Chapter 40
The night felt dark and cold, but not sinister. The army remained in good spirits. They'd eaten well and drank their fill of mead in celebration. The city and all the prisoners were well guarded, and no one expected trouble tonight. Taras could use the fact to his advantage. He waited until midnight before rising and dressing in the dark.
The swish of blankets startled him. Inga sat up. He still wasn’t used to sharing his bed with someone.
“Taras, where are you going?”
He sat on the side of the bed and put a hand on her arm. “There’s something I have to do. Inga, I need you to not ask me what it is.”
She stayed silent for a long time before whispering, “All right.”
He nodded. “Thank you. Go back to sleep. I’m not sure how long I’ll be—a few hours, maybe—so try and rest. Inga, no one can know I went out tonight.”
He heard her swallow. “They won’t hear it from me.”
Leaning his weight on one knee on the bed, he kissed her forehead, then her lips. “I’ll be back soon.” She still sat upright when he donned his cloak, slung a heavy leather satchel over one shoulder, and slipped into the frigid night.
He skulked silently in the dark, narrow lanes made by hundreds of soldiers’ tents, waiting for a patrol to pass. Wrapping himself in the sable cloak, he hunkered down in the shadows as the two-man guard passed within feet of him. He worried about how easily assassins could infiltrate the camp if this represented the level of security they kept.
When they were gone, Taras resumed his trek. The snow was so packed, it had frozen in the walking paths. He made no sound and left no tracks.
He made it to the horses and saddled Jasper. The horse made no noise or objection. He’d brought several dark blankets to drape over the horse’s light-colored skin. It would help shield them from unwanted eyes. A combination of stealth and patience helped Taras get outside the camp unseen. When he got clear, he mounted his horse and rode hard to the walls of Kazan.
It was not difficult to get inside. Less security existed here than in the tsar’s camp. Getting into the dungeons would be harder. He’d already planned for that part.
Taras tied Jasper to a sturdy bush under a large, low-hanging tree. The drooping branches would hide the horse from any passing patrols. Taras made a note of the location so he could find his horse again easily, and then headed deeper into the city on foot.
He moved by moonlight, careful not to trip or walk into anything that would make noise. He stopped three times to wait for patrols to pass. None noticed him. Finally, he reached his destination.
Prisons in Kazan were not much more than holes in the ground. The one he needed could be reached only by descending a ladder into a cavern beneath an ordinary looking building. Once underground, the cavern extended for miles, twisting and turning in the darkness. It wasn’t all closed off cells. In many cases, prisoners lay shackled directly to the walls. Others wandered or dragged themselves around. These people were injured too badly to worry about them escaping.
A single soldier guarded the door leading down into the pit. He played cards on a makeshift table. Taras came around the corner, and the man drew his sword half-way from its scabbard before recognizing him. Taras put a small bag of silver into the man’s hands, feeling as though he were paying Judas Iscariot, and the man promptly turned his back, pretending not to see Taras pulling up the trap door.
A pair of torches lit the guard’s game. Taras took one with him. The ladder stood twice as high as Taras was tall. Half-way down, it wobbled; a little further, it creaked. Taras leapt off, rather than risk the noise. He dropped to the ground with a dull thud and held the torch out in front of him.
Just as he expected, prisoners were chained to the walls or lying against them. Periodically he passed padlocked cells, but for the most part, they sprawled about on their own, dirty, shivering, crying, mumbling to themselves, sometimes chanting. The floor was not so much dirt as mud. The air felt cold and clammy. Taras shivered as he moved among them, feeling a quiet pity he hadn’t expected.
After what seemed like hours, Taras came to the cell he wanted. This cell was all bars—floor to ceiling. They were made of wood, so solid and sturdily mounted in the bedrock of the cavern that, without an ax, they would be impossible to escape. Taras held his torch out. A dozen or so men squinted painfully in its light. Taras ran the light across each face three times before recognizing the one he wanted.
“Almas?”
Almas shuffled forward, between the other men, to get to the bars.
“Taras, my friend.” Almas sounded jovial, but strain permeated his voice. “Late for a social call, isn’t it?”
“Hardly the place for a social call, I think.”
“Then why have you come?”
“I’m not sure.” Taras kept silent a few moments. “I’m sorry, Almas. I hardly expected to find anyone I know here. I was shocked to see you.”
“As I was to see you.”
“What are you doing here?” Taras asked
“I live in a little village many leagues west of Kazan. My companions and I travel far and wide—sometimes as far as Moscow, as you know—to trade our country’s wares. I'd come to Kazan for that purpose when your tsar attacked it.”
Taras nodded. “If I remember correctly, you have a family?”
