He started the cart rolling, and after a few steps both he and Elenya had been replaced. They walked behind, watching Va’s limp and almost lifeless body bounce around on the boards like he had the Vitus disease. Va, for his part, lay on his back, pummelled by the vibrations as the priests hurried him through the midnight streets of Moskva, and looking up at the slit of sky between the roofs of the houses.
He heard the senior priest Aleksandr and Elenya talking:
‘Did he really run all that way?’
‘Sunrise to sunset, without a rest. If there was a river to cross, he used ice when it was there, swam when it wasn’t. He slept where he fell, and he got up when it was light enough to see.’
‘And where do you fit in, Gospodova?’
‘I’m his shadow, an echo of a future that might have been had your God not got to him first.’
‘You sound bitter.’
‘That’s because I am, Father.’
And he submerged beneath a thick black blanket, and was almost smothered by it.
He felt that it was a betrayal of his vows. He was lying in a bed, not just on one. Linen sheets were cool against his skin, and such skin as he hadn’t seen in years. It was clean, scraped and scrubbed and pink. Around him was the smell of incense, and behind that, tints of stale sweat and long-dried bodily fluids.
The infirmary at the Danilov monastery then. In the cot to his left was an ancient man, so thin he was more skeleton than flesh. On his right was a younger novice, his arm a freshly bandaged stump. Further down the infirmary there were other occupied beds, and a monk at a table, reading intently by candlelight and ignoring the soft moans and fevered gasps around him.
He knew it had to be bad for him to be there. The old man looked dead; the young man would most likely be dead in three days. But when he tried to get up, nothing would work. He was either drugged or paralysed, and neither boded well.
He found his voice, and it was softer than he intended. ‘Brother? Brother! The patriarch needs to be warned.’
The monk on duty must have been charged with keeping an eye on Va. The moment he called, the man looked up sharply and carried his candle over to Va’s bed.
‘You’re awake,’ he said.
‘The patriarch—’ started Va, but he was silenced by the reply.
‘I’ll get him.’ The monk hurried from the room.
It was incredible. Unheard of. The patriarch himself, His Holiness Yeremai, was going to step into this house of sickness and grant Va an audience, simply because Va couldn’t get up. As much as he struggled with his arms, he could barely make them twitch. Naked beneath the sheet, unable to bow or abase himself, even prevented from kissing His Holiness as duty demanded.
‘I have to get dressed,’ he fretted. ‘I have to show the proper respect.’
The heavy smell of incense overwhelmed all other senses. A priest with a censer, chain creaking with each swing, stood at the end of his bed. Clouds of blue-tinged smoke billowed out, filling the air.
Two more priests came in, carrying the sort of moveable screens the surgeons used for amputations. They set these up on either side of Va, blocking him off from the rest of the infirmary. Little black blood scabs dotted the unwashed cloth like flies.
Then two more appeared, carrying a great wooden chair with a small red cushion. Without a word, they positioned it at the head of the bed, then retreated. Finally the censer was taken away, and Va was alone.
When he looked again, there was a man, all in black save a white koukoulion that framed his serious face and mighty beard.
‘My lord?’
‘I believe,’ said the patriarch, ‘you have a message for me. Quite insistent, so I understand.’
‘Forgive me, my lord.’
The patriarch stood next to Va, looked him up and down, then sat on the chair with a sigh. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen this hour of the night. My day is full of carefully controlled noise: petitions, meetings, services, trials. But here, at night, is when quiet chaos reigns. How is old Denis? Old? Listen to me. I have two decades on him.’
‘He’s dead, my lord,’ said Va.
‘That’s always the problem of living so long, my son. All the good men around you are taken up to Heaven, and you are left behind.’
‘My lord, the monastery of Saint Samuil, Arkady, is gone. Everyone is dead. Except me.’
The patriarch’s hand went involuntarily to his mouth. ‘The books?’
‘Taken.’
‘Who? When?’
‘Four days ago. Many raiders, from the north. A witness said they might have been Turkmen.’
‘Witness?’ Patriarch Yeremai’s voice was barely above a whisper.
‘The woman Elenya who came with me. She witnessed the whole attack.’
‘This – this is terrible. Do you know what was in those books?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘We have to get them back. Before they’re read. Before they’re copied. Before, God forbid, they’re used.’
‘I will go,’ said Va, ‘but—’
‘There are no buts, Brother Va. You see, I know of you, Va Angemaite, Va of the Iron Hand. Look at you.’ The patriarch gripped the sheet and pulled it away, exposing Va to the chill air.
Va looked. His white skin was crisscrossed with scars, lines of puckered flesh from swords and knives, pockmarks from arrows and bolts, patches where fine hair no longer grew and the surface was molten-shiny.
‘You used to be a soldier, Va. Do you remember?’
‘I remember nothing of it. I gave it all up. I could not kill again. I will not. I wasn’t a soldier. I was a killer. A hired murderer who took coin and slaughtered innocents.’ Va gasped at the memories, began to weep and turned his face away.
The patriarch’s voice was slow and deep. ‘Don’t you feel forgiven, my son?’
‘It’s with me every day. Every time I wake up. Every time I lie down. Forgiveness for such sin is a lifetime’s work.’
‘And perhaps saving the world from destruction will bring you the forgiveness you long for. You could be at peace.’
‘I will go. I’ve already said I’ll go. To the ends of the Earth if I have to. But don’t ask me to fight.’
‘Is it true you know the Systema?’ asked the patriarch.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘You may have guessed, but you are indeed drugged. My advisers insisted on it. They told me that you were raving, and that a mad man who can kill with his bare hands, feet, knees or elbows should not be trusted. It’s poppy juice, nothing more, and it’ll wear off by morning. Tell me, my son: your monastery is attacked, your brothers killed, the books stolen, and yet you’re still alive. How could that be?’
Va hid his face again, pressing it into his mattress as far as he could.
‘Brother Va, you have to answer.’
‘I wasn’t there.’
‘And why weren’t you there?’
‘Because I’d been sent away! Archimandrite Denis told me to spend a day and a night in solitary prayer because I’d got into an argument with one of my brothers. I’ve only taken the lesser vows and he won’t let me take the greater ones, and after five years I thought I was ready.’ Va’s voice cracked.
‘Ah,’ said the patriarch, curling the tip of his beard between his fingers, ‘here now is the truth of it. Guilt. It will break your spirit and corrupt your faith. But what would you have done? Would you have used the Systema to defend Father Denis? Or would you have died next to him?’
‘I don’t know. How can I know what I would have done? How can I know if it would’ve made any difference?’
‘I need to be certain of the men I’m sending. It won’t be just you. It’ll be everyone who’ll go. North, south, east and west. Mainly north, of course. I’ll tell them what I’m going to tell you now. I need devout men who’ll use every skill they possess, and I include skill at arms in this. The books must be brought back, and if you have to fight for them, I need to know that you’ll fight for them. If a man holds one of the books behind him and denies it to you, will you struggle with him to get it back? If he stands in your way with a sword, will you pick up one of your own and strike him down?’