The Empire of Time (29 page)

The thought of it destroys me. I lie on my bed all afternoon, unable to raise myself. It’s as if I’ve died, only if I’d died there’d not be this pain. And it doesn’t cease. The torment is endless. Until, eventually, I can take it no longer and I get up and go to the gym and spend an hour pushing myself to my limits.

Evening finds me in Kurtz’s Bar in the recreation area. There’s a dozen or more people scattered about the place, but no one I’d call a friend. Besides, there’s something about my body language that discourages them from coming across.

I’m on my fifth whisky when Urte comes and sits with me.

‘Hi,’ she says.

‘Hi.’ But I can’t even force a smile, and she sees that.

‘You want to talk?’

I stare back at her coolly. ‘No.’

‘You sure?’

‘Completely sure.’

‘Only I …’

I wait, and eventually she finishes the sentence.

‘Only I couldn’t help noticing what’s been happening.’

‘And what
has
been happening?’

She looks down. I’ve already done enough to rebuff her, but she’s sticking it out, and I realise that she must like me a lot. Not that it matters. Not that anything matters right now.

She reaches out and touches the scar at my neck. It’s almost healed, but it’s still tender.

‘It’s the only one that shows.’

‘What?’

She smiles sadly. ‘Look at you, Otto. You’re a classic, you know that? Walking wounded. A bullet to the heart, endlessly repeated.’

My mouth is suddenly dry. I go to speak, but she shakes her head, then turns and orders two more whiskies. Doubles.

We end up in bed, of course. Where else is there to end? But it’s not for sex. No. I let her comfort me. I let her hold me while I cry, never saying a word, never explaining a thing. Only she knows, I’m sure. Or guesses. And when I wake, she’s gone. Only there’s a note beside my bed and the lingering smell of her perfume in the air.

‘
Otto
,’ it reads, ‘
follow your heart. Love Urte
.’

For the next two days I try to keep myself busy, catching up on my work, but my heart’s not in it. People leave me alone, like they know something’s wrong. I send in a request to go back and visit Frederick, but my note comes back stamped ‘REFUSED’, and no explanation. I know I need a break, maybe even a mind-clean, but the thought of losing her – even the little I have – fills me with dread. This is indeed a form of madness, for I would rather have the memory of her – torment that it is – than nothing.

And so I persevere, into a third day. A day of reckoning.

It begins as any other day. I wake from dreams of her and roll on to my back and groan. For a while I lie there, my eyes closed, listening to the silence. And then I sense it. Something’s changed. Something’s happened in the past, and everything is different again.

I go to see Hecht, only he’s not there. At the platform they don’t seem to know where he is, but then, suddenly, he’s there, jumped back from who knows where, his hair smoking, his clothes on fire.

I help put him out, then stand there, waiting for him to say something, but all he says is: ‘Briefing. My room. Now.’

‘What’s happened?’ I ask, before he can say a word. ‘I felt the change.’

His eyes widen. ‘Did you?’ And he sits. For a time he’s silent, thinking some problem through, and then he looks at me, his mind made up.

‘I want you to go back, Otto. To Novgorod. Ernst is missing. I think he may be dead. He was
… compromised
.’

I wait, and Hecht explains.

‘You were right, Otto. Kravchuk
is
an agent for the Mongols. And Nevsky’s definitely on his payroll. But something else is happening. I think Yastryeb has made a move.’

‘And Ernst?’

‘We lost contact with him, and when we activated his focus, nothing happened. He didn’t come back. That’s why I went in, to see if I could find him. I jumped to his last known location, but he wasn’t there.’

‘How long was he in there?’

‘Two months subjective.’

‘And what do we know?’

Hecht spells it out. Ernst jumped back twice, to report on things. On the second occasion, Hecht felt he seemed nervous, but as Ernst made no reference to any threat, he let it pass. What he’d learned confirmed our suspicions. Kravchuk was one of a network of Mongol agents sent in before the invasion. Each carried letters from the Great Khan, offering generous terms should the recipient prince come to an agreement with the Khan. But those letters were to be handed over only once other, more covert negotiations had been concluded. They were to ‘sound out’ all of the princes of the ruling Riurikid dynasty and certain princes – those who it was felt would be willing to listen to the Great Khan’s inducements – would then be targeted. Each agent was given the means to ‘buy’ whoever they needed to gain access to those princes. Kravchuk’s target was ‘Nevsky’.

