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  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 sho
uld 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, givin
g 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.’