The Empire of Time (23 page)

Such nights are endless torment. Dawn finds me sitting on my bed, staring at my hands, the situation unresolved. I want to go to Razumovsky and tell him how I feel about his daughter; to throw myself at his mercy and beg him to break off the engagement and marry her to me. But the man would only take that as an insult, and then Ernst’s long-worked-at schemes would be undone.

No. Directness is not an option. What then? Be sly? Pursue the girl by covert means?

I know what that would mean. It would be dangerous, for it would mean defying all that this society believes in. A young woman like her will be protected from all suitors but her future husband. Why, even to glimpse her, as I had glimpsed her, was a privilege allowed only to the few. Most of the time their women are kept well out of sight of prying males, in the Byzantine fashion, closeted away inside the
terem
, where only women are allowed to venture.

The day is barely an hour old when Ernst comes and knocks upon my door. I unlock it, then sit again.

‘Otto? Are you all right?’

I look up at him, then shake my head. ‘I’m not well, Ernst. I need to go back.’

Ernst sighs, then sits beside me. ‘I didn’t think you were. You barely touched your drink last night.’

I smile faintly. Ernst smiles back, then places his hand on my shoulder. ‘Can it wait half a day? There’s something I have to do, and I really do need your help.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘I have to see Razumovsky again. I told him that you were far more important than I’d first made out. I said that you were the representative of certain trading concerns from Utrecht, and that you could get him silver. I would have briefed you last night, only …’

I look down. The last place I need to go this morning is Razumovksy’s, for she is certain to be there.

‘Okay. But I leave, once we’re done?’

‘Of course!’ And he slaps my back, Russian-style. ‘Good. Then grab your furs. It’s bloody cold out there.’

The place looks different in the daylight. Less magical. What’s more it smells, though faintly, thank Urd. These houses are all the same, an enclosed stockade with a single gateway and buildings to all four sides of the main courtyard which doubles as a rubbish dump. In summer the place would stink worse than a farmyard.

Razumovsky’s steward meets us and leads us through, into the same huge room where we sat last night, only cleared now, the table against the far wall, the benches stacked away elsewhere.

I sniff the air, as if to get her scent.

It’s several minutes before Razumovsky finally makes an appearance. He’s in his shirtsleeves despite the cold. He looks to have been washing, for even as he greets us a servant brings in his jacket and a thick fur hat, which he pulls on.

He looks at me differently this morning, as if I have been concealing something from him. Yet he doesn’t seem displeased. If anything, he’s more respectful.

‘I’m told,’ he begins, glancing at Ernst, ‘that you can get us silver.’

I meet Razumovsky’s eyes – brown, not blue – then reach into the deep pocket of my furs and bring out the heavy cloth bag Ernst gave me and hand it to the merchant.

With what seems indecent haste, Razumovsky goes to the table and, untying the mouth of the bag, spills its contents out on to the surface.

Twenty tiny ingots of pure silver, each stamped with the symbol of the town of Utrecht.

He looks up at me and grins. ‘If this is pure …’

‘It’s pure,’ I say. ‘Take one and test it.’ I smile. ‘I trust you, Mikhail.’

He nods, then slips one into the pocket of his jacket. ‘Okay. But just how much silver can you get?’

‘How much would you like?’

He laughs, as if I am playing with him now. Then, seeing that I’m serious, his eyes narrow. ‘I need to—’

‘Ask?’

‘Yes.’

There’s a moment’s silence – the silence of mutual understanding – between us, and then he grins again and takes my arm firmly. ‘I think, dear Otto, we shall become good friends.’

And, turning, he shouts into the darkness of the passageway behind. ‘Oleg! Bring us more wine to celebrate!’

Turning back, he grins and nods once more. ‘Such good, dear friends …’

If there is one thing these Russians can do, it’s drink. We pull out a bench and sit and talk and drink. And so the morning slowly passes. Yet Fate, which has thrown me back into Razumovsky’s house, has one further twist for me that morning. Two hours have passed and, feeling light-headed, I stand and beg Razumovsky’s excuse while I go to empty my bladder. I know the way. Twice the previous evening I had sought out the crude pit at the back of the house.

