Russka

The River

In the year of Our Lord 1066, in the month of January, a terrible sign appeared in the heavens. It was seen all over Europe.

In the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of England, threatened with William of Normandy’s invasion, it was recorded in the chronicles with gloomy expectation. In France, Germany and all round the shores of the Mediterranean it was seen. In eastern Europe, in the newly formed states of Poland and Hungary, the dreadful object dominated the nights. And beyond them, on the eastern borderland where forest meets steppe and the broad River Dniepr runs down to the temperate Black Sea, the great red comet hung, night after night, over the white and silent landscape; and men wondered what new evil was to befall the world.

And how that world had changed. In the nine turbulent centuries since the days of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius, western civilization had passed from classical to medieval times in a series of huge events. Rome had become Christian; but soon after, its sprawling empire, now divided between its western and eastern capitals of Rome and Constantinople, had collapsed under the weight of huge barbarian invasions.

From the Mongolian lands above the Great Wall of China they had come, wave after wave from the east, crossing the great southern crescent of mountain ranges and sweeping down on to the desert and steppe of the vast Eurasian plain. Some white, some Mongoloid, mostly speaking forms of Turkish, these terrible invaders swept all before them. Thus came Attila and his Huns; after them the Avars; then the Turks. But it was not their sudden invasions, nor their huge, short-lived empires in the steppe that broke the Roman Empire: it was the enormous chain reaction of migrations that they set off as they crashed into the tribes of eastern Europe. These were the migrations that brought the Franks to France, the Bulgars, descendants of the Huns, to Bulgaria, the Saxons and Angles to Britain, and gave the names of tribes to regions like Burgundy and Lombardy.

By the end of this process, the old world had been shattered. Rome had fallen. Western Europe, though the barbarians were slowly converted to Christianity, remained a disorderly patchwork of tribal and dynastic regions. Only in the eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea did a semblance of the old order remain. For here, just above Greece and beside the narrow channel that links the Black Sea to the waters of the Mediterranean, stood the stately city of Constantinople, also known as Byzantium. Unconquered, guardian of classical culture and of eastern Christianity, its character Greek rather than Latin, Constantinople remained inviolate: the city where, right through the Middle Ages, there would still preside – even if only in name – a Christian Roman Emperor.

But this was not the end of the west’s troubles. For in the year 622, the Prophet Mohamet made the first hijra from Mecca and the mighty power of Islam began its explosive expansion. ‘To the Garden, Moslems, not the Fire,’ their leaders would cry as they went into battle: for those who fell were assured a place in heaven. From Arabia the Moslem armies swept through the Middle East, then eastwards to Persia and India, and westwards across North Africa and even into Spain. In another drive, they even reached the gates of Constantinople. And for centuries yet to come, Christian Europe was to tremble at the prophet’s name.

Lastly, to trouble the world yet further, came the Vikings.

Pirates, merchants, colonists, adventurers, from around the year 800 these Scandinavian voyagers burst upon the stage of history. They took over much of central England, they set up colonies in Iceland, Greenland, and even visited the North American coast. They founded the state of Normandy and swept round into the Mediterranean.

And it was one group of Swedish Vikings who, having founded trading colonies round the Baltic Sea, made their way down to the river system of that great eastern hinterland, the land of the Slavs.

Varangians, these norsemen were sometimes called. They set up a huge, north-south trading network – collecting goods at the Slav city of Novgorod in the north, and sailing down the Rivers Dniepr, Don and Volga. On the Black Sea coast, near the mouth of the Don, they set up a trading post known as Tmutarakan. And whether it was because they were fair, or because they traded or fought side by side with fair Alannic peoples in those southern lands, or for some other reason we do not know, these piratical norse merchants soon came to be known to the civilized southern world they entered by that ancient Iranian name still borne by some of the Alans – the word meaning ‘light’ or ‘shining’ – Rus.

And thus the new state of Russia was born.

High on the palisades the boy gazed out at the huge red star. His mind was in a fever of excitement.

Far below in the darkness lay the broad River Dniepr; the ice at its edges dimly reflected the star’s blood-red light. Behind the boy, the city of Kiev was silent.

It was nearly two centuries since this ancient Slav city by the Dniepr had become the capital of the state of Rus. Lying in rolling woodlands a day’s journey from the beginning of the southern steppe, it was the collecting point for all the trade from the northern forests that was to pass downriver to the faraway Black Sea and points beyond.

What could the star portend for the city? the boy wondered. Certainly it must be a sign from God.

For the land of Rus was Christian now. In the blessed year of Our Lord 988, Vladimir, Prince of Kiev had been baptized, with the Roman Emperor of Constantinople himself acting as his godfather. Did not many already, for this conversion, call Vladimir a saint? And was it not said that two of his sons, young Boris and Gleb, had also joined the blessed?

The story of their death, just half a century before, had immediately entered popular folklore. For in the springtime of their lives, these two royal princes, facing assassins sent by their wicked elder brother, had meekly submitted, spoken only of their love for each other, and commended their young souls to God. The sadness, the gentleness, of their deaths had touched the Slavs, and Boris and Gleb became the best-loved heroes of the land of Rus. The Passion-Sufferers, they were called.

Kiev was a city of churches now. In her streets one heard not only the sounds from the merchant boats upon the river, but also the chanting of monks and priests in a hundred churches; and the squat Byzantine cupolas of the greatest of these, covered with gold, gleamed warmly in the sun. ‘One day,’ the nobles claimed, ‘we shall be like Tzargrad itself.’ For this was the name they often gave to the Roman Emperor’s city of Constantinople. And if, as the chroniclers in the monasteries had to confess, there were many peasants in the countryside who still preferred the old pagan ways, it would only be a question of time before they too joined the great commonwealth of the Christian world.

And what did the star mean for him? Did it mean danger? Would he be tested in some way?

For the coming year was to be the most important in his life. He was twelve years old. He knew his father was looking for a place for him in the entourage of one of the princes; there had been words about betrothing him, too. And even more thrilling was the fact that this very summer, his father was sending a caravan across the steppe to the east. For weeks he had been begging his father to let him go with it. And then, he thought, I shall ride all the way to the great River Don. His mother was against this dangerous ambition; but just the week before, his father had said he would consider it, and the boy had been thinking of little else since. And when I return, I can train to be a warrior, he promised himself. Like his noble father.

So intent was he upon these thoughts that he hardly noticed the approach of two figures until they were standing beside him.

‘Wake up, Ivanushka, you’ll turn into a tree.’

His name was Ivan but he was called by the diminutive: Ivanushka. He smiled, faintly, but did not take his eyes off the star. He knew his brothers had come to tease him. The younger of these two, Boris, was a fair-haired, friendly-looking fellow of sixteen, already sprouting a beard. The elder, Sviatopolk, had a long, serious face and dark hair. He was eighteen and already married. After Boris had tried to coax the boy home for a minute, Sviatopolk gave him a sharp kick. ‘Stop freezing. Think you’re an ice maiden?’

Boris stamped his felt boots to keep warm. Sviatopolk muttered a curse. Then they left.

Still the red star hung silently in the heavens. This was the fourth night Ivanushka had watched it, standing alone and refusing all calls to return home. He was a dreamy boy. Often one of his family would find him staring at some spot outside, go away, and return to find him still there, with a half-smile on his broad face, his pale blue eyes still fixed on the same place. Nor could they stop him doing it, for these little acts of contemplation were necessary to him. He was one of those beings who, for better or worse, have a sense that all nature is speaking to them directly. The minutes passed, therefore, and still he continued to gaze, without moving.

‘Ivanushka.’ It was his mother now. ‘Foolish boy. Your hand is like ice.’ He was aware of her putting a fur coat on him. And though he did not take his eyes off the star, he felt her gently squeeze his hand. And now at last, Ivanushka turned and smiled.

They shared a special bond. How many hours he could happily spend sitting with her by the fire in their big, wooden house, listening to her recite him the courtly tales of the heroic warriors – the bogatyrs – or fairy stories of Baba Yaga the witch or the firebird in the forest.

Olga was a tall, slim woman, with a broad forehead but rather small, delicate features and dark brown hair. Her family had been great chiefs, once, of the ancient Slav tribe of Severiani. As she sang these tales in a soft, faraway voice, Ivanushka would gaze up at her, spellbound. The image of her beautiful yet tender face was often in his mind; it was a presence that he carried with him through his life, like an icon.

When she sang for his father, she could sound very different. Her voice would descend to a harsh contralto, her manner assume a laughing, teasing scorn. Did he guess that her long, pale body had hidden strengths, that she could make it behave in a way that drove his father wild with desire? Perhaps, like all children, he had always had a natural sense of these things.

Sometimes they would read the holy books together, both leaning forward eagerly, with difficulty but always triumphantly making out the Slavic words, written in bold uncial script, of the New Testament and Apochryphal stories. He would study the sermons of the great preachers of the Eastern Church – John Chrysostom or St Basil; or, better still, a Slav preacher like Hilarion. He had also learnt several of the lays of the great singer Bayan, whom his own grandfather had known; and these he could recite faultlessly, to please his father.

Ivanushka shared something else with his mother. It was a little gesture that she used to make. One would often see it when she was standing and talking to someone – a slow raising of her arm from her side towards them, as if ushering them through a door. It was such a gentle movement, though – almost sad, yet tender and caressing. Of the three brothers, only Ivanushka had taken this gesture from her, though whether by inheritance or unconscious imitation he did not know.

He was always conscious of one other important fact about his mother: unlike his father she was a Slav. So I am half a Slav, he thought.

What did it mean, to be a Slav? It was, he knew, a huge community. Over the centuries, Slavic people had spread to many lands. The Poles in the west were Slavs; the Hungarians and Bulgarians partly so; further south, in the Balkan Mountains of Greece, the people were Slavs too; and though their languages had drifted apart from that spoken by the eastern Slavs who lived in the land of Rus, one could still easily hear the similarities.

Were they really a race? It was hard to say. Even in the land of Rus, there were many tribes. Those in the south had long ago mixed with the invading peoples of the steppe; those in the north were part Bait and Lithuanian; those in the east had gradually mixed with the Finno-Ugrian peoples of the forest.

Yet when Ivanushka looked at his mother, and compared her with his father and the other foreign retainers of the heroic Scandinavian ruling dynasty, he could say at once that she was Slav. What was it? Was it that she was musical? That she could be suddenly sad, then suddenly gay? No, it was another quality, he realized, that he especially associated with the Slavs. You see it in the peasants too, he considered. For even if they get angry and violent, they change back again in a moment. It was that they were gentle.

His mother was moving away now. Once more, Ivanushka stared at the star. What was it telling him? Some of the priests were saying it meant the end of the world. Of course, he knew that the end of the world was coming – but surely not just yet?

He remembered the preacher he had heard, only a month before, who had profoundly impressed him. ‘The Slavs, dear brother in Christ, have come late, it is true, to work in the vineyard of Our Lord,’ the priest had said. ‘But does not the parable tell us that those who come last shall be rewarded no less than those who were there before? God has prepared a great destiny for His people the Slavs, who rightly praise Him.’

The words had thrilled him. Destiny. Perhaps because he was approaching puberty, the subject of destiny was much on his mind. Destiny: surely, he would be part of it. And surely too, Ivanushka prayed, the Day of Judgement would not come before he had had a chance to perform the great deeds for which he felt he was intended.

He did not know that, at this very moment, his destiny was being decided.

It had been a bad day for Igor. A promise of betrothal which he thought he had secured for Ivanushka had fallen through that very afternoon, and he did not know why. The family – a noble one – had suddenly backed off. It was an irritation, though one that he would normally have shrugged off.

But now this. Silently he gazed at the man before him.

Igor was a tall, impressive figure. He had a long, straight nose, deep-set eyes and a sensual mouth; his striking and exotic appearance was accentuated by the fact that the hair on his head was jet black, while that of his pointed beard was grey. From his neck on a chain hung a small metal disc on which was incised the ancient tamga of his clan: the three-pronged trident.

Like many of the noblemen in Kiev, it would have been hard to guess with certainty his ancestry. Indeed, even the many princes of Rus, whose origins were Scandinavian, by now were as likely to be dark and olive-skinned as fair. But Igor’s descent was from the radiant Alans.

They had come from the east. With others from ancient Alan and Circassian clans, the father of Igor had joined a great warrior prince of the Rus in his campaigns beyond the River Don; and having fought well – there had never been a finer horseman – he was even admitted to the prince’s council, the druzhina. When the prince returned, he had accompanied him; and so he had come across the steppe, to the rivers and forests of the land of Rus. There he had married a noble Scandinavian girl, and now their son Igor, in turn, served in the druzhina of the Prince of Kiev.

Besides his role as a warrior, Igor had many business interests. And in the city of Kiev, there was much in which a man could trade. There was the grain from the rich black earth of these southern lands which was sent to the cities in the great forests of the north; there were the furs and slaves sent down the river to Constantinople. From the west came silver from Bohemia, and Frankish swords from the distant countries beyond. From Poland and the far western provinces of Rus came the all important salt. And from the east, downriver or in caravans across the steppe, came all manner of wonderful goods – silks, damasks, jewels and spices – from the fabulous orient.

The trading empire of the Rus was formidable indeed. All the way down the great north-south network of waterways that led from the cold northern forests by the Baltic to the steppe above the warm Black Sea, there were trading posts and even substantial cities. In the north was Novgorod. Halfway down, by the headwaters of the Dniepr, lay Smolensk, and west of that, Polotsk. Above Kiev lay Chernigov; and below, as a last outpost on the borders of the steppe, Pereiaslav. Each of these cities, and others besides, could boast populations in thousands. An estimated thirteen percent of the population were engaged in trading and artisan activities – far more than feudal western Europe. Upon the vast landscape where ancient hunting and primitive agriculture ruled, therefore, were dotted these lively centres of commerce, cartels and a money economy. And their lords were merchant princes.

After the disappointment about the betrothal, Igor had been hoping that this evening’s meeting at his partner’s house would improve his temper. For a long time he had been planning a caravan across the steppe to the south-east. There, beyond the great River Don, where the Caucasus Mountains descended from the skies to meet the Black Sea, lay the old peninsula settlement of the Rus: Tmutarakan. And opposite that, on the broad Crimean peninsula that jutted out into the sea from the centre of its northern shore, were huge salt flats. In recent years, a powerful tribe of steppe raiders, the Cumans, had weakened this trade with Tmutarakan; but as Igor had said: ‘If we can bring back a large shipment of salt, we can make a fortune.’

The details had come together well. In early summer, several shipments would be brought to a little trading post and fort called Russka, at the edge of the steppe, where his partner had a storehouse. From there, with an armed escort, the caravan would set out. ‘And I only wish I could go myself,’ he remarked truthfully.

And then he had made the request which so embarrassed him.

The man who sat opposite him was a few years younger than he. He was not as tall as Igor, but he was massive. He had a heavy chin, a slightly drooping under lip, a large curved Turkish nose, and drooping lids over his black eyes. He had thick black hair and a black beard cut in the shape of a broad wedge. Balanced, it seemed precariously, on the back of his head was a skull cap. This was Zhydovyn the Khazar.

His were a strange people. They were Turkish warriors who, for some centuries, had controlled an empire in the steppe that stretched from the desert by the Caspian Sea all the way to Kiev. When Islam had swept through the Middle East and tried to cross the Caucasus Mountains on to the great Eurasian plain, it was the mighty Khazars of the steppe, together with the Georgians, Armenians and Alans in the mountain passes, who had barred their way. ‘So it’s thanks to us Kiev isn’t Moslem now,’ he liked to remind his friend Igor.

The Khazar Empire had faded now, but Khazar merchants and warriors still often crossed the steppe from their distant desert base, and there was a large Khazar trading community in Kiev, beside the entrance known as the Khazar Gate. Of all the men he knew to organize the caravan and lead it across the steppe, Igor could think of none he trusted more than Zhydovyn the Khazar. And indeed, he had only one regret about his partner.

For Zhydovyn the Khazar was Jewish.

All the Khazars were Jewish. They had become so when, at the height of their empire, their ruler had decided that his people’s primitive paganism was not worthy of their imperial status. And since the Caliph in Baghdad was Moslem and the Emperor in Constantinople was Christian, this ruler of the steppe – who did not want to seem the junior partner of either of them – sensibly chose the only other religion with a single God that he could find: and the state of the Khazar warlords converted to Judaism. Thus it was that Zhydovyn spoke Slav and Turkish – and preferred to write both using a Hebrew alphabet!

‘Will you take my young son, Ivanushka, with the caravan?’ That was all his friend Igor had asked him. Why then should the Khazar hesitate? He knew the boy quite well. His father was his partner. The answer, however, was simple: Zhydovyn was afraid.

I can see it all, he thought. If we get caught by the Cumans and he’s killed – that will be understood. But I know this little fellow. It won’t be like that. He’ll go and fall in a river and drown, or something stupid like that. And then I shall get the blame. And so he prevaricated.

‘Ivanushka’s rather young. What about one of his brothers?’

Igor’s eyes had narrowed. ‘Are you refusing me?’

‘Of course not.’ The Khazar looked awkward. ‘If you are sure it’s what you wish…’

And now, suddenly, it was Igor who felt awkward. Under normal circumstances he would simply have told Zhydovyn that this was his wish and that would have been that. But now, fresh from the humiliation over the betrothal that day, he found himself suddenly overtaken by a wave of embarrassment. The Khazar was an excellent judge of people. He didn’t want Ivanushka either. For an instant he had felt a surge of anger towards his youngest son. He disliked failure.

‘No matter.’ He got up. ‘You are right. He’s too young.’ The incident was closed.

Or almost. For just as he was leaving the Khazar’s house, he could not resist turning to ask his friend: ‘Tell me, what do you think of Ivanushka – his character?’

Zhydovyn had thought for a moment. He liked the boy. One of his own sons was a little that way.

‘He’s a dreamer,’ he said pleasantly.

As Igor rode home, he scarcely glanced at the red star. He was a sternly religious man and he had no doubt that God was sending a message. But it was his duty to suffer whatever would come, he supposed. Instead he thought of Ivanushka. ‘A dreamer’ the Khazar had said. He knew what his own brothers called the boy. Sviatopolk calls him a fool, he thought sadly.

And what could one do with a fool? He had no idea.

It was three days later that the red comet passed out of sight, and there were no more signs in the heavens that winter.

Spring. In the beginning of each year in this fertile country, water covered the land, and the water was the river. Kiev: city by water. They would see it in a moment. The long boat moved steadily down the broad, placid stream of the Dniepr. Four men pulled gently on the oars, guiding it towards the city. Ivanushka and his father stood in the stern, the tall man’s arm round the boy’s shoulder.

The boat, though it was twenty feet long, was hollowed out of a single massive tree trunk. ‘No trees,’ Igor told his son, ‘are as big as those in the land of Rus. A man with an axe can carve himself a small ship out of one of our mighty oaks.’ And it seemed to the boy, feeling his father close beside him, that in all his life, no morning could ever be more still and more perfect than this.

Ivanushka wore a simple linen shirt and trousers, over which he had pulled a brown woollen kaftan, since the morning was still cold. On his feet were green leather boots of which he was very proud. His light brown hair was cut short in the page boy style.

They had been upstream at dawn to inspect the traps where the men were fishing. Now, still early in the morning, they were returning to the city for breakfast. And after that… Ivanushka felt a tremor of excitement in his stomach. For this was to be the day.

He looked up at his father. How often he had seen him, on some vantage point high on the wooden walls above the river, gazing down like a silent eagle on the watery landscape far below. Standing in the stern of the boat now, wrapped in a long black cloak, tall and spare, one might indeed have supposed that Igor had only to unfurl his cloak in order to rise up into the sky and hover, high over the river and woods, before swooping upon some luckless prey.

How powerful his father’s arm was as it rested against his neck: not only with the strength of mere muscle, though. For when he was close to Igor, he sensed another strength that came from the past: haunting like an echoing memory, yet flowing into his being like a warm river. ‘You have the blood of mighty warriors in your veins,’ Igor had often told him. ‘Giants in battle, splendid horsemen like my father and his before him; our ancestors were strong before the Khazars came, in times when even the mountains were young. Remember, you are one with them; they are always with you.’ And then his heart would thrill when his father added: ‘And one day you too will pass all this on, to your sons and those who come after.’ This was what it meant to have a father and to be a son.

And today, he was sure, he would begin his career, following his elder brothers and his father, as a warrior, a bogatyr.

The monk would settle it all.

Softly the boat moved with the current. In the morning silence, the great river spread towards the south. The air was sharp, but still. Traces of mist remained upon the surface of the river whose huge, ceaseless movement was barely perceptible, thus creating a watery landscape that was always receding, yet motionless. As one looked south, grey-blue water and pale blue sky seemed to melt together at the horizon in a single, liquid softness, becoming indistinguishable one from another in the distance, while to the east the golden sunlight diffused in the haze.

They were coming in sight of the city now, and Ivanushka let out a little sigh. How beautiful Kiev was.

It sat on the right side of the river. On banks that rose steeply over a hundred feet above the water, and topped with high wooden palisades, it stretched for a couple of miles, overlooking – strong but secure – the gentle, placid landscape.

The city consisted of three principal sections. First, at the northern edge, on a modest tumulus, stood the stout old citadel. This contained the prince’s palace and the large church founded eighty years before by the Blessed Vladimir himself, the Church of the Tithes. Next, to the south-west and only separated from it by a small ravine, was the new citadel – a considerably larger area, built by St Vladimir’s great son, compiler of the Russian Law, Yaroslav the Wise. Outside this, and running down to the river, lay another, still larger area, also protected by wooden walls. This was the suburb – the podol – where the lesser merchants and artisans lived. And down by the river were the jetties where the cumbersome, masted boats were moored.

In the two citadels, many of the larger buildings were made of brick. In the podol, all but a few churches were constructed of timber. All around were pleasant broad-leaved woods, even on the high, steep slopes that fell to the river below.

Everywhere in the city, golden crosses bearing the extra diagonal bar that represented Christ’s footrest in the eastern churches, caught the morning sun; and the golden, shallow domes of the churches glowed. Indeed, the great city itself looked like some vast and gleaming ship floating upon the waters.

For at Kiev, although the right bank of the river was high and topped with palisades, the left bank was low; and here, as at countless other places in the Dniepr’s vast system, the river had flooded its banks. It lay, glistening over the fields, which received its water and its rich silt. Each spring, through this wonderful immersion, all things were made anew.

As the city came closer, the boy fidgeted. Recently he had been having growing pains in his knees. But above all, he could hardly contain his excitement.

For just the week before Igor had told him: ‘It’s time to decide what we shall do with you. I shall take you to see Father Luke.’

It was a tremendous honour. Father Luke was his father’s spiritual counsellor and Igor never took a major decision without going to see him. When he spoke of the old monk, he would lower his voice in respect, for ‘The old monk knows all things,’ he would declare. And he always went to see him alone. Even Ivanushka’s two elder brothers had never been taken to see him. No wonder then that Ivanushka had blushed, and then gone pale when his father had told him.

