Day of the Oprichnik

The road bears right.

I drive out onto the Rublyov highway. It’s a good road, two stories, ten lanes. I maneuver into the left one, the red lane. This is our lane. The government’s. As long as I live and serve the state, I will drive in it.

Cars yield, envying the oprichnik’s red Mercedov with its dog’s head. I cut through the air of the Moscow region with a whistle, flooring the pedal. The duty policeman looks respectfully to the side.

I give a command:

“Radio Rus.”

The soft voice of a young woman speaks up:

“The best of health to you, Andrei Danilovich. What is your listening pleasure?”

I already know the news. When you’ve got a hangover the soul desires a good song:

“Sing me the one about the steppe and the eagle.”

“It will be done.”

The psaltery players start off smoothly, little bells tinkle, a larger silver bell chimes:

“Oy, the steppe is broad and wide,

Our Russian steppe is free, hey!

Wide and broad, our mother fair

She reaches out to me, hey!

O Russian steppe, you’re wide,

Your span is far and free, hey!

O Mother fair, your lovely hand

Reaches far across the land.

O Russian eagle, it’s not you I see,

Rising o’er the steppe so free,

’Tis but a Cossack of the Don

Out to have his fun, hey!”

The Kremlin Red Banner Choir is singing. The choir sings powerfully, beautifully. The song resounds, and I can feel tears welling up. The Mercedov races toward our Whitestone Kremlin; villages and estates flash by. The sun shines on snow-covered spruce trees. The soul revives, is purified, and desires the lofty…

“O Eagle, do not fly so low!

So low unto the ground,

O Cossack, do not wander close,

So close unto the shore’s sweet sound!”

I’d like to drive into Moscow listening to that song, but I’m interrupted. Posokha calls. His sleek kisser appears in a rainbow frame.

“Oh, go to…” I mutter, turning off the song.

“Komiaga!”

“What do you want?”

“Work and Word, We Live to Serve!”

“Well?”

“There’s been a bit of a hitch with the nobleman.”

“How’s that?”

“They weren’t able to plant the goods on him last night.”

“What’s going on with all of you?! Why didn’t you say anything, you chicken ass?”

“We waited till the very end, but his security is top-notch, three caps.”

“Batya knows?”

“Nunh-unh. Komiaga, please tell Batya, will you? He’s still mad at me because of the tradesmen. I’m scared. I’ll make it up to you, don’t worry.”

I call Batya. His wide, red-bearded face appears to the right of the steering wheel.

“Hello, Batya.”

“Greetings, Komiaga. Ready?”

“I’m always ready, Batya, but our guys put their foot in it. They couldn’t plant any treasonous literature on the nobleman.”

“Oh, we don’t need to anymore.” Batya yawns, showing his strong, healthy teeth. “He can be toppled without that. He’s naked. Only here’s the thing: don’t mutilate the family, got it?”

“Got it.” I nod, turning off Batya and turning on Posokha. “You hear that?”

“I heard!” He grins with relief. “Thank the Lord…”

“The Lord has nothing to do with it. Thank His Majesty.”

“Work and Word!”

“And don’t be late, you bum.”

“I’m already here.”

I turn onto First Uspensky highway. Here the trees are even higher than ours: ancient, centuries-old firs. They have seen much in their time. They remember: they remember the Red Troubles, they remember the White Troubles, they remember the Gray Troubles, they remember the Rebirth of Rus. They remember the Transformation as well. We’ll be ash and fly off to other worlds, but the glorious firs of the Moscow region will stand straight, their dignified branches swaying…

Hmmm…so that’s how things shook out with the nobleman! No need to charge him with mutiny now. The same thing happened with Prozorovsky last week; now with this one…His Majesty is tough with the nobility. All right and proper. When you’ve lost your head, you don’t fret about your hair. In for a penny, in for a pound. If you raise the axe, let it fall!

I see two of our fellows ahead in red Mercedovs. I catch up and slow down. We drive in procession. We turn. We drive a bit farther and arrive at the gates of hereditary nobleman Ivan Ivanovich Kunitsyn’s estate. Eight of our cars are already there. Posokha is here, Khrul, Sivolai, Pogoda, Okhlop, Ziabel, Nagul, and Kreplo. Batya sent the heavies for this affair. That’s right, Batya. Kunitsyn’s a hard nut. To crack him you need the knack.