As I stand there on the wooden boards, pissing down into the hole, I think of her. No less romantic place could there be for such thoughts, yet she fills my mind, as she has done all morning. Even as Ernst, Razumovsky and I talked, I was wondering all the while just where she was in the house – whether above me or to the side, whether to my left or right – as if that knowledge were the most important thing I might possess. I had hoped – vain hope, I know – that she might stray into the room, to see her father, perhaps. Yet as the hours passed I’d grown resigned. I was to be tormented. To be this close, yet be denied the sight of her.

I button up and step out into the dark, narrow corridor, but I have not gone three paces when I hear the soft rustle of cloth behind me. I turn, my hand going to my belt to seek my knife. Yet I know who it is. I utter her name, the word the merest breath.

‘
Katerina
?’

She comes close, a dark, mysterious shape in that stifling darkness, then leans yet closer and whispers in my ear.

‘Don’t say a word. If my father were to know …’

The smell of her is intoxicating; not perfume, but her own sweet bodily scent. I close my eyes, savouring the softness of her breath upon my neck. And then, heaven itself, her hand brushes my arm and seeks my left hand, her fingers lacing with my own.

‘Tomorrow,’ she whispers. ‘In the marketplace after morning service. In the lane beside the cathedral.’

And saying that, she squeezes my hand and lets it go, moving back into the darkness.

I stand there a moment, as if bewitched, then put my hand to my face, smelling it, seeking even the faintest trace of her, my skin tingling from the touch of her.

Sweet Urd
, I think.
Oh gods protect me!

But it is far too late. I know now that I’ll not go back. Tomorrow. I shall be seeing her tomorrow.

But Ernst has other plans.

Back at our rooms, he tells me what he’s arranged for that afternoon. We are to jump forward six years, to a specific date and time. There we’ll make a detailed note of circumstances before returning here. It’s fairly routine. We often do this, to measure just how the changes we are making are affecting history. Only this once I do not want to know, because
she
will be there. Katerina. Six years older. And I will learn just how she’s filled those years.

If I dare ask.

I should have done it then. I should have told Ernst and let him solve the problem for me. No doubt he would have sent me back, taken me off the project. But I will never know. And why? Because I didn’t tell him.

And so we jump back to 2999 and the platform, and then jump again, to Novgorod, but this time in the summer of 1243.

The town has barely changed, though without its winter coat it seems transformed. There is a bustle to the place, as well as a stench. Traders from Denmark and Sweden, Finland and Germany, Byzantium and the Bulgar kingdom crowd its streets, their carts piled high with the produce of a dozen different cultures: silks and spices, jewellery and furs, glass bracelets and beautiful, colourful necklaces, woollen cloth and tubs of wax, carved bone and leather goods, pottery and – most rare of all – silver; oriental
dirhams
mainly, but with a scattering of ingots from the west.

Ernst looks about him as we push through the crowd, seeking a face he knows, but there are only strangers here.

He turns to me, yelling above the noise. ‘Razumovsky’s!’

It’s what I feared, yet at the same time I am compelled to go. I cannot stop thinking about her, not for a second. To not know what has befallen her – that’s an impossibility. I
have
to know. And yet I fear it. Fear the hurt I know is in store for me.

As we climb the steep, log-lined thoroughfare, between those endless, windowless wooden houses, I imagine what I’ll find. There will be children – four at least, maybe five – for that’s a woman’s role in this time and place. But what of her? Will her eyes still shine? Or would the drudgery of marriage have aged her – worn down her soul until the light in her was doused?

The place has barely changed. Razumovsky’s sign – a red boar’s head – has been carved and then painted on a rounded shield and hung beside the gate. Otherwise all is as I remember it.

Ernst bangs loudly on the gate, then turns and smiles at me.

‘Next time we come, we’ll see a change, eh, Otto? Razumovsky doesn’t know his luck! He’ll be able to pull this shit-house down and build himself a palace with what he makes from us!’

But I am only half listening. The truth is I feel sick just thinking about what lies ahead.

The gate creaks back.

‘Masters?’

It is the steward, Oleg. The last six years have aged him badly, bent him like an old man. He blinks at us, then stands back, letting us pass.

‘Is your master home?’ Ernst asks.

‘He is, merchant. If you would follow me.’

The place stinks, but no more than any other in the town. Even the prince’s quarters stink at this time of the year. Yet it reminds me once more of how crude this age is, how uncivilised. And not merely its dwellings, but the people, too.

