Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [67]
How soft the world was, how shining. How he loved, not only his wife, but all things. Even myself, unworthy that I am. I can even love myself – because I too am part of this Creation, he pondered; this being, he perceived, his Epiphany.
1111
Dark clouds passed silently over the empty land. Slowly the mighty army made its way past the forest’s edge, past the lonely wooden walls that joined the line of little forts, staring at the emptiness beyond, and emerged on to the open steppe, where it fanned out. As the spring sun struck through the clouds, in powerful stanchions, it caught sections of the horde so that, here and there, patches of the line dully glittered.
The army spread for about three miles across the steppe. Seen from above, as the clouds temporarily passed away and the afternoon sun fell bleakly upon it, the army looked like the shadow of a vast bird with outstretched wings, moving quietly across the grasses.
On the ground, the huge movement of chain mail and weaponry filled the air with a clinking sound, as though the whole steppe were echoing with a million, metallic cicadas.
Sviatopolk’s face was dark. Now and then, the light fell upon him and one could see his eyes, hard and clear, fixed upon the horizon. But his mind still dwelt in the shadows.
Though he was in the Prince of Kiev’s druzhina, he rode alone. Now and then, though no one noticed it, his black eyes turned to glance at his brother, riding some distance away. But each time they did so, they flicked quickly away again, as though pursued by fear or guilt. Guilt makes a proud man dangerous.
It was the year 1111, and one of the greatest expeditions ever mounted was setting off from the land of Rus towards the east. It was led by the Prince of Kiev, with his cousins the Prince of Chernigov and the great Vladimir Monomakh, Prince of Pereiaslav; and its object was to destroy the Cumans.
The huge force had waited only for the start of the warm weather, when the ground was firm. With long swords and scimitars, curved bows and long spears, fur caps and chain mail, they rode and marched. Preceded by gongs and trumpets, wooden pipes and kettledrums, singers, dancers and priests carrying icons, this huge Eurasian horde made its awesome way from golden Kiev, eastward towards the endless steppe.
Sviatopolk surveyed the men around him. It was a typical Russian army, containing all kinds of men. On his right, two young men, both of the druzhina and pure norse – though one had married a Cuman. On his left, a German mercenary and a Polish knight. Sviatopolk respected the Poles: they obeyed the Pope in Rome – that was a fault, he supposed – but they were independent and proud. And what fine brocade the fellow wore.
Just behind him marched a large party of Slav foot soldiers. He glanced at them with contempt. Brave fellows, lively, wonderfully obstinate; he did not even know why he despised them, except that it was his habit.
Ahead of him rode seven Alan horsemen. Beside them, a company of Volga Bulgars – strange fellows, distant descendants of the terrible Huns, with oriental faces and lank black hair. They were Moslems nowadays, and had gladly come from their trading stronghold on the Volga to help crush the troublesome pagan raiders of the steppe.
‘If I were a Cuman, though, I know whom I should fear the most,’ he remarked to his page. ‘The Black Caps.’
For a long time the princes of Rus had encouraged settlements of steppe warriors along their southern borders, to act as a buffer against the Cumans. But this group was special. These Turks had formed their own military cadre; they even had a garrison in Kiev now; they hated the Cumans and they had an iron discipline. They rode with their bows and lances, on black horses, wearing black caps, their faces hard and cruel. Sviatopolk admired their bitterness and their determination. They were strong.
Again, he glanced at his brother Ivan, riding with Monomakh.
Ivan was in his fifties now, a little