When she had come west across the Great Khan’s empire, Cnán had taken care to avoid cities, except where absolutely necessary. She had seen, on more than one occasion, what was left behind by the Mongolian Horde as it swept across the plains. Like Illarion, she was prepared for there to be nothing left but the shattered remains of the crown jewel of Rus. Still, she was taken aback by the vista laid out before them when they crested a rise that brought them within view of the city’s southern walls.
The only sign a city had once occupied the plain was the ragged outline inscribed by the remnants of the city’s defenses. Amidst the rubble and devastation, there were paths—avenues between houses that had not been entirely filled in with heaps of rubble and the charred timbers from houses—but there was little sense in the chaos that a great many people had once lived here. Some buildings still stood, edifices of stone and brick that had refused to succumb to fire and the Mongol pillage, but all that remained of their former glory was a sad struggle to remain upright, like old soldiers who, on their deathbeds, try to wear their armor and lift their swords one last time.
Illarion pulled up his horse. “There is the south gate,” he murmured as the group paused beside him. “We called it the ‘Golden Gate,’ and in the morning light, it would be so bright. But now…” The bitterness in his voice, and the ache, was unmistakable.
Cnán turned her eyes to where he and the Brethren stared and there caught sight of the ruined majesty of Kiev’s fabled Golden Gate. They were tall, wrought of reddish stone that caught the light of the summer sun like dull fire. The wrath of the Mongols had badly damaged the keep about the gate-house, and much of the carved stone had been savaged by the siege, but even from this distance, and through those scars, she could appreciate the beauty the craftsmen had wrought.
They lingered for a long moment, Feronantus watching Illarion closely, but not intruding on his reverie. Cnán took the opportunity to study the city more closely as the others began to talk.
“My wife had family here,” Illarion said. “I had thought… if they had survived, somehow, they might have been of assistance, but…” He didn’t finish.
“On the hill,” Percival said, idly patting and stroking the neck of his mount, as if from long habit. “A church still stands, does it not?”
Illarion pulled himself out of his reverie. “Yes, Sobor Svyatoi Sofii,” he said, and then translated the name for them. “The Cathedral of St. Sophia.”
Roger grunted at the name, but he did not push the matter further, instead looking to Feronantus, waiting to see what he would say.
The old leader of the Shield-Brethren sat on his horse like a judge, scrutinizing the walls, towers, and gates with the eye of a man attempting to discern the safest route across a territory he did not wish to enter to begin with.
Caution, and concern, narrowed his eyes. After a long while, he spoke. “Illarion, what lies beneath the church?”
The Ruthenian glanced at him and then at Percival before answering. “A monastery. Pechersk Lavra.”
“This is your land,” Feronantus said, ignoring both Roger and Cnán’s gazes. “And though the city is a ruin, that church still stands, and its stones must have some power.” He smiled grimly. “The sort of power that would draw pilgrims, penitents who seek solace in the wake of the armies of the Great Khan. It is the sort of place a man such as yourself might go, having survived the ordeal you have been through.”
Illarion nodded. “Yes, that is a role I can play.”
“Take Raphael, Percival, and Roger. They are your escort,” Feronantus said, the plan decided. “We will follow at pace, after we ascertain the intelligence of our pursuer.”
CHAPTER 24:
THE BRAWL AT THE BRIDGE
Hans’s deputy told them the priest was not going to visit the Shield-Brethren alone, but in the company of two Livonian Knights. Their destination lay across the river and past the battlefields where the armies of Christendom had been defeated by the Mongols—a route that, even after a few months, was not safe for a solitary priest. As they were making the trip on horseback, they would have to travel to the west—to reach the bridge that had been built over the river—before they could swing north.
If they wanted to intercept the priest, they would do well to do so before he reached the bridge. Hans, with a smile, informed Kim that he knew a shortcut.
Hans led Kim on an utterly confusing footrace through the seediest of the seedy places that filled the bulk of the makeshift slum: past impromptu drink houses (so denoted by patchwork roofs of canvas strung haphazardly between the remnants of ruined walls), slipping and dodging the pools of filth and waste strewn in the back; through fields of ragged tents, laid nearly atop one another; across blackened fields that were still nothing more than mud and ash, filled with piles of detritus and scrap that were the refuse of the refuse diggers.
Kim was not surprised such routes existed through the city; all natives quickly learned the most expedient way to travel from one location to another. He knew many similar routes through Byeokrando, in fact, and had surprised a number of rough characters on several occasions by suddenly appearing in front of them when they thought they had left him behind. He followed Hans closely, trying to step where the youth stepped, matching the handholds as they clambered over piles of trash and rubble.
Before long, Kim began to get glimpses of Pius and the two knights through the clutter of tents and lean-tos. The escorts’ mounts were less bowlegged than the mule Pius was riding. Beneath their surcoats—emblazoned with the red cross and sword they had seen on the standard—the knights wore mail shirts that extended past their waists. Their gauntlets were stiffened leather, and their helms were short cones of metal with crosspieces running across the front and extending down over their noses. They wore swords on their belts and each carried a long spear—a pole longer than his staff and topped with a pointed blade several inches long.
Kim nudged Hans as the young man slowed down, pointing ahead of them toward where the slum thinned out. The bridge, exhibiting all the hallmarks of Mongolian engineering, was a choke point controlled by the Khan. Kim would not be surprised if there was a levy collected on all travelers who used it; Onghwe Khan knew that most travelers would submit to parting with a few coins versus fording the narrow river on their own. Such methods of taxation had become an integral part of the Great Khan’s empire. And anywhere money was collected, there would be security—at least an arban of Mongolian troops who would be much more rigorous in their duties than the lazy soldiers guarding the camp.
If he was going to catch up with Pius, he had to do it before the priest reached the bridge.
Hans nodded, understanding the need, and altered his route accordingly. After leaping over a foul-smelling trench of shit and piss, they skirted a copse of scraggly pine trees that ran close to the road. The road kinked slightly at the trees, and there was a small stretch of ground where the view from the bridge was partially blocked.
Useful, just in case the conversation wasn’t entirely peaceful.
Hans hung back, hiding among the trees, while Kim stepped into the path of the oncoming riders and planted his staff on the ground. “Pius,” he called. “A word, if you please.”
The three riders were startled, and Kim noticed that the knight on his right had trouble controlling his horse. The animals were skittish, not bred for combat.