I park, get out of the car, open the trunk, and retrieve my wooden cudgel. The others are standing around, waiting for the command. Batya’s not here, so I’m in charge. We greet one another professionally. I look at the fence: the Streltsy from the Secret Department, sent as backup, are stationed all along the perimeter, in the forest. The estate has been surrounded since last night by His Majesty’s order. Not even a malicious mouse could scurry in, nor a wily mosquito escape.

But the nobleman’s gates are strong. Poyarok, who arrived when I did, rings the bell:

“Ivan Ivanych, open up. Open up while you’re still in one piece!”

“Without Duma officials you’ll not enter, murderers!” comes a voice out of the speaker.

“It’ll only be worse, Ivan Ivanych!”

“It won’t get any worse for me, you curs!”

What’s true is true. It can only get worse in the Secret Department. But Ivan Ivanovich doesn’t need to go there anymore. We’ll deal with him on our own. Our people are waiting. It’s time!

I walk up to the gates. The oprichniks stand still. I pound on the gates with my cudgel the first time:

“Woe to this home!”

I pound the second time:

“Woe to this home!”

I pound the third time:

“Woe to this home!”

And the oprichnina stirs:

“Work and Word! We Live to Serve!”

“Hail! Work and Word!!”

“Work and Word!!”

“Hail! Hail! Hail!”

I slap Poyarok on the shoulder:

“Go to it!”

Poyarok and Sivolai bustle about, setting a firecracker between the gates. Everyone moves back and plugs his ears.

There’s an explosion and the oak gates turn to kindling. We break in with our cudgels. Now we face the nobleman’s guards with their staves. Firearms are not allowed for defense; otherwise the Streltsy would cut the lot of them down with their cold-firing ray guns. And according to the law of the Duma, whatever servant raises a staff in defense against a raid, he shall not fall into disgrace.

We rush in. Ivan Ivanovich has a wealthy estate, the courtyard is spacious. There’s room to move around. A bunch of guards and servants awaits us. They have three dogs on chains, raring to get at us. Fighting with a horde like this is grave business. We’ll have to negotiate. A sly approach is needed to run state affairs. I raise my hand:

“Listen here! Your master won’t leave here alive anyway!”

“We know!” the guards shout. “We’ll still have to defend ourselves against you!”

“Just wait a minute! Let’s each choose one of our own for single combat! If you win, you leave without injury, with your belongings! If we win—we get everything you have!”

The guards begin to think. And Sivolai says:

“Come on, say yes while we’re still friendly. We’ll kick you out when our backup arrives! No one can hold out against the oprichnina!”

They talk among themselves, then shout:

“All right. What’re our weapons?”

“Fists!” I answer.

Their combatant comes forward: an enormous stable hand with a mug like a pumpkin. He throws off his sheepskin coat, pulls on his leather sleeves, and wipes the snot dripping from his nose. But we’re prepared—Pogoda throws his black caftan to Sivolai, shakes his weasel-trimmed hat, tosses off his brocade jacket, rolls his valiant shoulders covered in crimson silk, winks at me, and steps forward. Even our Maslo is a kid when it comes to fist-fighting. Pogoda is short, but wide in the shoulders, strong-boned, firm of grip, shifty. Hard to land one on his smooth kisser. For him it’s easy as pie to pulverize someone to chopped meat.

Pogoda looks at his opponent with mischief in his eyes, squinting, playing with his silken belt.

“So then, you clumsy oaf, ready for a trouncing?”

“Don’t brag when you go into battle, oprichnik!”

Pogoda and the stable hand circle, sizing each other up. They’re dressed differently, come from different stations, serve different masters, but if you look close—they’re made of the same Russian dough. Tough Russian people.

We’re in a circle, right up close to the servants. This is the usual in a fist-fighting arena. Here everyone’s equal—the serf and the nobleman, the oprichnik and the scribe. The fist is its own lord and master.

Pogoda chuckles and winks at the stable hand. He loosens his valiant shoulders, rolling them up and down. The lout can’t take it; he rushes him with a swing of his hefty fist. Pogoda crouches and the stable hand takes a short jab in the gut. The guy gasps, but steadies himself. Pogoda dances around, mincing like a tart. He rocks back and forth, sticks out his pink tongue. The stable hand doesn’t care for dancing, he grunts and swings again. But Pogoda’s ready for him—left punch to the jaw, right punch to the ribs. Crack! Crack! The ribs fracture. And Pogoda again dodges the meaty fist. The stable hand roars like a bear and waves his enormous arms, losing his gloves. And all for naught: once more he takes it in the gut and on the nose. Crack! The husky fellow steps back, staggering like a bear that doesn’t hibernate. He locks his hands together, roars, and cleaves the frosty air. Again all for naught! Bam! Bam! Bam! Pogoda’s fists are swift: the stable hand’s mug is already bloody, he’s got a black eye, and his nose is running red. Crimson drops fly, sparkling like rubies in the winter sun as they fall on the trampled snow.