Again and again, he had already pictured the scene. The kindly old man – tall, with a richly flowing white beard, a broad, seraphic face, eyes like suns – would see at once he had before him a young hero; would rest his hands in a blessing upon his head and declare: ‘It is God’s will, Ivan, that you shall be a noble warrior.’ This was how it would be. He gazed first at his father, then towards the rampart, with happy trust.

And Igor looked at his son. Was he doing right? It seemed to him that he was, and yet he was going to betray him.

How handsome his family was. It gave him a thrill of happiness just to look at them. They were in the main room of the big wooden house. Light was streaming in through the windows which were made not of glass but of the translucent silicate, found in local rocks, called mica. The light also caught the yellow clay tiles on the floor, so that the room seemed flooded with light.

On the table lay the remains of breakfast. By one wall was a large stove; in the corner opposite hung a little icon of St Nicholas with a small clay lamp hanging from three silver chains in front of it. On a chest on the right side of the room stood two large copper candlesticks, gleaming dully. The wax candles in them were, for the present, unlit. In the centre of the room, in the heavy carved oak chair that had been waxed and polished until it shone like ebony, sat his mother.

‘Well, Ivanushka, are you ready?’ He was ready. He gazed at her joyfully.

A rich, deep pink brocade gown fell to her ankles. Her girdle was sewn with gold. The sleeves of her gown were wide, and the slender arms that emerged from them were encased in white silk. On one wrist she wore a bracelet of silver, set with stones – green amethysts from Asia, warm amber from the Baltic north. Her pendant earrings were set with pearls. From her slim neck hung a golden crescent on a chain. Thus did the noblewomen of Rus dress themselves, like the Grecian ladies of imperial Constantinople.

How pale her broad brow was; how elegantly her hand rested on the carved lion on the arm of the chair, her long fingers with their golden rings gracefully pointing downwards. How sweet her face was, how kind. Yet, as she gazed at him, it seemed somehow sad. Why was she sad?

His two brothers were there as well. They were both dressed in gowns, with rich belts and handsome sable collars: Sviatopolk, with his pale and lovely Polish bride, and Boris. He tried to love them equally; but though he admired them both, he could not help being a little afraid of Sviatopolk. People said Sviatopolk was the image of his father: yet was he? For while Igor often had a distant and reserved look in his eyes, there was something in Sviatopolk’s face that was secretly angry, bitter. Why should that be? And though both brothers would occasionally cuff him, when Sviatopolk hit him, it always hurt just a fraction more than he had expected.

On his father’s instructions, Ivanushka wore only a simple linen shirt and trousers – the long shirt hanging outside and held in with a belt. Somewhat against his mother’s will, he had been allowed to keep on his favourite green boots. But his face and hands had been thoroughly scrubbed in the big copper basin that stood on the washstand.

Igor, too, was similarly dressed, his shirt only distinguishable from that of a peasant by the fineness of the embroidery at the edges. ‘For rich ornament is not fitting, up there,’ he would say severely. Ivanushka’s eyes were shining. He had been too excited to eat more than a little bread and oatmeal porridge called kasha. Now, kissing his mother and his brother, he ran out and moments later, mounted on his pony, felt the cool, damp morning air on his cheek as he clattered into the street.

It was muddy. The houses of the nobles were mostly large wooden structures on one or two floors, with tall wooden roofs like tents and outbuildings behind. Each was in the middle of a small plot of ground enclosed by a stake fence; and these plots were, at present, so sodden from the melted snow and spring rain that planks had been laid on the path from the outer gate to the stables. The street outside was boarded in some places too, but where it was not, the horses’ hoofs almost disappeared into the mud.

Ivanushka, on his grey pony, rode respectfully behind his father. The nobleman was a splendid figure: a simple black cloak hung from his shoulders over his white shirt, and Ivanushka stared at his proud, straight back with boundless admiration. The jet-black horse that Igor rode was his finest. The ancient imperial name it bore had undergone a slight modification in its passage across the generations into Slavic: it was called Troyan.

The simple folk that father and son passed put their right hand on their heart and bowed from the waist; even the robed priests inclined their heads respectfully. For Igor was a muzh – a nobleman. The blood-money to be paid if he was killed was forty silver grivnas, whereas killing a free peasant, a smerd, cost a fine of only five.

Even the names of the ruling class were often different. The princes, and a few of their greatest retainers, frequently bore the ‘royal’ names that ended in slav, meaning praise; or mir, world. Such, for instance, were the great Vladimir and his son Yaroslav. For the nobility, Scandinavian names like Riurik or Oleg were still quite often used. Even Igor’s wife, though of noble Slav family, bore the name Olga, the Russian version of the nordic Helga. A peasant, on the other hand, would probably bear some simple old slavic name like Ilya, or Shchek, or Mal.

But it was a special form of address that marked out the noble beyond doubt. For while a peasant might be plain Ilya, a noble also added his father’s name, his patronymic. Thus young Ivan was called Ivan, son of Igor: Ivan Igorevich. And the three brothers might be referred to as ‘sons of Igor’ – the Igorevichi. For Igor was not only a noble: he was a valued member of the druzhina of the Prince of Kiev himself.

There were many princes in the land of Rus. Each of the trading cities on the great river routes had a prince as its protector, and all of them were descendants of the norseman named Oleg who had taken Kiev from the Khazars two centuries before. At the moment, the greatest cities in the vast river-trading empire were in the hands of the sons of the last prince of Kiev, the mighty Yaroslav the Wise. The sons of Yaroslav had organized the succession by rote – the eldest brother taking the greatest city, Kiev, and the rest taking the lesser cities by order of seniority, and owing obedience to the eldest. Thus while Igor’s master was now the senior, or Grand Prince of Kiev, the city of Chernigov, to the north, was in the hands of his younger brother Svyatoslav; careful Vsevolod, younger still, held smaller Pereiaslav in the south. If one of the brothers died, he was succeeded not by his son but by his next brother, so that all the younger brothers in the pecking order would move up to a greater city.

Igor served the Prince of Kiev himself. Indeed, he was almost in the inner council. Ivanushka’s brothers, too, were already in the outer druzhina, although Boris was still only a page; and it thrilled Ivanushka to think that soon he too would follow them.

‘Dismount!’ His father’s curt voice cut into the boy’s reverie and he started. They had only gone a few hundred yards, but Igor had already swung out of his saddle and was striding away; and as Ivanushka looked up, he saw why. They had reached the cathedral. He sighed. He dreaded the cathedral.

The walled citadel of Yaroslav the Wise contained many fine buildings. Besides the handsome wooden houses of the nobles, there were monasteries, churches, schools, and a splendid gateway – the Golden Gate – built in stone. This gateway was especially fine because on top of it, soaring up into the sky, stood the little golden-domed Church of the Annunciation. But nowhere in all the lands of Rus was there anything as magnificent as the great cathedral that rose before him now. For just as his father, the Blessed Vladimir, had built his great Church of the Tithes in the old citadel, so Yaroslav had begun his own huge cathedral in the new one.

He called it St Sophia: what other name would do, when everyone knew that the greatest church in the Eastern Roman Empire, the seat of the Patriarch in Constantinople, bore that sacred name? St Sophia, the Holy Wisdom of the Greeks.

For though this new northern nation might proudly declare, ‘We are the Rus,’ it was the civilization of the Greeks that they copied. The senior priests were mostly Greek. Even the one Slav, the mighty preacher who had headed the Russian Church a decade ago, had taken the Greek name of Hilarion. When noble children were baptized, they took a second, Christian name to complement the Slav or Scandinavian names they mostly bore. Thus a Yaroslav or a Boris would also carry a Christian name like Andrei, Dimitri, Alexander or Constantine. And all these names were Greek.

How huge the cathedral was. It was built of red granite, laid in long thin strips and fixed with almost equal layers of pink cement. It rose up a massive, rather square, red and pink block, a holy fortress designed to impress upon all the people the might of the newly adopted Christian God. Upon its centre sat a great burnished dome, in the shape of a flattened helmet – like that of the church in Constantinople – and around it were grouped twelve smaller domes. ‘They stand for Our Lord and the twelve disciples,’ Igor had told his son. The cathedral was almost finished. Only a small scaffolding on one side showed where work was still being done on the outside staircases. With a shiver Ivanushka stepped inside.

If the outside was like a fortress, the high, broad, gloomy spaces within seemed as vast as the universe. In the manner of the great churches of the Roman Empire, it proceeded from west to east in a broad line of five naves – a wide central nave, with two more on each side. At the eastern end were five semi-circular apses. At the western end, high above the floor, were galleries where the princes and their courtiers gathered to pray, looking down upon the people. And at the centre of the church, under the huge dome, was the great airy space where the priests in their shining vestments stood before the congregation and heaven met the earth.

But it was not the high dome, nor the five naves, nor the massive columns that dominated the cavernous interior. It was the mosaics.

They made Ivanushka tremble. From floor to distant ceiling they covered the walls. The Blessed Virgin with hands outstretched in the eastern attitude of prayer; the Fathers of the Church; the Annunciation; the Eucharist: in blues and browns, in reds and greens, against the background of shining gold, these awesome, august figures stared down upon the world. Enormous, pale, oval faces with dark hair and huge, black eyes gazed mournfully yet impersonally from their golden setting upon the little people in the passing world. And highest of all, the Pantokrator, creator of the world, gazed from the central dome, his large Greek eyes seeing all, seeing nothing – knowing all men yet unknowable, beyond all earthly wisdom.

Earth met heaven in the church; hundreds of candles flickered in the gloom; and upon the walls the golden mosaics glowed, their great and terrible light shining in the darkness of the world.

Some priests were chanting.

‘Gospodi pomily.’ Lord have mercy. They sang in Church Slavonic – a nasal version of the spoken tongue that was both understandable but mysterious, hieratic.

Igor lit a candle and stood, in silent prayer, before an icon by one of the heavy pillars, while Ivanushka looked about him.

Everyone knew the story of the Blessed Vladimir’s conversion: how he had sent out to the three great religions – Islam, Judaism and Christianity – and how his ambassadors, having visited Constantinople, reported to him that in the Christian church of the Greek, ‘We did not know whether we were on earth or in heaven.’

In such cathedrals as this, the emperors of Constantinople – and now the princes of Kiev who copied them – brought the visible heavens to earth and reminded their people that they, the rulers who prayed in the galleries above, were regents for the eternal Godhead whose golden universe was present, though unknowable, amongst them.

Igor, part oriental, found peace in the contemplation of this absolute, unknowable authority. Ivanushka, half Slav, instinctively shrank from such a God; he yearned for a warmer, softer deity. And this was why, in the great church, he shivered as though from cold.

A few minutes later, he was glad to be out of the church and riding towards the gate, beyond which lay the track through the woods to the monastery, and his destiny.

At last they were at the monastery gates.

Their ride along the path from the citadel had been so delightful it had filled Ivanushka with joy. After passing through the scattered huts of the lesser folk outside the city walls, the track had led southwards, up to the little promontory of Berestovo, now a suburb, where St Vladimir himself had kept an extra residence. Over the treetops on the left, one could see the river shining far below, and past that, on the other side of the broad expanse of floodwater, the woods stretched across the flat plain into the distance. The oak and beech coming into leaf spread over the landscape like a soft, light green mist under the washed blue sky. Nothing disturbed the gentle sounds of the birds in the stillness of the spring morning, as Ivanushka rode happily behind his father towards the wide south-western promontory, two miles from the citadel, where the monks lived.

And still Ivanushka had no idea why he was really there.

Igor was silent, deep in thought. Was he doing the right thing? Even for a boyar as devout and austere as he, this morning’s expedition was an extraordinary step. For Igor’s idea was that Ivanushka might enter the religious life.

It had cost him dear. No boyar normally wanted his son to be a monk or even a priest. The life of poverty seemed like a reproach; and those of noble blood who chose the religious life did so, almost always, against their family’s wishes. True, a boyar like Igor might spend many hours in prayer each day; a prince, on his deathbed, might take the tonsure of a monk; but for a young man to bury himself and take vows of poverty – that was another matter.

It was just after the appearance of the red star that the idea had taken shape in his mind. ‘I do not say Ivanushka’s a fool,’ he had said to his wife, ‘but he is a dreamer. That night I found him gazing at the star – if I hadn’t fetched him in he’d have frozen to death. The boy should be a monk.’ Igor had worked so hard to make himself a man of affairs, a warrior and member of the druzhina: he knew what was required. ‘And I cannot see Ivanushka succeeding,’ he admitted sadly.

‘You are too impatient with him,’ Olga had replied.

Was he impatient? Perhaps. But what father can tolerate the weaknesses of the one who was – though Igor would never admit it – his favourite son? And did a tiny voice, deep inside him, say: ‘The boy is like you, as you might have been.’

So it was that, as the weeks passed and no opportunities seemed to present themselves for the boy, he wondered: Perhaps, though it is not my desire, God means to claim this son for His own service. And then, since it was his nature, he began to make plans for this undesirable outcome.

These included a long talk with Father Luke, to whom he confided all these thoughts. Indeed, he might slightly have exaggerated Ivanushka’s interest in the religious life. He had begged the old monk to take a look at the dreamy boy and to encourage him if he showed any signs of vocation. For if Father Luke himself suggests it, he reasoned, that will greatly influence the boy.

He had only told his wife the day before, and when he did, Olga’s face had gone white. ‘No! I beg you, don’t push the boy away,’ she had pleaded.

‘Of course not,’ he had answered. ‘He will only go to a monastery if he wishes.’

‘But you mean to encourage him.’

‘I shall show him the monastery, that is all.’

Olga’s face had remained distraught. She, too, knew her youngest son. Who knew what might seize the boy’s imagination? He might easily take it into his head to become a monk. And then she would lose him for ever.

‘He can be here in Kiev,’ Igor had replied. Secretly, because he was ambitious, he had hoped that the boy might go for a time to one of the great Greek monasteries at far away Mount Athos – for that was the way to reach the higher church offices. The boy might even be another Hilarion! But he did not tell her this.

‘I shall never see him.’

‘All sons must leave their mothers,’ he went on. ‘Besides, if it is God’s will, then we must submit. And who knows? He may truly find happiness in the religious life. He may be happier than I.’ And this, though he scarcely knew it himself, was as near to the truth as it was tactless. ‘I shall only take him to visit the cathedral and the monastery,’ he promised her. ‘Father Luke shall talk to him. That is all.’

And what of the boy?

Let’s hope he sees the monastery and takes an interest, he thought. Then he would have to tell Ivanushka the truth, that he would never succeed in being a boyar. That will break his heart, he acknowledged to himself. But by then there would be an alternative. And then we shall see, he concluded.

And so it was, that morning, that Ivanushka came to the monastery.

He had never been there before.

They reached the top of the promontory, then continued until, by a clearing in the trees, they came to a stout wooden gateway. A monk in a black habit bowed to them as they passed through, while Ivanushka, pale with excitement, looked about him.

It was not much of a place. There was a small wooden chapel and a cluster of dwelling houses, together with two low, barn-like structures, one of which was the refectory where the monks ate, the other a hospice for the sick. It was nothing like the grand cathedral, and Ivanushka was rather disappointed. It seemed to him that there was something sad about the place.

The morning dew still clung to the dark wooden huts although the sun was well up in the sky, as if the buildings had been permeated by the cold, wet ground. Rocks appeared amongst the trees. Here and there in the clearing were patches of light brown mud. Yet somehow, in the midst of rising spring, there was a feeling of autumn, as though leaves were still falling.

It was hardly twenty years since Anthony the Hermit, travelling from Holy Mount Athos in distant Greece, had come upon this deserted spot and found the caves. Soon others had joined the holy man in his cave above the Dniepr, and this little community of a dozen or so hermits had burrowed out a network of tiny cells and passages deep underground. These cells were under their feet now; and it gave Ivanushka a strange feeling to know that the holy men were down there, like rabbits in a warren, aware no doubt of his presence above.

Anthony himself, he knew, dwelt apart from the community in a cave on his own, occasionally appearing for some important purpose, such as to demand that the Prince of Kiev give the monks the hill, and then disappearing again. But his saintly spirit was said to hover over the place like a wreath of mist over the ground. Meanwhile, the faithful monks, led by kindly Theodosius, had built up the monastery above the ground as well as beneath. And of this number of saintly men was Father Luke.

Ivanushka and his father dismounted. One monk had led their horses away; another, after a whispered conversation, had walked to a small hut and disappeared.

‘That is the way down into the caves,’ his father explained.

They waited. Several minutes passed. Two elderly monks accompanied by a young monk in his twenties walked slowly past and into the wooden chapel. One of the old monks, Ivanushka saw, wore a big, heavy chain round his neck and seemed to walk with difficulty. ‘Why does he wear a chain?’ he whispered.

His father looked at him as though he had asked a foolish question. ‘To mortify the flesh,’ he answered abruptly. ‘He is close to God,’ he added with obvious respect.

Ivanushka said nothing. A faint, cold breath of wind made itself felt against his cheek.

Then the door of the hut opposite slowly opened and the monk emerged, holding the door open for an unseen figure. Ivanushka heard his father whisper: ‘Here he comes.’ He held his breath. He saw the skirt of a robe in the doorway. This was the moment – the splendid figure who was to tell him his destiny was approaching.

And then from the doorway emerged a small, scrawny old man.

His hair was grey and, though he had combed it, not very clean; nor was his black habit, tied with a leather belt that was mottled with mildew. His beard was straggly and untidy. He shuffled slowly towards them, the younger monk walking just behind him as though to catch him should he stumble.

Father Luke’s face was wrinkled and ghostly white, and his brows hung over it heavily, partly because he stooped so much. As he came slowly forward he opened his mouth once, as though flexing stiff muscles in preparation for a smile he knew he must make. Ivanushka saw that several of his yellowed teeth were missing. The eyes were not, as he had imagined, like suns. They were old, a little rheumy and, it appeared, slightly crossed. The old man seemed mostly concerned with staring at his feet, encased in leather shoes which were full of holes, so that his grimy feet could be seen within. But there was something worse than his appearance, something Ivanushka was completely unprepared for.

It was the smell.

For those who live long underground acquire not only pale skins like corpses, but also a terrible aroma; and it was this smell, preceding Father Luke, that came towards the boy. He had never encountered anything like it: in his mind rose a vague image of wet clay, dead flesh and rotting leaves.

And now the monk stood beside them.

‘This is Ivanushka,’ he heard his father say.

He bowed his head.

So this was Father Luke. He could not believe it. He wanted to run away. How could his father have cruelly deceived him in this way? If only, he prayed, he does not touch me.

When he looked up, he was aware of his father and the old man talking quietly. The monk’s eyes, which looked up at him, were blue, sharper and more inquisitive than he had supposed. They glanced at him from time to time, before staring down at the ground again.

His father and the monk were discussing quite mundane affairs in a matter-of-fact way – the trade and politics of Tmutarakan, the price of salt, the building of the new Monastery of St Dimitri inside the citadel. He found this surprising and rather dull. So he was taken off-guard when Father Luke suddenly nodded towards him and remarked: ‘So this is the young man you told me about?’

‘It is.’

‘Ivan,’ Father Luke went on, half to himself, though smiling slightly at the boy. ‘A very Christian name for a young man.’

It was true that as yet few Russians had taken the name Ivan, the Slavic form of John, as their first name. But while Igor had given his first two sons the usual Slav names and reserved the Christian ones for their baptismal names, he had for some reason given his third son only a single, Christian name.

Ivanushka saw that his father was giving him an encouraging smile that was meant to reassure him, but in fact told him only that Igor was anxious he should make a good impression: and as always upon such occasions, he immediately felt something tighten within him, while his mind became a sea of confusion. The monk’s next question completed this.

‘Do you like it here?’

What could he say? He was so upset, so disappointed, and the direct question seemed suddenly to bring all his misery to the surface. With tears coming into his eyes, half in fury at his father, half in numb disappointment, unable to look up at them he blurted out: ‘No.’

He could feel his father stiffen with rage. ‘Ivan!’

He looked up and saw Igor’s furious look. The monk, however, did not seem put out. ‘What do you see here?’ he asked quietly.

Again, the question took him by surprise. It was so simple that, too agitated now to collect his thoughts, he answered it without thinking at all: ‘Rotting leaves.’

He heard his father’s gasp of exasperation, then saw to his surprise the monk reach out his pale, bony hand and take Igor gently by the arm. ‘Do not be angry,’ Father Luke admonished soflty. ‘The boy has only spoken the truth.’ He sighed. ‘But he is young for such a place.’

‘Some boys have come here,’ he heard his father say crossly.

The monk nodded, but apparently without much interest. ‘Some.’ He turned back to Ivanushka.

What was coming next? Ivanushka could not imagine. Certainly not what did. ‘So, Ivan, should you like to be a priest?’

A priest? What could the old man be thinking of? He was going to be a hero, a boyar. He stared, open-mouthed, at the monk in horror.

With a wry smile Father Luke turned to Igor. ‘Are you sure about this, my friend?’

‘I thought it would be best.’ Igor’s brows were knitted, both in anger and embarrassment.

Ivanushka looked up at his father. It was hard for him, at first, to understand even what was being said, but through the fog of his confusion he began to realize: if his father thought he should be a priest, then he must be judged unworthy to be a boyar. And so now, fresh from the disappointment of finding the awesome Father Luke to be nothing more than a shabby old man, two thoughts formed themselves in his mind. His father had betrayed him, never even told him about his plans; and he had rejected him.

Father Luke now drew out a book from the folds of his habit, and opened it. ‘This is the liturgy of St John Chrysostom,’ he said. ‘Can you read this?’ And he showed Ivanushka a prayer.

The boy stumbled through it and Father Luke nodded quielty. Then he drew another little book out and showed it to Ivanushka; but in this one the writing seemed different and Ivanushka shook his head. ‘This is in the old alphabet which the blessed St Cyril invented for the Slavs,’ the monk explained. ‘In fact, some monks still prefer this old writing which uses some Hebrew characters; but today we use the alphabet designed by Cyril’s successors, which is mainly Greek and which people call, incorrectly, Cyrillic. If you were a priest, it would be useful to know both.’

Ivanushka hung his head and said nothing.

‘We in this monastery,’ Father Luke went on quielty, ‘live by the rule which our Abbot Theodosius has chosen. It is a wise rule. Our monks spend much of the time singing and praying in the chapel, but they also occupy themselves with useful tasks like caring for the sick. Some, it is true, follow a harsher discipline and remain in seclusion in their cells or in the caves for long periods. But this is their own choice.’

‘It is a holy choice,’ Igor said respectfully.

Father Luke did not look impressed. ‘But not for all.’ He sighed, though it sounded more like a short hiss. It seemed to Ivanushka that the monk used less breath than other men. ‘The life of a monk is a constant drawing closer to God,’ he went on quietly. Whether he was addressing Igor or his son now was hard to say. ‘In this process, the flesh dries up, but the spirit is fed, and grows, through communion with God.’ To Ivanushka, the monk’s quiet voice sounded like the falling of leaves.

Then Father Luke coughed, with a dry, rasping sound. And Ivanushka thought: He is like a husk, buried in the earth.

‘And so the body dies, that the soul may live.’

Ivanushka knew that some monks kept their coffins in their cells, in this long preparation for death.

