Russka (26 page)

Still not fully awake, she looked behind her. The hut was empty. For a second she had to collect her thoughts.

At mid-morning, she remembered, her father had harnessed the old mare and taken the sled down the frozen river to the next
village. The clear sky of the dawn had disappeared. The cloud bank from the south had moved slowly up and by the time her father left, the light in the village had seemed almost brown. Nothing had been happening. It was dull, rather oppressive. Her mother had decided to go over to the fort; but Yanka had stayed behind and fallen asleep.

She had not heard the shouting.

And now she had awoken to this. Coming out of sleep, it seemed like a nightmare. The sounds of the horses’ hoofs on the frozen snow echoed eerily in the room.

Though Yanka did not know it, it was only a minute since the villagers had fled. For everything had happened so fast. Suddenly at the far end of the big field, a horseman had appeared. Then three. Then, as people began to shout, a hundred. It was as if all the trees had suddenly turned into horsemen, advancing with bow and spear.

Silently the Mongol army had melted through the woods, advancing in five enormous groups across a front about three miles across. The village of Russka lay near the centre. Now they were flowing through like a dark flood upon the snow.

The villagers had been so surprised that they had no time to do anything but run. Three people had banged upon Yanka’s door before tearing away, supposing the hut must be emptv. They had run across the frozen river, driven like game, looking for shelter. Some rushed up into the fort; a few ran to the sanctuary of the church; others preferred to try the woods beyond.

It was at the first shout from the village that Yanka’s mother looked out from the gateway of the little fort. First her breath caught in her throat. Then her heart began to race wildly.

She saw the villagers streaming out – small, pathetic, dark bundles running raggedly across the grey-white ice towards her. But where was Yanka?

A moment later she saw what none of the fleeing villagers could see – the full extent of the Mongol line, stretching up and down the river.

She scanned the fleeing villagers again – where was Yanka? There was no sign of her.

She started to run, down the slope, towards the river and the Mongol horsemen, who had already reached the opposite bank.

And she did not know that, seconds later, the villagers had stupidly closed the fortress gates behind her.

Mengu could hardly believe his luck when, as the gates shut, the general rode over to him. He was a stout, surly man, given to few words. He raised his arm and pointed his whip across the river. ‘Take that fort.’

It was a chance to prove himself. For a second, the image of his sister flashed across his mind. He knew very well that in the universe of the Great Khan, nothing, not even the smallest seeming diversion, happened by chance, and now his brain was working rapidly, calculating.

Scarcely pausing to acknowledge the order, he wheeled his horse and, with two curt commands, like a couple of harsh grunts, directed the nearby squadrons into two lines who immediately forked right and left, riding across the ice to encircle the fort and the church.

Beckoning a decurion he commanded: ‘One siege engine. A catapult.’ And the fellow clattered away up the frozen river.

They were bringing the engines across at a place where the woods were thinner, a few hundred yards to the north.

The Mongol siege was very like the hunts of the Great Khan. One circled the fortress entirely, excluding any possibility of escape. Sometimes, if a major town looked obstinate, the Mongols would build a wooden wall right round it as though to say: ‘You think your walls protect you. Now look: you are trapped inside ours.’ Then, at leisure, they would knock down the fortress defences, or fill in the moat and build bridges over the walls. There was no possibility that they would ever give up. The surrounded fort was doomed.

Mengu looked at the pitiful little wooden fort. What fools they were to shut the gates. The army would never even have bothered to burn the place down if they had just left them open.

But how convenient. What an easy way to show his mettle.

The thing must be done quickly: that was the key. The general would not want to see his forces delayed. ‘Hurry,’ he shouted after the decurion, who was already too far away to hear him. He frowned, impatiently.

Yanka hesitated.

The horsemen had passed out of the village. They had set two of the huts on fire but had not paused to do more. A shouted order from somewhere in front had caused them to move swiftly towards the river. Suddenly it was very quiet.