‘So what’s Yastryeb’s involvement?’

‘I don’t know. But they’ve agents there. Ernst saw one of them. A fellow named Alekhin.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘No. But it seems he’s an expert on that period. A big, heavily bearded man. Fits in perfectly with his surroundings. The interesting thing, however, is where Ernst saw him.’

‘Go on.’

‘He was in Nevsky’s entourage. Part of his
druzhina
, his comrades-in-arms.’

I take in the significance of that. To get that close to Nevsky means he would have had to have stayed
in situ
for a long, long time. Years, maybe even tens of years.

‘A bodyguard, you think?’

‘Maybe. And maybe not the only one. Ernst was going to try to find out.’

‘Do you think they know about Kravchuk?’

Hecht shrugs. ‘I don’t know, but I’d guess no. If they knew, they’d have had him killed, don’t you think?’

It’s what I’d do if I were them.

‘And the fire?’

I indicate his charred clothes, and he nods. ‘When I couldn’t find Ernst, I went back to your rooms. I was only in there five minutes when the whole place went up.’

‘Yastryeb?’

‘Who else? Unless someone’s invented the grenade four centuries early.’

‘So how did they know you were there?’

Hecht smiles, and it’s like the sun on a winter’s day. ‘That’s what I want you to find out, Otto. That’s why you’re going back.’

Back again, to the summer of 1237.

I arrive at the town gates, a heavy pack on my shoulders, and pay the toll. Inside, I make my way quickly through the packed streets, the mid-morning sun making me sweat beneath the rough clothes I’m wearing. Hecht has told me to find a room, then seek out Kravchuk. He wants me to be Kravchuk’s friend, to win his trust and be his confidant, but I’ve another plan. I know that Kravchuk’s been here only three days – not time enough to make friends – but time’s limited, and I want to be sure.

Razumovsky stares at me doubtfully, then has his steward search me for a knife. The fact that I know his name makes him wary of me, for he’s never heard of me, and he deals with many
Nemets
. Moreover there have been troubles with the Germans lately. The Livonian Brothers of the Sword have merged with the Teutonic Order and are pressing all along the north-west border of this land, so strangers are highly suspect, and I’m a stranger. Even so, he does not shirk his hospitality, and as I sit there, so his servant brings me a beer, and we drink a toast to his family.

‘You have a family, trader?

‘No. But I am looking for a wife.’

Razumovsky grins. ‘A good German wife, I suppose.’

‘Not at all. I mean to settle here, in Novgorod.’

‘To settle?’ His eyes take on a thoughtful cast.

‘That’s so. I plan to buy a plot of land in the Peterhof and build myself a house. Nothing grand, you understand. Nothing as grand as this, anyway.’

Razumovsky smiles at my compliment.

‘But who knows,’ I say. ‘I have contacts back home in Stuttgart. Men who know me and trust me, and would welcome an agent in this town. If all goes well …’

He studies me, his right hand pulling at his beard, and then he stands. ‘You have the means to do this, trader? To buy land and set up home here?’

‘I do,’ I say. ‘And call me Otto, please, Mikhail.’

He nods, then tilts his head a little. ‘And you say you are looking for a wife?’

‘She must be young,’ I say, ‘and pretty. And she must come from a good household. I’ll not marry one who doesn’t. Oh, and she must be of the Orthodox faith.’

This last surprises him. ‘You’re Orthodox?’

‘Not yet. But I plan to convert. I want to put down roots here, Mikhail. Novgorod is a growing town, and I want my sons to be a part of it.’

This impresses him and sends him into a second bout of thoughtfulness. He looks at me, then nods to himself. ‘You have your eye on a young woman, Otto?’

‘No one in particular. But your friend Chernenko told me you would be sure to know someone.’

‘You know Chernenko?’

I do, only he hasn’t met me yet. Not in this time-line. But I will rectify that later. Even so, it does the trick.

‘Look,’ he says, putting his arm about my shoulder. ‘There is a girl, but, well, it’s delicate. Maybe we could talk some more. Over dinner, perhaps?’

‘Dinner?’

He nods and grins at me. ‘You’ll be my guest, I hope.’

‘I’d be delighted. Only …’

He narrows his eyes. ‘Only what?’

