It was an enthusiasm Andrei could share. This was what the Cossacks wanted to see.
They were briefly interrupted by a rustling at the entrance as the older of the two women appeared and began quietly to set food on the table. It was a modest meaclass="underline" fish, a few vegetables, and a sort of gingerbread she had made without eggs or milk, so as not to break the Lenten fast. To wash this down, however, Nikita had allowed himself some of the vodka which was now the drink of all classes in northern Russia.
Andrei had idly watched these preparations, curious to see whether the younger woman would appear; but she had not. They moved to the table and at once Nikita poured them both a liberal quantity of vodka.
Andrei was curious to know more about his host. What sort of man was he?
‘I’m a small landowner,’ Nikita explained. ‘My family have been service gentry – boyar’s sons, they call us – for a long time. Our estate’s a small place in the Vladimir region. But I hope to rise,’ he confided. He explained that the next step up would be to join the more select, so-called Moscow Gentry that Ivan the Terrible had founded with his chosen thousand retainers. ‘And who knows, after that? People like me have even become boyars – the highest rank of all.’
His modest education, it turned out, was a great advantage to him because it allowed him to make himself useful in his government department.
‘It was because my mother taught me Polish that I was chosen for this part of my department,’ he added. ‘We have special responsibility for Cossack affairs.’
Andrei knew that the government department – the prikaz – was one of the ways to advancement in the Tsar’s service and he was curious about it. Nikita was happy to tell him more, describing the work of his unit with pride. Yet the more Andrei listened, the more puzzled he became.
For as well as Cossack affairs, it seemed Nikita’s prikaz dealt with honey production, the Tsar’s falcons, and numerous other matters that seemed to be completely unrelated to its main task. When he questioned Nikita about this, the young clerk only grinned.
‘Every prikaz is the same in Moscow,’ he said. ‘You see, each department grew up because some particular matter had to be dealt with; and when something new turns up, it’s just given to whoever happens to be free. There are at least three other departments dealing with you Cossacks, as well as my own.’
‘Isn’t it confusing?’
‘It is until you know your way around. But it’s useful too, you know. The thing is to try to get your finger into as many pies as possible.’
As Nikita began to describe the extensive and hopelessly confused Russian bureaucracy, Andrei’s head began to swim. How, with so much red tape, so much overlapping of responsibilities, was it ever possible to get anything done? Try though he might, the more he listened, the less he could see any answer to this question – which, indeed, was not surprising, since any Muscovite at that date could have told him that there was no solution to the problem of government red tape.
They drank numerous toasts: to the Ukraine, to Holy Russia, to the Cossacks. Nikita was anxious to know the Cossacks’ military strength and Andrei assured him of their fitness.
‘Because if we accept the Ukraine, it will mean war with Poland,’ the young man remarked seriously.
For his part, Andrei wanted to know about the many people from other countries he had seen in Moscow. Who were they? At this, Nikita became vehement.
‘Damned foreigners,’ he cursed. ‘We need them, that’s the trouble. Do you know why, my dear Cossack?’
Andrei was not sure.
‘Because you and I aren’t good enough, that’s why.’ He sighed. ‘It’s the same problem Ivan the Terrible faced. Most of our history, you see, our enemy has been the horsemen, usually from the east. People like my ancestors – and nowadays you Cossacks – know how to fight the Tatars. But now we have even more powerful people we need to fight: the Germans, the Swedes, the powers up in the Baltic. We want to conquer the Baltic and dominate its trade, but these people have science and military expertise that we do not possess.
‘Why do you think I am a clerk in a prikaz when my ancestors were warriors? It’s because the Tsar doesn’t need poor amateurs like a Bobrov to lead his men. He needs Dutch and German engineers, Scottish mercenaries, even English adventurers. They’re the people who we’re recruiting to be our officers now. They know how to fight trained infantry. They understand siege warfare and modern artillery.’
‘What about the streltsy?’ Andrei had always understood the famous musketeers were formidable.
‘Good in their day – in the time of Ivan the Terrible. Hopelessly out of date now, both in tactics and weapons. They’ve got lazy too.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘No, we must be humble and learn from the west, my friend. They possess so much knowledge.’
These thoughts seemed to depress him. They depressed Andrei too, for this new world hardly sounded promising for the half-disciplined Cossacks either. Nikita poured them both more vodka, which they downed. Nikita poured again. Then he suddenly brightened.
‘Of course, once we’ve learned their damned western science – Dutch cunning we call it in Moscow – then we’ll kick them all out.’
‘Ah,’ said Andrei appreciatively. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
And so, though they did not know it, the two men, with their poor smattering of education, drank cheerfully to the greatest weakness of the Muscovite state.
For, like almost everyone, even amongst the elite in Moscow, these young men were entirely unaware of the centuries of culture that these uncomfortable western neighbours represented. Of the great philosophical debates of the Middle Ages they were entirely ignorant. Of the Renaissance they knew almost nothing. For the slow growth of a complex political and economic society in Western Europe, they cared not at all. The Russians had seen only the military power of the west and supposed that if they copied it, they had discovered all they needed. Thus they reached out to touch, not substance, but merely the dancing shadows cast upon Russia’s walls.
‘What about the foreign merchants?’ Andrei asked. ‘I’ve noticed a great many.’
Nikita shrugged.
‘They’re all heretics. Patriarch Nikon has known how to deal with them, I must say. The reason you notice them is that the Patriarch made them all wear their own national dress, even if they’ve been here a generation or more. That way they can’t conceal themselves. You know they’re not allowed to live in the city any more?’
Andrei had heard of the so-called German quarter – the contemptuous Russian words actually meant ‘Dumb people’s quarter’ – outside the city, but had not realized that it was a sort of ghetto.
‘That was Nikon too,’ Nikita said approvingly.
‘I don’t see any Jews.’
‘No. The Tsar won’t have them.’
‘That’s good,’ the Cossack said.
‘There’s only one other kind of foreigner that’s banned – at least from the capital.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The English, of course.’
‘The English?’ The young Cossack from the south did not know a great deal about this distant nation. ‘Are they terrible heretics?’
‘Worse. Didn’t you know?’ Nikita involuntarily lowered his voice even to speak of the horror. ‘They cut off the head of their own King, Charles I, not four years ago.’
Andrei looked at him. As a Cossack, he supposed that it was a terrible thing to kill a king though it did not seem so very terrible to him, so long as the king wasn’t Orthodox.