He realized that Father Luke was watching him dispassionately, observing how he received these words. But he could not conceal his disappointment, his desire to escape from this image, as it seemed to him, of death.

‘Yet it is not death,’ Father Luke went on, as though following his thoughts. ‘For Christ overcame death. The grass withereth, but the word of the Lord does not. So it is that, even in our mortal condition, our souls live in the world of the spirit, humble before God.’ But if this was meant to bring Ivanushka comfort, it brought him none.

It was an old idea, this ascetic ideal of the withering of the body. For centuries it had been practised by single-minded hermits in Christian Syria. This was not the wild infliction of pain that was often indulged in by the flagellants in the west, but rather the slow process of sapping the vital juices from the body, reducing it to a useless husk that would not interfere with the life of the spirit and the service of God.

Still watching him carefully the monk continued: ‘These extremes are only for a few. Most of the monks here live a simpler life, devoted to the service of God and their fellow men. Indeed, this is the rule favoured by our Abbot Theodosius.’

Ivanushka was too discouraged, however, to find comfort even in this.

‘Do you wish to serve God?’ the old man asked abruptly.

‘Oh, yes.’ He was almost in tears though. The idea of serving God had always been such an exciting thought before. With a single heart, a single mind, he had seen himself riding in God’s service over the waving grasses of the steppe, fighting the heathen horsemen.

The old man gave a grunt.

‘The boy is young. He loves his body.’ It was said calmly, without anger, but it was obviously the monk’s final judgement. He turned his back on Ivanushka.

‘You do not think he would make a priest?’ Igor asked anxiously.

‘God touches each man at the proper time. We do not know what we shall be.’

‘He should not be trained for the priesthood then?’ Igor sought clarification.

Instead of answering, Father Luke turned back to Ivanushka and laid his hand on his head, in a gesture that might, or might not, have been a blessing. ‘I see that you are going on a journey,’ he said, ‘from which you will return.’ Then he turned away again.

A journey? Ivanushka’s mind was racing. Could he mean his plan to go to the great River Don? Surely he must. And he had said nothing about him becoming a priest. At last there was hope.

Meanwhile, the old monk was gazing at Igor rather severely.

‘You fast too much,’ he said abruptly.

‘Surely fasting is permitted?’ Igor said in surprise.

‘A fast is a tithe we pay to God. And a tithe is a tenth, not more. You should limit your fasts. You are too severe with yourself.’

‘And my prayers?’

Ivanushka knew that his father prayed for a long time at dawn, and then again, three or four times, before the day was over.

‘Pray as much as you wish, as long as you don’t neglect your business,’ the monk replied sharply. He paused for a moment, then went on: ‘This fasting, you know, came into our church from the Latin west, through Moravia. I am not one of those who condemn the west, but too much fasting amongst the laity is foolish. If you want to do that, you must join the Romans and say their creed,’ he added with a faint smile.

For more than a decade now, there had been, technically, a breach between the eastern and western Christian churches – between Constantinople and Rome. The disagreement concerned mainly the form of addressing God and the Trinity in the creed, though certain differences in style and theological emphasis underlay the division. The Pope claimed the highest authority. The eastern Church did not agree. But it was not as yet a deep rift.

The monk’s gentle taunt, therefore, was merely a way of reminding Igor that, as his spiritual son, he owed him obedience.

‘I will do as you say,’ the noble replied. ‘As for the boy, if he’s not to be a priest, what’s to become of him?’

Father Luke did not even look at Ivanushka.

‘God knows,’ he replied.

1067

Kiev the golden. There was only one problem in the land of Rus. This was that its rulers had invented a political system that did not, and could not possibly, work. The problem lay in the system of succession.

For when the royal clan had chosen that cities should pass, not from father to son, but from brother to brother, they had not foreseen the consequences, which were disastrous.

Firstly, when a prince ruled a city, he might set his sons to rule over the lesser towns in that territory. But when he died, they usually had to give these up to the next prince in line, perhaps without compensation. Worse still, if one of the princely brothers died before being granted a city, his children were completely left out of the long chain of succession. There were many such landless princes without prospects, and these political orphans were known by the same name that was applied to other dispossessed or dependent folk in Russian society: izgoi.

And even when the succession of brothers did not create izgoi, it still produced ludicrous situations.

For the princes of Rus were often long-lived, and they had many sons. What if the eldest son produced children who were fully grown warriors and statesmen by the time his youngest brother, their uncle, was still a boy? They would still have to give up power for their boy-uncle. No wonder they were angry.

Indeed, as the generations passed, it became harder and harder even to work out who was entitled to what, let alone to get the parties to agree to it. Thus the ruling clan of Kievan Rus spent generations devising makeshift arrangements within a system that was inherently unworkable. They never solved their problem.

Kiev the golden. Of late it seemed to Ivanushka that a harsh, angry light menaced the golden city. Treachery was in the air. And now, a year after it had appeared, in the dead of winter, the meaning of the terrible portent in the heavens was becoming clear in the land of Rus.

At first, Ivanushka had even been afraid for his father.

Of all the princes in the land of Rus, none was stranger than the Prince of Polotsk. Men said he was a werewolf. He was certainly terrible to look upon. ‘He was born with a caul wrapped over his eye,’ Ivanushka’s mother had told him, ‘and it’s there to this day.’

‘And is he really so evil?’ Ivanushka had asked.

‘As wicked as Baba Yaga the witch,’ she had replied.

The revolt of the Prince of Polotsk was a typical dynastic quarrel. Though not a landless izgoi, this grandson of the Blessed Vladimir had been cut out of the main chain of succession: so while he kept the city of Polotsk, which lay towards Poland in the west, he could never inherit Kiev, Novgorod, Chernigov, or any of the greatest cities of the land of Rus.

For a time, while other, less important izgoi princes had been creating trouble in the outlying territories, the Prince of Polotsk had remained quiet. Then suddenly, at the dead of winter, he had struck in the north, at the great city of Novgorod; and as the snow lay thick upon the ground, Igor and his two eldest boys had ridden north with the Prince of Kiev and his brothers.

If only Ivanushka could have ridden with them. Since the interview at the monastery, he had spent a miserable year. Because of Cuman raids in the steppe, the caravan with Zhydovyn the Khazar had been postponed. Igor had made several attempts to place him in one of the princely households, but with no luck. More than once, his father had asked him if he would not like to visit the monastery again; but each time he had hung his head, and Igor had shrugged and turned away. And now his father and brothers were hunting the werewolf.

‘Father will kill him,’ Ivanushka had cried as they left. But in his heart, he had not been so sure. Three weeks had passed. They heard that the western rebel city of Minsk had fallen, and that the armies had passed on towards the north. After that, silence.

Then, one afternoon in early March, while the snow still lay on the ground, Ivanushka heard the stamp and jingle of a horse coming into the courtyard and ran out to see a tall, stern figure dismounting.

It was his brother Sviatopolk. How handsome and brave, how like their father he looked. He glanced at Ivanushka. ‘We won,’ he announced drily. ‘Father’s on his way back with Boris. He sent me ahead to tell Mother.’

‘And the werewolf?’

‘He lost and ran away. He’s finished.’

‘What happened at Minsk?’

Sviatopolk smiled. Why did his mouth look bitter when he smiled, and why did he only do so when he was talking about people being hurt? ‘We butchered all the men; sold the women and children as slaves.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘There were so many slaves it drove the price down to half a grivna a head.’

Ivanushka followed him into the house. At the entrance, Sviatopolk paused and half turned to him. ‘By the way, there’s good news for you.’ He spoke the words casually.

‘For me?’ Ivanushka’s mind began to race. What could it be?

‘God knows why,’ Sviatopolk remarked. ‘You’ve done nothing to deserve it.’ The words were spoken light-heartedly, but Ivanushka knew Sviatopolk meant them really.

‘What is it? Tell me what!’

‘Father will tell you.’ It seemed that Sviatopolk was not particularly pleased with the good news, whatever it was. He smiled thinly, then turned away. ‘You’ll have to suffer until he comes, won’t you?’ he said, and stepped into the house.

Ivanushka heard his mother’s cry of joy. She loved Sviatopolk, he knew, because he was so like his father.

The news his father brought, the next day, was so wonderful that he could hardly believe it.

The younger brother of the Prince of Kiev, Prince Vsevolod, held the southern border city of Pereiaslav. It lay some sixty miles downriver from the capital and was a splendid city. Vsevolod had made a marriage that impressed the nobles of Rus, for his bride had been a princess of the royal house of Constantinople itself, the family of Monomakh. And their son Vladimir was only a year older than Ivanushka.

‘We’ve still to arrange a meeting of the two boys,’ Igor proudly explained to his wife, ‘but Vsevolod and I became friends on the campaign and he’s agreed in principle – in principle,’ he emphasized severely, looking at Ivanushka, ‘that Ivan should be attached to young Vladimir as a page.’

‘This is a great chance, you know,’ his mother said to Ivanushka. ‘They say this Vladimir is gifted and has a great future ahead of him. To be his close companion when you are still both so young…’ She spread her hands in a way that suggested the treasure house of Kiev and the imperial city of Constantinople all rolled into one.

Ivanushka was beside himself. ‘When? When?’ was all he could ask.

‘I shall take you to Pereiaslav at Christmas,’ Igor told him. ‘By which time, you had better have prepared yourself.’ And with that he dismissed him.

‘I’m sad to see Ivanushka go, though,’ his mother confided to her husband afterwards. ‘I shall miss him.’

‘That is a woman’s lot,’ Igor remarked coolly, unwilling to admit that he felt the same.

It was shortly afterwards that a small incident took place in the stables that would have shocked Igor and his wife had they known about it.

The three brothers were together. Boris, grinning broadly, had clapped his little brother on the back in a friendly way that sent him sprawling; then he had given him a whole silver grivna for luck and ridden down to the podol. That left Ivanushka and Sviatopolk alone.

‘Well, brother, I told you the news was good,’ Sviatopolk remarked quietly, as he gazed admiringly at his horse.

‘Yes.’ Ivanushka had an uncomfortable feeling, however, that his brother was saving something unpleasant for him.

‘In fact, I’d say that you had probably done better than Boris or me,’ Sviatopolk added thoughtfully.

‘Oh. Do you really think so?’ He realized it was a fine opportunity, but he had not thought of it that way.

‘Oh,’ Sviatopolk mimicked him, without turning round, ‘do you really think so?’

Ivanushka stared at him blankly, wondering what was coming next. Suddenly Sviatopolk turned. His dark eyes seemed full of hate, yet also contemptuous.

‘You’ve done nothing to deserve this. You were supposed to go into the Church.’

‘But it was Father…’

‘Yes, it was Father. But don’t think you can deceive me. Because now I see you for what you really are, little boy. You’re ambitious. You want to do better than us. You think only of yourself behind that dreamy mask.’

Ivanushka was so taken aback by this unexpected attack that he had no idea what to say. Was he ambitious? It had never occurred to him. He stared at Sviatopolk, confused.

‘Yes,’ his brother went on acidly. ‘The truth hurts, doesn’t it? So why don’t you just admit it like the rest of us? Except that you’re worse than us. You’re a schemer, little Ivan, a little viper.’ He hissed the last word so that it hit Ivanushka like a physical blow. Sviatopolk was getting into his stride now. ‘And no doubt you’re waiting for Father to die too,’ he added.

Whatever did he mean? Ivanushka had no idea.

‘What do you think it costs Father if you become a monk?’ Sviatopolk enlightened him. ‘Some donations to the monastery. But your new position means that one day you’ll be left the same inheritance as us. So you’ll be taking from me too.’

Ivanushka was scarlet. The tears were welling up.

‘I don’t want Father to die. You can have my share. Have it all.’

‘Oh, very good,’ his brother sneered. ‘And how easy to say. Of course, you would say that, now you’ve escaped from the monastery. But we shall see.’

Ivanushka burst into tears. Sviatopolk watched him.

And this was only the beginning of Ivanushka’s troubles.

1068

Ivanushka was disobeying his father. But such astonishing things were going on in the city that day.

For two years, it seemed to the boy, the influence of the evil star had been constantly at work. Even so, there were things which it was hard to understand.

They had never taken him to meet the young Prince Vladimir. The reason, they said, was that the boy’s mother, the Greek princess, had died. ‘Vladimir and his father are mourning her,’ Igor told him. ‘It’s a bad time. Next year, though, things will be better.’ Why, then, before the year was out, had Vladimir’s father taken another wife – a Cuman princess?

‘It’s politics,’ Igor explained. ‘Her father’s a powerful Cuman chief, and the prince wants to protect Pereiaslav from attack from the steppe.’ Yet only months later, the Cuman horsemen had come, and now they were burning the land of Rus in greater strength than ever before.

And still no word had come from Vladimir’s father about a visit. The prince had promised; now, it seemed he had forgotten, leaving Ivanushka still drifting, uselessly, at Kiev.

Perhaps his brother Sviatopolk was telling the truth when he had hissed in his ear, one cold morning that spring: ‘You’ll never be Vladimir’s page, you know. They’ve heard how useless you are.’ For when he had wondered aloud who would have told them such a thing, Sviatopolk had smiled and whispered: ‘Maybe I did.’

Then there was the matter of the Prince of Polotsk. After defeating him, the Prince of Kiev and his brother had offered the werewolf a safe-conduct to a family meeting. Then they had shamefully trapped him and thrown him into jail in Kiev, where he still remained. Yet when Ivanushka had asked his father whether such treachery was not a sin, Igor had only told him, grimly, that it was sometimes necessary to lie. Ivanushka was still puzzled about this.

Finally, threatening to destroy them all, came the Cumans. Less than a week ago, at dead of night, the men of Rus had gone out to deal the steppe raiders a decisive blow near Pereiaslav. And they had lost. To their shame, his father and the princes had fled back to Kiev and retired to the fortified safety of the stone-walled palace in the citadel. Worse yet, a strange lethargy had set in amongst the druzhina. Day after day, Ivanushka had expected that his father and the boyars would go forth again. Yet nothing happened. Surely they could not be afraid? Surely they would not leave the people to the mercy of the invaders while they stayed safe behind their high walls? They must, the boy thought, have fallen under the spell of the evil star.

And now, this bright September morning, the whole city was in an uproar. Terrified messengers came at the gallop to say that the Cumans were advancing. In the podol outside the citadel, the city assembly – the famous veche – was meeting. All the people had gone there.

And the talk was of revolution.

That was why, this morning, instead of staying with his family in the high, brick hall of the prince’s palace, he had sneaked out, crossed the bridge over the ravine that led from the old citadel to the new, and made his way past St Sophia’s cathedral towards the gates into the podol.

The new citadel was eerily quiet. The nobles’ houses were deserted: not even the horses and grooms had been left at his father’s. There were a few women and children, and the occasional priest in the streets, but it seemed that the whole male population had gone down to the veche in the suburb.

Ivanushka knew about the veche. Even the Prince of Kiev himself was afraid of it. Usually, of course, it was tame enough and run by the leading merchants. But in times of crisis, every free man of the city had the right to attend and to vote. ‘And when the veche revolts, it is terrible,’ Igor had told him. ‘Even the prince and the druzhina can’t control them.’

‘Are the people angry now?’ he had asked.

‘They are beside themselves. You’re not to go out.’

As he made his way through the citadel, Ivanushka was so excited he almost forgot that he was disobeying his father. He hurried through the gate to the market square.

It was full. He had never seen so many people in his life. They had even come in from the outlying towns – merchants, artisans, the free traders and workers of the Russian city states – several thousand of them. On each side of the square was a church: one a stout, brick, Byzantine affair with a flat central dome, the other a smaller wooden structure with a high gabled roof and a little octagonal tower in the middle. They seemed to be overseeing the proceedings, giving them a religious sanction. In the centre was a wooden platform, upon which all eyes were fixed. A huge brown-bearded merchant in a red kaftan was standing there. In his hands was a staff, and, like some terrible Old Testament prophet he was denouncing the authorities. ‘Why is this prince here, in Kiev?’ he shouted. ‘Why do his family rule in other cities?’ He paused until he had drawn an expectant silence from the crowd. ‘They are here because we invited their ancestors to come to us.’ He hammered his staff. ‘The Varangians came from the north to us Slavs because we brought them in!’

This rewriting of history that had grown up over the generations had suited both sides – the norsemen because it gave legitimacy to their original, piratical rule, and their Slav subjects because it salvaged their pride.

‘Why did we bring them in?’ He glowered from side to side, as though challenging the churches themselves to interrupt him. ‘To fight for us. To defend our cities. That is why they are here!’

There was truth in this. Even now, the relationship between the princes and the cities they governed was ambiguous; the prince protected the city but he did not own it, any more than he owned the land, much of which still belonged to free peasants or communes. In the great northern city of Novgorod, the veche of the people had been known to reject princes, and never allowed their chosen protector or his druzhina to own land in their domains. So Ivanushka did not find the merchant’s words strange; indeed, he flushed with pride to hear his father and men like him called protectors of the land of Rus.

‘But they have not defended us!’ the merchant roared. ‘They have failed! The Cumans lay waste our countryside and the prince and his generals do nothing!’

‘What shall we do then?’ shouted several voices.

‘Find a new general,’ cried another.

‘Find a new prince,’ bellowed a third.

Ivanushka gasped. They were speaking of the Prince of Kiev! But the idea seemed to please the crowd.

‘Who then?’ a chorus demanded.

And now the big merchant on the platform hammered his staff again. ‘These troubles were begun by treachery,’ he roared. ‘By treachery, when the sons of Yaroslav broke their word and put the Prince of Polotsk in jail.’ He gestured towards the citadel. ‘An innocent prince lies in prison up there.’

He did not need to go on. It was clear even to Ivanushka that many in the square had been carefully prepared for this moment. ‘Polotsk!’ the crowd roared. ‘Give us the Prince of Polotsk.’

Ivanushka could never say, afterwards, exactly what followed. All he knew was that a minute later the crowd, as though it had a will of its own, was surging into the citadel; and he was being carried with it. In front of St Sophia’s cathedral, the river of people split into two streams. One half turned off to the left towards a stout brick building near the cathedral where the strange prince with the caul over his eye was being held. The rest flowed across the narrow bridge towards the palace.

It was time to get back to his family. He must warn them of the danger. He tried to get ahead of the crowd as it surged across the narrow bridge into the old citadel, but soon realized that he was too late.

What had not occurred to him, however, was that he would be unable to get back in. But minutes later, as he found himself in the square before the tall, thick-walled block of the prince’s palace, he realized his predicament. On the left side there was a high wall; on the right, a broad flight of stone steps led to a large oak doorway that was barred. The line of windows here was twenty feet high, well out of reach. Before him, the brick palace consisted of a series of towers and slit windows, set irregularly and high above the crowd. The two doors at the base were locked and bolted. Even if he could work his way through the crowd, he was closed out.

The crowd was hurling abuse.

‘Traitors! Cowards! We’ll feed you to the Cumans!’

But the high, red wall of the palace seemed to stare back at them with blank indifference.

Minutes passed. Nearby, a bell began to ring, summoning monks to prayer. Ivanushka glanced across to his left where the golden domes of the old Church of the Tithes were gleaming. But the crowd paused in its shouting only for a moment.

It was then that Ivanushka saw, high above, in a small window of the palace, a large red face staring down at the crowd – a face he recognized at once as belonging to Izyaslav, the Prince of Kiev himself. The crowd caught sight of him too. There was a roar of rage, a surge forward. Then the face disappeared.

It suddenly occurred to Ivanushka that if the crowd realized who he was – the son of one of Izyaslav’s boyars – he might be in danger himself. I must get inside, he thought. There was only one other way in to the palace: through a courtyard that lay behind it. This would mean working his way round the complex of buildings, along a side street, and thence to the gate. He turned and began to push his way towards the back. But it was difficult. The thick crowd seemed to sway from side to side, almost knocking him off his feet each time he tried to press through and after several minutes he had only moved a few yards.

And he was still far from the exits to the square when a murmur began somewhere in the crowd that gathered into a general hubbub, and which finally turned into a roar. ‘They’ve gone! They’ve run away!’

He looked on in astonishment as a man, climbing on the backs of others, managed to reach one of the windows and then vanished from sight. Three minutes later one of the doors of the palace in front opened and the crowd, meeting no resistance, began to burst in.

The prince and the druzhina had left the palace. They must have escaped through the very courtyard where he had hoped to enter. He stared, momentarily numbed. In that case, his family must have gone too. And he had been left behind!

The crowd was surging forward now, into the empty building. Figures began to appear at the windows, high above. Suddenly he saw a golden flash. Someone had thrown a goblet down to a friend in the crowd; a moment later, a sable coat followed; and with a shock he realized they were looting the prince’s palace!

Ivanushka turned. He had no idea what to do, but he knew he must get out of the square. Perhaps he could find his people somewhere in the woods below. As the crowd pushed forward towards the palace, he managed to reach a small gateway to one side and find a way out. Moments later he was in a half-deserted street.

‘Ivan! Ivan Igorevich!’ He turned. It was one of his father’s grooms, running towards him. ‘Your father sent me to find you. Come.’

Ivanushka had never been more glad to see anyone. ‘Can we ride to join him?’ he cried hopefully.

‘Impossible. They’ve gone, all of them. And the roads are being sealed off.’

As if in confirmation, at that moment a party of men came running up the street. ‘The Prince of Polotsk is free!’ they cried. ‘He is coming!’ And, indeed, as Ivanushka gazed down the street, he saw a dozen mounted men cantering in their direction. In their midst, and quite unmistakable, was the terrible figure himself – the werewolf.

He was of above average build and he was riding a black horse. It was hard to tell what he was wearing for he was wrapped in a large brown cloak that looked none too clean. His face was large, rather broad at the cheekbones, and his whole bearing exuded a sense of power. But it was his eyes which riveted Ivanushka’s attention.

One was indeed hooded with a caul of skin; yet the effect was not monstrous, as Ivanushka had expected. The face did not look as if it had been twisted, or burnt; instead, one side had a strange stillness, a sort of blank detachment from the world such as one sometimes sees with the blind. But the other side of the face was alive, intelligent, ambitious, with a piercing blue eye that took in everything.

It was a fascinating face, half handsome, half tragic. And the good eye, he suddenly realized, was resting upon him.

‘Quickly, this way.’ The groom pulled him insistently to one side. ‘They mustn’t know who you are.’

Ivanushka let himself be dragged away. The half-blind prince and his escort clattered by. And as the werewolf passed, Ivanushka had a strange sense that the prince, like some creature with magic powers, had both noticed and identified him.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘You’ll see.’ And the groom led him hurriedly towards the podol.

The house of Zhydovyn the Khazar, though not as large as Igor’s, was a stout wooden affair on two storeys, with a steep wooden roof, two large rooms at the front and a courtyard behind. It stood just outside the Khazar Gate near the wall of Yaroslav’s citadel. ‘They will look after you here for a few days,’ the groom explained to him, ‘until it’s safe to smuggle you out of the city.’

Already bands of men were searching for the families of the druzhina who had fled.

‘What will they do if they find me?’ Ivanushka asked.

‘Lock you up.’

‘Nothing worse?’

