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 stout and ruddy-faced but still fit. Why was it, Sviatopolk wondered, that where other men’s eyes gave away their lives – looking shifty, cunning, proud or simply weary – Ivanushka’s blue eyes were still as clear and open as they had been when he was young? It wasn’t stupidity. For the man they had once called Ivanushka the Fool was now known as Ivan the Wise. And he’s rich, too, damn him, Sviatopolk thought. He has all the luck.
They seldom saw each other now. Twenty years before, when the old Prince of Kiev had died and another of the periodic relocations of the princes had taken place, Sviatopolk had left Monomakh and joined the Prince of Kiev. He had thought the pickings would be better. Ivanushka had remained with Monomakh at Pereiaslav.
Now they were together again, in the same army.
And only one of us, Sviatopolk secretly swore, will return alive.
‘So at last,’ Ivanushka had told his sons, ‘I am to ride to the great River Don.’ It was strange that only now, in the fifty-seventh year of his life, had God granted this childhood desire. Yet God had given him so much.
The estate at Russka had made him rich. Although Cuman raids had several times destroyed the village, the bee-forest lay undisturbed. And he had other estates, too.
For the land of Rus was still expanding. While the princes traded and fought in the south, they had continued to colonize the huge uncharted regions of the north-east, pushing into the hinterland where the primitive Finnish tribes had always dwelt – into the deep forests by the headwaters of the mighty Volga. The Rus had many settlements there, from substantial cities like Tver, Suzdal, Riazan and Murom, all the way down to little fortified hamlets like the village of Moscow.
The Prince of Pereiaslav controlled the part of this region around Rostov and Suzdal, and it was in this hinterland that he had given Ivan a second big estate.
Though the soil was poor compared to the black earth of the south, the forest of the north-east was rich in furs, wax and honey. Above all, it was far away from the raiders of the southern steppe. ‘Remember,’ Ivanushka would say to his three sons, ‘your ancestors were the radiant Alans who rode the steppe, but our wealth now lies in the forest which protects us.’ God had been good to him. He had also given him a perfect master in Vladimir Monomakh.
Who could fail to love Monomakh? For, by any standards, the half Greek prince was remarkable. It was not only that he was brave in battle, and daring in the chase; he was also a truly humble Christian. For decades, all Monomakh’s energies had gone into trying to preserve the unity of the royal house. Time and again he had called together conferences of the feuding princes and begged them: ‘Let us forgive each other. Let us hold the land together and unite against the Cumans, who would rather see us divided.’
One day, Ivanushka prayed, his turn will come to rule in Kiev.
Monomakh’s city of Pereiaslav was a fine place now. Twenty years before, its bishop had built a huge stone wall around it. The place boasted several more brick churches and even a bath house of stone, so that Ivan could say proudly: ‘There’s nothing else like that bath house unless you go to Tzargrad.’
Two of Ivanushka’s three sons served Monomakh; the third served the prince’s half English son, who now ruled over northern Novgorod.
Ivanushka had brought a strong contingent with him. From the village of Russka came a party of Slavs under old Shchek who, despite his advancing years, had insisted on coming with his lord. From his estates in the north came a group of bowmen, some mounted, some on foot, from the Finnish tribe of Mordvinians. Quiet, surly fellows with high, mongoloid cheekbones and yellowish skins, they kept themselves to themselves and in the evenings crowded round their soothsayer, without whom they refused to travel.
Apart from two of his sons, there was one other addition to his party – a handsome young Khazar from Kiev. Ivanushka had not wanted to take him although the boy’s father, a longtime trading associate of his, had pleaded for his son. ‘He’s not trained to arms,’ he had said sternly. ‘And besides,’ Ivanushka had finally confessed, ‘I’m terrified of something happening to him.’
Only when the boy’s grandfather, Zhydovyn, had gone to see Ivanushka had he at last agreed to take the boy on.
‘Keep the Khazar boy near you,’ he gruffly ordered his two sons. ‘And now,’ he addressed all his men, ‘we’ll smash the Cumans so that they will never recover.’
The strife with the Cumans had continued throughout his life.