The Empire of Time (6 page)

‘Barbarossa?’

Hecht nods.

‘Then …’

‘Seydlitz didn’t know. Only I wanted him to get a taste of it again. It’s been a while.’

Almost three years, if I’ve heard right
.

‘You think he’s ready?’

‘Don’t you?’

I nod, remembering how I felt when my first project was green-lit by the Elders. ‘What backup are you giving him?’

‘He’ll lead a team of eight.’

‘Eight!’ It’s a lot. Twice what we usually send in. But then, this is a major operation – a direct assault upon the very heartland of Russia – and if this works … ‘Am I …?’

‘No, Otto. I want you at a distance from this one.’

I don’t quite understand what he means, but I bow my head anyway, obedient to his wishes.

‘So when does he start?’

Hecht stands, then walks over to the bookshelves. He takes down a book and, turning back, hands it to me. ‘He’s begun already. I sent him in an hour back.’

‘But …’ And then I laugh. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how elastic Time is here in Four-Oh. For though Seydlitz was with us only moments before, it’s an easy matter to wait a while, send him back a few hours, then send him back again, to a thousand years in the Past.

‘The platform was busy the next few hours,’ Hecht says, by way of illumination, which explains how he knew when to be at the platform to greet Kramer and Seydlitz.

And the book?

I look to Hecht, puzzled. It’s a collection of Russian folk tales.

‘Open it. To the title page.’

I open it and stare, because there, on the title page, is a hand-written dedication, and beneath it, the same symbol the Russian wore around his neck … the lazy-eight with the facing twin arrows.

I try to make out the signature, but it’s almost unreadable. ‘Who is it?’ I ask, but Hecht only shrugs.

‘Maybe we should find out.’ And he smiles. ‘Just in case.’

That night I dream.

I am back there, in the summer of 1236. Sunlight bathes the broad, flat rock on which we rest, laying a veil of gold upon the river below us and the trees beyond. There are five of us – Johannes, Conrad, Luder, Werner and I – brothers-in-arms, waiting there in the warmth of that July afternoon for Meister Dietrich to return from leading a scouting party into the forest on the far bank.

He has been gone since early morning, looking for pagan settlements amid that wilderness of trees. It has been some time – almost a year – since we last raided them, and they have grown incautious once more. Or so the Meister claims.

Johannes is the first to suggest it. He makes a comment on the smell of young Werner, and, laughing, roughly playful, Conrad helps Johannes strip the young man and throw him from the rock, naked, into the water. He surfaces, spluttering yet laughing, taking it in the spirit in which it was meant, then turns on to his back and floats there, treading water.

‘Come in!’ he yells, and splashes water up at us. ‘It’s wonderful!’

No sooner is the invitation made, than Conrad jumps from the rock, a high, flailing jump that ends only feet from where Werner is treading water. Johannes and Luder follow moments later, and, reluctant but grinning nonetheless, I slip out of my clothes and, throwing my arms out, dive straight as an arrow into that golden sheet of dazzling, shimmering light.

As I surface, there are cheers. Werner looks at me in awe. ‘Where did you learn to do that, Otto?’

I gasp, gripped by the coldness of the water, but stay there, making no move to get out, determined to show no sign of weakness before my Brothers.

‘My father taught me when I was a boy.’

‘You were a boy, Otto?’ Johannes says, mocking my earnestness, and the others laugh. But not at my expense. There’s a kindness in their laughter. The mockery is gentle.

I duck down and swim towards the river’s bed, thrusting myself down through the chill, clear water until I’m below them, their pale, strong legs kicking slowly in the pale greenness above me.

I surface right between Conrad and Luder, surprising them both, and, placing a hand on each of their heads, thrust them down, ducking them.

For a moment the three of us struggle in the water, laughing and gasping, and then Luder kicks back, away, shaking the water from his head as he does.

My strength surprises them. I know they think me soft. Comparatively, anyway. For these are the toughest, hardest, most resilient bunch of men I’ve ever known. Their austere self-reliance – their ability to survive in any conditions – astonishes me. They seem to need so little.