The groom gave him a strange look. ‘Don’t ever go to prison,’ he said slowly. ‘Once you’re in prison…’ He made a gesture as if dropping a key. ‘But don’t worry now,’ he added more cheerfully. ‘Zhydovyn will take care of you.’ A moment later he was gone.

Ivanushka enjoyed being with the Khazar and his family. Zhydovyn’s wife was a dark, stout woman who seemed almost as massive as her husband. There were four children, younger than he, and Ivanushka spent much of his day playing with them indoors. ‘For it’s not safe for you to be seen outside yet,’ the Khazar warned him.

Sometimes Ivanushka would tell them a fairy story. And once, to the Khazar’s amusement, his children helped Ivanushka to read a story from the Old Testament in Hebrew: which he then pretended to translate, since he knew it by heart in Slavic.

It was on the third day that the crisis broke. It began early in the morning, when Zhydovyn came hurrying into the house and announced to the family: ‘The Prince of Kiev has gone to Poland. He’s asking the king for help.’

Ivanushka looked up in surprise. ‘Does that mean my father has gone to Poland too?’

‘I assume he has.’

Ivanushka was silent. Poland lay far to the west. Was his family really to pass away into those distant lands? Suddenly he felt very deserted.

‘Do you think the Poles will invade?’ Zhydovyn’s wife asked anxiously.

‘Probably.’ The Khazar grimaced. ‘The Polish king and Izyaslav are cousins, you know.’ Then his eyes travelled back to Ivanushka. ‘There’s another problem as well.’ He paused. ‘There’s a rumour that someone in the Khazar quarter is hiding a child of one of the druzhina. And in case things get rough with Izyaslav and the Poles,’ he hesitated momentarily, ‘they’re looking for hostages. They’re searching the citadel now.’

The room seemed to have become very quiet. Ivanushka felt their eyes upon him. Clearly his presence there was becoming increasingly inconvenient to them. He started to grow pale, with an awkward embarrassment, and glancing up at the expressive face of Zhydovyn’s wife, he saw at once that if he were a threat to her comfortable existence, she would as soon be rid of him.

Yet it was she who, after a pause, remarked slowly: ‘He doesn’t look like a Khazar. But perhaps we can do something.’ Then she gazed at Ivanushka, and laughed softly.

So it was that, later that day, a new figure appeared in the household of the Khazar.

His hair, carefully dyed, was black. Juices had somewhat darkened his skin. He wore a black kaftan and a little Turkish skull cap. He even, with more coaching from Zhydovyn and his wife, mumbled a few words of Turkish.

‘He is your cousin David from Tmutarakan,’ her mother told the other children.

And the next day, it was this quiet, studious figure whom the werewolf prince’s guards saw sitting with the children when they entered the house and confronted the Khazar’s wife.

‘They say one of the Igorevichi remains in Kiev,’ they announced, ‘and your husband has dealings with Igor.’

‘My husband has dealings with many people.’

‘We shall search the house,’ the decurion leading the little troop said abruptly.

‘Please do.’

While they did so, the decurion remained in the room with her. ‘Who is that?’ he suddenly demanded, pointing at Ivanushka.

‘A young cousin from Tmutarakan,’ she replied coolly.

He stared at the Khazar boy.

‘David, come here,’ she ordered in Turkish.

But as Ivanushka rose, the decurion turned away impatiently. ‘Never mind,’ he snapped. A few moments later they were gone.

And so, in the year 1068, Ivanushka waited to face an uncertain world.

1071

It was spring and in the little village of Russka all was quiet.

The Rus river had overflowed its banks so that below the settlement it was impossible at present to say what was marsh and what field.

On the eastern bank, the village consisted of two short, muddy streets with a third, longer one running at right angles across them. The huts were made of various combinations of wood, clay and wattle. Some of them had roofs of turf, some of thatch. Around this cluster of huts was a wooden palisade, but one that seemed designed more to keep in animals than repel any serious invader. On the north side of the village stood a small orchard of cherry and apple trees.

Just below the village, on a piece of land where the floodwater was shallow, small stakes stuck out of the water. This was the area where vegetables were grown, richly flooded each spring.

Cabbages, peas, onions and turnips would all appear here in due course. Garlic too was grown and later in the year, pumpkins.

On the western, forest side of the river, however, where the banks were higher, a new feature had appeared. Here, where the bank rose to its highest point of some thirty feet above the river, it had been further heightened by a rampart, with a stout wall of oak on top. This fortification, enclosing nearly two acres, had been constructed some fifty years before. It contained, besides some long, low quarters for troops, and stables, two large storehouses for the use of merchants, and a small wooden church. This was the fort. It belonged, as did most of that land, to the Prince of Pereiaslav.

There was one other feature of the village. About fifty yards from the entrance, on a pleasant spot overlooking the river, was the graveyard, where the ashes of the dead were laid in the ground. Beside this spot stood two stone pillars, each about seven feet high and carved so that each appeared to be wearing a tall, rounded hat with a big fur brim. These were the chief gods of the village: Volos god of wealth, and Perun the thunder god. For despite the attempts of the prince’s priests, out in the countryside many a village like Russka still quietly continued the old pagan ways. Even the village elder had two wives.

And it was by the cemetery, this clear spring afternoon, that a single figure was moodily walking.

Someone who had not seen him in the last three years would not have recognized Ivanushka. He had become as tall as his brother Sviatopolk, but in the process he had also become thin and pale. There were dark rings around his eyes and he seemed gaunt and haggard.

But there was something else, even more striking than these physical changes. About his whole person now there was an aura. The way his head hung, his downcast eyes, the careless walk he affected, all seemed to say: ‘I do not care what you think; I defy you all.’ And yet at the same time, this silent voice added: ‘But even my defiance will fail.’

In the last three years, nothing had gone right.

At first one important event seemed to give him hope. After waiting nearly a month in Kiev before being spirited away by Zhydovyn to join his family in Poland, he had discovered that his father, disgusted by the cowardice and treachery of the Prince of Kiev, had exercised his right to change masters and transferred to the druzhina of his younger brother Vsevolod, who ruled the southern frontier city of Pereiaslav.

This did indeed seem a stroke of fortune. Not only was Vsevolod known as the best and wisest of the ruling brothers, but by his Greek wife he was the father of the brilliant young Vladimir to whom Ivanushka had been promised. Surely now that Igor served his father, Vladimir would send for him.

Yet no word had come. Even Igor was surprised. ‘But I’ve joined Vsevolod’s service too recently to demand it,’ he admitted to Ivanushka sadly. Sviatopolk served with his father. Boris went to the court at Smolensk. Yet though his father tried to find him a place at Chernigov, Smolensk and even distant Novgorod, nobody seemed to want Ivanushka.

He thought he knew the reason. ‘It is Sviatopolk,’ he sighed.

Wherever he went, people treated him with a distant kindness that told him they thought he was a simpleton. He could almost hear them thinking: Ivanushka’s a fool. Once he had even confronted Sviatopolk and demanded: ‘Why have you ruined my reputation?’

But Sviatopolk had only looked at him in mock amazement.

‘What reputation, Ivanushka? Surely nothing from my poor tongue, for or against you, would make any difference to the impression you produce yourself.’

As time went on, the expectation of his stupidity began to surround Ivanushka like a wall. He even began to say and do foolish things, as though hypnotized by people’s opinion. He felt trapped and the city of Pereiaslav with its stout earth ramparts became like a prison to him.

Indeed, he was only happy when he was out in the countryside.

It was a year after the move that Igor was put in charge of the defences along part of the south-eastern border. And it was at the centre of this area, now one of the prince’s estates, that the little fort of Russka lay.

It was an insignificant little place, of no interest to anyone – one of dozens of little frontier forts along the borderlands. Indeed, Igor would hardly have troubled to pay it more than a cursory visit if his friend Zhydovyn the Khazar had not reminded him that the warehouses there could serve as a useful depot for the caravans they still hoped to send to the east.

Ivanushka liked to visit this place. He would help the men repairing the fortress wall, or wander along through the woods, enjoying their peaceful quiet. And since Igor did not know what else to do with his youngest son, he would send him down there from time to time to help Zhydovyn receive shipments at the warehouse.

Which was the cause of his misery today. He had been in charge of receiving a consignment of furs that morning while the Khazar was away. He had heard the villagers and the men who brought the furs downriver laughing together; he had seen them look at him with amusement. And somehow, though he could never make out how it happened, two valuable barrels of beaver furs had gone missing. Now the Khazar was due back shortly, and he had no idea what to say.

It was just as he was gloomily pondering this matter that he saw the peasant.

Shchek was of medium height with a broad, stocky, square body upon which rested a round face with broad cheeks, soft brown eyes and a wavy aureole of black hair that stood up like a soft brush; he wore a linen shirt and trousers, with a leather belt outside the shirt, and bast shoes. There was something about his whole body, thickset and square though it was, that seemed to suggest a gentle, if possibly obstinate character. He was standing at the corner of the graveyard, and watching young Ivanushka carefully.

In Shchek’s mind was a very simple thought: They say this young man’s a fool. But I wonder if he has any money. For Shchek was about to be ruined.

Shchek the peasant was, like most of his kind, a free man. True, his status was humble. The very name of the class to which he belonged – the smerdy – meant ‘the dirty ones’! But he was free, in theory, to live where he wished and sell his labour to whom he chose. He was also free to incur debts.

He ran over them in his mind. The horse, first. That had not been his fault: the animal had gone lame and died. And since he was obliged to supply a horse to the prince for his soldiers in time of war, he had to buy another. But that had only been the start. He had gone drinking in Pereiaslav. Playing dice too. Then bought his wife a silver bracelet out of guilt; and obstinately borrowed again, and gambled again, to retrieve his money.

Now, as a member of the village commune, he owed the prince’s steward a tax on his plough, and he knew he could not pay it.

Thoughtfully, he moved towards the youth.

When Zhydovyn returned that evening and discovered the loss of the furs, he could only shake his head. He liked Ivanushka but it seemed to him that his prospects were poor. And though nothing was said, Ivanushka sensed that he was unlikely to be sent to Russka again.

Only one thing puzzled the Khazar. He could understand the theft of the furs, but how was it that the money Ivanushka had been left was short by two silver grivnas? The young man said he had lost them, but how the devil could he have done that? It was a mystery.

Ivanushka did not mind. He had known after the furs had gone that his own cause was lost. He had felt sorry for the peasant. At least the fellow could pay his taxes now.

And he scarcely thought about the incident again.

1072

Today, it was said, there would be a miracle. The people confidently expected it. And with good reason. For today they were honouring the remains of the two royal martyrs, the sons of the mighty St Vladimir, Boris and Gleb, whom the Slavs already called saints.

It was half a century since they had died; now their remains were being taken to their final resting place, a newly constructed wooden church at the little town of Vyshgorod, just north of Kiev.

Would there be a miracle? Surely there would. But what form would it take?

In the upper circles of the nobility and the church it was known that the Greek Metropolitan, George, had grave doubts about the martyrs’ sanctity. But what could one expect from a Greek? And besides, whether he believed it or not, he had had to perform the ceremony.

They were all there: the three sons of Yaroslav, grandsons of St Vladimir himself – Prince Izyaslav of Kiev and his brothers, the Princes of Chernigov and Pereiaslav; Metropolitan George; Bishops Peter and Michael; Theodosius of the Caves Monastery, and many more – all the greatest dignitaries in the land of Rus.

The procession wound its way up the hill. A light drizzle was falling, nestling softly on the heads of those who made their way slowly up the slippery path. Despite this fine rain, it was warm. It was May 20.

First came monks, shielding their candles. Immediately after them, dressed in plain brown cloaks, came the three sons of Yaroslav. Upon their shoulders, like humble men, they carried the wooden casket containing the remains of their Uncle Boris. After them came deacons, swinging censers, then priests, and behind them Metropolitan George himself and the bishops. Behind them, at a certain distance, followed a company of noble families.

‘They died rather than resist their brother. Now they shine like beacons over the land of Rus.’ ‘Boris, look down upon me, a sinner.’ ‘Lord have mercy.’ These and other pious remarks from the crowd reached the ears of the tall, gloomy-looking boy who walked up the slope beside the handsome family in the company of nobles behind the coffins. ‘Perhaps today we shall see a miracle.’ ‘God be praised.’

A miracle. Perhaps God would send a miracle, but not, Ivanushka felt sure, if he was there.

Nothing good happens when I’m around, he thought despondently, and his shoulders drooped as he trudged upwards.

In the last year, things had become even worse. A few weeks after the embarrassing incident at Russka, he had overheard a brief conversation between his parents.

‘There’s so much good in Ivanushka,’ his mother was pleading. ‘One day he’ll do something and you’ll be proud of him.’

‘No, he won’t,’ Igor’s voice had replied. ‘I’m certain now. I’ve given up.’ He heard his father sigh. ‘I can’t get anyone to take him. And I know why. I can’t trust him myself.’

He heard his mother murmur something then his father replied: ‘Yes, I love all my children. But it’s hard to love a child who always lets you down.’ Indeed, Ivanushka thought miserably, why should anyone love him?

He began asking for things – money from his mother, a horse from his father – to test their reaction and see if they loved him. But soon this too became a habit. He grew lazy, and did as little as possible for fear of failing yet again.

He often loitered in the market at Pereiaslav. It was a busy place; on any day one might see a shipment of oil or wine arrive from Constantinople, or a cargo of iron taken from the swamps near the river and bound for Kiev. There were workshops where they made glass, as fine as any in the land of Rus; there were stalls where merchants sold bronze clasps and jewellery; and there were the foodstalls.

But as he watched, Ivanushka gradually became aware of a secondary activity going on all around him. One stall holder always short-changed his customers; another sold short measure. A gang of boys roamed by the stalls and stole fish from the vendors or coins from their customers with absolute impartiality. He came to watch all these arts, to admire the neatness with which they were practised. And the thought arose in his mind: These people depend upon no one for their living; by taking, they are free – free as the horsemen on the steppe.

Once, he even stole some apples himself, to prove how easy it was. No one detected him.

Yet the emptiness of his life was still a misery to him. He still felt, inside himself, that same vague longing he had had as a child: the desire to find his destiny.

And so it was that at last, three weeks before the ceremony for Boris and Gleb, and having seen all other opportunities evaporate, he had finally told his parents: ‘I want to be a monk.’

After all, it was the only thing that anyone seemed to think that he could be.

And the effect had certainly been remarkable.

‘Are you sure?’ his father had asked him in a tone that suggested Igor was only anxious that he should not change his mind. Even his mother, whatever her private misgivings, did not object.

Indeed, it was as if he had been born again. By that very evening his father had formed a plan. ‘He can go to Mount Athos in Greece. I have friends both here and in Constantinople who can help him. From there,’ Igor smiled with satisfaction, ‘he might yet make a great career.’ And the next day his father took him to one side to assure him: ‘You need have no fear about your journey, Ivan. I shall see you are well provided for. And there will be a gift for the monastery too.’

Even Sviatopolk, no doubt glad to see the last of him, came up and said, in what appeared to be a friendly voice: ‘Well, brother, you’ve probably chosen the right course after all. One day we’ll all be proud of you.’

They were proud of him. And now, in two more days, he was due to leave. Why then, as he walked up the hill behind the two saints, did he look as miserable as ever?

Only once, passing a guelder rose, did he seem for a moment to smile.

Would there be a miracle?

Ivanushka had never seen one. If God sent a miracle, then perhaps his faith would be restored.

I am going to bury myself in a monastery, he thought gloomily. Perhaps, in a few years, they will make me live underground in a cave. I shall certainly die young – all the monks do.

Would it be worth it? If only God would speak to him, reassure him, lighten his spirits. If only He would send a sign.

The procession had stopped. The coffin containing Boris was being carried into the little wooden church. When it had been placed there and prayed over, they would bring up the second coffin, containing Gleb. The drizzle fell. One could hear a muffled chanting within.

And then something happened.

It was as though the gasp from within the little church could be heard by all the waiting crowds outside. The singing, which had been proceeding quietly, suddenly broke off, and then began again with an altogether new force. A murmur went through the crowd. And Ivanushka, glancing at the sky, saw to his surprise that the drizzle had abruptly stopped and the sun was shining through.

What had happened? Long moments passed. The crowd waited tensely.

And then the tall figure of the Metropolitan appeared at the church door. He looked up at the clear sky, then sank to his knees. From where Ivanushka stood, he could see that the Greek was weeping. ‘A miracle has been granted,’ the Metropolitan’s voice rang out. ‘Give praise unto the Lord!’ And while the crowd buzzed and people crossed themselves, those near the church door could hear him add: ‘God forgive my unbelief.’

For when they had opened the casket, it had given out the sweet aroma that God grants only to His saints.

A few minutes later, they brought up the remains of Gleb. These were in a stone sarcophagus; and since it was too heavy to carry, they followed the ancient custom of the land of Rus and pulled it on a sled.

And yet again, before Ivanushka’s eyes, God sent a sign. For when the men pulling the sled reached the church door, the sled stuck fast. They pulled, people from the crowd even came to push. But the sarcophagus would not budge.

Then the Metropolitan gave instructions: ‘Let the people cry the Kyrie Eleison.’ And Ivanushka with all the crowd cried out: ‘Lord have mercy.’ And again: ‘Lord have mercy.’ And then the sled was easily moved.

Ivanushka felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. As the sled moved, he found he was trembling. He glanced across and saw that even Sviatopolk was trembling too.

For by these signs, recorded in the Russian chronicles, the people of the land of Rus would ever after know that Boris and Gleb were truly saints.

It was just at this moment that Ivanushka saw Father Luke.

The old monk had been inside the church but had emerged for a moment into the open air. Ivanushka recognized him at once, yet could scarcely believe it was he.

For in the years since he had visited him at the Monastery of the Caves, his father’s spiritual guide had passed into utter decrepitude. He seemed to have shrunk. One leg now dragged uselessly behind him as he pulled himself slowly forward with the aid of a stick. And his eyes, which before had been rheumy, now stared helplessly before him, sightless. He was like a small, brown insect, crawling out blindly into the light where someone, no doubt, would step on him.

He glanced towards the family, and Igor respectfully bowed. But Father Luke saw nothing. Ivanushka stared at him. And the euphoria of the miracle suddenly evaporated.

This, he remembered with terror, is what it means to be a monk.

It seemed to Ivanushka, though he could not be sure, that he was in the woods near the village of Russka.

At least, when he remembered the dream afterwards, this was where it had seemed to be.

It was late afternoon. The shadows were lengthening, but there was still a brightness in the sky which told him it was summer. He was riding along a path – he thought it led to the east, though he could not be certain. The trees, mostly oak and birch, seemed to be speaking to each other as he rode past them in the dappled light. His horse was black.

He was searching for something. But he did not know what.

It was not long before he passed a pool on his right. Turning to look at it, he noticed the pale glint on its smooth surface; and at the same time thought he heard a faint cry from the water – was it a moan or a laugh? Realizing that it was the rusalka of the place, he put spurs to his horse and hurried on. The woods grew darker.

It was morning next, and he was still in the wood. His horse, for some reason, had now changed its colour to grey. The path led to a glade, where there was a stand of silver birches; and at the far end of the glade was a crossroads. Standing by the crossroads, he saw, was a small brown figure which somehow looked familiar. He approached slowly.

It was Father Luke. His eyes were quite bright now. It was evident that he could see. Ivanushka bowed to him respectfully. ‘Which way should I travel, Father?’ he asked.

‘There are three ways to choose between,’ the old man said quietly. ‘If you go to the left, you will preserve your body but lose your soul.’

‘And to the right?’

‘You will keep your soul, but lose your body.’

Ivanushka thought. Neither sounded attractive to him.

‘And straight ahead?’

‘Only fools go that way,’ the monk replied.

It was hardly more encouraging, but as he considered, it seemed to him the only choice. ‘They call me Ivanushka the fool,’ he said. ‘So I may as well go there.’

‘As you wish,’ Father Luke answered, and then vanished.

And so Ivanushka rode forward, he knew not whither. It seemed to him that he heard a raucous clanging in the sky; and his horse, for no reason, had turned from a grey into a roan.

This was Ivanushka’s dream, the night before his journey.

It was still morning as the two boats, one laden with goods, the other carrying only a few travellers, glided silently down the huge, pale, moving surface of the river. Above was a washed blue sky; on the right, high, sandy banks above which, here and there, cattle grazed. In the yellow banks nearest to them, Ivanushka could see a mass of little holes around which small birds were darting. Far away, on the left bank, stretched a light green plain dotted with trees.

He was well provided for. The bag of silver grivnas his father had given him was safely attached to his belt. ‘By turning monk, you’ve got your inheritance long before me,’ Sviatopolk had remarked drily as he set off.

And now the great River Dniepr was carrying him southwards towards his destiny.

They had travelled all morning, and Ivanushka was just about to close his eyes for the midday nap when he was startled from his drowsiness by a loud cry from the boat in front. ‘Cumans!’ The passengers strained forward in astonishment, but there was no doubt: the dark Turkish faces in the long boat pushing out from the shore on their right were certainly Cumans. The travellers had reason to be surprised. It had been thought that the Cumans were resting in their camps at this time, far away on the steppe. And besides, it was almost unheard of for them to attack by water. They usually preferred to wait far to the south, where there were rapids, and attack the caravans as they were carried round them overland.

‘They’ve forced some Slavs to row them out,’ someone muttered, and Ivanushka saw that the oarsmen were indeed some unhappy Slav peasants. As he watched, one of the Cumans took a long, curved bow; an arrow flashed over the water, and one of the men in the cargo boat slumped over the side. ‘Behind you!’ came a shout across the water. And he turned and saw another boat cutting them off upstream.

‘There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to make for the left bank,’ the skipper of the little vessel cried.

Yet it was far away. To Ivanushka at that moment, staring across the soft blue waters, it seemed to be almost on the horizon. Grunting with the effort, the oarsmen pulled, and the boat slipped quickly across the flow.

Turning round, Ivanushka saw that the boat with the cargo was already lost. He wondered if the Cumans would be satisfied with that. Moments later, however, he saw that the other Cuman boat was pulling after them.

‘There’s a little stream that joins the river over there,’ the skipper called out. ‘There’s a fort a few miles up it. We’ll make for that.’ And Ivanushka found himself mumbling a prayer. For he knew the fort in question very well.

It was strange to be back at Russka. Zhydovyn was not there, but half a dozen soldiers made them welcome. The Cumans had given up soon after they had left the Dniepr; but the travellers had decided to wait two days in the fort before tempting fate again.

He had trailed about the fort, visited the village and wandered along the quiet paths in the woods, feeling strangely contented. He had even walked out to the edge of the steppe, and gazed out across the feather grasses to where an ancient kurgan could still be seen.

On the third day, the travellers set off again.

But Ivanushka did not go with them.

He hardly knew why. He told himself that providence had granted him a respite. I can pause here, take stock of life, and prepare myself for my journey, he reasoned. The fact that all his decisions had been taken and that he was already on his journey, he somehow put to the back of his mind. All that third day, he walked about by the river.

On the fourth day, he was overcome with a feeling of lassitude, and he slept.

It was on the next day that he met the peasant Shchek. The fellow was thinner than before, but he greeted Ivanushka warmly. When Ivanushka asked him if he had paid his debts now, he grinned sheepishly.