The servants look grim. Our guys wink back and forth. The stable hand sways, his broken nose drips, and he spits out a bunch of teeth. Another blow, and another. The husky fellow stumbles backward, waves Pogoda away like a bear cub shooing bees. But Pogoda doesn’t stop: again! again! The oprichnik hits hard and strong. We whistle and hoot. The last punch, another tooth breaker. The stable hand falls flat on his back. Pogoda steps on his chest with his fashionable boot, draws a knife out of its sheath, and snick! Right across his face with a flourish! For the art of it. That’s the way it always goes nowadays. It’s like slicing through butter.

The servants are quiet. The lout grabs his slit mug; blood runs through his fingers.

Pogoda puts his knife away and spits on the fallen servant. He winks at all the others:

“Pah! His mug is bloody!”

These are famous words. We always say them. That’s the custom.

Now it’s time to dot the i’s. I lift my cudgel.

“On your knees, you lumbering louts!”

At moments like these, everything is transparent. Oy, how you can see through Russian people. Faces, faces of the servants, struck dumb. Simple Russian faces. How I love to watch them at such moments, the moment of truth. Right now, they’re a mirror. In which we are reflected. And the winter sunlight.

Thank God this mirror hasn’t grown dim, hasn’t darkened with time.

The servants fall on their knees.

Our guys relax and start moving around. Batya calls right away: he’s following everything from his residence in Moscow.

“Well done!”

“We serve Russia, Batya! What about the house?”

“For demolition.”

Demolition? Now, that’s new…Usually a suppressed mansion or estate is kept. And the former servants stay on under the new master. Like my home. We look at each other. Batya grins a white-toothed grin.

“Why so quiet? It’s an order: clear the place.”

“We’ll do it, Batya!”

Aha…Clear the place. That means the red rooster. This hasn’t happened in a blue moon. But—an order is an order. Not open for discussion. I order the servants:

“Each of you can take a sack of goods! We’re giving you two minutes!”

They already know that the house is lost. They jump up, run off, disappear into all the nooks and crannies to grab whatever they’ve saved and whatever they happen upon. Meanwhile our guys are looking the house over: gratings, iron doors, walls of red brick. Everything good and solid. Good brickwork, smooth. The curtains on the windows are drawn, but not tightly: eyes dart through the cracks. That’s where the homefire is, behind the bars, a farewell warmth, hiding, trembling with deadly trepidation. Oh, how sweet it would be to penetrate that cozy place, how sweet to pluck that farewell fear out!

The servants gather a sack of goods each. They file out obediently, like pilgrims. We let them through the gates. And there, at the gap, the Streltsy are on duty with their ray guns. The servants leave the mansion compound, looking back. Look back, you uncouth louts, we don’t mind. It’s our time now. We surround the house, banging our cudgels on the bars, on the walls:

“Hail!”

“Hail!”

“Hail!”

Then we circle it three times, following the sun’s orbit.

“Woe to this house!”

“Woe to this house!”

“Woe to this house!”

Poyarok affixes a firecracker to the iron door. We stand back and cover our ears with our gloves. Blast!—and there’s no door. But after the first door there’s another door—made of wood. Sivolai gets out a ray saw. There’s a whining, and a blue flame furiously punctures the door like a thin knitting needle—and the section of door falls through.

We enter leisurely. There’s no reason to hurry now.

Inside, it’s quiet, peaceful. The nobleman has a good house, very comfortable. The parlor is decorated in the Chinese style—sofas, rugs, small low tables, human-size vases, scrolls, dragons on silk and carved in jade. The news bubbles are also Chinese, bordered with black bent wood. The room smells of Eastern aromas. It is the fashion, what can you do about it…We climb a wide staircase fitted in Chinese carpet. Now we get to the familiar smells—icon oil lamps entice, good old-fashioned wood, old books, valerian root. A quality mansion, made of logs, well caulked. With towels, icon cases, trunks, chests of drawers, samovars, and tile stoves. We wander through the rooms. No one around. Could that worm really have gotten away? We run our cudgels under the beds, pull off bedclothes, smash the wardrobes. The master is nowhere to be found.