‘You see,’ I begin, as if this is awkward for me. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust the people I am staying with, but, well, all of my worldly goods are here, in my pack. If I had somewhere I could store it. Somewhere it would be safe …’

Razumovsky beams. ‘Look no more. You can leave it here, my friend. There’s no safer place in the whole city.’

I look embarrassed. ‘You’re very kind, but …’ I pause, then, going to the pack, pull out the top item, and, stepping over to the table, open up the plain white cloth in which it’s wrapped.

Razumovsky’s eyes open wide in astonishment. ‘Mother of God!’

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ And I hand him the silver dagger with its jewel-encrusted hilt, and watch as his eyes drink in the beauty of its workmanship.

‘Who made this?’ he asks.

‘A friend.’

‘A good friend, or did you pay him for it?’

I meet his eyes and smile. ‘Oh, I paid him. One hundred thaler.’

Razumovsky’s eyes wrinkle with calculation. ‘One hundred? And it’s worth …?’

‘Five hundred. Maybe a thousand. The jewels are real, not paste.’

In fact, they’re made of my DNA, but they’re good enough to fool anyone in this Age. And there are other things beside. I show them to him, one by one, and know, as he hands each back, that his mind has been busy calculating.

‘
There is a girl
…’

And I smile and accept his kind offer of a room.

‘Tonight,’ he says. ‘We’ll talk some more tonight.’

I have washed and dressed, putting on a long shirt of the finest linen and a deerskin jacket, long leather boots and a hat of soft kid. Dressed so, I look more like a prince than a trader, and Razumovsky greets me with a respectful bow before turning and introducing me to his other guest.

Who smiles, and stands, and offers me his hand.

Kravchuk.

Razumovsky sees nothing, but Kravchuk notes the hesitation, and there’s a sudden question in his eyes.

‘You know me, trader?’

I smile, trying to disarm him, but my pulse is racing and I find it hard to breathe.

‘No,’ I say. ‘No, it’s just – you reminded me briefly of someone. A friend.’

He accepts that, nods, then grasps my hands and shakes them. But I am still surprised to find him here. When did he call? Or has he known Razumovsky a long time now?

I look to my host, as if seeking an explanation, but he seems unaware that there’s a need. It seems, however, that he’s told Kravchuk about me.

‘I hear you are from Stuttgart, Otto. It’s a very pleasant town.’

It is, but I have never been there. Not in this century. And so I shift the subject, to my fictitious travels in the Asian heartland, and find Kravchuk staring at me thoughtfully, as if maybe I know him after all.

He says little, not wishing to betray whence he’s come, and so I change the subject once again.

‘They say the
veche
here are unhappy with their prince.’

Kravchuk’s eyes go to me, then he looks away. But Razumovsky laughs. ‘If it were possible, we would have no prince at all! But it will be a cold day in hell before Kiev
imposes
one on us!’

He leans toward me, about to say more, when there’s a movement in the doorway behind him. He turns and grins.

‘Ah, Masha, Katerina …’

The two women of the house enter, each carrying a large wooden tray stacked high with food. There’s ham and chicken, cheese and pickled fish and more besides.

I look on, amazed, falling in love with her again. Yet for a time she does not even notice me, but goes about her task, helping her mother set the table. And only when she’s done and turns, a half-smile on her lips, do our eyes finally meet.

I watch as her lips slowly part with the shock of recognition. There is a moment’s naked panic in her eyes, and then she looks away, colour forming at her neck and in her cheeks.

I am a stranger to her, yet now – and I can see it clearly from where I stand – her heart beats quickly beneath the bright blue blouse she wears.

‘Gentlemen,’ Razumovsky begins, stepping between the two women and turning, an arm about each, ‘let me introduce my wife, Masha, and my daughter, Katerina.’

And I make to step forward, to take her hand and kiss it, but Kravchuk is there in front of me, bowing low before her, his hat removed.

‘Katerina,’ he says. ‘What a delightful name …’

It is an evening hardly to be borne. It is not simply that the man is odious, it is the fact that Razumovsky can’t see through his boasts and flattery and glimpse the little slug he really is. In fact, by the evening’s end, I have come to think Katerina’s father a total fool. Even so, I try one last, vain time to speak to him alone about his daughter’s hand, only to have him raise it at the table.