‘Yes and no,’ he replied. ‘I’m a zakup.’

This was a harsh institution. A man who could not pay his creditors had to work for them, virtually as a slave, until the debt was paid off. Since the debt continued to accrue interest during this period, however, these unfortunates seldom managed to get free again. ‘I got the prince’s steward to take over all my debts,’ he explained, ‘so now I work for the prince.’

‘And when will you get free again?’ Ivanushka asked.

Shchek smiled ruefully. ‘In thirty years,’ he said. ‘And what are you doing, young lord?’ he inquired.

Ivanushka explained that he was going on a great journey to Constantinople and to Greece, to become a monk. Shchek listened carefully, then nodded in understanding.

‘So you’ll never be free either,’ he remarked. ‘Just like me.’

Ivanushka gazed at the peasant. The similarity between them had not occurred to him. But I suppose he’s right, he thought. I’m a prisoner of fate too. And reaching into his pouch, he gave Shchek a silver grivna. Then he passed on. He wondered if he should have given him more. But I need my money, he considered, for my journey.

The day afterwards he left Russka on foot, going towards the River Dniepr.

It was after parting from Ivanushka that Shchek the peasant had wandered out from the village towards the steppe.

Though the little fort had somewhat increased the significance of the hamlet of Russka since ancient times, it was still a tiny and deserted place. To the south, two miles away, lay one of the prince’s estates; to the east, the steppe; and to the north, nothing at all for fifteen miles, where there was another similar hamlet and a fort.

As he walked, Shchek was rather cheerful. Since he had become a zakup, his life had not been easy. The prince’s steward worked him hard. His wife, ashamed of his status, had become sullen. But this unexpected gift from the young noble was a great windfall. A silver grivna was worth about three months’ wages to a peasant like Shchek.

He took the path through the woods and continued along it to the glades where the women picked mushrooms. He pressed on, past the pool where, the villagers said, rusalki dwelt. It was a little way past the pool that he came to a crossroads. The right-hand track, he knew, led south to the prince’s estate. The left-hand track led northwards; but since it passed through a place where one of the villagers had been killed by a boar, few people took that route, thinking it unlucky.

On impulse, however, the peasant decided to do so. That Ivanushka brought me luck, he considered. I’ve nothing to fear today.

Some way to the north of Russka, the river made a large curve round a low and densely wooded hill. It was here that the villager had been killed. Thick undergrowth had formed round the base of the hill, much of it bramble and thorn. It was not an inviting spot, and he would not have paused had he not suddenly seen, a hundred yards ahead of him, a large fox slipping silently into the undergrowth.

I wonder if he has a lair in there, Shchek thought. Fox fur was valuable. As quietly as he could, and suffering a number of scratches, he made his way through the undergrowth and began to climb the hill. And a few minutes later, having almost forgotten the fox, he was grinning with delight and astonishment.

For the hill, so densely covered with oak and pine, and which no one ever visited, was a treasure house. It was crowded with beehives. He could smell the rich, thick smell of honey up in the trees everywhere. As he wandered around, he counted no less than twenty hives up in the branches; until finally he laughed aloud. ‘That Ivanushka has brought me more luck than he knew,’ he cried.

He did not plan to tell anyone about it. For already he could see how to make use of it. I might even be able to get free one day, he mused.

1075

In the year 1075, few men in the land of Rus were considered as lucky as Igor the boyar.

His master, Prince Vsevolod of Pereiaslav, showered gifts upon him. No one was held in more honour in that prince’s druzhina.

The greatest nobles, now, had a new status: instead of the old blood-money of forty grivnas, their lives had been set at eighty. Even to insult them carried a fine of four times the value of a smerd.

Igor had been granted this high status. More than that, so impressed was the Prince of Pereiaslav with his loyal servant, that the previous year, he had given Igor the lordship of extensive lands on the south-east border of the principality, including the little hamlet of Russka.

These outright gifts of land were a new method of rewarding faithful retainers. Cheaper than gifts of money, in a state where land was plentiful, these land grants began the process whereby the term ‘boyar’, which originally meant a retainer or nobleman of the druzhina, came to signify ‘landowner’.

Igor the boyar had reason to be happy. Yet behind his aloof and busy manner, there was a sadness. Seeing Igor and his greying wife together, a stranger might have thought that they shared a love of quietness. Yet in fact, they were quiet because each was afraid that almost anything either of them said might bring to the surface the sadness concealed in the other.

Boris was dead. He had been killed in a skirmish at the edge of the steppe one winter day. As was the custom, they had brought his body back on a sled.

Igor would never forget that day. It was snowing, and as they pulled the sled up the slope to the city gates, the snow flurries had slapped, softly, across his face so that at times he could scarcely see the sled. He had prayed in front of the icon for long hours at that period, and sought the comfort of Father Luke.

But the loss of Boris was a wound that could heal.

Not so the loss of Ivanushka.

Where was he? A month after he had left for Constantinople, they had heard from Zhydovyn the Khazar that he had been seen at Russka. But where had he gone after that? Word came from the Russian merchants in Constantinople: he had never arrived there. A year of silence followed; then a rumour that he had been seen in Kiev; vague reports came also from Smolensk, Chernigov, even distant Novgorod. He had been seen gambling; he had been seen drinking; he had been seen begging. There were few reports, however, and none of them very reliable.

And from Ivanushka, for three years, came not a word to his parents to let them know if he was alive or dead.

‘He is searching for something,’ his mother said, after the sighting in Kiev had been reported.

‘He is ashamed,’ Igor concluded sadly.

‘Yet even so,’ Sviatopolk remarked, ‘he cannot love any of us, to behave like this.’

And as the third year passed, and no word came, even his mother began to believe Ivanushka did not love her.

The jetty was crowded. Above, a long path of dry earth made an untidy diagonal gash across the tall ramparts of Pereiaslav. In the faint sun, the ramparts, where they were not dirty brown, had a pale green covering of tired autumnal grass. The summer had passed. There was an air of lassitude about the place. The broad river, too, looked brown and dreary, stretching away like a monotonous echo under an iron sky. At the end of the jetty, a stout boat was about to cast off – an event which would have attracted no special attention but for a little incident concerning a young man.

He was a strange figure. His whole person appeared to be filthy. The brown cloak wrapped round him and the peasant’s bast shoes he wore had almost disintegrated.

He was sitting with an air of sullen helplessness on a small barrel by the end of the jetty, while the master of a stout boat was yelling at him.

‘Well, are you coming or not?’

It seemed he nodded.

‘Devil take it! Then get in, man!’

Again the young fellow assented. But he did not move.

‘I’m casting off, you fool,’ the master shouted in an access of fury. ‘Do you want to see Tzargrad or rot in Pereiaslav?’

When there was still no movement: ‘You promised me the fare. I could have had another passenger. Give me my money!’

For a second, it really seemed the passenger would rise; but he did not. With a curse the older man gave the order, and the stout boat with its single mast and bank of oarsmen pulled out into the broad, sluggish river and headed south.

And still Ivanushka did not move.

How long he had wandered. In the first year, several times, he had started to go south. At least, he had found merchants who were prepared to take him, and got as far as inspecting their boats. But each time, some invisible force had pulled him back. Just as surface tension holds a light object one pulls from the water, so a subterranean force seemed to make it impossible for Ivanushka to break free from his native soil and set out upon the great river that would carry him towards the religious life. It was almost, sometimes, like a physical force, a huge weight of inertia dragging at his back.

As his money had been eaten into, he had started to gamble.

If I win, he reasoned, it means that God wants me to go to the monastery. But if I lose all my journey money, then obviously He doesn’t. It seemed a good argument, and he did not have to gamble long before he lost.

It was not that Ivanushka consciously turned away from God, but rather that he hoped, by these devious means, to slide towards Him comfortably. As time went on, however, he had sunk into lethargy, punctuated by increasingly frequent bouts of drinking. He wandered from city to city, unable to go south or to return home. In the second year he began to steal.

They were only small amounts; and strangely enough, he even persuaded himself that he was not really stealing. After all, he told himself, if I take from the rich man, what does it matter? And besides, did not Our Lord Himself let His disciples pick the ears of corn in the fields? Often, before stealing, he would work himself up into a kind of angry scorn. He would tell himself that he was a man close to God while those from whom he stole were contemptible, lovers of money who should be punished. And after stealing, and buying food and drink, he would wander through the countryside for days with that slight elation from a half-empty stomach that he took to be a state of grace.

The winters were very hard. Even stealing had not helped him: one could not live in the open. He had travelled from church to monastery as an izgoi, picking up what charity he could. Several times he had nearly frozen.

Once, he had seen his father. He had been wandering through the woods near Chernigov one spring day, when suddenly he heard the sound of approaching hoofs, and a cavalcade had swept into sight.

He had hidden behind an oak tree as they had come by, a big party of noblemen with their retainers. He had seen young Prince Vladimir amongst them, and almost beside him his father and brother Sviatopolk. Igor was carrying a hawk on his wrist. He wore a hat made of sable, and was listening with a cool sardonic expression while the young prince, laughing, told him some story.

And to his astonishment, Ivanushka had been afraid, as terrified as any peasant might have been. Yet more than that: ashamed. Dear God, he prayed, do not let them see me. For was not he, the failure, now an outcast from this glittering world, with his gnawing hunger and his filthy rags to prove it? The thought of their embarrassment, of their disgust, were they to recognize him, was more than he could face. How tall, how hard, and how terrifyingly magnificent they looked. That world is closed to me now, he thought.

Yet he could not take his eyes from them.

It was as they had almost passed that he saw something else that made him gasp aloud. For riding together at the rear of this hunting party were two young women: one a young lady, the other little more than a girl.

They were sumptuously dressed. They rode well, with gracious ease. And both were fair-haired and blue-eyed – fairer than any women he had ever seen before. And it suddenly seemed to him, as he crouched behind his tree, that he had seen a vision not of the royal court, but of heaven itself. They are like two angels, he murmured, and wondered where they could possibly have come from.

Moments later the vision faded and the sounds died away. But the memory of the two girls remained with him, hauntingly, to remind him as the months passed: You are just an animal of the forest now.

It was that spring, when by chance he found himself near Russka, that Ivanushka had finally made one last attempt to recover himself. I can’t go on like this, he had decided. I can either end it all, or go to the monastery. The thought of death frightened him. And no monastic rule, he considered, could be worse than this life I lead.

Only one problem remained. He no longer had any money.

It had been a warm spring morning when Zhydovyn had glanced out from the warehouse in Russka to see, loitering opposite, the shabby figure of the wanderer. Russka was very quiet that day. The little fort, unguarded at present, was almost empty.

The Khazar had recognized him almost at once, but being a cautious man, he gave no sign; it was midday before the wanderer ambled, a little stiffly, towards him.

‘You know who I am?’

The voice was quiet, yet there seemed to be a hint of abruptness, even scorn, in it.

‘Yes, Ivan Igorevich.’

The Khazar did not move or make any gesture at all. Ivanushka nodded slowly, as if considering something far away.

‘You were good to me once.’

Zhydovyn did not reply.

‘Could I have some food?’

‘Of course.’ Zhydovyn smiled. ‘Come inside.’ He wondered how he could keep the young man there. If he tried to seize Ivanushka himself, he wasn’t sure of holding him; but by mid-afternoon, two of his men were due back at the warehouse. With their help he could secure the youth, then ship him back to his parents in Pereiaslav. Leaving Ivanushka in the warehouse, he went into the yard behind where his quarters were and a few minutes later returned with a bowl of kvass and a wooden plate of millet cakes.

But Ivanushka had disappeared.

It was foolish of the Khazar not to remember that Ivanushka knew where he hid his money. There had not been a great amount, but enough to get him downriver and even to Constantinople. At least I shall see the place, Ivanushka thought.

He was sorry to steal from the Khazar, even in a good cause. Yet it isn’t really stealing, he told himself, because he can just recover the money from my father. I dare say Father would even be glad to know that I’ve finally gone. For as he made his way through the woods, Ivanushka had no doubt that it was to the monasteries of the Greeks that he was at last going.

As for Zhydovyn, he had cursed himself for his stupidity then wondered what to tell Ivanushka’s parents. After thinking it over for a long time, he had decided to tell them nothing. For what could he have said, that would not give them pain?

And now, sitting alone on the jetty, Ivanushka stared blankly at the water. He knew the boat had been his last chance of reaching the imperial city before winter set in.

He had wanted to go. At least, he had thought he had. But during the summer, something new and terrible had occurred within him: he had lost his will.

Often, recently, he had found that he could do nothing except sit, helplessly, staring in front of him for hours on end. And when he did move from place to place, he was like a man in a dream.

The money he had stolen was more than half spent. Indeed, this morning he had found he had only eight silver grivnas left – just enough for his journey. And he had dragged himself to the jetty today, fully intending with the last of this money to get on the ship. But, to his own despair, he had found he could not move.

And now it is over, he thought. There was, it seemed to him, no other course left open to him in his abject failure. I shall walk along the river, and end it all, he decided.

It was just then that he became aware of a noise behind him from a row of slaves sitting on the ground, waiting to be led to the market place for sale. He looked up without interest. One of them seemed to be excited about something. He shrugged and stared at the water again.

‘Ivan. Ivan Igorevich!’

He turned.

Shchek had been staring at him for some time. Now he was sure. He was so excited he even forgot that his hands were tied. It was the boyar’s son. The one they called the fool.

‘Ivan Igorevich,’ he cried again. And now, it seemed, the strange young man had vaguely recognized him.

Shchek’s position was grim. He was about to be sold. Worse yet, one of the other prisoners had just whispered the awful news: ‘The merchants are looking for men to row the boats.’ They all knew what that meant: backbreaking work on the river; carrying the boats past the rapids; perhaps even a dangerous sea journey. And like as not they might be sold again as slaves in the markets of the Greeks. Anything could happen to a slave.

One thing was sure: he would never see Russka again.

Under Russian law, Shchek should not have been there. A zakup working off his debt could not be sold like an ordinary slave. But the rules were often broken, and the authorities had long since turned a blind eye.

In his own case, he should have seen it coming. For two months now, it had been clear that the elder at the prince’s nearby village had taken a liking to Shchek’s wife, and she to him. Yet the treachery had been done so suddenly that it had caught him offguard.

Just a week ago, early in the morning, the elder had appeared with some merchants and literally dragged him from his bed. ‘Here’s a zakup,’ the elder had told them roughly. ‘You can have him.’ And before he could do anything about it, Shchek had found himself skimming down the river towards Pereiaslav. There was nothing he could do: five of the other slaves on the jetty were debtors like himself.

And yet – here was the irony – given time he could have paid off the debt and been free again. Even in a mere ten years.

It was the honey from the beehives in the forest that was his secret. Ever since his discovery of this hidden treasure, he had been discreetly making use of it – selling a honeycomb or two to any passing merchant, or even taking some into Pereiaslav. He had to be very careful, for he had no right to those trees. But by selling a little at a time he had already been able to put by the sum of two silver grivnas.

He had even made more hollows for the bees. The hidden wood had become a treasure house; and although he could not profit directly from this extra labour, his secret seemed to give him a purpose in life. It became almost an obsession. He felt himself to be the guardian of the place. And he had kept his secret well. From time to time he had fostered rumours: that he had seen a witch along the path that led there, or snakes. The reputation of the wood remained evil and no one went there.

So it was with irony that he had been brooding: I lived beside great riches. Yet they lie useless and I am poor. He supposed it must be fate.

And now here was that curious young nobleman, walking slowly towards him. ‘I am Shchek,’ he cried. ‘Remember me?’

How poor Ivanushka looked, and how sickly. Despite his own miserable condition, the peasant felt sorry for him. And for want of anything better to do, while the strange young man stood vacantly in front of him, Shchek told him his story.

When he had finished, Ivanushka stared at the ground for a moment. ‘How strange,’ he murmured. ‘I too have nothing.’

‘Well, good luck to you anyway,’ Shchek said with a grin. For some reason he felt affectionate towards this nobleman in tatters. ‘Remember Shchek in your prayers.’

‘Ah, my prayers.’ The young fellow seemed lost in thought.

‘Tell me again,’ he said at last, ‘how much you owe.’

‘Today, I owe the prince seven silver grivnas.’

‘And that would make you free?’

‘Of course.’

Slowly Ivanushka removed the leather bag that hung from his belt, and attached it to Shchek’s.

‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It’s eight grivnas. And I have no use for it.’

And before the astonished peasant could say a word, he moved away. After all, Ivanushka thought, this peasant may as well have it, since I am about to depart this world.

The decurion in charge of the slaves was not a bad fellow, and when he returned a few moments later from the booth where he was drinking, he was genuinely delighted by Shchek’s good fortune. He knew Shchek was a zakup and had felt sorry for the man’s bad luck.

‘The Mother of God herself must be watching over you,’ he cried, as he cut Shchek’s bonds and embraced him warmly. ‘What devil’s luck you have, my boy,’ he added. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. We’ll have to tell the prince’s steward in the market.’ He glanced up. ‘And here he comes.’

Shchek had never seen the tall, dark young nobleman who now stalked down on to the jetty; but he noticed that he looked irritable. When the decurion told this nobleman the story, he only glowered at the peasant, then turned coldly to the decurion.

‘Obviously, he stole this money,’ he snapped.

‘The other slaves saw it,’ the decurion suggested.

The noble looked at the slaves with disgust. ‘Their word is worthless.’

‘How could I steal, lord, with my hands tied?’ Shchek asked. The noble glared at him. It was all one to him whether this indebted peasant lived or died, but he had just informed a merchant that there were twenty slaves for sale, and this would leave him one short. He did not like to be inconvenienced.

‘The fellow who you say gave you this money – where is he?’

Shchek looked around. Ivanushka had vanished.

‘Take his purse,’ the noble ordered the decurion. But before he could do so, there was a cry.

‘Look!’ It was one of the slaves. He was pointing excitedly to the river bank below the city. About a quarter of a mile away, a single figure had just emerged from a clump of trees.

‘That’s him.’

‘Fetch him,’ the noble ordered.

And so a few minutes later, to his utter astonishment, Sviatopolk found himself staring at his brother Ivanushka; while Ivanushka, his eyes glazed and his mind apparently far away, looked back at him dully and said not a word.

‘Let the peasant go, he has paid his debt,’ Sviatopolk said calmly. ‘As for this vagrant,’ he gestured to Ivanushka, ‘throw him in prison.’

His mind was working quickly.

The candles were lit. The icon in the corner glowed softly as the Mother of God gazed out from her golden world into the dark spaces of the large room. On the table, the remains of the meal were being cleared away by the slaves.

Igor was sitting in a heavy oak chair. His long head, all grey now, was inclined forward, his chin resting upon his chest. His eyes were open, watchful, his face still but grim. His wife sat on a chair beside him. One might have guessed that, an hour or two before, she had been weeping; but now her face was pale, drawn, and upon her husband’s orders, impassive.

Sviatopolk was scowling with barely contained fury.

What unlucky curse, he wondered, had caused his father to walk out to the city wall just as they were leading the silent Ivanushka to the little jail where he would have been out of the way? He would have been drowned by now, Sviatopolk thought. For his intention – not knowing that Ivanushka was going to drown himself anyway – had been to take him down to the river that night and hold him under himself. Better for him. Better even for my parents, he had told himself. They’ll find the body, suppose he took his life, and end all this agony over a useless son. Besides, the fool would only ask for money.

But fate had intervened. True, his father had been grim-faced about it from the moment he had encountered him. He had marched his youngest son back to their house almost like a prisoner. And now, over the evening meal, the young man had been forced to explain himself.

It had scarcely been necessary for Sviatopolk to accuse him. He had, in his stumbling way, accused himself. Indeed, Sviatopolk had thought it wisest to say nothing against him but to suggest: ‘My brother has lost his way. I think he has almost lost his soul. Perhaps he may regain it as a monk.’ Monks usually died young.

Igor had put the questions, while his wife watched in silence.

Once, Sviatopolk had murmured: ‘Can such a son love his family?’ But the rest of the interrogation had gone on without his aid. And now, at last, the stern nobleman summed up.

‘You have lied to me, and to us all. You have thrown away your inheritance, which I gave you. You have even stolen. By no word did you tell us whether you were alive or dead, breaking your mother’s heart. And now, having stolen yet again, you give the money to a stranger and try to depart from the very place where your parents are living.’

It seemed to Sviatopolk that no indictment could be more complete. He watched, contented, while no one spoke.

Then Igor forgave his son.

The great Russian winter, terrible in its mighty cold, is also a time of joy. For Ivanushka, it was a time of healing.

At first, during the autumn months after his homecoming, his body and spirit seemed to collapse. The end of his long ordeal, as so often happens, caused a surrender in his system. He fell prey to a cold that soon turned into an illness that made his throat swell up, his limbs ache and his head throb so violently that he blinked with the pain. ‘It feels like an anvil,’ he muttered, ‘upon which two demons are hammering.’

It was his mother who saved him. Perhaps because only she understood. For when his father had wanted to send for one of the Armenian or Syrian doctors of the prince’s court, men skilled in the medicine of the classical world, Olga had refused. ‘We have folk remedies better than the medicine of the Greeks and Romans,’ she said firmly. ‘But send to the monastery if you wish, and ask the monks for their prayers.’ Then she had locked the door of the room where her son lay, and allowed no one else in.

While he tossed and turned, she would remain in the room, a gentle, quiet presence, bathing his brow from time to time, saying little. Sitting by the window she seemed quite contented to stare out at the sky, or read her book of Psalms, or half doze while he lay still. She would speak if he wanted to talk, but she never addressed him, or even looked at him. She was there, yet not there, calm and unmoving.

Outside, the rains of autumn fell, the countryside became a morass of rich, black mud, and all nature seemed like a wet and wilted bird. The skies were grey and heavy, the horizon blank. Somewhere, behind the long grey-black skyline, a huge, white cold was preparing to advance from the east.

Then came the snow. The first day it came over the steppe, in an endless orange glow, and fell upon the damp streets in soft grey flurries. As Ivanushka stared past his mother’s quiet, pale face, he had the impression that outside, nature was closing a door, shutting out the light from the sky. But alone in his room with her, he did not mind. On the second day came a blizzard. Now the snow storm howled, as though the endless steppe had conjured up and sent an infinite army of tiny, grey demons who intended to hurl themselves furiously upon the citadel and overpower it. But on the third day, a change occurred. The snow fell softly. For a time, in the middle of the day, the sky even cleared enough for a few shafts of sunlight to shine through the clouds. The snowflakes that fell, morning and evening, were large and soft as feathers. And it was after this that he began to recover.

The Russian winter is not, in truth, so terrible. Even the smallest hut, with its huge stove, is piping hot inside.

A week after the snows fell, on a bright sunlit day, Ivanushka, wrapped in furs, was carried to the high walls of Pereiaslav.

How the land sparkled. The golden domes of the churches in the city flashed in the sun under the crystal blue sky. Below, the river was flowing past a gleaming white bank, and in the distance the woods on the other side were a dark, glistening line. To the east and south, over patches of wood laden with fresh snow, the beginning of the mighty steppe could be seen: a huge, white carpet, stretching endlessly, shining softly.