Perhaps her family were out there somewhere. Perhaps they were lying dead. Or they might be fleeing without her, and she would be left alone. What should she do? She was terrified of the horsemen, but even that was not as terrible as the fear of being alone.

She stepped outside.

The horsemen had already been drawn down to the river. As she came out of the hamlet she saw the back of the two files of cavalry trotting across the ice to surround the fort. Away to her left, past the old graveyard, was a body of about three hundred infantry. The men wore heavy leather coats, like armour, and their lines bristled with long, dark spears. To her right, half a dozen horsemen waited impassively upon the bank, and directly ahead, on the edge of the ice, a single horseman seemed to be giving directions. No one even noticed her existence.

Then she saw two sights that made her want to cry out for joy.

It was her brother Kiy who saw her first.

The nine-year-old boy and his father had been almost back from their trip, and approaching the last bend in the frozen river before the village, when Kiy suddenly heard his father exclaim: ‘Devil take it! Look at that – it’s a Cuman raid.’

He looked to the right. Three horsemen were calmly riding through the trees by the bank. Then he saw ten. Then fifty. His father jerked the reins. The sled swerved. ‘What’s behind us?’

Kiy looked back. ‘More. They’re crossing.’ And his father cursed. ‘What about Mother and Yanka?’ the boy cried out.

His father said nothing, but cracked the reins savagely along the old mare’s back. She flinched, tossed her head angrily, and they raced towards the bend. ‘Please God they aren’t in front as well,’ the peasant muttered.

The little sled whisked over the ice. Father and son held their breath. It must be a big raid. Kiy started silently to pray. Thank God, the bank seemed for a moment to be clear as they raced round the curve … and ran into the Mongol army.

The line of horsemen was trotting across the ice to surround the
fort, directly in front of them. Kiy did not see his mother, but just as his father wheeled the sled round to race towards the woods on their right, he shouted: ‘Look! It’s Yanka. On the bank. She’s seen us.’

He was surprised when his father only muttered: ‘Devil take it. You’ll get us all killed.’

Then he saw Yanka start to run down, towards the Mongols.

For Yanka had not only seen them – she had seen her mother, coming across the ice between the two streams of horsemen. She opened her mouth to shout, but as though she were in a dream, no sound came except a tiny whisper that nobody heard. She tried to step forward. Nothing happened. And then her mother saw her.

Suddenly the little girl felt a flood of relief. She was safe. Without pausing even to think, she ran down the bank on to the frozen river, straight towards her mother, oblivious even of the Mongol on his horse who stood in the path between them.

Mengu stared. What was this peasant woman doing?

He had been looking for the siege engine anxiously. Another few moments and it would be in position. He glanced at his troops. The ring around the fort was almost complete. This would be his day. Studiously he avoided looking towards the general. ‘I’ll have the whole place under control in an hour,’ he murmured.

Though his face showed nothing, he felt a surge of excitement. It was like the great ring in the royal hunt. And today, the ring was his. For a brief hour he was to be general, like a prince. I’ll show them, he thought elatedly.

But who was this peasant woman coming towards him?

It was just then that he suddenly remembered a story he had heard some months ago. A peasant woman, no doubt very like this, had made a sudden rush at a young captain when they were burning the city of Riazan. She had pulled out a knife and killed him, too. ‘So watch out for their women,’ the fellow who told him had warned. He frowned, irritated. Who was she, to disturb the imperial hunt? He was not going to have a Russian peasant woman threaten his career.

Now she was breaking into a run, making straight for him.

At the lightest pressure from his knees, his horse clattered forward. He took out his sabre and with a single, curving slash cut
straight down to her breast. She crumpled and slid across the ice. He turned back to look for the siege engine.

‘Mama!’

A scream. He wheeled again, sword in hand, to face this new threat. Even before he knew it his curved sabre was raised high, his face tense, his mouth a snarl.

A little girl, white-faced, was kneeling in terror on the ice beside the woman. Blood was pumping from the huge gash. The woman’s eyes were open; she was gazing at the child, trying to say something.

