Day of the Oprichnik Read Online Free PDF

cannons, bowed to His Majesty and Her Highness, feasted in the Granite Chamber with the Kremlin entourage and the Inner Circle. Now there are no holidays until Candlemas, just plain workdays. There are jobs to do.
    “And God will be resurrected and His enemies shall be in ruins…” reads Father Juvenale.
    We cross ourselves and bow. I pray to my favorite icon, the Savior of the Ardent Eye; I tremble before the fury of our Savior’s eyes. Formidable is our Savior, immovable in His Judgment. I gather strength for battle from His stern gaze, I fortify my spirit, train my nature. I amass hatred for our enemies. I sharpen my mind and reason.
    Yes, all God’s and His Majesty’s enemies shall be scattered.
    “Grant victory over all who oppose us…”
    There are plenty of opponents, that’s true. As soon as Russia rose from the Gray Ashes, as soon as she became aware of herself, as soon as His Majesty, Father Nikolai Platonovich, laid the foundation stone of the Western Wall sixteen years ago, as soon as we began to fence ourselves off from the foreign without and the demon within—opponents began to crawl out of the cracks like noxious centipedes. A truly great idea breeds great resistance. Our state has always had enemies inside and out, but the battle was never so intense as during the period of Holy Russia’s Revival. More than one head rolled on the block at Lobnoe Mesto during those sixteen years, more than one train carried our foes and their families beyond the Urals, more than one red rooster crowed at dawn in a noble’s mansion, more than one general farted on the rack in the Secret Department, more than one denunciation was dropped in the Work and Word! box at Lubianka, more than one moneychanger had his mouth stuffed with the bills of his ill-gotten gains, more than one clerk was dunked in boiling water, more than one foreign envoy was escorted out of Moscow by three shameful yellow Mercedovs, more than one reporter was pushed from the tower at Ostankino with goose feathers up his ass, more than one hackneyed rabble-rouser of a writer was drowned in the Moscow River, more than one nobleman’s widow was dropped off at her parents’ home, naked and unconscious, wrapped in a sheepskin…
    Each time I stand in Uspensky Cathedral with a candle in my hand, I think secret, treasonous thoughts on one subject: What if we didn’t exist? Would His Majesty be able to manage on his own? Would the Streltsy, the Secret Department, and the Kremlin regiment be enough?
    And I whisper to myself, softly, beneath the singing of the choir:
    “No.”

 
    Our repast in the White Chamber is quite ordinary today.
    We sit at long, bare, oak tables. The servants bring us kvass made from bread crumbs, day-old cabbage soup, rye bread, beef boiled with onion, and buckwheat porridge. We eat, discuss our plans quietly. Our silent bells sway back and forth. Each wing of the oprichnina has its own plans: some are busy in the Secret Department today; some in the Mind Chamber; some in the Ambassadorial; some in the Trade Department. Right now I have three affairs going.
    The first: deal with the clowns and minstrels, and approve the new performance for the holiday concert.
    The second: snuff out the star .
    The third: fly out and visit Praskovia, the clairvoyant of Tobol, on a special errand .
    I sit in my place, the fourth to Batya’s right. It’s a place of honor, a lucrative place. Only Shelet, Samosya, and Yerokha are closer to him on the right side. Batya is strong, imposing, young in countenance, though completely gray. It’s a pleasure to watch him eat: he doesn’t hurry, he takes his time. Batya is our foundation, the main root of the oak that supports the entire oprichnina. He was the first to whom His Majesty entrusted the Work. During difficult, fateful times for Russia, our rulers leaned on him. Batya was the first link in the iron chain of the oprichniks. After him other links were attached, welded, fused into the Great Ring