Doctor Who_ Bunker Soldiers - Martin Day [27]
The other bowl belonged to my fellow prisoner, who had been resolutely asleep since my arrival. I did check on him at one point, fearful that he might be dead, but could just detect the flow of air from his lips.
I suppose it was the sound of my eating that finally roused him.
‘What?’ he exclaimed, sitting up swiftly. ‘Who is there?’
‘A fellow prisoner,’ I said bitterly. ‘You’ve been asleep for hours.’
‘Sleep is my one remaining privilege,’ said the man. ‘Forgive me if I exercise that privilege as often as I can.’
He was a small fellow, little more than protruding bones in a sack of wrinkled skin topped by a mop of white hair and eyes that blinked like a mole’s. It was difficult to guess exactly how old he was but, in a society where life expectancy is about thirty years, this man was positively ancient.
‘I am Olexander,’ said the man by way of introduction.
‘Former official to the court of Prince Michael.’
‘I’m Steven Taylor,’ I said.
‘A tailor, eh? My clothes are in need of your skills.’
‘No, I’m not...’ My words trailed away. It didn’t really seem to matter what the old man thought I was. ‘How did you end up in here?’ I asked.
‘It is a long story,’ he replied. He came over and sat at my side, and began to pick at his bowl of food.
‘I’ve got plenty of time,’ I said.
‘To whom is your allegiance?’ queried the man, clearly worried that I might have been sent to spy on him.
‘I am a traveller,’ I said. ‘I’ve been imprisoned on a charge of murder, but I’m completely innocent. Circumstantial evidence has been twisted against me.’
‘Who is to blame?’
I paused – this questioning could cut both ways. I had no idea of Olexander’s ‘allegiance’, as he put it. Perhaps he was a plant, placed in my cell to spy on me, thus incriminating me further.
I looked closely at his face, at the creased lines of decades and the honest interest of his eyes, and decided that this man was barely capable of wilful duplicity. I trusted him in an instant.
‘I think adviser Yevhen may have had a hand in it.’
Clearly I had said the right thing. Olexander’s eyes gleamed like polished buttons. ‘Yevhen! Is that traitorous dog still up to his old tricks?’
‘It would seem that way.’
‘Then clearly we have more in common than our current location, Steven,’ said the man with a smile. He ran his fingers round the edge of his bowl, and sucked on them greedily. ‘My mouth is well accustomed to the food here,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Yours will be so, in time.’
I’d long since had my fill, and pushed my half-empty bowl away ‘I’m not planning on staying here that long.’
‘That is what I first said.’ Olexander sighed sadly. ‘Over a year ago, I think.’
‘A year!’ I couldn’t bear the thought of even another night in the cell.
‘I imagine the Tartars will attack long before the next year is spent,’ he continued, though his tone of voice implied that death at the hands of the Mongols was preferable to continued imprisonment. I wondered if in time, I too would share that feeling of desperation.
Olexander turned to me, his small eyes still burning with energy – and, I had to concede, perhaps also with madness or senility.
‘What do you know of the coming Tartar hordes?’ he asked.
‘I’ll tell you whatever you want,’ I said, ‘if you tell me how you ended up here.’
‘Of course,’ smiled the man. ‘Do they not say that the enemy of my enemy is my friend?’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘I was not always as you see me now,’ he said. ‘I was once a man of status, of knowledge – a trusted adviser, no less! My particular interest has always been the study of languages and religious history. Before I came to Kiev I was a monk in the Church of God.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘The Church? It is an imperfect body at best. It is full of fallen men and women, you know!’
He smiled, and I saw a faraway look in his eyes. I sensed that the memories he recalled didn’t simply help him tell his tale, but also offered an escape from his current situation.
‘I came to the conclusion that although it is easier to be holy in a