Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [72]
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.’
Ivanushka smiled. ‘And you, Shchek?’
‘Not much. Not these days,’ the widower said glumly.
Ivanushka sighed, but said nothing. Yet silently to himself he admitted: I fear death.