We climb back up on to the rock and sit there for a while, at ease in our nakedness, letting our bodies dry in the heat of the sun, enjoying the simplicity of the day. For a while all are silent, as if keeping to their vows, then Johannes stands and, after stretching, pulls on his clothes again. All but the armour.

We do the same, then sit there, staring out over the canopy of the forest. It seems to stretch to the very edge of the world. In the daylight there’s a real beauty to the scene, but at night …

I shudder and look to Werner, noting how he is watching me.

‘I miss them,’ he says. ‘My family. My brothers especially.’

‘Ah …’

But Johannes has less time for sentiment. ‘We do our Lady’s business,’ he says, and all bow their heads, as if in a moment’s prayer, at the reminder.

But Werner is young. Only a minute passes before he looks to me again and asks. ‘Do you miss your family, Otto?’

‘I have no family.’

Werner’s mouth opens the tiniest fraction, as if that explains a lot.

‘They were killed,’ I add, then look away.

‘Is that why you came here?’

I nod. But I know they are all looking at me now. We have these moments. Quiet, reflective moments, when it is possible to say such things. When the vows we have taken are less important suddenly than understanding why we’re here, and whether it’s for the same sad reasons.

For as hard and self-reliant as these men are, they are also very much alone, even in such company as this. Lost souls, they are, seeking atonement. But theirs is also a steely, unshakable faith, and if they knew who I really was they would kill me without a moment’s thought.

Silence falls again. I close my eyes, then hear a sharp intake of breath. My eyes flick open and I reach out for my sword. And then I see what it is, and relax.

In the shallows on the far side of the river, in the shade of the overhanging trees, a huge black bear has come to drink. She stands up straight for a moment, looking across at us, sensing us there, and then she turns and, with a strange, protective little gesture, beckons her cubs forward.

They scuttle past her, keeping close, and then rest there, their tiny, dark-haired bodies half-submerged in the water as they drink. And all the while the mother bear stares across at us defiantly.

None of us moves. At most we sit forward a little, as if to watch the scene more closely.

Finished, the cubs scuttle back into the trees, play-fighting as they go. The mother half turns to watch them, then looks back at us, her massive body swaying a little from side to side as she does, weighing up what to do. Then, as if satisfied, she bends down and, using her paws, scoops water to her mouth and drinks, glancing up at us from time to time.

Satisfied, she straightens and raises her head. Lifting it back, she growls, but whether it’s in warning or in thanks it’s hard to tell, and in a moment she’s gone. The river flows on, like a broad band of molten sunlight running between the banks.

I turn and look to Johannes, who’s looking down now, thoughtful.

‘We should have killed it,’ Conrad says, feeling the edge of his sword with his thumb. ‘We could still go after it. It can’t have gone far.’

‘No,’ Johannes says, with a finality that surprises us all. ‘Leave it. It has a right to be here.’

‘I agree,’ Werner says. ‘At least until we clear this godforsaken land.’

There’s laughter. As it fades, Werner speaks again, gesturing towards the unending forest. ‘Imagine it. All of this turned to pasture. A chapel there, where the river turns.

‘And there’ – he turns and points – ‘a thriving Christian village.’

I can imagine it only too well, for though it may take several more centuries, it will be very much as Werner says. I know because I’ve seen it.

From our right a call breaks the stillness, and as we stand and turn towards it, so Meister Dietrich and the others emerge from the trees on the far bank a hundred yards downstream.

‘They’ve found one,’ Werner says quietly, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. ‘Look at them, they’ve found one of their villages.’

I can see it’s true. Though the Meister himself is sober, stern of face, the Knight Brothers just behind him are grinning excitedly.

‘Thanks be to our Lady,’ Johannes murmurs and crosses himself, the others – myself included – responding in an instant. Then he turns, looking to us in disgust, as if we were still naked. ‘Now dress yourselves, quick, my brothers, unless you fancy a good flogging from the Meister!’

And then suddenly I am back there in the forest, at night, walking silently through the moonlit dark towards the village. All about me are the shadowy figures of my brother knights. They walk slowly, with a dream-like slowness, their long swords drawn, their cloaks fluttering ghostly pale between the dark, arrow-straight trunks of the trees.

