what I’m thinking. I want to jump right back there, my gun in my belt, and burn a hole between that bastard’s eyes. I want to see him fry. And I want her to live. I don’t want her to die. Not in any universe. But I say what I’m expected to say.

‘We go back,’ I say quietly. ‘Get Nevsky. Concentrate on that.’

‘Good,’ Hecht says. ‘For a moment …’

I meet his eyes, a question in mine.

‘No matter,’ he says once more. ‘Focus on Nevsky. The woman …’ Hecht sighs. ‘They all die, Otto. You can’t prevent that.’

And I know it’s true. Only I want her to live. I want it more than …

Well, more than life itself.

I look down at my hands, knowing that I’ve got to go back. I’ve got to change it.

Yes, but how?

Tomorrow, she said. She was meeting me tomorrow, in the lane by the cathedral. I look up at Hecht and nod. ‘I’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘I just need to rest for a while.’

Only I hardly sleep at all. I keep seeing it – that awful, helpless look in her eyes. And I burn to make it not so. Never have I felt this urge so powerfully. But I know I must take care. Ernst is sure to have said something to Hecht, and if Hecht thinks for a moment that this might get in the way of me doing my job, then he’ll pull me from the project.

And I can’t allow that. I have to see her again.

So when Ernst sends a message, I take my time, as if I’m unconcerned, and when finally I get there, he looks at me quizzically.

‘Otto, where have you been?’

‘Sleeping,’ I say. ‘It was a shock, that business. I guess …’

And then I shrug and smile. ‘Hecht’s right. We need to focus on Nevsky. If we can build on those contacts we’ve made …’

I see the relief in Ernst’s eyes, and know he’s been worrying about me. Yet even as he begins to spell out the next stage of things to me, I find myself only half listening, some part of me transfixed by the thought of seeing her again.

And so we go back. To Novgorod, in the winter of 1237, and there, in the tiny lane beside the cathedral, I stand in the shadow of that great white-painted building, its golden onion domes raised high above me into the blue, as I wait for her to come.

It’s bitterly cold, and I am not quite sure when the service will end, but I know that I would wait for ever just for a single glimpse of her.

You’re mad, I tell myself, time and again, as I pull my furs closer about my neck and stomp my leather-booted feet, trying to keep warm. Nor do I know quite where this madness leads, only that it must have meaning. If not, then why feel such painful intensity?

I ponder that a while, as if I can make sense of it, then give it up. If Hecht is right, then everything’s genetics – cell calling to cell – and all our human instincts just a means our DNA have found for propagating themselves at the expense of other ‘lesser’ strands. We’re but the vehicle that they use.

If so, then powerful genetics are at work here, for each single cell of mine cries out for each of hers. Or so it feels.

But now the great wooden doors swing open, and slowly the congregation – the great and good of Novgorod, in their fine furs and expensive trappings – emerge from that warm, candle-lit, inner darkness out into the snow and the cold mid-morning glare.

I crane my neck, trying to get a sight of her, but it’s hard to make out who is who among that fur-clad throng. But then a small group breaks off and begin to walk up the side of the cathedral, directly towards me.

I step back into the shadows, not wishing to be seen if it’s not her. And it seems as if I’m right, for the small party passes me by, talking among themselves. I step forward once more, gazing down the lane towards the milling crowd, trying to make out Razumovsky, and even as I do, so I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to find her there before me.

White fur rings her perfect face, framing the dark curls of her hair as she looks up at me from those deep blue eyes.

‘
Katerina
…’

The word’s a breath, pluming in the air between us. Her eyes quiz me once more, their tiny, darting movements making me catch my breath. It’s as if she sees the whole of me in that moment. And then she smiles. Such a smile as lights a thousand years.

‘Who are you, Otto? What do you want?’

And I want to tell her everything. Only I know she’ll think me mad. So I say what’s in my head and watch her smile turn to wonder.

‘I want you, Katerina. I want you for ever.’

We do not kiss. We barely even touch. There is that one brief moment, and then she is gone, hurrying to catch up with her maids before she’s missed. Yet in that instant we are pledged to each other. For all time.

‘Well?’ Ernst asks, when I return to him. ‘Did you make contact with him?’

