When he opened his eyes, Maximus saw the same landscape. But it was also not the same. The Volkhov was broader, the water came up to the very base of the kurgan. The contours of the trees and the lights from the other shore looked different too. But most importantly…
People. Throngs of them, even now, in the middle of the night. A sailboat glided down the river; fishing boats rocked gently near the shores. Sounds wafted up from all directions: people laughing and talking, voices singing, the splash of rigging, the occasional knock of hammer against anvil. Maximus looked first to one side, then to the other, then back again. No hint of pustosh now: All the land was in use. In the town, stone mansions crowded up to the water’s edge, and beyond them wooden buildings, settlements and farmsteads stretching all the way to the horizon. Even the open fields showed signs of human habitation: waves of ripening rye and dark patches in the grass where flocks of livestock grazed. A caravan of ox carts moved along the well-trodden, smooth surface of the road, accompanied by a convoy of horsemen, their swords and armor gleaming in the white light of the moon. Everything was vibrant and alive, and everything was of this place.
Maximus fell onto the grass, roaring with laughter, then leaped to his feet and shouted in what he thought was a booming, resonant voice, though in fact what came from his dry throat was a hoarse croak:
“So this is what you are, O Russian land, your true origin and essence! Not sad wasteland, not pustosh, but fertile, rich Gardarika!”
KHAGAN
Saat resumed his life on the steppe in the same place he’d lived before. New people were living there, yes. They had him groom the horses and muck out the corrals, and in exchange they gave him food to eat and mare’s milk to drink. Now and then they would take a whip and give him a beating, for not working hard enough or just because they felt like it. And afterward they would send him away, into the steppe. But why go to the trouble of finding another place? A man always feels most at home and free in the place where he was born and lived most of his life. At home even the switches are sweet, the whippings tender, and hunger is like one of the family.
Where is there to go, anyway? Man is not a bird who can fly away and seek warmth and food in some distant land. If he were a star, he could just twinkle in the sky, high above it all. But Saat was a man. He would go on sending roots deep into his native earth, deeper and deeper with every passing year, until his time came and he would lie down on the ground at last and take his rest. And the land would cover him. Land of his birth, native land.
But a new sorrow befell Khazaria: The Khagan died. You’d think, what difference would that make to an ordinary herdsman? Saat had never even seen the Khagan in person. Maybe the Khagan died a natural death. People of all walks of life die of natural causes. Or maybe he’d outlived his preordained time. That’s what the old women said, whispering, with dull eyes. Or maybe he was done away with, according to custom.
In the old days, when there was a bad harvest, they would take the Khagan out into the fields during the plowing and stab him to death right there, to make grain grow in the next season. And when there was an excess of grain, they would pile up stones and bury the Khagan alive. When the Chechmeks set fires in Itil, they burned the Khagan at the stake. And if their foes triumphed in battle, they would cut the Khagan to pieces with their sabers. Short is the lifespan of the Khagan, from one misfortune to the next. And there is so much misfortune in my homeland; all of our history is woven from it, like a wanderer’s ragged garment, all rips and tears, held together by mere threads.
But the people are not given to know that. Eternal is the Khagan, no more need be said. There is one Khagan; and there can be no other. He rules for thousands upon thousands of years. The Khagan is not a private individual; he is an immortal figure, and his role in our land is akin to a heavenly duty.
Saat lay exhausted, covered in horseshit, in the tall steppeland grass. Lay there on his back after the day’s work was done, as was his custom, and stared up at the sky. Suddenly above him there appeared a multitude of faces, a throng of officials!
“Are you Saat, son of Nattukh, herdsman of horses?” they asked. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Even if you could find some woodcarvers to whittle changes into the plank of wood that served as your passport, still your face would give you away, anyone could tell who you were.
“The Great Bek has commanded that you be brought to the palace. It is an important matter of State!”
O how Saat wept! A matter of State—everyone knows what that means: shootings and hangings. Or beheadings, or drownings in the river, or boilings in a copper kettle, after the pulling out of veins and tearing off of fingernails.
Saat knew of no sins staining his soul. He had not wealth enough, nor power, for great sins. Nor even enough strength for a small sin, like flirting. But who is ever taken to the gallows for sinning? Sin is awash in silver and gold and has been from the beginnings of time. When they say that “virtue abhors a vacuum,” “an empty place must fill with holiness,” it’s just words; it must, in fact, not be filled; it’s the emptiness that makes it holy. But if there’s a place of execution, then there indeed “nature abhors a vacuum”: That emptiness must be filled. Verily, it will not stay empty long! And if not, then what need is there for law and rulers? Judges cast their ivory dice, and if they wind up with the number on your passport board, then you are designated the guilty man, the sinner. Lo, Saat’s number tumbled out onto the table. Such is divine providence!
So thought Saat.
The officials took him gently under the arms, bundled him in soft cloth, stuffed a soft piece of bread, no crust, into his mouth, laid him crosswise across a saddle, and bore him away from his home. Saat saw nothing, heard nothing, and made no sound, until the great bolts of the fortress gate thundered sevenfold and clattered open and he found himself standing, unswaddled, in a great hall. Saat had eaten the bread; no point in dying on an empty stomach.
Saat opened his eyes and beheld, ten paces before him, two golden thrones. The officials stepped back, forming two rows along the walls on either side of the great hall, and stood motionless, heads bowed.
On one of the thrones sat the Great Bek, white of face, black of hair, yellow of teeth, beaming a broad smile of welcome. The Great Bek’s robe was embroidered with peacocks in gold thread and adorned with rubies. A great belly had the Great Bek, it rested on his thighs. Must eat a lot, thought Saat. And why not? He holds all of Khazaria in his mouth, like a soft piece of bread!
The Great Bek arose from his shiny throne, descended from the podium, went down on his knees, and knelt on the floor in front of Saat. The officials along the walls immediately all dropped to their knees, and their weapons made a great clattering noise on the floor!
And the Great Bek spoke:
“Glory and honor to you, Saat, son of Nattukh! Following the Khazar custom, having duly meditated at the fire, having made offerings to our sorcerers and sacrifices to our gods, we, the Great Bek and Executive of Khazaria, have determined that there is no better Khagan for our realm than yourself. For you are of the generation of Ashin, son of the Khagan, uncle of the Khagan and brother of the Khagan, and you are the one to raise the golden kamcha and take your place on the throne of Ashin, at our left side.”