Mad. I have to be mad even to think what I am thinking at that moment. Yet I cannot stop myself. I can feel her fingers interlaced with mine, feel the soft warmth of her sweet breath on my neck, and know I am lost.

Razumovsky takes his time appearing, and when he does it’s clear that he’s drunk. Bleary-eyed, he stands in the far doorway, swaying slightly, staring in at us as if looking at two strangers. He gives a grunt. ‘Oh, it’s you. I wondered when you’d show your pasty faces.’

Ernst seems taken aback. ‘Mikhail?’

But Razumovsky doesn’t seem to care. He comes across and sits, kicking out at the dog that’s lying under the table. It runs from him, yelping.

Razumovsky wipes his mouth, then turns, looking back at his steward. ‘Oleg! Bring me a drink!’

As Oleg scuttles off, I look to Ernst. ‘Maybe we should come back. When he’s not …’

‘Drunk?’ Razumovsky stares at me, his red eyes challenging. ‘If you’d had my misfortune, you’d want to stay drunk.’

‘Misfortune?’ Ernst takes a step towards him, but the merchant raises his hand as if to fend him off. The drunken slur has gone from his voice. Now there’s only bitterness.

‘Since that arrogant bastard beat your fellows on the lake nothing has been the same. His faction rules here now. And woe to those who once opposed them. What trade I had has vanished, like the sun in winter.’

‘Prince Iaroslavich?’

Razumovsky sneers. ‘Nevsky, as they call him now.’ He turns his head and spits. ‘Curse the day his mother bore him!’

‘And your daughter?’ I ask.

Ernst looks to me, puzzled. It’s such a non sequitur, that even I am surprised that I’ve asked.

Razumovsky stares at me, then shrugs. ‘I do not see her, trader. Her husband …’

I understand, or think I do. The husband is part of the triumphant faction. To mix with Razumovsky – even as his father-in-law – would not be wise, and so Razumovsky does not see his daughter.

‘Does the marriage go well?’

This time Ernst glares at me. ‘Otto!’

But Razumovsky laughs. ‘She hates the little cunt. Why, it’s said—’

He stops dead, realising he is saying far too much. But I am intrigued now.

‘What is said?’

‘Nothing,’ he snarls, getting to his feet. ‘Not a damn fucking thing! Now if you gentlemen will excuse me …’

‘Wait,’ Ernst says. ‘I think we can help you.’

‘Help?’ Again the merchant laughs, but this time there’s bitterness etched deep into his face. ‘The only way you could help me would be to kill that fucker … yes, and all his men. I’m leaving here, trader. Finding some place where his word isn’t the law. Vladimir, maybe. Or Kiev itself.’

‘Kiev has been sacked,’ I say. ‘The Mongols rule there now.’

He grunts, then sits again. Reaching out, he picks up his tankard, then drains it. Wiping his beard, he looks at me again. ‘You asked about my daughter, trader. Well, you could do me one favour, if you would.’

I glance at Ernst, then nod. ‘Name it.’

‘I would send a note to her. Her mother …’ He hesitates, awkward now. ‘Her mother misses her.’

But I can see that it’s not his wife but he himself who misses her.

‘If you’ll have her write a note, I’ll do my best to deliver it.’

‘Write?’ Razumovksy laughs, and I realise as he does what I have said. Barely anyone can write in this Age. Why, Razumovsky himself is barely literate.

‘And Katerina, your daughter, she would be able to read this note?’

Razumovsky nods exaggeratedly, beaming with pride. ‘The priest taught her. Old Alexandr. He’ll write the letter for me. I’ll go to him now, if you’ll wait.’

‘We’ll wait.’

As soon as Razumovsky has gone, Ernst turns on me. ‘Otto, what are you doing?’

‘You want information?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘We’ll get nothing from him. But his son-in-law … He’ll know what’s going on. That is, if it’s as Razumovsky says it is.’

‘Maybe …’

‘No, Ernst. Trust me. The daughter’s the key.’

I am persuasive, but I am also lying. For once I do not care what’s happening in Novgorod. We are there to change it, after all. No, I want one thing only: to see her again, and to find out how she is.

She hates the little cunt …

The words had almost made me laugh with joy. But I had to play this carefully. If Ernst even guessed what I was thinking …