Thus, through the Russian winter, the thick blanket of snow protects the earth.

And through that winter, as the land by the snow, Ivanushka was protected by his mother.

At times it was as though he were a child again. They would sit by the fire, or by the window, and read the fairy stories or recite the byliny that he had known as a boy.

The firebird, the tales of snow maidens, of bears in the forest, the stories of princes in search of wealth or love: why was it that these childish tales, now that he was older, seemed so full of wisdom? Their very language, with its subtle sense of movement, wry humour and gentle irony, seemed to him now to be trembling with life and colour, like the endless forest itself.

Death came once to the family that winter, when Sviatopolk’s wife suddenly sickened and died. Though he had hardly known her, Ivanushka would gladly have gone to comfort his brother but Sviatopolk did not seem to wish it, and so Ivanushka had said no more.

Slowly, the long winter passed and Ivanushka, in this little womb prepared for him, recovered his life and emerged, in early spring, while the snow was still upon the ground, ready to join the world again.

His brow was clear, his eyes bright, and although he was a little subdued and often thoughtful, he felt cheerful, whole and strong. ‘Thanks to you,’ he told his mother, ‘I have been reborn.’

The world of Pereiaslav into which he emerged was a busy one.

While the princes had fought over golden Kiev, cautious Prince Vsevolod had kept his grip on Pereiaslav, the hub of the southern frontier forts, and raised the city to new importance. Compared to Kiev, of course, it had only a few fine churches, and most of its buildings were of wood. But the stout, square fortress town represented a force to be reckoned with. Above all, the church there was so powerful and so loyal to the Patriarch in Constantinople that the Metropolitan of Pereiaslav was sometimes more favoured in the imperial city than that of Kiev.

As he walked through the broad main square and gazed at the stout little Church of the Virgin by the prince’s palace, or the chapel they were building over the gate, Ivanushka felt a sense of well-being. He would visit the glass makers and lovingly handle the brightly coloured pieces bound for a church or nobleman’s house. He even found a workshop which made bronze clasps for books, and bought one for his mother. They were pleasant days.

And yet, strangely enough, he was no sooner recovered than he began to experience a vague sense of unease. He could not put his finger on it: the sense was only a vague intuition. But as the days passed he began to get the distinct feeling that there had been some intrigue concerning him – as though, while the snow covered the earth, someone had been burrowing dangerous channels underground. What the devil could it be?

At first, however, he had put the suspicion out of his mind. For the news his father shortly brought him was wonderful indeed.

‘I’ve done it,’ the boyar proudly told his wife. ‘Prince Vsevolod is so much my friend I can even beg a place for Ivanushka!’ And to his son he had joyfully declared: ‘You are to join young Prince Vladimir after all. Sviatopolk is in his druzhina and has done well. Now’s your chance to prove yourself too.’ And Ivanushka had beamed with delight.

It had been just two days later that his father had casually remarked: ‘By the way, while you were ill, your brother and I paid off all your creditors, you know. Your name’s quite clear now.’

Supposing this to be a reference to Zhydovyn and one or two others, Ivanushka had thanked his father and thought little more of it. It was only when, the next day, his mother made a reluctant reference to his debts that he had thought of asking to see the list.

And now he saw what had been going on. For the list was staggering.

At the top, of course, came the debt to Zhydovyn. But after that came a list that took his breath away. People that he had never seen, in places he had scarcely visited, had claimed either that he had robbed them or that they had lent him money. In all but two cases, he knew that their claims were false. ‘Who found these creditors?’ he demanded.

‘Sviatopolk,’ his father told him.

So this was the dark labyrinth that had been burrowed in the ground all winter.

His brother had been thorough. It seemed he had been to every town in the land of Rus. The amounts were not large. Sviatopolk had been clever. But their number was astonishing. ‘You owe your brother a debt of thanks,’ Igor told him sternly. ‘He insisted on paying half of these himself.’

‘He feels responsible for you, too,’ his mother added.

Ivanushka understood. His experiences had made him a little wiser. ‘I fear a great many of these folk have cheated my brother,’ he remarked sadly. But seeing they did not believe him, he said no more. The incident was closed.

It was the next day that, at last, his father took him to meet the young prince whom, on account of his royal Greek mother, men called Vladimir Monomakh.

The meeting was in the hall of the prince’s palace. The windows were small and set high in the thick walls, so that the place had the feeling of a church.

The young prince was standing at the far end as Ivanushka entered with his father. There were half a dozen nobles standing respectfully on either side of him. Vladimir was wearing a long cloak trimmed with sable. It reached almost to his feet and was encrusted with gems so that, even in the dimness, it shone softly. Upon his head was a cap trimmed with ermine. His hands were at his sides.

From his Greek mother, no doubt, came the handsome face with its long, straight nose and large, dark eyes, which stared before him calmly. He awaited their approach like a priest before an altar, motionless, as if his dignity came not from himself but from an authority securely lodged in the other world.

Father and son bowed low before him, advanced a few paces, bowed again. He is like a painting in a church, thought Ivanushka, as he stole a glance up at the motionless black eyes. When he reached him, Ivanushka went down upon his knees and kissed the jewelled shoes.

‘Welcome, Ivan Igorevich,’ the young prince said solemnly.

The courts in the land of Rus were not like those of western Europe. The Russian princes did not seek, like the rulers of Bohemia and Poland, to join the elaborate feudal network of Europe; nor were they interested in its manners or the new ideas of knightly chivalry. Their models, rather, came from the orient. For had not all the rulers of these vast lands come from the east?

From the ancient Scythians and Alans who could still be found in their druzhina, from the once vanished Avars and Huns, from the mighty Khazars, the rulers of the borderlands had always been godlike despots from far away. And what power in that quarter of the world was more ancient and civilized than the Christian empire of the Greeks in Constantinople?

So it was that Russian princes were learning oriental luxury, and to copy the jewelled, hieratic formality of the eastern imperial court. Monomakh knew how to do so from birth.

But now, to Ivanushka’s surprise, the prince smiled pleasantly.

‘I hear that you have travelled widely.’ At this there was a laugh from the courtiers and Igor blushed. They had all heard of this foolish Ivanushka’s wanderings.

‘Do not laugh,’ Vladimir corrected them. ‘If he has observed well in his travels, our friend may know more about the land of Rus than I do.’ By this simple sentence, the prince secured the eternal loyalty of his man; and Ivanushka witnessed the grace that made Monomakh loved as well as feared.

With that, Monomakh waved Igor and the other nobles away and drew Ivanushka to one side. Sensing Ivanushka’s nervousness he began to talk to him quietly and easily until the young man was ready to speak for himself. Vladimir asked him about his travels, and Ivanushka answered very honestly so that, though Vladimir once or twice looked at him in astonishment, he seemed well pleased.

And strangely, the young prince reminded Ivanushka of his own father. There was a stern self-discipline about him that was impressive. It soon became clear that he spent long hours in prayer, four or five times a day, and this he spoke of with a calm grimness very like Igor’s. But when he mentioned one subject, his whole face changed and he became quite boyish.

‘Do you like to hunt?’

Ivanushka told him he did.

‘That is good.’ He grinned. ‘Before I die I mean to hunt every wood in the whole land of Rus. Tomorrow,’ he added happily, ‘you shall come and see my hawks.’

Before their conversation ended, however, the prince became serious once again. ‘You are new here,’ he said quietly, ‘and there are others who have been here before you.’ He paused. ‘Including your brother.’ It was a warning. But though Ivanushka looked at him carefully, Monomakh’s expression was quite impassive, giving nothing away. ‘Go about your business quietly therefore,’ he instructed. ‘I shall judge you by your deeds alone.’

The interview was over. Ivanushka bowed gratefully. Vladimir turned back to his courtiers.

It was at this moment that Ivanushka saw her.

She came in directly behind her mistress. She was no longer a girl, but a young woman; both she and her mistress were so fair they seemed almost unearthly, and he remembered at once how he had seen them before, two years ago, riding through the forest with his father and the court while he hid behind a tree.

‘Who are they?’ he asked the nobleman beside him.

‘Don’t you know? The elder is Monomakh’s wife. The other is her maidservant.’

‘Where do they come from?’

‘Why, from England. Gytha is the daughter of the Saxon king, Harold, whom the Normans killed at Hastings ten years ago. The girl’s called Emma. She’s an orphaned nobleman’s daughter the princess brought with her.’

Ivanushka knew that there had been many exiles from England after it was conquered by William of Normandy in the terrible year of the red star. Some Saxon warriors had travelled all the way to Constantinople and joined the elite guard of norsemen who served the Emperor. Others had wandered eastern Europe. And this princess and her companion, with their ethereal looks, had somehow arrived in Kiev and thereby joined the blood of the Saxon King of England to that of the ruling house of Rus.

Ivanushka stared.

The noble smiled. ‘Of Gytha we say: “She came from a crystal pool and her father was the sunlight!”’

Ivanushka nodded slowly.

‘And of the girl?’

‘The same. She is not yet betrothed,’ the man added casually.

It was on a bright morning five days later that, having finished his prayers, Igor summoned his sons to him at breakfast.

They found him alone. He looked cheerful, yet Ivanushka could see from a certain faintly troubled look in his eyes that he had been deep in thought.

‘I have decided,’ he announced, ‘that it is time you each received the income fitting to a nobleman.’ Some of the greatest boyars of Kiev even kept small courts of their own. The honour of the family dictated that the sons of Igor should live, at least, in comfortable style.

‘As you know,’ Igor went on, ‘the Prince of Pereiaslav has rewarded my services well. I am by no means poor.’ He paused. ‘But when I left the service of the Prince of Kiev, I suffered several financial reverses. As a result, we are not as rich as I might have hoped, and the cost of maintaining one’s state seems to increase with every year.

‘Sviatopolk, you already have your household. Ivanushka, soon you will no doubt marry and require a household too.’ He paused gravely. ‘With this in mind, I am making the following disposition.’

The two brothers listened attentively.

‘Of the income from the estates the prince has given me, I retain half for myself. The income from the other half is for my sons.’ He sighed. ‘Normally, of course, the greater portion should go to Sviatopolk and a lesser portion to Ivanushka. But since Sviatopolk already has a good income from Prince Vladimir, whereas Ivanushka as yet has almost nothing – and since the income I have to give you is limited – I am allotting the two of you equal shares.’ He stopped, as if tired after making a hard decision.

Ivanushka stared before him, hardly able to believe his good fortune. Sviatopolk was silent, but when at last he spoke, it was with icy coldness.

‘My father, I thank you, and I bow to your will,’ he said quietly. ‘I have served my prince, and I have served this family. But is it right, I ask, that Ivanushka who has done nothing except bring dishonour upon us, and whose debts we have just paid, should receive exactly the same?’

Igor did not answer, but Ivanushka guessed that the same thought had been troubling him.

He hung his head. What Sviatopolk said was true. He did not deserve it. And he could understand his elder brother’s anger. Until he had appeared – from the dead as it were – all Igor’s limited fortune would have passed to Sviatopolk. Now he was to be denied half his expectations, and all for a stupid wastrel.

‘I have decided,’ Igor said abruptly, and the interview was over.

As they left, Sviatopolk gave Ivanushka a single look. There could be no mistaking its meaning. It said: Death.

It was not until the following day, when he was sitting in the corner of the market place, that Ivanushka reached his decision.

The meeting the day before and the look on Sviatopolk’s face had shocked him. Can he really hate me so much, just because of money? he wondered. And it reminded him, with force, of a conclusion he had reached during his slow convalescence. For when I was wandering in the world, stealing from others and enduring those terrible winters, he had considered, I had nothing. In the end, I was ready to take my own life. Only when I returned and found the love of my family did I once again desire to live. It is true, therefore, what the preachers say: The world is good for nothing without love. And gradually in his mind a new belief had taken shape: Life itself is love; death is lack of love. That is all there is to it.

That day, therefore, as he considered the situation with Sviatopolk, he finally concluded: What use is my good fortune to me if it only creates hatred in my family? I’d sooner be without. So I think, he had decided, that I should give up my inheritance. Let Sviatopolk have it. God will provide. And satisfied that this was the only sensible thing to do, he was about to move across the market.

It was just then that he felt a tug at his sleeve, and to his surprise saw a sturdy peasant grinning beside him.

‘Why, you’re the fellow I gave the money to,’ he smiled.

‘That’s right,’ Shchek replied cheerfully. ‘And, if I may ask, what are you so down in the mouth about, my lord?’

Shchek had reason to be content. Not only had he regained his freedom but, thanks to his secret treasure house, he expected to put some money in his pocket too. He was glad to see the strange young man again, if only to thank him. And since there was already a bond between them, and he had no one else to talk to, Ivanushka told him the whole story.

What a good fellow this noble is, Shchek thought as he listened. He has a warm heart. And besides, he reminded himself, as he heard the final details, I owe him my liberty after all.

So when Ivanushka had finished, the sturdy peasant saw what he should do.

‘Don’t give up everything, lord,’ he advised. ‘Your father, however, possesses the Russka estate, which is poor. But I think I know a way to make it rich. If you want to, give up the share he proposed then ask your father for only the village of Russka – together with the wood to the north of it,’ he added.

Ivanushka nodded. He liked Russka. It didn’t seem a bad idea.

When, that very evening, Sviatopolk heard what Ivanushka had to say to himself and his father, he could hardly believe his ears.

‘Russka?’ Igor said. ‘You want only the income from that miserable little village? How will you live?’

‘I’ll manage,’ Ivanushka said cheerfully.

‘As you wish,’ Igor sighed. ‘God knows what is to be done with you.’

Praise the Lord, Sviatopolk thought. My brother is a fool.

And with a tender smile, he went forward and kissed Ivanushka on the cheek.

It was two days after this that Ivanushka astonished his father with a bold request.

‘Go to Prince Vladimir, Father, and ask on my behalf for the hand of the Saxon girl, his wife’s handmaiden. He is her guardian.’

Igor stared at him. What could he say? The boy had renounced most of his income and he knew very well that young Monomakh, who took a fatherly interest in this Saxon girl, would hardly give her to a poor man. But even if it were not for that… ‘My poor boy,’ he replied sadly, ‘don’t you know that Sviatopolk asked for her himself yesterday?’

Ivanushka’s face fell. Then he looked thoughtful.

‘Ask all the same,’ he said finally.

‘Very well,’ Igor replied. But after Ivanushka had gone, he sighed to himself, ‘I’m afraid there’s no denying it: the boy’s a fool.’

The reply from Monomakh was given within two days. As usual, it was both kind and sensible.

‘The girl will be betrothed at Christmas. She may choose herself, at that time, from amongst any suitors I approve. I hereby approve both the sons of my father’s loyal boyar, Igor. However,’ the prince had very properly added, ‘any suitor who cannot come forward with proof that he is free of debts, and has an income of thirty silver grivnas a year, will be disqualified.’

Sviatopolk smiled when he heard it. His income was over fifty grivnas: Ivanushka’s could not possibly be more than twenty.

Ivanushka said nothing.

It was two days later that Ivanushka, its new lord, rode into the village of Russka.

Spring was everywhere in the air. There was a warm glow coming from the ground. The cherry blossom was already making a first, shy appearance and as he rode towards the river crossing, he heard his first bee.

As it happened, Shchek had gone downriver that day, so Ivanushka ordered the elder to give him a thorough tour of the village. The main income he could expect came from the taxes paid by each household. A third went to the prince; he could keep two-thirds; but there were expenses at the fort which he had to meet. True, if he could afford to hire labourers or buy slaves, he could develop unused land in the area but that would take time as well as money, and he had neither. Even with luck, he could not see how his income would reach more than twenty grivnas that year.

That damned peasant’s probably made a fool of me, he thought as he returned that afternoon to the fort. And when Shchek appeared a few hours later, he was ready to be angry with him. But the peasant promised him: ‘We go out at dawn tomorrow.’ And so he waited one more night.

Then, while the sun was still low in the sky the next morning, Ivanushka discovered the secret treasure of Russka.

All that spring and summer, Ivanushka was busy.

He served Vladimir, as required; but because there was always a slight friction in the air whenever Ivanushka and Sviatopolk were at court together, the prince often let Ivanushka know that he was free to go to Russka to inspect his estates where, it was said at court, the eccentric young man had even been seen working with the peasants in the fields.

In the early summer, Prince Vladimir went west to help the Poles in a campaign against the Czechs, staying some four months in Bohemia and taking Sviatopolk with him. Reports of his elder brother’s valour came back to Ivanushka at Pereiaslav, and although he was proud of Sviatopolk, he could not help being a little sad. ‘I fear, in the girl’s eyes, I must cut a sorry figure beside him,’ he admitted to his mother.

He saw little of the girl during these months. She spent most of her time with her mistress, who was now pregnant.

But the work at Russka continued apace.

All through the summer, lord and peasant tended the precious honey forest. It consisted now of a thousand trees: one hundred oak and nine hundred pine. There were well over a hundred swarms and Shchek kept the hives occupied at a rate of roughly one in seven.

He had also built a stout store house in Russka for the beeswax.

Shchek now had two men to help him guard the place, for word of it had reached as far as Pereiaslav and, as the peasant assured Ivanushka: ‘If we don’t protect it, people will come and rob it.’

Already, Ivanushka was sure the forest would easily give him the required income. But what of the girl herself? Would he win her?

The truth was, he had no idea.

He had managed on various occasions at court to snatch a few words with her, and he thought – no, he was sure from her look – that she liked him. But he had to confess, there were many suitors, including Sviatopolk, who were far better matches than he was.

‘And you’re sure you want her?’ Shchek asked curiously. The ways of these nobles often seemed strange to him.

‘Oh, yes.’ He was sure.

Why was he sure? He did not know. Was it just her magical appearance? No, it was far more than that. There was a kindness in the sparkling blue eyes; there was something in the way she walked behind the princess, something indefinable, that told him she had suffered. And this was very attractive to him. He thought he could imagine her life: an orphan, left to wander with a dispossessed princess; a proud girl who had nevertheless had to learn the humility which is forced on those who are dependent. In their brief talks he had sensed in her an understanding of life and its difficulties that he had seldom seen in the proud but protected daughters of the boyars.

‘Yes, she’s the one,’ he nodded.

The harvest was good that year, the production of honey an outstanding success. Ivanushka’s income was assured. In the autumn, he managed to speak to the Saxon girl several more times. But as the Christmas season approached, he had no idea where he stood with her.

When the great day came therefore four suitors appeared before Vladimir Monomakh for the hand of the Saxon girl. Two were the sons of Igor.

The whole court had been astonished at the good fortune of Ivanushka.

‘While his brother fights, the sly young fellow gathers honey,’ some cruel wit observed.

But the fact was, he had fulfilled the prince’s conditions.

Yet more astonishing was the fact that Emma, having politely thanked all four men for the honour they did her, whispered to the prince that she chose Ivanushka.

‘As you wish,’ he replied, but felt obliged, out of loyalty to Sviatopolk, to add: ‘His elder brother is one of my best men, you know, whereas they say Ivanushka’s a fool.’

‘I know,’ she answered. ‘But,’ she smiled, ‘it seems to me he has a warm heart.’

So it was that the very next day Ivanushka, the son of Igor, and Emma, the daughter of a Saxon English noble, were married.

There was a splendid feast given by Vladimir where they were served roast cockerel; and a merry company then showered them with hops as they retired. And if Sviatopolk had any further designs against his brother, he hid them behind a mask of dignity.

While these small events, of such importance to Ivanushka, were taking place, the attention of everyone else at court was directed towards the political arena.

On December 27, the Prince of Kiev died, and Vsevolod of Pereiaslav himself took over Kiev.

‘It’s a great move for your father,’ everyone told Ivanushka. ‘Igor is a great boyar of the Grand Prince of Kiev now.’

For Vladimir Monomakh these events meant that he became master of Pereiaslav in place of his father, so that Sviatopolk and Ivanushka now had a richer master too. And the joy of the court was completed by the birth to the Saxon princess of a baby son.

Yet for Ivanushka these important events seemed of small significance.

He was married. He had discovered, in the depth of winter, a joy far greater than he had ever known – so much so that at times, as he looked across at the wonderful, pale form at his side, he could scarcely believe that such a source of continuous joy was not stolen. Yet the weeks passed and, far from being taken away from him, this joy was only increased. So it was that at last Ivanushka found, not merely happiness, but the sense of wholeness that, sometimes hardly aware of what he was doing, he had so long sought.

‘When I was a boy,’ he told Emma, ‘I wanted to ride to the great River Don. But now I’d rather be here with you. You are all I want.

She smiled, yet asked him: ‘Are you sure, Ivanushka? Am I alone really enough?’

He had stared at her, surprised. Of course she was.

In March she had told him she was pregnant.

‘Now what more could I want?’ he asked her playfully.

A few days later he went to Russka.

It was early in the morning, three days after he arrived there, that Ivanushka came out of the fort soon after the sun had risen above the trees, and sat on a bare stone gazing across the landscape to the south.

How silent it was. The sky above was pale blue, so crystalline that one might, it seemed to Ivanushka, have soared unimpeded into the clear air and touched the edge of heaven. The snowy landscape extended as far as the eye could see, the darker lines of the trees stretching until they seemed to become one with the snow of the endless steppe beyond.

The edges of the frozen river had recently begun to melt. Everything was melting. Only a little at a time, softly, so that you could scarcely hear it; yet inexorably. The more one listened, the more one became aware of the faint popping, the whispering of the whole countryside melting.

And as the sun acted upon the snow and ice, so, Ivanushka could almost feel, were underground forces similarly at work. The whole gigantic continent – the world itself as far as he knew – was softly melting, snow, earth and air, an eternal process caught, for a moment, in this shining stasis.

And everything, it suddenly appeared to Ivanushka, everything was necessary. The rich black earth – so rich that the peasants scarcely needed to plough it; the fortress with its stout wooden walls; the subterranean world where the monks like Father Luke had chosen to live, and certainly to die: why it should be so was beyond him, but it was all necessary. And so, I see, was the winding path of my own confused life, he thought. That too was necessary. Father Luke had perhaps seen it all, years ago, when he had said that each mortal finds his own way to God.

How soft the world was, how shining. How he loved, not only his wife, but all things. Even myself, unworthy that I am. I can even love myself – because I too am part of this Creation, he pondered; this being, he perceived, his Epiphany.

1111

Dark clouds passed silently over the empty land. Slowly the mighty army made its way past the forest’s edge, past the lonely wooden walls that joined the line of little forts, staring at the emptiness beyond, and emerged on to the open steppe, where it fanned out. As the spring sun struck through the clouds, in powerful stanchions, it caught sections of the horde so that, here and there, patches of the line dully glittered.

The army spread for about three miles across the steppe. Seen from above, as the clouds temporarily passed away and the afternoon sun fell bleakly upon it, the army looked like the shadow of a vast bird with outstretched wings, moving quietly across the grasses.

On the ground, the huge movement of chain mail and weaponry filled the air with a clinking sound, as though the whole steppe were echoing with a million, metallic cicadas.

Sviatopolk’s face was dark. Now and then, the light fell upon him and one could see his eyes, hard and clear, fixed upon the horizon. But his mind still dwelt in the shadows.