‘He wasn’t there,’ I lie, as if I’d bothered looking for the
posadnik
. ‘We’ll have to go to his house.’

Ernst sighs but doesn’t question me. I’ve never lied to him before, and there would seem no reason why I should be lying now, so he accepts what I’ve said. Only I don’t feel comfortable with it. Ernst is my closest friend, and I hate such shabby subterfuge. But what other option have I?

To give her up …

Only that’s not going to happen. I know that now. It’s the only certainty I possess right now. I have no plan, no way of making her mine, only an absolute and unshakable belief in Fate. She
will
be mine. How, I do not know, but it
will
happen.

I could look, of course. See if and how and when … or so you think. Only it isn’t so. Right now she isn’t mine, she’s Kravchuk’s. To have her I must act, must sully the timestream. To gain her I must triumph over Kravchuk. But how? How can I manage that without first killing the little weasel?

Oh, I want to kill him. How could I not, having seen him murder her? But I am not that kind of man. Or so I think. For I am learning things about myself. Things I never guessed.

Ernst and I agree to visit the
posadnik
; to knock at his gate and seek an audience with the great man. It’s rather more direct than Ernst likes, but there seems no alternative. No one’s offering us an introduction. Why, even Razumovsky’s shy of it. And without gaining the
posadnik
’s friendship, there’s no way we can get to Nevsky.

And that’s the next stage of Ernst’s plan.

We take expensive gifts to bribe his steward.

And so it is that we find ourselves inside his palace. A palace made of wood, of course – more fort than castle – yet with a touch of grandeur for all that, for this is a powerful man. He rules alongside the prince – both appointees of the
veche
, the council of boyars that rules Novgorod.

He greets us sullenly, never leaving his big, carved wooden chair, as if he’s little time for such as we. We are only traders, after all. And
Nemets
, too, come to that. He sees us as an unfortunate necessity. Beyond that … well, his distaste is evident in the way he looks at us, like we’re the lowliest of insects. But that doesn’t matter. We could buy the likes of him ten times over. That is, if we wanted to alert the Russians.

They’re here. We know they are. After all, it is as much in their interests to defend Nevsky as it’s in ours to bring him down. That’s the nature of the game. But who their agents are and what their strategy – that we do not know.

The
posadnik
is a thin fellow of indeterminate age. His bright red beard suggests an aristocratic background – these are
Rus
, after all – yet I know for a fact that his grandfather was born a common man.

‘What do you want?’ he asks disdainfully.

‘Forgive me, my lord,’ Ernst says, bowing low, ‘but these are dark, uncertain times, and—’

‘
Uncertain
times?’

We have his full attention now.

‘I mean, what with the horde …’

He stares at Ernst fiercely. ‘We are a long way from Kiev.’

‘But not from Moscow. Word is it was burned to the ground. With not a single house remaining. In such circumstances …’

The
posadnik
leans right forward in his chair and points at Ernst.

‘Enough! Now state what you want or leave!’

It is blunt enough, and I almost laugh at his pomposity, only we need this man.

Ernst nods, then says it outright. ‘I wish to purchase a letter of protection. From yourself, my lord. To allow us to travel to Vladimir.’

He sits back, happy now he knows what hold he has over us.

‘I see. Well, you ask a lot, trader. In these times, as you say …’

But these are only words. What follows is a haggle, as common as any in the marketplace, and when we finally settle it’s at a price far lower than we were prepared to pay. Ernst bows and wishes the
posadnik
health and many children, and promises to bring the silver by the following morn. In return, the
posadnik
will prepare a letter for us.

But why Vladimir? Because that’s where Nevsky is right now. Beside his father, Yaroslav, who’s such a popular man, his servants will poison him, a dozen years from now.

It will be another three years before Prince Alexander Iaroslavich is appointed Prince of Novgorod, but ours is the art of preparation, and right now we aim to sow the seeds of future circumstance. We must meet the man on numerous occasions, such that when we finally need to act, the prince will trust us, maybe rate us as his friends.

It is snowing as we leave the
posadnik
’s house, and the town, spread out below us, seems almost magical. I have seen many sights over many centuries, yet this, I have to say, is truly beautiful. A feast for the eyes. Or is it something else that makes me think so?