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.’