We are close now. Ahead of us there’s light and laughter. Sparks fly up into the darkness from a great bonfire in a clearing not a hundred yards away. About the fire are a dozen or so huts, crude things of daub and wattle. Families crouch before them, their faces lit, their eyes drawn to the leaping flames. Dark figures dance and whirl about the pyre, dancing to a crude yet haunting melody played on a single four-stringed instrument, its strangely exotic sound drifting out to us. The villagers sway from side to side, caught up in the song, clapping along to its rhythm, and then, suddenly, a voice picks up the melody and is quickly joined by others.

I feel the hairs on my neck bristle. The sound is beautiful, so pure and innocent. But I’ve no time now for such sentiments. My wrist is aching from carrying the sword, the muscles of my right arm stiff with tension. We are almost upon them, and as we come to within yards of the clearing’s edge, so the Meister’s voice cries out and we begin to run, our fierce yells of rage drowning out their song, which falters and stops.

They’re screaming now, running this way and that, trying to flee into the forest as our men go among them, swinging their swords viciously. And those who do manage to slip away find themselves confronted by a second line of our men, standing out there among the trees, waiting to cut them down.

A young woman tears herself from the small group and runs towards me, yelling, her arms out to me. Her dark eyes implore me not to harm her, but even as I step back, a crossbow bolt knocks her down. I watch in horror as her hands scrabble at the welling patch of red in her side, a look of shocked surprise in her eyes. She struggles a moment longer, then convulses, dying with a whimper.

I look up. The huts are burning now, forming a great circle of brightness in the midst of that primordial dark. I turn, in time to see Brother Martin swing his blade and cleave a fleeing infant crown to navel, the child tumbling like a split fruit on to the carpet of bloodied leaves.

I howl and try to throw my sword away, but the muscles of my wrist are locked. And even as I do, the Meister himself strides across and, bellowing in my face, shoves me towards a group of cowering peasants, who crouch before a blazing hut.

There’s fear in their eyes, and an overwhelming hopelessness, and I want to tell them that I’m sorry. I want to say, ‘I have to do this, or my own people will die’, but I can’t. I am trapped in the moment, unable to deviate from it, and as I raise my sword again, I groan aloud and call to Urd herself to make this end.

But Urd is not watching, not protecting me from this, and as the dream goes on, I am forced once more to watch as, one by one, they die at my hand, screaming like frightened children, their souls flying up into the darkness like windswept embers. And when it’s done, I turn to find the Meister watching me, a broad smile on his face.

‘There,’ he says, clapping me on the back. ‘Not so hard, is it?’

The fires are raging now on every side, filling the dark night with their dazzling light, the blazing thatch roaring, the sound like a great torrent of falling water, glowing embers drifting on the gusting draughts like fireflies, carrying the blaze into the forest, setting parts of it alight, while at the centre of it all, the Knight Brothers, helms raised, lean on their bloodied swords and look about themselves, grinning and laughing, as if they’ve won some great victory.

Only I can’t fool myself like them. I want to tell them just how wrong this is, only I’m not here to do that. I’m here to help them establish a bridgehead in this pagan land. I’m here because Hecht sent me here. Because …

Light flickers, flashes, and I wake, pooled in my own sweat, gasping for breath.

‘Otto?’

Zarah is there, sitting across the room from me, watching. I sit up, planting my bare feet firmly on the floor, then look at her.

‘Bad dreams?’

I nod, but find I cannot talk. I don’t trust myself to talk.

‘Hecht told me,’ she says. ‘Some of it, anyway.’

I look about me for a drink. Zarah stands and comes across, holding a cup out to me.

‘Drink this. It’ll help.’

I meet her eyes, asking an unspoken query, and she smiles and nods. ‘Enough to keep you out for several days. But it’s your choice. You can keep suffering if you want to.’

I take the cup and down its contents in three large gulps, then slump back down, letting Zarah place the blanket over me. My eyes are already closed.

‘If you need to talk …’

But it’s not talk that I need. What I need is to forget. And not to dream. Not those kind of dreams, anyway.

‘So?’ She says, after a while. ‘Didn’t Ernst tell you?’

This time I answer her. ‘Tell me what?’

‘No matter.’