Chapter 36
Kazan, October 1548
“We are almost ready, Your Grace. The sappers say soon.”
Ivan, whose beard had grown longer in the last two months, gazed up eagerly from the table. His haggardness showed in the lines and dark circles around his eyes. After two months of difficult siege, exhaustion took its toll on everyone.
Taras sat across the room from Mstislavsky and the tsar on a long narrow trunk—long since deprived of its cache of extra weapons—with one foot on the trunk, his elbow slung casually over his knee, and the other dangling down. Dozens of men—as many of the generals and officers as could make it—squeezed into the tsar’s tent for a war council.
The tsar had been working on a plan for some time, but his generals remained in the dark until now. Many of the men suspected this “plan” was a ruse to keep them calm while they fought a losing battle. Finally, Ivan called a meeting, which meant it must be time to put the plan into action. Taras hoped it was good.
Yehvah survived. Two months were not enough to heal her completely, but she gained strength every day. Inga had single-handedly kept Yehvah alive, and not only by dressing her wounds. Inga had a great deal of determination when she set her mind to something.
Three weeks after the attack, Taras went to see her. She'd been with Yehvah, and he could hear their raised voices long before he caught sight of their tent.
“Of course not,” Inga shouted. “You have a lot of healing to do yet. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you get out of this. I know you’re tired, but this is a war campaign. We’re all tired. I’m doing most of your work.”
“How dare you speak to me like that? How dare you imply that—”
“How dare you lie in that bed feeling sorry for yourself? You always taught me to take care of myself and do for myself because no one else will. Have you stopped believing that?”
Silence reigned for several seconds, and Taras dared to peek around the flap and into the tent. Yehvah lay in bed, while Inga stood, arms crossed and knees stiff, at its foot. The two women glared at one another.
Taras decided now was not the best time to bother Inga. He and Nikolai tacitly avoided this kind of confrontation.
“Very well,” Yehvah said, her voice subdued and dignified. “Then you’d better help me.” Without a word or condescending glance, Inga went around to the side of the bed and put her shoulder under Yehvah’s arm.
Deep scars graced Yehvah's cheek, neck, and shoulder where the wolf’s claws gored her. The animal shredded the tendons of her legs to a greater extent than anyone at first realized, making it difficult for her to walk. Even if she healed enough to work as she had before, she would always limp. Inga made her walk laps around the tents every day to build up her strength. It looked painful. Inga bore most of Yehvah’s weight, her face pinched as Yehvah tried to walk, crying out every so often. Taras wished he could go in and help them, but as Inga said the night it happened, Yehvah was a proud woman in the best sense. It would shame her for him to enter now.
When they faced him, Taras waved his hand until Inga glanced up. She smiled at him, and he waved to show he didn’t need her to stop. Then he left her to her work.
Yehvah had improved a great deal since then. She’d even begun taking some of her old duties back.
Nikolai visited her often.
He visited her every day, no matter how late the hour. He often brought her small gifts. Simple tokens—a wildflower, a strangely shaped rock, a shiny piece of metal, sometimes a small luxury he’d found somewhere in the camp. Once he brought her a tiny sparrow with a broken wing. He set it gently into her hands, and she smiled at him in a way that made Taras feel like an intruder.
Taras noticed the way Nikolai worried, fussed, and felt over her. Taras understood. How could he not?
The siege became more difficult with each passing week. The soldiers were exhausted. Many were lost. Food became scarce. Supplies continued coming from Moscow through the outpost town of Sviazhsk, but they didn't come nearly fast enough to keep anyone’s stomach satisfied. The Russians had little to show for all their banging on Kazan’s walls.
Then, a month before, the wind began to change. Secretly, the Russian army constructed a siege engine a mile south of Kazan. A gargantuan wooden tower, it reached forty-two feet into the air—far higher than Kazan’s walls. On its top platforms sat ten heavy guns and fifty light cannons. Russia’s best gunners manned them. When completed, Taras and Nikolai joined several hundred soldiers in pushing it silently up to the gates of Kazan. They finished the task in the dead of a murky night, when the moon hid its face and could not expose the operation.
When the Tatars awoke the next morning, a colossal wooden demon peering over their impregnable gates and into the city greeted them. Sunrise brought the echoing boom of the cannon. More damage was done in one day than in the previous two months.
A few days later, the city’s water source and the secret channel through which it flowed were discovered. The engineer had been correct. It wasn’t far from the captured bathhouse—mere yards, in fact. They placed gunpowder strategically and, in the presence of the tsar, ignited. The explosion knocked down a wall of the bathhouse and filled the passage with huge chunks of rock and dirt, damming up the water long before it reached the walls.
Ever since, the rumors of the tsar’s new plan had spread through the camp like wild fire. Now, as he watched from his place near the wall of the tsar’s tent, Taras couldn’t help feeling a little excited.
“Please explain the situation,” Ivan said to Mstislavsky. “We want to be sure everyone is clear, not only on what is happening, but why we are certain it will work.”