Though he was in the Prince of Kiev’s druzhina, he rode alone. Now and then, though no one noticed it, his black eyes turned to glance at his brother, riding some distance away. But each time they did so, they flicked quickly away again, as though pursued by fear or guilt. Guilt makes a proud man dangerous.

It was the year 1111, and one of the greatest expeditions ever mounted was setting off from the land of Rus towards the east. It was led by the Prince of Kiev, with his cousins the Prince of Chernigov and the great Vladimir Monomakh, Prince of Pereiaslav; and its object was to destroy the Cumans.

The huge force had waited only for the start of the warm weather, when the ground was firm. With long swords and scimitars, curved bows and long spears, fur caps and chain mail, they rode and marched. Preceded by gongs and trumpets, wooden pipes and kettledrums, singers, dancers and priests carrying icons, this huge Eurasian horde made its awesome way from golden Kiev, eastward towards the endless steppe.

Sviatopolk surveyed the men around him. It was a typical Russian army, containing all kinds of men. On his right, two young men, both of the druzhina and pure norse – though one had married a Cuman. On his left, a German mercenary and a Polish knight. Sviatopolk respected the Poles: they obeyed the Pope in Rome – that was a fault, he supposed – but they were independent and proud. And what fine brocade the fellow wore.

Just behind him marched a large party of Slav foot soldiers. He glanced at them with contempt. Brave fellows, lively, wonderfully obstinate; he did not even know why he despised them, except that it was his habit.

Ahead of him rode seven Alan horsemen. Beside them, a company of Volga Bulgars – strange fellows, distant descendants of the terrible Huns, with oriental faces and lank black hair. They were Moslems nowadays, and had gladly come from their trading stronghold on the Volga to help crush the troublesome pagan raiders of the steppe.

‘If I were a Cuman, though, I know whom I should fear the most,’ he remarked to his page. ‘The Black Caps.’

For a long time the princes of Rus had encouraged settlements of steppe warriors along their southern borders, to act as a buffer against the Cumans. But this group was special. These Turks had formed their own military cadre; they even had a garrison in Kiev now; they hated the Cumans and they had an iron discipline. They rode with their bows and lances, on black horses, wearing black caps, their faces hard and cruel. Sviatopolk admired their bitterness and their determination. They were strong.

Again, he glanced at his brother Ivan, riding with Monomakh.

Ivan was in his fifties now, a little stout and ruddy-faced but still fit. Why was it, Sviatopolk wondered, that where other men’s eyes gave away their lives – looking shifty, cunning, proud or simply weary – Ivanushka’s blue eyes were still as clear and open as they had been when he was young? It wasn’t stupidity. For the man they had once called Ivanushka the Fool was now known as Ivan the Wise. And he’s rich, too, damn him, Sviatopolk thought. He has all the luck.

They seldom saw each other now. Twenty years before, when the old Prince of Kiev had died and another of the periodic relocations of the princes had taken place, Sviatopolk had left Monomakh and joined the Prince of Kiev. He had thought the pickings would be better. Ivanushka had remained with Monomakh at Pereiaslav.

Now they were together again, in the same army.

And only one of us, Sviatopolk secretly swore, will return alive.

‘So at last,’ Ivanushka had told his sons, ‘I am to ride to the great River Don.’ It was strange that only now, in the fifty-seventh year of his life, had God granted this childhood desire. Yet God had given him so much.

The estate at Russka had made him rich. Although Cuman raids had several times destroyed the village, the bee-forest lay undisturbed. And he had other estates, too.

For the land of Rus was still expanding. While the princes traded and fought in the south, they had continued to colonize the huge uncharted regions of the north-east, pushing into the hinterland where the primitive Finnish tribes had always dwelt – into the deep forests by the headwaters of the mighty Volga. The Rus had many settlements there, from substantial cities like Tver, Suzdal, Riazan and Murom, all the way down to little fortified hamlets like the village of Moscow.

The Prince of Pereiaslav controlled the part of this region around Rostov and Suzdal, and it was in this hinterland that he had given Ivan a second big estate.

Though the soil was poor compared to the black earth of the south, the forest of the north-east was rich in furs, wax and honey. Above all, it was far away from the raiders of the southern steppe. ‘Remember,’ Ivanushka would say to his three sons, ‘your ancestors were the radiant Alans who rode the steppe, but our wealth now lies in the forest which protects us.’ God had been good to him. He had also given him a perfect master in Vladimir Monomakh.

Who could fail to love Monomakh? For, by any standards, the half Greek prince was remarkable. It was not only that he was brave in battle, and daring in the chase; he was also a truly humble Christian. For decades, all Monomakh’s energies had gone into trying to preserve the unity of the royal house. Time and again he had called together conferences of the feuding princes and begged them: ‘Let us forgive each other. Let us hold the land together and unite against the Cumans, who would rather see us divided.’

One day, Ivanushka prayed, his turn will come to rule in Kiev.

Monomakh’s city of Pereiaslav was a fine place now. Twenty years before, its bishop had built a huge stone wall around it. The place boasted several more brick churches and even a bath house of stone, so that Ivan could say proudly: ‘There’s nothing else like that bath house unless you go to Tzargrad.’

Two of Ivanushka’s three sons served Monomakh; the third served the prince’s half English son, who now ruled over northern Novgorod.

Ivanushka had brought a strong contingent with him. From the village of Russka came a party of Slavs under old Shchek who, despite his advancing years, had insisted on coming with his lord. From his estates in the north came a group of bowmen, some mounted, some on foot, from the Finnish tribe of Mordvinians. Quiet, surly fellows with high, mongoloid cheekbones and yellowish skins, they kept themselves to themselves and in the evenings crowded round their soothsayer, without whom they refused to travel.

Apart from two of his sons, there was one other addition to his party – a handsome young Khazar from Kiev. Ivanushka had not wanted to take him although the boy’s father, a longtime trading associate of his, had pleaded for his son. ‘He’s not trained to arms,’ he had said sternly. ‘And besides,’ Ivanushka had finally confessed, ‘I’m terrified of something happening to him.’

Only when the boy’s grandfather, Zhydovyn, had gone to see Ivanushka had he at last agreed to take the boy on.

‘Keep the Khazar boy near you,’ he gruffly ordered his two sons. ‘And now,’ he addressed all his men, ‘we’ll smash the Cumans so that they will never recover.’

The strife with the Cumans had continued throughout his life.

To the south, along the edge of the steppe, the little frontier forts had been strengthened and huge ramparts of earth and wood had been built, so that there was now an almost continuous wall to keep the raiders out. But they still either broke through, or made huge sweeps across the steppe, far over the horizon, to circumvent the defences and come down unexpectedly from the north.

Ten years ago the Rus had launched a massive attack across the steppe that had left twenty Cuman princes dead. Four years later, led by Boniak the Mangy, the Cuman warlords had struck back and even burned churches in Kiev itself. And now the Russians were going down to break them. It was God’s work: Ivanushka had no doubt of that.

‘We know their usual grazing grounds and their winter camp,’ he said to his sons. ‘We’re going to hunt them down.’ Though the business was grim, as he looked about him at his strong sons and the mighty army of the three princes, he was confident.

But even so, having at last achieved his life’s ambition to ride to the Don, he felt melancholy. He could not help it. The main reason was his father. That at least he understood. The other reason was less clear to him: it was something vague, uneasy. And it was made worse when, on the day they entered the steppe, Monomakh turned to him and quietly remarked: ‘They say, my Ivanushka, that something is troubling your brother Sviatopolk.’

Day after day, southwards and eastwards across the steppe they rode. The grass was green, the ground draining. Across the vast, rolling plateau, for hundreds, thousands of miles, the land was drying out, from the rich steppe to the mountains and the deserts where, even now, the delicate spring flowers were being burned by the sun to vanish without trace into the sand.

Within days, the pale feather grass began breaking out – a white sheen spreading in front of them like an endless mist over the rich black earth hidden below. Horses and men hissed through the grass like myriad snakes; where the grass was short, their feet drummed upon the ground. Birds skimmed anxiously across the feather grass before this huge advancing host. Sometimes an eagle, a blue-grey speck, hung high above the moving mass.

Ivanushka rode quietly on his finest grey: Troyan. At midday, the sun overhead grew so bright that it seemed as if the whole army, his horse, the day itself, had grown dark because of it. Steadily they went on.

Monomakh was cheerful. Often he would canter ahead, a favourite falcon on his wrist, and hunt across the steppe. And in the evenings he would sit by his tent with his boyars while a minstrel strummed his lyre and sang to them:

It was after these evenings, when the fires were low and all but the men on watch were sleeping, that Ivanushka found himself most melancholy. For he was sure he would not see his father again.

He had gone to Kiev to take leave of him, and had found him almost helpless. A sudden crisis the year before had left him partly paralysed: he could smile, faintly, with one side of his mouth, but his speech was very slurred.

‘You should not be grieved,’ his mother told him. ‘He is to depart soon, and so am I. But see what years God has granted us, and be grateful.’

The old man was still handsome. His grey hair was still thick. Like others in that period of better nutrition in Russia, he had kept most of his teeth. Gazing down at his long, noble face, Ivanushka had wondered whether he should go on campaign, but Igor, guessing his thoughts, had done his best to smile and whispered: ‘Go, my son.’

He had kissed his father, long and warmly, before striding out.

Often now as he rode across the steppe with a feeling of tender sadness, his memory returned him to that morning when, as a boy of twelve, he floated down the great River Dniepr with his father, his mind full of high hopes. Like a physical presence he could feel his father’s hand on his shoulder, feel his powerful heart beating behind him, and he wondered: is he still with me, my father? Is he still alive in Kiev, perhaps remembering that very day, sharing my dream with me, his hand around my shoulder? Or has he gone into the great cold?

And around the campfire he remembered his father’s forgiveness and his mother’s healing presence.

And then there was Sviatopolk. Though he rode some distance away, with the Prince of Kiev, it was easy to pick him out by the banner carried before him that bore the three-pronged trident. It was not that his face was hard and bitter – it had always been that – but there was a new look in his eyes, a faraway gaze that Ivanushka, having known desperation himself in his youth, recognized at once. And his attitude towards his brother, though always cool, had taken on a new tension which, to those who knew him well, was a sign of danger.

On two occasions Ivanushka had gone up to him, once to ask him: ‘Have I offended you?’ The second time, with some misgivings, he had asked: ‘Is something wrong with you?’ But each time Sviatopolk had bowed to him coldly and enquired, with sarcastic politeness, after his health.

Sviatopolk lived well in Kiev. His sons were successful. What, Ivanushka wondered, could it be?

It was when Sviatopolk was asleep that the monsters troubled him.

During his waking hours, it was only a question of calculation, even if that always brought the same conclusion. But in his sleep, the monsters came.

How had he got into debt? Even now, he could hardly believe it had happened.

If they’d let me into the inner circle, he told himself, by now I’d be rich. That was the trouble, he told himself several times a day.

Everyone in Kiev was speculating. Most of the merchants and boyars were. Even the small merchants and artisans did if they could. But the greatest speculator of all was the prince himself.

Salt, that was the key. In the good old days, when his father Igor was in his prime, they brought salt across the steppe in caravans from the Black Sea. But now, with Cumans breaking up the southern trade route, the only places to get salt safely were in the west: from the south-western province of Galicia, or from the kingdoms of Poland and Hungary. And the plan of the Prince of Kiev was to form a cartel that would get control of all the salt sold in the land of Rus.

This campaign was dearer to the prince’s heart than even the crusade against the Cumans. He had prepared the ground for years, marrying one of his daughters to the King of Hungary and another to the King of Poland.

‘Nothing will stop him,’ Sviatopolk often declared. ‘Then they’re going to force the price up, and make a fortune.’ Even now, the beauty of the scheme filled him with a kind of cold joy.

But he was not in the cartel. Though he had served the Prince of Kiev well – no one ever accused him of failing in his duty – he had never been invited into the inner circle; and as time went on, he knew that his influence was slowly waning. ‘He’s not the man his father was,’ people said. ‘Or his brother,’ they sometimes added. It was his awareness of this last comment that ate into his soul, and made him all the more determined to impress the world.

If the prince would not make him rich, he would find other ways.

So had begun the series of bad investments. There was the futile attempt to bring salt from the Black Sea. Who knew what had become of those Khazar merchants and their camels in the southern steppe? He had tried to extract iron from some marshlands he owned: and discovered after two years of obstinately pushing his men, that the little iron he found cost more to extract than he could sell it for. All his schemes had failed; yet the poorer he became, the greater the state he maintained in Kiev. I must impress them, he vowed.

He had succeeded in masking his losses. Using his reputation, and his father’s good name, he had got credit from merchants as far afield as Constantinople. And now that debt had become a mountain, the size of which no one guessed – neither his father, his brother, nor his own children.

And so the monsters came to him in his sleep.

Sometimes his debt came as an eagle – a huge, brownish bird sweeping over the Caucasus Mountains, flying swiftly over the bones of his camels in the steppe, soaring over the forest in search of him until at last, with talons outstretched, its huge wings filling the sky, the furious bird swooped and he awoke with a cry.

Another night, searching in the forest, he came upon a girl, lying naked upon the ground. Coming up to her, he saw to his excitement that she was the most beautiful creature in the world – even lovelier than the Saxon girl his brother had taken from him. But as he reached down to touch her, she had turned to solid gold.

With even more joy, he lifted her and carried her on his horse until, coming to a small hut in the forest, he decided to rest.

It was empty. He carried her in and laid her on the table by the stove. ‘I’ll carry you to Kiev and melt you down,’ he muttered, and turned round to look for water. But as he turned back the golden girl was gone.

And in her place, sitting on the table, with a leering grin on her wrinkled face, was Baba Yaga the witch.

He felt himself go pale and cold. Her hands reached out to him.

‘Let me go!’ he shrieked.

But Baba Yaga only laughed, with a cackle drier than the sound of cracking nuts. The room had filled with the acrid, stale smell of rotting mushrooms, and she replied: ‘Pay me your debt.’

Then turning to the stove and opening the oven door, her long, bony hand had grabbed him and drawn him slowly towards the flames, while he wailed, like a frightened child, in his sleep.

But the worst dream was the third. This was the one that haunted him. It began, always, inside a building, though whether it was a church, a barn or a prince’s hall he could never be sure, since it was dark. He would be trying to find a way out, searching for some sign of a window or door in the cavernous gloom. But as far as he looked, it always seemed that the high, empty spaces stretched away without end.

And then, before long, he would hear it coming.

Its heavy footsteps crashed upon the iron floor with a terrible reverberation, that echoed in the distant roof above. If he turned and fled, he would find that the awful footsteps were suddenly coming from the direction in which he was running.

And he knew that this fearful creature was his debt. It would come closer. There was no escape.

Then he would see it. The creature was as high as a house, and as broad. It was dressed in a long dark habit, like a monk so that its feet, which were surely made of iron, could not be seen. But far more frightening than this was its face: for the creature had none. It had only a huge, grey beard where the face should have been: no eyes, no mouth. It was deaf and sightless. Yet it always knew, infallibly, exactly where he was, and as it slowly, blindly crashed forward, he would fall helplessly on to the iron floor, unable to move his legs, and awake in a cold sweat and with a scream of terror.

‘There is only one way out,’ he told himself.

The Will of his father Igor was a simple one. In line with the princely practice of inheritance, the boyar’s did not concern itself with grandchildren, but only with sons.

The wealth remaining to Igor, which was now substantial, was to be divided equally between his surviving sons, who were to take care of their mother as long as she lived. That was all. If one of the two remaining sons died before the Will was executed, then the other son would inherit both shares. It was a typical Will for those times.

Sviatopolk knew roughly what Igor’s estate was worth. Half of it would not pay his debts. All of it would leave him a modest income over.

Shchek was uneasy. He could not say exactly why.

That afternoon, the scouts had returned with good news. They had found the Cumans’ winter quarters. The main Cuman horde had already gone out to its summer pastures, where it would dwell in tents. The permanent winter quarters – a walled town – lay before them. ‘The place is half empty,’ the scouts reported. ‘There’s only a small garrison.’

‘We shall attack tomorrow,’ the princes announced.

All through the camp, there were happy faces. It seemed an eternity since the empty steppe had closed behind them and now, at last, they would take a Cuman town. With luck, the looting would be excellent. In the warm night under the stars, the sound of quiet singing could be heard round every fire.

Yet Shchek was still uneasy. Perhaps it was just the battle ahead but he had had evil dreams. As night fell on the happy camp he drew the Khazar boy aside. ‘Stick close to the Lord Ivan,’ he said. ‘Guard him well.’

‘Tonight, you mean?’

Shchek frowned. What did he mean? There were a few trees nearby and some clumps of tall grasses; he watched them waving in the slight breeze. Were there Cumans lurking in there? ‘Yes. Tonight, tomorrow, every night.’

Was this half-empty town perhaps a trap, a lure? He did not trust the Cumans: he hated them. Four years before, they had killed his little wife and one of his four children. They had been killed for sport. It was another reason why he had begged his Lord Ivan to take him along.

What is it you fear? he asked himself again. He did not know. But he was certain he felt it, a pervasive sense of danger, something treacherous in the air.

The battle did not last long. The town was a large, rectangular enclosure with low walls of baked earth and clay. The army drawn up before it must have been a fearsome sight. The Cumans appeared on the walls and fought well; but they were horribly mauled by the volley after volley of arrows that poured from the men of Rus. By mid-afternoon, though they had scarcely lost any men, the Russians saw the gates open and a parley party coming out, bearing gifts of wine and fish.

The city had been partly emptied but even so, in the low rows of clay and wooden houses, they found quantities of fine silks from the orient, gold and gems, and wine from the Black Sea coast and the Caucasus Mountains. They feasted that evening, both inside the city and in their camp, which they pitched before its walls.

It was just as the sun was sinking that Ivanushka, together with Shchek and the Khazar boy, rode away from their camp. They traced the path of a little stream and made their way slowly round the city. The boyar was riding Troyan; the Khazar also had a fine, black horse; Shchek a more modest beast.

It was by the cemetery of the Cumans, on the far side of the city, that Ivanushka paused.

The graves of the Cuman warriors were marked with strange stones: they were four, even six feet high, and carved in the shape of men – with round faces, high cheekbones, short necks, broad mouths, flowing moustaches and thin, basin-shaped helmets on their heads. Their eyes mostly seemed to be closed. Their carved bodies were distorted, with wide hips and shortened legs; and their arms, unnaturally long, were bent at the elbows so that their hands were clasped either at their midriff or between their legs.

Though unnatural in shape, these thick, stone figures had an extraordinary life to them, as if they had been temporarily frozen, dreaming while they rode upon some endless journey across the steppe.

Ivanushka turned to the young Khazar. ‘They are dead. Do you fear death?’

The young man visibly braced himself. ‘No, lord.’

Ivanushka smiled. ‘And you, Shchek?’

‘Not much. Not these days,’ the widower said glumly.

Ivanushka sighed, but said nothing. Yet silently to himself he admitted: I fear death.

Then they rode on.

It was the dead of night. There was a quarter moon in the sky, but it had not risen very high and was frequently obscured by the long, ragged clouds that passed overhead from time to time. A light breeze stirred the reeds that fringed the little stream. Apart from that, there was silence over the steppe. The whole camp appeared asleep.

The three Cuman figures made almost no sound at all as they waded carefully through the shallow stream. Now and then, a light splash or the noise of drops falling from an arm on to the water’s surface might have been heard. But the bank of reeds muffled these sounds. They carried swords and daggers. Their faces were blackened.

When they reached the place where they meant to climb the little bank, they paused for some time. Then, very slowly, parting the reeds less than the breeze might have done, they slipped through them and out on to the bank. And they might have given no sign of their coming had not one of them, whose expertise was widely acknowledged, foolishly made an answering call to a frog.

Shchek froze. He had been only half asleep. Immediately his heart began to race. There was no animal in forest or steppe whose call he did not know. Even the most perfect animal call from a human was immediately recognizable to him. He sat up and stared towards the reeds, straining his eyes in the darkness.

They watched him. One of the three, the leader, was already on his belly some twenty feet across the grass, and only a dozen paces from where Shchek sat.

He got up. He touched the Khazar boy lightly, to wake him, then taking a spear in one hand and a long knife in the other, he started to creep cautiously towards the reeds. The Khazar boy wanted to go too, but Shchek impatiently waved him back. ‘Stay with Lord Ivan,’ he whispered.

It was this sound that woke the boyar.

Ivanushka saw the peasant creeping towards the reeds. He started up. And his mind, too, worked quickly.

‘Shchek, come back,’ he hissed. He reached for his sword. But Shchek was already a dozen paces away, intent upon his task.

He never saw the Cuman at his feet. He was aware only of a blinding, searing pain in his stomach, as though a huge serpent had suddenly reared up and buried its fangs just under his heart.

He gave a loud cry, and observed to his surprise that his arms had suddenly become quite useless, while the stars were unaccountably falling from the sky, taking him with them to the earth. Then something else happened. Then redness. Then, strangely, a great cold whiteness, shining like the morning mists.

The other two Cumans had rushed forward while the first, having struck Shchek, had leaped like a grey wolf towards Ivan and the Khazar boy.

The boy struck at him, but the Cuman easily sidestepped him and swung at Ivanushka with a curved sword. Ivanushka parried. The Cuman moved swiftly in a circle around him, cutting cleverly at his legs. The Khazar boy shouted. His voice echoed round the camp. One of the Cumans swung his sword and, by good fortune, the boy managed to parry. He shouted again.

And, to his surprise, the Cuman hesitated.

He struck at him wildly, felt his blade just graze his shoulder, struck again. But the fellow was gone. At the sound of other voices around, he and his companion were running lightly back to the reeds.

He turned. By the moonlight, he could see Ivanushka and the first Cuman locked in combat. It was impossible to see who had the upper hand.

At last, he thought, I can prove myself. And gripping his sword tightly, he rushed at the assailant.

And then, to his amazement, this one too turned and started to run.

He hurled himself at him, caught his sleeve, and as the man staggered, reached for his legs. Only to find himself held in a vice-like bear hug, from behind, as the Cuman made his escape.

How strange. The arms holding him were the Lord Ivan’s.

‘I had him, lord,’ he protested. ‘I had him. Let’s go after them,’ he pleaded.

‘In the dark, like this?’ Ivan still held him. ‘You’d get your throat cut. Let them run. You can kill Cumans tomorrow.’

The boy was silent. He supposed Lord Ivan was right. The arms slowly released him. ‘What cowards these Cumans are,’ he muttered.

‘Perhaps,’ Ivanushka said drily. He turned. ‘They’ve killed my poor Shchek though,’ he added mournfully.

It was true. The boy looked at the sturdy old peasant who now lay still, his blood making a black patch on the moonlit grass.

But neither then, nor later, could he understand why Ivan had let the last Cuman go. Nor did Ivan ever tell him who his attacker was.

They found the main Cuman force a few days later, drawn up beside a river. Ivanushka and Vladimir ran their eyes along the huge, dark, menacing line. They had drawn themselves up well, on a slight slope that favoured them. To the right, their carts and light chariots were set in two enormous circles into which they could, if necessary, retreat.