“Didn’t fly up the chimney, did he?” Posokha mutters.

“Gotta be a secret entrance in the house somewhere,” grumbles Kreplo, rummaging through the chests of drawers with his cudgel.

“The fence is surrounded by Streltsy, where can he go?” I object.

We climb up to the attic. There’s a winter garden, bathhouse stones, a wall of water, exercise machines, an observatory. Nowadays they all have observatories…That’s something I don’t get: astronomy and astrology are great sciences, it’s true, but what does a telescope have to do with it? It’s not a fortune-telling book! The demand for telescopes within the Kremlin’s White City is simply mind-boggling, I can’t wrap my head around it. Even Batya set up a telescope in his mansion. True, he doesn’t have time to look through it.

Posokha might as well be reading my thoughts:

“These nobles and moneychangers—indulging in star-goggling. Whadda they lookin’ for? Their own death?”

“Maybe God?” Khrul chuckles, knocking his cudgel against a palm tree.

“Don’t blaspheme!” Batya’s voice calls him to order.

“Forgive me, Batya.” Khrul crosses himself. “It was the devil’s work.”

“Why are you all searching around the old-fashioned way, boys?” Batya isn’t appeased. “Turn on the ‘searcher’!”

We turn on the “searcher.” It beeps and points to the first floor. We go down. The “searcher” leads us to two Chinese vases. Large vases, standing on the floor, taller than me. We look at one another and wink. I nod at Khrul and Sivolai. They swing back and—crash! The cudgels hit the vases! The porcelain is exceptionally fine, like the eggshell of some enormous dragon, and it flies in all directions. And from these eggs, like Castor and Pollux—the noble’s children tumble out! They roll around the carpet like peas and start howling. Three, four, six. All of them blond, about a year apart, one smaller than the next.

“Well, look what we’ve got here!” The invisible Batya laughs. “Ay ay ay, look what that crook concocted!”

“He was so scared he went completely batty!” Sivolai said, leering at the children.

His grin is nasty. But that’s the way it is. We don’t touch the little ones…No, not unless there’s an order to squash the innards, that’s something different. Otherwise—we don’t need any extra blood-spilling.

Our fellows catch the shrieking children like willow grouse, and carry them out under their arms. Outside, the lame tax collector, Averian Trofimich, has arrived from the orphanage in his yellow bus. He’ll place the little ones, he won’t let them fall between the cracks; he’ll raise them to be honest citizens of a great country.

To catch the nobles’ wives we use the cries of the children as bait; Kunitsyn’s spouse couldn’t stand it, she howled from her hiding place. Women’s hearts aren’t made of stone. We follow the cry—it leads to the kitchen. We enter at a leisurely pace. We look around. Ivan Ivanovich has a good kitchen. Spacious and intelligently laid out. You’ve got your preparation table, and stovetops, and steel shelves, and glass ones with dishes and spices, and complicated ovens with hot and cold rays and all kinds of foreign high-tech, and tricky ventilation systems, and transparent refrigerators lit from below. There’s any type of knife you could want, and in the middle—a wide, white Russian tile oven. Good for Ivan Ivanovich. What kind of Russian Orthodox repast can you have without cabbage soup and buckwheat porridge? Can a foreign oven really bake savory pies like a Russian oven? Would milk curdle the right way? And what about bread, the father and mother? Russian bread needs to be baked in a Russian oven—the poorest beggar will tell you that.

The mouth of the copper oven door is ajar; Poyarok knocks on it with a bent finger:

“The gray wolf has come, he’s brought some pies for you.

Knock-knock, who’s hiding in the oven?”

From behind the door come a woman’s wail and a man’s cussing. Ivan Ivanovich is cross at his wife for giving them away with her cry. Well, of course, what do you expect? Women’s hearts are sensitive, that’s why we love them.

Poyarok removes the damper door, takes out stove tongs and a poker, and drags the noble and his spouse out into God’s light. The noble’s hands are immediately tied, and a gag stuffed in his mouth. He’s pushed by his elbows out into the yard. And the wife…we’ll handle the wife in a merrier fashion. That’s the way it’s usually done. She’s tied to the butcher table. Ivan Ivanovich’s wife is a beauty: pleasing in form, fair of face, bosomy, well buttocked, spunky. But first—the nobleman. We all rush out of the house into the yard. Ziabel and Kreplo are already standing, waiting with their birch brooms, and Nagul with his soaped rope. The oprichniks drag the noble by the legs from the porch to the gates on his last outing. Ziabel and Kreplo sweep the tracks after him so that no trace of His Majesty’s enemy remains in Russia. Nagul has already climbed the gates and nimbly set up the rope; not the first time he’s hung Russia’s foes. We also stand under the gates, and lift the noble.

