Blood and Gold - Anne Rice [162]
There came a look of bright recognition to his face. “Kiev,” he said and then he said it in Russian. He knew now it was his old home.
The following night I told him the story of his native city.
Kiev had once been magnificent, its cathedral built to rival Hagia Sophia in Constantinople from which its Christianity had come. Greek Christianity had shaped its beliefs and its art. And both had flourished beautifully there in a wondrous place. But centuries ago, the Mongols had sacked this grand city, massacred its population, destroying forever its power, leaving behind some accidental survivals, among them monks who kept to themselves.
What remained of Kiev? A miserable place along the banks of the Dnieper River where the cathedral still stood, and the monks still existed in the famous Monastery of the Caves.
Quietly, Amadeo listened to this intelligence and I could see the pure misery in his face.
“All through my long life,” I said, “I have seen such ruin. Magnificent cities are created by men and women with dreams. Then there come the riders of the North or the East and they trample and destroy the magnificence; all that men and women have created is no more. Fear and misery follow this destruction. And nowhere is it more visible than in the ruins of your home—Kiev Rus.”
I could see that he was listening to me. I could sense that he wanted me to continue to explain.
“There exists now in our beautiful Italy a land that will not be sacked by those warriors, for they no longer menace the northern or eastern borders of Europe. Rather they long ago settled into the continent and became the very population of France and Britain and Germany today. Those who would still pillage and rape have been pushed back forever. Now throughout Europe what men and women can do in cities is being discovered again.
“But in your land? There is still sorrow, and bitter poverty. The fertile grasslands are useless—thousands of miles of them are useless!—save for the occasional hunter as mad as your father must have been. That is the legacy of Genghis Khan—a monster.” I paused. I was becoming too heated. “The Golden Horde is what they call that land, and it is a wasteland of beautiful grass.”
He nodded. He saw the sweep of it. I knew this from his solemn eyes.
“Would you still go?” I pressed him. “Would you still revisit the place where you suffered so much?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Though I do not remember her, I had a mother. And without my father, there might be nothing for her. Surely he died that day when we rode out together. Surely he died in the hail of arrows. I remember the arrows. I must go to her.” He broke off as though struggling to remember. He groaned suddenly as though some sharp physical pain had humbled him. “How colorless and grim is their world.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Let me take them only a small amount—.”
“Make them rich if that’s your wish.”
For a long moment, he was silent and then he made a small confession, murmuring it as though he were communing with himself:
“I must see the monastery where I painted the ikons. I must see the place where at times I prayed I would have the strength to be walled up alive. You know it was the way of the place, don’t you?”
“Very well, I know it,” I answered. “I saw it when I gave you the Blood. I saw you moving down the corridors, giving sustenance to those who still lived in their cells, half immured and waiting for the will of God to take them as they starved themselves. They asked you when you would have the courage for it, yet you could paint ikons that were magnificent.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And your father hated them that they did not let you paint, that they made you a monk above all things.”
He looked at me as if he had not truly understood this until now, and perhaps he had not. And then came from his lips a stronger statement.
“So it is with any monastery, and you know it, Master,” he retorted. “The will of God comes first.”
I was faintly shocked by the expression on his face. Was he speaking to