Mstislavsky cleared his throat. “Since we choked off their water, the Tatars inside the walls have been forced to drink the fetid water they have within, and even that is running low. The snow has been light so far. More will come soon and they will use that to their advantage, so we must move quickly. We have recently learned that drinking the water has made many of them sick. Those who aren’t sick are afraid to drink any more of it. So, we have those who are sick and those who aren’t getting any water.
“Furthermore, their foodstuffs are dwindling as quickly as ours. Our spies tell us they are rationing food inside the walls. Of course, Prince Gorbaty-Shuisky recently made off with a great many of their supplies.”
The men around Taras nodded or chuckled appreciatively. A Tatar named Prince Yepancha led the army hiding in the forest of Arsk. After too many attacks and too many men lost, the tsar assigned Prince Goraty-Shuisky to put an end to it. Intelligence reported that several miles into the forest sat a fortress, from whence these attacks commenced. Gorbaty-Shuisky must find it, destroy it, and obliterate the army hiding there. The prince went into the forest as relaxed as if merely out for a morning ride.
He’d been gone nearly a week. Perhaps this would not have been such a problem, except that it took only a few days to destroy both fortress and army. Stragglers who returned reported that the prince and his men ravaged the countryside, going all the way to Arsk and other outlying towns, pillaging and gathering booty. The stories bothered Taras. He'd seen the sneering, scabbed face of war before. It never looked pleasant, but these stories told of heartless brutality and blatant bloodshed for its own sake and no other.
The stories and Gorbaty-Shuisky’s long absence bothered the tsar as well, but for different reasons. Ivan fretted and worried, always assuming the worst. He was troubled that the prince, one of his most loyal generals, seemed to be taking a long holiday.
Taras got the impression that other soldiers in the army were angry about the entire situation, not because of the brutality, or because Gorbaty-Shuisky’s loyalty was in question, but because those soldiers collected valuable plunder while they were stuck guarding the gates of Kazan.
Finally, Gorbaty-Shuisky returned. He brought with him hundreds of prisoners and, more importantly, massive herds of livestock and mounds of provisions much needed by
the Russian army. The tsar showered him in kisses and praise, promising him rewards in heaven for his loyalty.
The Russian army ate better in the last week than it had in the last month.
“They are beginning to talk of surrender,” Mstislavsky continued. “The time is ripe. Razmysl tells us his sappers are nearly ready.”
“Ready for what?” Prince Kurbsky spoke from the corner.
“Razmysl has been directing an operation to dig under the city.” The officers murmured amongst themselves in annoyance, not surprise. This was common knowledge.
Mstislavsky held up his hands for quiet. “They have been digging to get under two of the city’s towers.” This silenced the men and got their attention. Taras leaned forward, wondering what the plan could be. “They have succeeded. As we speak they are placing barrels of gun powder under the tower at the southwest corner,” he pointed on the map, “and this one along the east wall. We are using enough powder to level each tower. This will kill many Tatars and will leave gaping holes in their wall. We can simply walk in, and take the city.”
The commander paused, letting the information seep in. The siege could be over in a matter of days.
A vague fear rose in the pit of his stomach. He thought of the savage exploits of Gorbaty-Shuisky’s army. Surely that wouldn’t happen here. If the Tatars were as desperate as Mstislavsky said, they wouldn’t put up much of a fight. There would be no need for brutal tactics. With the exception of those who died in the explosion, perhaps the city would surrender with little or no bloodshed.
“How close are the diggers to the Tatars? Are they far underground?” Nikolai asked the question, and Taras craned his neck around, but couldn’t see him. Too many bodies blocked his view.
“Not far at all. They could hear the Tatars walking and talking directly above them. They had to move silently, or risk exposing the entire operation. Which is why,” he turned and spoke to the tsar, “they moved so slowly.” Ivan took on a look of annoyance, obviously not pleased with the delay.
“How long will it be,” another man asked, “until the sappers are ready to blow the towers?”
“Two or three days.”
The man sighed loudly. “Very well.”
“Something wrong, General?” Mstislavsky asked.
“No, my lord. I understand. It takes as long as it takes. It’s only that, you are right. The Tatars are becoming more desperate. Their desperation is turning into animal rage. We lose more men every day.”
“Of course we do,” the commander’s voice remained calm and steady. “It’s the only hope they have—to try and kill enough of us to make us retreat. Without water—”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” the tsar interrupted. “Human losses are immaterial. Any soldier who dies for Russia enters heaven’s gates the instant he hits the ground. Has God not promised that we will defeat Kazan? The losses of your men are to be celebrated, not mourned. Anything else is an expression of doubt in God himself, and such doubts will lose us this war. Understand, General?”
“Of course, my Lord Tsar. Forgive me.” The man bowed his head, sufficiently chastised.
Taras didn't agree with the tsar’s line of reasoning. Artem had been young and full of hope, with his entire life ahead of him. Taras didn't know him well, but still mourned his loss, as he mourned every man who died under his command.
“Any other questions or concerns?” Mstislavsky asked quietly after an awkward silence stretched. “Good. Then listen well. This is where you’ll each be placed and how we will proceed once inside.”