And then I’m running, panting breathlessly across the space between us, until I’m stood above where he’s writhing on the floor, and, kneeling down, I grasp his hair and pull his head back viciously and, making sure he sees me looking at him, end it.
And then I’m done. Not that it’s purged. Not that I couldn’t kill a thousand more of them for what they’ve done here. Only …
Only I’m trembling now, and afraid, oh, so afraid, that I have lost them for ever. That, whatever I do in time, this is it. This slaughter. This hideous awfulness.
And, putting my head back, I bay out my pain and my fear, making Ernst look up from where he’s crouched over the dead man he has killed and look to me, fearful for my soul, afraid that he has lost me finally to the darkness that he knows so well.
Zarah, it seems, can’t even look at me, nor can Old Schnorr. Freisler, however, is staring at me brazenly, like he’s studying my every move as I pace up and down before them.
I have called another council of war, demanding that they give me the support I need to go back in there. I want forty experienced agents. To take Nevsky out. To save Cherdiechnost.
Only they don’t want to. The vote is eleven to one against me. Even Ernst – even after what he’s seen – has voted against me.
I stop, and, leaning against the table, look about me. ‘So what am I supposed to do? Let them
die
?’
‘Six agents,’ Zarah says quietly, and Schnorr and Freisler nod.
‘Six? Just
six
?’
‘We can’t afford to be sucked in,’ Schnorr says. ‘Besides. This is Nevsky. Kill him and we make a major change. The Russians …’
I know what he means. It would be like the Russians going in mob-handed after Frederick. We would have to respond. But I am determined. Even if this pulls the whole house down, I
shall
destroy him. ‘Six then,’ I say, and, turning from them, leave the room.
Only that isn’t it. We have to plan this thing. Send agents in to find out where he is and when. How many men he has, and how disposed. And then I have to come up with a plan. Where do I take him? Do I ambush him on his way north from Novgorod, or at the estate itself? In the end we decide to do it in Novgorod. To raise a riot against his men and use that as cover for a bloody attack on Nevsky and his immediate retinue – his
druzhiny.
And to my surprise, even as we finalise our plan, I have a seventh volunteer. Freisler. He even smiles at me: a sympathetic smile, unexpected from a cold fish like him.
‘I’m sorry, Otto. I know how you must feel. But it’s for the best. Besides, eight of us will be enough.
If
it works. If the Russians
let
it work.’
And the way he says that makes me look at him, because he seems to know more than he’s letting on, but he just shrugs.
‘Well?’ he says. ‘Are you ready?’
News comes back swiftly from our agents. Nevsky is indeed in the locality, in Gorodishche to be precise – in the old town, just south of Novgorod. He arrived that same afternoon I was taken back, his army – over five hundred strong – setting up camp outside the ancient walls.
And we learn that Nevsky has a ‘meeting’ that very evening, with the
veche
– the town council of Novgorod. I say meeting, but his scheme is a simple one – to threaten the boyars. To demand that they pay up or else. He does not come to bargain.
No, Nevsky is unhappy, it seems, with how little
tamga
they have collected this time around. His masters, the Mongols, are planning new wars, and Novgorod is rich, and so he, and forty of his
druzhina,
will ride up to the
Sofiyskaya storona
, the ‘cathedral side’ of town, and beat upon the door of the council chambers with the pommels of their swords until they’re opened to them.
It is there that they will learn news of what happened at Cherdiechnost.
That sobers me, for it means there was a spy in my camp. Someone willing to flee to Novgorod and betray his own people for a handful of gold.
Our agents don’t know who it was, nor, in planning this, does it really matter. Only I swear to myself that I will kill them, whoever they are.
Some context here. It is late August 1256, and it is four years since Nevsky last returned from visiting the Horde, a Tartar army at his back, sent home to crush his rebellious brothers and enforce the dominion of the great Khan; a traitor not only to his people, but to his closest kin. Four years from now Novgorod will rise up against his impositions and throw out the Mongol tax-collectors, refusing to have anything to do with their census, but Prince Alexander, once more at the head of a Tartar force, will enforce the Mongol census, taking his army into the streets of Novgorod itself, brutally suppressing any opposition.