It was the biggest force that Ivanushka had ever seen – line after line of mounted men in leather or light armour with lances and bows, who could charge, wheel, or fly across the steppe like so many falcons.

‘I can count more than twenty princes there,’ Vladimir remarked. He knew the Cumans well.

‘And Boniak?’ Boniak the Mangy, the most terrible, the most ruthless of them all.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Monomakh cheerfully, ‘he’s there.’

The two armies faced each other in silence.

It was then that Ivanushka noticed something. It happened gradually, softly, so that even the sharp-eyed Monomakh had not at first perceived it.

The wind was changing direction.

He reached out, touched the great prince on the arm, and nodded at the swaying grasses.

‘Look.’

Monomakh looked.

‘Praise God.’

The wind would carry their arrows towards the enemy. God meant them to punish the pagans.

The battle that took place that day lived long in the memories of the men of Rus.

‘Our arrows floated on the wind,’ Ivanushka told Emma afterwards. ‘They sailed like swallows.’ The slaughter was terrible, for Monomakh, though generous in peace, was terrible in war. His contempt for Cumans, whom he often accused of breaking their oaths, was complete. No Cuman who came within his reach could hope for the slightest mercy. ‘They tried all their tricks,’ Ivanushka said of that day. ‘They even pretended to run away. But we stayed put until we could trap them against the river.’ The victory was total.

But there was one event of which Ivanushka never spoke. It took place a little before the end of the battle and was seen by nobody else.

He had scarcely thought of his brother during the battle; there was no time. But suddenly, glancing to his left, he saw a single Russian boyar surrounded by three Cumans, who were hacking at him with their curved swords, and instantly knew it was Sviatopolk.

He did not trouble to think, but spurred away from his sons towards him. They had backed him against the river so that his horse’s hind legs were already digging feverishly in the crumbling earth of the bank. As they closed, he valiantly lunged forward, knocking one of the Cumans from his horse. Then, as one of the attackers slashed at its nose, Sviatopolk’s horse reared and he fell, over the steep bank into the swirling river some ten feet below.

Ivanushka caught one of the Cumans from behind, killing him with a single blow; the other fled. But by the time he looked down into the river, Sviatopolk was already several yards out into the stream. The water was moving fast. Half stunned for a moment, Sviatopolk was struggling now to reach the bank, but his chain mail was dragging him down. He looked up hopelessly at the bank above, then seeing his brother, turned away his head. Then he sank.

For a moment, Ivanushka hesitated. The water was deep. Sviatopolk had vanished. If he went in, his chain mail would probably drag him under too. The words of the Old Testament story suddenly flashed through his mind. ‘Am I,’ he murmured, ‘my brother’s keeper?’ And for the first time in many years, as he gazed at the water, he knew fear.

‘Am I to give up my life for the brother who tried to kill me?’ he asked himself. He looked around. The battle had moved away towards the wagons. It was strangely quiet there. Then he took off his helmet and dived in.

No one else ever knew how close he came to death that day.

As the cold waters closed over his head, he felt himself being dragged down by two forces – the strong river current and the weight of his mail. It took all his strength to fight his way to the surface, to gasp for air and dive again.

But he found Sviatopolk. His face was already grey; he was tangled in some river reeds that seemed to wrap themselves round him like insistent, importunate rusalki. How Ivanushka got him free, he hardly knew. But somehow he did, and drifted with him down the stream until he could pull him to the river bank. There, turning him over, he forced the water from his lungs.

Together the two brothers lay exhausted on the bank. For several minutes neither spoke. The sun was high in the sky. Birds were flitting curiously over the long grass around them. The sounds of battle had entirely died away.

‘Why did you save me?’

‘You are my brother.’

There was a pause. Ivanushka could feel Sviatopolk preparing himself for the next question. ‘But… last night. You knew?’

‘I knew.’

Sviatopolk groaned. ‘And now I must bear the burden of your forgiveness too.’ It was said without rancour. Sviatopolk sounded infinitely weary.

‘You forget,’ Ivanushka calmly reminded him, ‘that I, too, sinned. Perhaps more than you, when I was wandering and I stole. I returned with nothing, yet our father forgave me and took me in. Tell me now, my brother, what it is that drove you to such a thing?’

It seemed to Sviatopolk that he could hate no longer. For hatred, feeding upon him year after year, driving him forward like a cruel rider pushing his horse, hatred and misery had finally worn him out. Slowly, a few words at a time, staring straight up at the blue sky, he told his brother the whole story.

‘You had only to ask me for help,’ Ivanushka reminded him gently.

‘But what man can ask?’

‘You are too proud,’ Ivanushka said with a smile.

‘It has brought me despair and death,’ his brother sighed.

‘The preachers tell us it does,’ Ivanushka replied drily.

And that summer, having at last visited the great River Don, he paid his brother’s debts.

They had returned in triumph. Yet in the long warm days of autumn, that very year, the sage counsellor of great Monomakh, for the first time in many years, gave all Rus the chance to say: ‘Ivan’s a fool.’

He decided to build a church.

That would have been normal enough for a rich boyar, but he decided to build it in stone. Even that, if extravagant, might have been thought handsome had he decided to build it in Pereiaslav, or even perhaps in the fort of Russka.

But he did not. He decided to build it outside the fortress walls, on a little rise overlooking the river towards the village on the eastern side.

‘And since I see now that, without help, all men are lost,’ he declared, ‘I shall dedicate it to the Mother of God when she begs Him to forgive the sins of the world.’

So began the construction of his little church which was dedicated to the Virgin of the Intercession.

It was a modest building.

It had four walls made of brick, stone and rubble that formed, near enough, a cube. Over the centre of the cube was a small, squat octagonal drum, and this was topped with a shallow dome – only a little deeper in shape than an upturned saucer – with a little rim of roof around it. That was all: it was just a cube with a hole in the top.

Had one looked down from the sky at this little building before the roof was on, one could have seen that it contained four pillars, making a smaller square in the middle, and thus dividing the interior into nine equal squares. The drum and dome rested on the four pillars in the middle.

Within the church, however, this simple arrangement of nine squares could be seen another way. It appeared as three sections, dividing the church laterally. First, as one came in from the western end, came the introduction – a sort of vestibule. Then, one passed into the second, central section, under the dome. This was the heart of the church where the congregation stood and worshipped. Lastly, at the east end, came the sanctuary, with the altar in the middle. Upon the altar stood the cross and seven-branched candelabra, like a Jewish menorah; and to the left stood the oblation table on which the bread and wine were prepared for the liturgy.

To relieve the harshness of this design and add a sense of direction to his building, there were three little semi-circular apses on the eastern end.

The roof was made with sets of simple barrel vaults, resting on the walls and central pillars, and open in the centre where the dome rose. There were long, narrow windows in the walls and small windows in the octagonal drum under the dome.

This was the standard Byzantine church. All the great churches and cathedrals of the Orthodox Church, like St Sophia in Kiev, with their many arcades of pillars and their multiple domes, were only elaborations on this simple arrangement.

There was one technical problem to solve. This was how to support the octagonal drum over the square formed by the four central pillars.

Though much brick building could be easily enough accomplished by the skilled wood-builders of Rus, this particular problem was of a different nature. There were two chief solutions, both from the east: the Persian squinch, a kind of fan vaulting; or the one the Russians usually preferred, the pendentive, which had originated eight centuries before in Syria.

This was simply a spandrel – as though one had cut a V shape or triangle on the inside of a sphere. Curving out from the supporting pillar, the top of this V could support a circle or octagon above.

As simple as it was elegant, this arrangement allowed the dome above to seem to float, weightless as the sky, over the congregation.

On the outside of the church, Ivanushka copied the great churches in Kiev, alternating brick and stone, joined by thick layers of mortar mixed with brick dust so that the whole building had a soft, pinkish glow.

At the outer edges of the three curved roofs, with their barrel vaults, he added a little jutting overlap so that the roofline’s triple wave, like a triple eye-brow, was pleasantly accentuated.

Such was the little Russian-Byzantine church the eccentric boyar built. It was very small. There was only room for a small congregation. Indeed, had the inhabitants of the village been Christian, the place would have been full to overflowing. Work was begun in the autumn of 1111 and, pushed ahead vigorously by Ivanushka, it proceeded through the following year.

1113

The first Russian revolution – that is to say, the first organized uprising by the people against an exploitative mercantile class – took place in the year 1113. And it was successful.

The grievances of the people were entirely justified, and were caused by an unpleasant mixture of what amounted to laissez-faire capitalism, widespread corruption and cartels – in all of which the ruling princes were involved.

The general speculation which had drawn Sviatopolk into debt had continued and grown worse. It was led by the Prince of Kiev himself who, with increasing age, had grown not wiser, but lazier and more rapacious.

There was corruption everywhere. Debt, often at crippling interest rates, was positively encouraged. Small artisans and smerdy, in considerable numbers, had been thus forced into becoming zakupy. It was, after all, a very cheap form of labour for the creditor. And if, on distant estates, the friends of the prince ignored the laws concerning the zakup and actually sold him as a slave, the prince turned a blind eye. Because of these widespread abuses, the people were furious.

But worst of all were the cartels. They were organized by the great merchants. Their object was simple – to obtain monopolies on basic commodities and raise their prices. And the greatest of all was the salt cartel.

The Prince of Kiev had been successful. His plan for controlling the Polish supply had been effective and prices had soared.

‘Are we to welcome visitors with bread alone?’ his people demanded ironically. For every Slav, since time began, welcomed a stranger at his door with bread and salt.

But the Prince of Kiev was corrupt and cynical. The abuses continued.

And then, on April 16 1113, he died.

The next day, an almost unheard of event occurred.

Years before, after the troubles of 1068, the Prince of Kiev had moved the meeting place of the veche from the podol to the square by the palace, where he could keep an eye on it. Nor did the veche meet unless summoned by the Metropolitan of the Church, or the boyars. But these safeguards did nothing for the ruling powers now. Without consulting anyone, the veche of the people met of its own accord. And their meeting was both stormy and determined.

‘They make slaves of free men!’ they rightly protested. ‘They conspire to ruin the people,’ they said of the cartels.

‘Let us return,’ many demanded, ‘to the laws of Yaroslav.’ Although in fact the Russkaya Pravda – the Russian Law – which had been collated by Yaroslav the Wise and his sons was chiefly concerned with the payments due for harming the prince’s servants and boyars, it did contain a provision protecting the zakup from being made into a slave.

‘Let us return,’ they cried, ‘to another just prince who will maintain the law.’

There was only one such man in the land of Rus; and so it was that the veche of Kiev, in the year 1113, offered the throne of Kiev to Vladimir Monomakh.

‘Praise the Lord!’

It seemed to Ivanushka that at last there would be order in the land of Rus. He had been in Pereiaslav when the news of the Prince of Kiev’s death had come, and without even waiting to summon his sons from the estates, had ridden hard to the capital.

He had long been disgusted by the old prince’s rule. At Russka, and on his estates in the north-east, things were well run and the laws were obeyed. But he knew this was an exception. For the reigning prince’s brothers he had no great regard, and it was good judgement as well as personal loyalty, he believed, that made him declare: ‘Only Monomakh can put things right.’

With admirable good sense, he discovered on his arrival in Kiev, the people’s veche had decided the same thing.

Before even going to his brother’s house, he sent one of his grooms with all speed to Monomakh with the message: ‘Ivan Igorevich awaits you in Kiev. Come, take what the veche rightly offers you.’

So he was saddened, as he strode into their childhood home, to find his older brother in a gloomy mood, shaking his head.

‘It can’t work,’ Sviatopolk told him.

Since the campaign against the Cumans they had developed a quiet relationship that suited them both. They were not friends, but Sviatopolk’s hatred, having smouldered all his life, had burned itself out. He felt old and tired. Thanks to Ivanushka, he was well provided for. He lived entirely alone. His sons were serving in other cities, but he preferred to remain in Kiev, enjoying the respect due to him as a boyar and a reputation – alas undeserved – as a successful man of affairs. In general, on most subjects, he was pessimistic. ‘And I tell you,’ he reiterated, ‘Monomakh cannot become Grand Prince.’

Two days later, it appeared he was right. For word arrived in Kiev that Monomakh had refused.

In a way, he had no option. By the rules of succession he was not the next in line – there were senior branches of the family who should precede him. And had he not, all his life, striven to preserve an orderly succession and keep the peace? Why should he throw away his principles now, especially at the bidding of the lower classes whom, as a prince, he knew must be kept in their place? He did not come.

And then the revolution started.

Ivanushka had gone riding in the woods, that fateful morning, across to the Monastery of the Caves and back. He had no idea that anything was amiss until, coming in sight of the podol, he suddenly saw a dozen columns of smoke starting to rise over the city. He spurred forward. A few moments later he met a merchant in a cart. The fellow was sweating profusely and whipping his horses along for all he was worth.

‘What are they doing?’ he cried.

‘Killing us, lord,’ the man shouted. ‘Merchants and nobles alike. Turn back, sir,’ he added, ‘only a fool would go in there.’

Ivanushka smiled grimly to himself, and rode forward. He passed into the podol. The streets were full of people, running to and fro. The uprising looked spontaneous, and seemed to be universal. Some of the small traders were boarding up their houses, but at the same time others were forming into armed groups in the street. Several times he had difficulty getting through.

In one small street, he came face to face with a group of twenty or so.

‘Look,’ one of them shouted, ‘a muzh – a nobleman.’ And they rushed at him with such fury that he only just managed to get away.

The crowds were surging towards the centre. Already he could see flames coming from the citadel of Yaroslav. And a single thought formed in his mind: I must go and save Sviatopolk.

It was as he came towards the Khazar Gate that he saw something that made him go cold, and for a moment drove even thoughts of his brother from his mind.

The crowd numbered at least two hundred. They had entirely surrounded the house. And whereas the people he had seen so far looked either angry or excited, the faces of these rioters had taken on a cruel aspect. A number of them were grinning with obvious pleasure at the punishment they were about to inflict.

The house belonged to old Zhydovyn the Khazar.

An expectant murmur rose from the crowd.

‘Roast them a little,’ he heard a voice cry.

There was a chorus of approval.

‘Roast pig belongs on a spit,’ a large man shouted jovially.

Some of them, Ivanushka noticed, carried flaming torches. They were already preparing to set light to one side of the house; but it was obvious from their faces that their desire was not so much to burn it down as to smoke the inmates out.

‘Villains,’ a man cried.

‘Jews!’ shouted an old woman.

And at once several more in the crowd took up the cry: ‘Come out, Jews, and be killed.’

Ivanushka understood very well. The fact that many of the Jewish Khazar merchants were poor; the more significant fact still that nearly all the leaders of the exploiting cartels had been Slavic or Scandinavian Christians – both these truths had been temporarily forgotten. In the heat of the moment, the angry crowd, looking for scapegoats to attack, had remembered that some of the capitalists were foreign. They were Jewish. There was now a grand excuse for acts of cruelty.

It was just then, scanning the house, that Ivanushka saw a single face at a window.

It was Zhydovyn. He was looking out gloomily, unable to gauge what he should do.

One of the men had pushed his way to the front. He was carrying a long, thin pike. ‘Show us your men,’ he shouted.

‘There are no Jewish men,’ someone replied. And there was a general laugh.

In fact, as far as Ivanushka could tell, old Zhydovyn was probably alone in there except for some servants.

‘Show us your women, then!’ the man bellowed, to a general guffaw.

Ivanushka braced himself and started to push his horse forward, through the crowd. People began to turn. There were cries of anger.

‘What’s this?’

‘A damned noble!’

‘Another exploiter.’

‘Pull him down!’

He felt hands grabbing at his feet; a spear was thrust up at him, only just missing his face. He wanted to strike at them with his whip, but knew that if he made the slightest angry movement he was lost. Slowly, imperturbably, he coaxed his horse forward, gently nudging his way through the parting crowd to the front. Then he turned.

Ivanushka looked at the crowd, and they stared at him.

And to his surprise, he experienced a new kind of fear.

He had never faced an angry crowd before. He had faced the Cuman horde; he had several times looked at death. But he had never faced a wall of hatred. It was terrifying. Worse than that, he suddenly felt numb. The crowd’s hate came at him like a single, unstoppable force. He felt naked, fearful, and strangely ashamed. Yet why should he feel ashamed? There was no cause for it. True, he was a noble; but he knew very well that he had done these people no harm. Why should their rage make him feel guilty? Yet the force of their united hatred was like a blow to the stomach.

Then the crowd fell silent.

Ivanushka gripped the reins and gently patted his horse’s neck, lest he too take fright. How strange, he thought, to have survived the Cumans only to be killed by a mob.

The man with the pike was pointing at him. Like most of the others, he wore a dirty linen smock with a leather belt; his face was almost wholly covered with a black beard and his hair fell to his shoulders.

‘Well, noble, tell us what you want before you die,’ he called out.

Ivanushka tried to meet his angry eyes calmly.

‘I am Ivan Igorevich,’ he replied in a loud, firm voice. ‘I serve Vladimir Monomakh, whom you seek. And I have sent him a messenger, in my name and in yours, begging him to make haste and come to the veche in Kiev.’

There was a faint hum in the crowd. They were clearly uncertain whether to believe him. The man with the pike narrowed his eyes. It seemed to Ivanushka he was about to thrust the pike at him. Then, from somewhere, came a voice: ‘It’s true. I’ve seen him. He’s Monomakh’s man.’

The man with the pike turned to the speaker, then back to the noble. It seemed to Ivanushka that there was a trace of disappointment on his face.

But now, like a tide, he felt the wave of hatred from the crowd receding. ‘Welcome, Monomakh’s man,’ the fellow with the pike said grimly. ‘What are these Jews to you?’

‘They are under my protection. And Monomakh’s,’ Ivanushka added. ‘They have done no harm.’

The fellow shrugged.

‘Perhaps.’ Then, suddenly, seeing that this was the moment to strengthen his temporary street-leadership, he turned round upon the crowd and bellowed: ‘For Monomakh! Let’s find some more Jews to kill.’

And within moments, he had led them away.

Ivanushka went in. He found the old Khazar alone except for two women servants. He stayed with him until late afternoon, when the city was quieter. Only then did he proceed to his brother’s house.

It was as he had feared. They had reached the tall wooden house in mid-afternoon. As far as he could judge, Sviatopolk had made no attempt to run. Supposing the boyar to be far more successful than he was, the furious crowd had killed him, ransacked the house, and burned it down.

Ivanushka found the charred remains of his brother’s body, said a prayer, and then in the failing light, returned to seek shelter as he had once before at the Khazar’s house.

How strange it was, after so many years, to find himself in that house again, sitting alone in the candlelight with old Zhydovyn.

The Khazar had recovered from the attack now. And Ivanushka, though saddened by Sviatopolk’s death, found that he did not feel unduly melancholy.

They ate together quietly, saying little; but he could see that the old man, still brooding over what had happened that day, was longing to say something. And so it did not surprise him when, at the end of the meal, the old man suddenly remarked sharply: ‘Of course, none of this would have happened if the country was properly governed.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ivanushka asked respectfully.

‘Your princes of Rus,’ the Khazar replied scornfully, ‘those fools. None of them knows how to organize an empire. They have no proper laws, no system.’

‘We have laws.’

Zhydovyn shrugged.

‘Rudimentary laws of the Slavs and norsemen. Your church laws are better, I admit, but they are Greek and Roman, from Constantinople. Yet who runs your administration, such as it is? Khazars and Greeks half the time. Why are your people revolting now? Because your princes either break the law or don’t enforce it – or just have no laws to prevent them oppressing the people.’

‘It is true we have been badly ruled.’

‘Because you have no system within which to work. Your princes fight amongst each other all the time, weakening the state, because they can’t devise a workable system of succession.’

‘But, Zhydovyn,’ he protested, ‘is it not true that the succession of brother by brother is derived not from the Varangian norsemen but from the Turks? Did we not take this, too, from you Khazars?’

‘Perhaps. But your rulers of Rus are incapable of order. You can’t deny it. The royal house is in chaos.’

What the old man said rang true. Yet Ivanushka was reluctant to agree. For despite his disgust at the people that day, with their foolish, anti-Semitic rallying cries, he could not help himself thinking: How wrong they are, these Jews. How far behind us, with their endless trust in laws and systems.

He sighed, then said aloud: ‘The law is not everything, you know.’

Zhydovyn gazed at him. ‘It’s all we have,’ he replied bluntly.

Ivanushka shook his head. How could he explain? That was not the way to think.

No. There was a better way. A Christian way.

He could not, perhaps, find the words himself, but that did not matter. For had they not already been said, better than he could hope to express them, in the most famous sermon ever given in the Russian Church?

It had been preached just before his birth, yet so well recorded that he had learned sections of it as a child. The sermon had been given by the great Slav churchman, Hilarion, in memory of St Vladimir. He had called it: On Law and Grace. And its message was very simple. The Jews had given mankind God’s law. But then had come the Son of God, with a greater truth – the rule of grace, of God’s direct love, which is greater than earthly rules and regulations. This was the wonderful message which the new Church of the Slavs would demonstrate to the vast world of forest and steppe.

How could he tell old Zhydovyn this? He could not. The Jews would never accept it.

Yet had not his own journey through life been a pilgrimage in search of grace? Had not he – Ivanushka the Fool – discovered God’s love without a textbook of laws?

He had no wish for a world of systems. It was not in his nature. The solution, with God’s grace, must surely be something simpler.

‘All we need,’ he told the Khazar, ‘is a wise and godly man, a true prince, a strong ruler.’

It was a medieval phantom that was to be the curse of most of Russian history.

‘Thank God,’ he went on, ‘that we have Monomakh.’

Before parting, however, as a token of affection, Ivanushka gave the old man a little gift: it was the little metal disk he wore around his neck on a chain, and which bore the trident tamga of his clan.

‘Take it,’ he said, ‘to remind you that we saved each other’s lives.’

It was a few days later that, by the grace of God, the princes bowed to the veche, and that, thanks to a revolution, there began the rule of one of the greatest monarchs Russia ever had: Vladimir Monomakh.

Ivanushka’s joy was even further increased when, that very autumn, the little church at Russka, with what seemed like miraculous speed, was completed.

He would often make the journey down to the village, staying days at a time, pretending to inspect the estate but in fact just enjoying the astonishing peace of the place.

Above all, at the end of the day, he liked to look at his little masterpiece. How gently it glowed in the evening light, its pink surface warmed by the departing rays of the sun.

He would sit contentedly gazing at the brave little building on its platform of grass above the river, with the dark woods behind, as the sun slowly went down.

Was there a sense of threat, of melancholy over the golden Byzantine dome as it caught the last flashes of light at sunset? No. He had faith. Nothing, it seemed to him, would now disturb the tranquillity of the little house of God, before the forest and above the river.

All nature seemed at peace in the vast, Russian silence.

And how strange it was, he sometimes thought, that when he stood on the bank by the church and gazed out at the vast sky over the endless steppe, the sky itself, no matter which way the clouds were passing, seemed like a great river to be motionless, yet retreating, always retreating.

And often, even on summer days, a slight wind from the east came softly over the land.