“Yes. A wife and son.”
“Are they within the walls?”
“No. They are in my home village, far to the west. Winter is coming and my son is too little to travel far in cold weather. Besides, this trip to Kazan was not meant to be a long one. All that changed when the siege began.”
Taras stayed silent, digesting Almas's words. Almas was a good man; one with a family. He’d been kind to Taras once, and Taras wanted to return the favor.
“Taras, my friend, what are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You come down here at great risk to yourself to ask me about my family, who are far away. Why? Your countrymen have proved themselves brutal and greedy. You are not like them. I see it. Why do you run with them? Why do you follow this Russian Caesar when you are English?”
“You forget, I am also Russian.”
Almas kept silent for a long time. “May I remind you of something?”
“Of course.”
“When we first met in Siberia, I felt curiousity about you. Then you killed that wolf. A magnificent creature. One of beauty and savagery most men cannot comprehend. Even now I see the moonlight glistening on its fur. It sliced through the night like a demon on a rampage. You stepped directly into its path and met it with your sword. You stood magnificent, unafraid, with no qualms about what needed to be done. I'd never seen such conviction, such strength of character. Does that conviction slip now?”
Taras had no answer.
“I could be wrong, but I’ve heard stories of your tsar. When his deeds rear up worse and worse, remember you slew a demon of a she-wolf in the vast reaches of Siberia. You know what must be done, Taras. Don’t shirk from it now.”
“You give me too much credit, Almas. I have no sway over what happens in Russia.”
“No, but you have all the sway over your own life. Will you attach such an honorable life to the deeds of Ivan the Terrible? You are a decent man, Taras. I can see you are conflicted. Never lose that decency. Never let anyone take it from you. Not for any reason. If you do, your soul will soon follow.”
Taras sighed. “What would you have me do? Russia has been good to me. I went there with nothing, and Russia has given me a new life. I’ve made it my country. Does it not deserve my loyalty?”
Silence stretched between them. Taras turned Almas’s words over in his head. He couldn’t internalize them. Not here. Almas did not push further.
“Let me worry about my soul, Almas. I cannot betray the divinely appointed ruler of this country any more than I could of any other.”
“Do you think your Divinity would approve of what the Russian
army did today?”
Taras swallowed. He'd wrestled with this question since this war campaign began. When he spoke again, his voice sounded steady.
“I believe war is war, Almas, and each man does as he must. I do not condone the actions of men who brutalize the innocent. I never will. But neither can you judge an entire army—an entire nation—by the actions of a few.” Taras swallowed. Time to come to the point. “If your family were within my reach, I would protect them. I cannot free you. I cannot stay long or else risk being found. You are all to be taken back to Moscow and imprisoned there.”
Hushed, slightly frenzied whispers came from the darkness behind Almas. The other men heard this, and it made them afraid.
“I cannot do anything about it. I am sorry. I may not be able to stop the interrogations once we get to Moscow, either, but I will try. I will do everything I can to protect you, to keep you alive, so you can get back to your family.”
Almas didn't answer right away. Taras could feel the other men peering out through the bars at him.
“Even now,” Almas said, “you begin to compromise with your honor.”
“Yes,” Taras’s whispered. “Perhaps I do. This is my country, now, and you are my friend, and those two things are at odds. I will try to help you. I will do everything in my power. You have my word. This is all I can do.” Taras slipped the satchel over his shoulders and guided it into Almas’s hands. “There’s not much in here—some bread, a few blankets. It’s all I could manage. Do you need anything else?”
Almas eased the satchel through the bars of the cell. “One of our number is ill. More blankets, or perhaps something medicinal? Some mead would bring him a measure of comfort.”
“I’ll do the best I can. I don’t know if I’ll see you again before we set out for Moscow, but I’ll try to bring you something.”
Almas stuck his arm out between the bars and Taras, after a moment’s hesitation, took it.
“Thank you, Taras. Anything you do will be appreciated.”
“I’m sorry it’s not more.”
“Don’t be. You are right. This is war. We all do as we must.”
Taras left the torch so Almas might have some lingering light in the pitch-blackness. Taras dragged his feet through the dark passageways, praying for light. When he finally found it, and breathed the fresh air again, he felt both relief and guilt.
The journey back proved as uneventful as his journey in. When he returned to his tent, dawn loomed only an hour away. He slid into bed, and Inga snuggled against him.
Wrapping his arms around her, he prayed. He prayed to find a way to keep Almas alive. He prayed no one would find out what he’d done this night. Bringing bread to condemned prisoners was treason. He prayed for wisdom and that perhaps one day his loyalties would coincide, rather than clash.