“Work and Word!!”

In the blink of an eye Ivan Ivanovich is swaying in the noose, wheezing, sniffling, jerking, farting his farewell. We remove our hats and cross ourselves. We put them back on. We wait until the noble has given up the ghost.

One third of our work is done. Now—the wife. We return to the house.

“Don’t kill her!”—Batya’s voice warns us, as always.

“Got it, Batya!”

This work is—passionate, and absolutely necessary. It gives us more strength to overcome the enemies of the Russian state. Even this succulent work requires a certain seriousness. You have to start and finish by seniority. So this time, I’m first. The widow of the now deceased Ivan Ivanovich thrashes on the table, screaming and moaning. I rip off her dress, tear off her intricate lace undergarments. Poyarok and Sivolai force her smooth, white, well-tended legs open, and hold them. I love women’s legs, especially their thighs and toes. The wife of Ivan Ivanovich has pale thighs, a bit cold, but her toes are tender, well formed, with well-kept toenails covered in pink nail polish. Her weak legs squirm in the strong oprichnik hands, and a slight shiver runs through her toes; they splay and stiffen from tension and fear. Poyarok and Sivolai know my weaknesses: they hold her tender, trembling foot near my mouth; I gather the shaking toes between my lips, and launch my bald ferret right into her womb.

How sweet!

The widow jerks and squeals like a live pink piglet on a red-hot spit. I dig my teeth into her foot. She screams and thrashes on the table. But I bring my succulent work to completion meticulously and implacably.

“Hail! Hail!” the oprichniks mutter, turning away.

Important work.

Necessary work.

Good work.

Without this work, a raid is like a stallion without a rider…without reins…a white stallion, white knight, white stallion…beautiful…brilliant…bewitched stallion…a tender stallion-galleon…a sugar-sweet stallion with no rider…no reins…no reins…with a white fiend…a sweet fiend…a fiend of sugar reigns…no rider…no rain, no galleon-stallion, galloping and no reins, no sugar reins, no sugary rains…galleon galloping where the white sugar fiend reigns and the distant sugar rains, faraway, the reins galloping, trotting, sugar reins, galloping, cantering, sugary, cantering to the sugary, to the canterer, how faaar to the sugary caaaantering cuuuuuunnnnnntttt!

How sweet to leave one’s own seed in the womb of the wife of an enemy of the state.

Sweeter than cutting off the heads of the enemies themselves.

The widow’s tender toes fall out of my mouth.

Colorful rainbows swim before my eyes.

I turn over my place to Posokha. His member has freshwater pearls sewn in it; the pattern resembles Ilya Muromets’s diamond-shaped vestments.

Oh my, the noble’s got the heat up high. I go out onto the porch and sit down on the bench. The children have already been taken away. Spurts of blood on the snow are all that remain of the slashed and beaten stable hand. The Streltsy dawdle about the gate, looking at the noble swinging in the breeze. I take out a pack of Motherland and light up. I’m fighting this heathen habit. Although I’ve reduced the number of cigarettes to seven a day, I just don’t have the willpower to quit permanently. Father Paisii prayed for me, commanded me to read the canon of repentance. It didn’t help…The smoke lies across a frosty breeze. The sun is still shining, the snow and sun winking at each other. I love winter. The cold clears the head, invigorates the blood. In the Russian winter state affairs get done faster, go more smoothly.

Posokha comes out onto the porch: his huge lips are swollen, saliva is about to drip from them, his eyes are dazed, and there’s no way he can zip his pants up over his purplish hardworked member. He stands with his legs spread out and does his business. A book falls out from under his caftan. I pick it up. I open it—Afanasev’s Secret Tale. I read the epigraph:

In those far-off olden times,

When Sacred Russia had no knives,

Carving meat was done with pricks.

This little book has been read till there are holes in it; it’s tattered and grease almost oozes from its pages.

“What are you reading, you impudent lout?” I slap Posokha on the forehead with the book. “If Batya sees it—he’ll throw you out of the oprichnina!”

“I’m sorry, Komiaga, the devil made me do it,” Posokha mutters.