Our hero. The man the Russians made a saint. It makes me sick.
Prepared, the eight of us gather for a final briefing. And then we’re in, jumping into an unlit side-alley on the
Torgovaya Storona
, just across the river from the cathedral. We pause a moment, gathering stones, filling our pockets with them, and then we hurry on, heading for the wooden bridge that spans the Volkhov.
The bridge is unguarded. We wait nearby, crouched behind a low wall, watching until Nevsky’s retinue has passed across, then follow, swiftly, silently, like shadows.
Seeing Nevsky again I burn with hatred of the man. There’s such a gap between what he seems and what he is.
So devils are
, I think, and swear – for the second time that evening – that I shall slit his throat before this night is out.
Such bloody thoughts I have as we run towards the council chamber, the log paths dry beneath our feet, a full moon shining down on us.
A crowd of several thousand has gathered in the streets surrounding the square in which the
veche
meet. At the centre of it all is the two-storey chamber itself, torches lighting the pale stone from which it’s made, the thick wooden doors barred to Nevsky who, still on his horse, leans down to hammer at the door, demanding entry.
The crowd are angry, seeing Nevsky and his men. The common townspeople of Novgorod are no friends of his, and they shout and bay and hiss, knowing that his presence there can mean only one thing. Yet he seems undaunted by them, his men forming a ring about him, facing the crowd with their horses, pushing back at the mass of people surrounding them.
We slip among them silently, working our way through to the front. In the wavering torchlight I see one of our agents looking on from over to the right; see him look to me then flicker out of existence.
His disappearance is our signal. Taking a heavy stone from my pocket, I heft it in my palm, then launch it at the head of the nearest of Nevsky’s men, and as I do, so a small rain of stones fly out of the crowd, connecting with men and horses, making the warriors cry out, their horses rear.
There’s a moment’s confusion and then all hell breaks loose, Nevsky’s men lashing out with spear and sword while the crowd, pressed tight, unable to back off, find they have no option but to fight.
Out-numbered as they are, there should only be one conclusion, only among the common townspeople are eight trained killers, moving here and there, ducking in to severe an artery, cutting a tendon here, a throat there, moving with deadly intent until Nevsky, not quite knowing what has happened, makes a determined break-out, cutting and slashing his way to the edge of the crowd, six of his men about him.
The mob surges after him, but now they kick hard, and, running down anyone who dares oppose them, head for the bridge.
And as the crowd moves on, so it leaves us eight, standing among the dead and dying in the square.
I look to Freisler. ‘Jurgen. Cut them off at the bridge. I’m going inside.’
Freisler nods, then jumps. An instant later all the others follow him, blinking out of existence, leaving me alone.
I turn and look across, even as the great doors to the council chamber swing back.
There’s a little crowd of them in the doorway – boyars in their thick furs. There’s even one or two I know, from Razumovsky’s gatherings. But their faces in the torchlight are fearful, and as they slowly emerge into the square, I can almost read their thoughts. They are keen to be gone from there – to flee with their families and belongings, before Nevsky returns with his army.
Only Nevsky won’t be returning.
I walk towards them slowly, and as I do, so one of them spots me and, pointing at me, cries out.
‘It’s the
Nemets
! From Cherdiechnost …’
My arms are slicked in blood. Blood spatters my face from where I’ve done my butchery.
‘Where is he?’ I demand, coming right up close to them. ‘Come on, tell me! Where is the fucker hiding?’
Eyes look away, and I know I’m right. He’s in there, whoever it is. Pushing through the little mob of them in the doorway, I go inside.
There’s about a dozen of them, crowded about the far end of the table, and among them …
‘Heaven help us all …’
For there, still in his priestly garb, with his over-stuffed belly and his long, bushy black beard is Father Iranov, my priest from Cherdiechnost. I stare at him, unable to believe my own eyes. And then, remembering what he’s caused, I draw my knife.