For a second he, too, forgot everything. He saw only the faces of the mother and her child.

‘Yanka!’

A shout, this time from a small boy and a peasant on a sled, two hundred yards away. He had not noticed it before because his horsemen, now across the river, had been in the way.

‘Yanka!’

The peasants stood there by their sled with no idea of what to do, in front of several hundred bowmen who could have killed them in a second.

The woman’s eyes were glassy. It was over.

There was a clatter upon the frozen river as the Mongol reached down and scooped the little girl up in one arm. The flakes of ice flew as his horse raced towards the sled where he threw her carelessly to the ground. Looking down contemptuously at the boy and his father, he waved them away.

A second later, their sled was racing through the trees.

It was not the policy of the Mongols to kill the peasants in the lands they conquered. Peasants tilled the soil, paid taxes and supplied recruits. The Mongols only killed those who were foolish enough to resist them.

Mengu turned back. The entire incident had taken rather less than a minute, during which time he supposed everyone had been too busy to take much notice.

The troops were all in place. The catapult was coming up, and an engineer was awaiting his order. He put the foolish incident out of his mind. Secretly he felt ashamed of killing the woman. As for the little girl … His face showed nothing.

With a curt nod, he signalled the catapult to proceed.

The inhabitants of Russka had never seen a catapult like this. Its technology was simple enough – a massive counterweight at one end of a lever caused the arm to hurl a stone from the other. But its power was truly extraordinary. For the engineers of China had constructed a machine that could be loaded with a stone it took four strong men to lift, and then hurl it with devastating accuracy almost a quarter of a mile.

The first stone completely broke down the parapet over the gate. The second smashed the gate itself.

At Mengu’s order, the Mongols streamed through into the fort. They moved rapidly but methodically. Every door was kicked open: every room, every crevice searched. They used spears and swords. Any living creature, man, woman or child, was quickly and efficiently butchered. They were so quick and thorough that, apart from a few moments of sheer terror, few of the people there even suffered very much.

Inside the fort they found some modest quantities of fresh food and ten tons of stored grain, which they removed in carts taken from the village. Then, leaving the bodies where they were, they set fire to every building, and to the wooden walls.

The huge bonfire on the little hill grew rapidly. Soon the whole fort was alive with fire, and over its walls, new walls of roaring flames appeared, hurling smoke and sparking cinders high into the air above the forest. As the broad-faced Mongols watched below, the whole place seemed to shudder with the roar, crack and whine of the little fort’s destruction.

Mengu turned to a decurion. ‘Twenty bowmen, with fire arrows,’ he ordered. ‘Surround the church.’

A few moments later there were broad-chested Mongols in leather jerkins and with huge, curved bows at the ready before each of the church’s walls. At a nod from Mengu, they took out long, heavy arrows with huge cloth heads that had been dipped in pitch, and lit them.

‘Fire.’ The arrows began to fly, and to crash through the church’s narrow windows. Soon smoke emerged; then flame.

Mengu wondered whether the people inside would come out of the door, and stationed more bowmen opposite. But though the force of the fire within seemed to be causing the door to tremble, it remained closed.

After a time, the little dome collapsed and fell with a crash into
the building. No one could possibly be alive in there by now, he thought. The place must be a roaring furnace. Even the bricks were starting to glow. A wall fell, then another. It was good. In case the general thought him soft about the child, he meant to show he knew how to be harsh.

That evening, as a few villagers crept out of the woods, they saw in place of the fort and the brave little church, only blackened ruins beside which the birds were swooping curiously.

The report the general made to the mighty Batu Khan that evening was sensible and clear-headed.

‘He lost concentration because a woman ran towards him. He should have seen her before and ordered his men to cut her down or remove her. He didn’t. He waited until she reached him, then he killed her. He took his eyes off the job.’

‘Then?’

‘There was a little girl. He picked her up and threw her out.’

‘Waste of time. What then?’

‘He took the fort. Burned it down.’

‘Very well. Anything else?’