“You’re walking along a knife edge, you dimwit! This obscene stuff is subversive. There were purges in the Printing Department on account of these sorts of books. Is that where you picked it up?”

“I wasn’t in the oprichnina then. I came across it in the house of one of them generals. The devil nudged me.”

“Just understand, you idiot, we’re guards. We have to keep our minds cold and our hearts pure.”

“I understand, I understand…” Posokha scratched the black hair under his hat, in boredom.

“His Majesty can’t stand cusswords.”

“I know.”

“Well, if you know—burn that indecent book!”

“I’ll burn it, Komiaga, here, I’ll swear on it”—and he crosses himself in a sweeping gesture, hiding the book.

Nagul and Okhlop come out. As the door closes behind them I hear the moans of the noble’s widow.

“What a fine bitch!” Okhlop spits, and cocks his cap back.

“They won’t bang her to death, will they?” I ask, stubbing out my butt on the bench.

“I don’t think so…” The wide-faced smiling Nagul blows his nose into a white handkerchief lovingly embroidered by someone.

Ziabel soon appears. After a roll in the hay he’s always excited and garrulous. Like me, Ziabel attended university, has a higher education.

“How glorious it is to destroy Russia’s enemies, don’t you know,” he mutters, taking out a pack of unfiltered Rodina. “Genghis Khan used to say that the greatest pleasure on earth was to conquer your enemies, plunder their possessions, ride their horses, and love their wives. What a wise man he was!”

The fingers of Nagul, Okhlop, and Ziabel reach into the pack of Rodina. I take out my flint-fire with cold blue flame and let them light up.

“It looks like you’re all hooked on this devilish weed. Do you know that tobacco is damned forever by the seven saintly stones?”

“We know, Komiaga.” Nagul grins, taking a toke on his cigarette.

“You’re smoking Satan’s incense, oprichniks. The devil taught people to smoke tobacco so they would praise him with incense. Every cigarette is incense to the glory of the foul fiend.”

“But one defrocked monk told me, ‘He who does tobacco smoke / is sure to be Christ’s bloke,’” Okhlop objects.

“And the Cossack lieutenant in our regiment always said, ‘Smoked meat keeps longer.’” Posokha sighs as he takes a cigarette.

“You numbskulls, you blockheads! Our Majesty doesn’t smoke,” I tell them. “Batya quit, too. We have to watch the cleanliness of our lungs, too. And our tongues.”

They smoke silently, listening.

The door opens and the rest of the lot stagger out with the noble’s wife. She’s naked, unconscious, wrapped in a sheepskin coat. For us, tumbling a woman is a special kind of work.

“Is she alive?”

“They rarely die from it!” Pogoda smiles. “It’s not the rack, after all.”

I take her senseless hand. There’s a pulse.

“All right, then. Drop the woman off at her family’s.”

“You got it.”

They take her out. It’s time to finish up. The oprichniks keep glancing at the house: it’s wealthy, full of goods. But since the mansion is to be demolished by order of His Majesty, no stealing is allowed. It’s the law. All the goods go to His Majesty’s red rooster.

I nod to Ziabel; he’s our guy for fire.

“Take over!”

He takes his Rebroff out of the holster and puts a bottle-shaped attachment on the barrel. We move away from the house. Ziabel aims at the window and shoots. The windowpane splinters and shatters. We move farther away from the house. We stand in a half-circle, take our daggers out of their scabbards, raise them up, lower them, and aim them at the house.

“Woe to this house!”

“Woe to this house!”

“Woe to this house!”

There’s an explosion. The flames are thick, belching out the windows. Shards of glass, frames, and grates fall on the snow. The mansion has been taken. His Majesty’s red rooster has come to call.

“Well done!” Batya’s face appears in the frosty air, in a rainbow frame. “Let the Streltsy go, and get yourselves to prayer in Uspensky!”

All’s well that ends well. When work is done—we pray in the sun.

We exit, avoiding the hanging corpse. On the other side of the gates the Streltsy are pushing back reporters. They stand there with their cameras, champing at the bit to take pictures of the fire. Now they’re allowed in. Since the News Decree, after that memorable November, it’s all right. I wave to the lieutenant. The cameras focus on the fire, on the hanging nobleman. In every house, in every news bubble, Russian Orthodox people will know and see the power of His Majesty and the state.

As His Majesty says:

“Law and order—resurrected from the Gray Ashes, that’s what Holy Rus stands on and will always stand on.”

It’s the sacred truth!