‘Stop him!’ someone cries, only I won’t be stopped. Jumping up on to the table, I run at Iranov across the table-top, even as he turns and scrambles towards the door. Hands grab at me, but I lash out, severing fingers with the diamond-sharp blade. I jump down, between two of the boyars, elbowing them aside. Iranov is at the door, but even as he makes to close it behind him, I hurl my knife, lodging it deep in his back, making him shriek and stumble, down on to his face.
I am on him in an instant. Tugging the knife from his back, I savagely lift his head and draw the blade across his throat, even as hands reach down to pull me from him.
Only they clutch air. For I am gone. Back to the bridge. Back to face Nevsky.
We form a line across the bridge, eight of us, shadow figures, dressed in black, our knives drawn, the fast-flowing Volkhov beneath us, visible between the close-packed logs, as Nevsky and his men come down the slope towards us.
They are flying along, like they’re pursued by demons, and though there’s no sign of the mob, we can hear the great roar of human voices coming towards us.
Church bells sound. Just two at first, and then others, taking up the alarm, waking the town with their discordant clanging.
And still Nevsky and his fellows come on.
I count the riders, then turn and look to Freisler. ‘Two lines,’ I say. ‘The first four cut the horses’ tendons and then the second line moves in, goes for the riders. But Nevsky’s mine. You let him through.’
Freisler nods. Gesturing to three of the others, he jogs quickly forward, the four of them making a line about thirty paces in front of us, halfway across the bridge.
Nevsky is in front, his six companions just behind. As they come out on to the bridge and see us, they slow momentarily, but then Nevsky cries out something and they kick their mounts forward, meaning to run us down.
I see how our men crouch, flexing like wrestlers, and I feel a moment’s pride. Then, knowing what I’ve got to do, I jump.
And jump back in, half a mile to the south, in the street where Nevsky will have to come if he is heading back to Gorodishche and his main force. Quickly I uncoil the rope about my waist and fasten it to the two spikes that our agents have already driven into the houses to either side, and then I crouch there in the shadows, hearing the cries and yells from the bridge, the more distant sound of the mob and of the church bells clanging tunelessly, and then – the noise I’ve been waiting for – the sound of his horse’s hooves coming relentlessly towards me.
The horse hits the rope at speed and almost somersaults, the whipcrack snap as its back breaks, a sickening sound. As for Nevsky, he’s thrown against the wall to my right, the impact almost bringing the wall down.
As I walk across, he groans and tries to sit up, then slumps back again, pain making him whimper like a child. Standing over him, I can see that he’s badly hurt, maybe even dying, but it’s not enough. I’ve seen what this bastard did. Seen how heartless this Mongol-loving cunt can be, and so I steel myself and, crouching, reach out and grasp his face, pinching his chin to make him open his eyes and look at me.
‘You!’ he says, surprised. ‘I should have guessed.’
‘Then you know why.’
And, drawing my knife, I push it deep into his throat and twist, then hold it there as he struggles, watching his face, watching the light leak slowly from his eyes.
Yes
, I think,
but will it hold? Or will the Russians simply change it back?
And I jump.
Beneath the moon Cherdiechnost sleeps. All is peaceful. No riders will disturb this night. I stand there a moment, before the
dacha
, breathing in the sweetness of the air, looking about me at that sweetest of all homes, then turn and, walking to the door, push through, making my way inside.
And stop, sniffing the air.
I don’t know what it is, but something’s different. Something about the smell of the place. Something … unfamiliar.
Even so, the house is quiet. Slowly I make my way upstairs, listening, craning to hear the soft, distinctive sounds of my sleeping darlings. Only there’s nothing.
Maybe the doors are closed. Maybe …
But already my senses are prickling. Already I know that something’s wrong. Because this stillness is too still. This silence
too
silent.
The landing is empty, flooded by the moonlight. The door to our room is just over to my right, my daughters’ rooms beyond that, only as I look inside I see that the bed is empty, the sheets disturbed.
‘Katerina?’
I call softly, as if not to wake the children, yet I am fearful now. The utter silence of the house is ominous. And now I smell it. The unfamiliarity I’d noticed earlier. A distinctly male smell.
I draw the
staritskii,
and even as I do I hear a sound – a stifled noise – from the guest room over to the left.