The Ocean of Time Read Online Free PDF Page A

face. ‘But I thought …’
    She thought she’d have another week, that’s what she thought.
    I reach out and take her hand. ‘There’s no reason to delay. The sled is ready and all the goods are packed. We’ve provisions and the weather’s good.’ I hesitate, then say, ‘I thought we’d spend tomorrow saying our farewells, then set off at dawn the next day.’
    I can see that she is suddenly fearful. For a time she’s quiet; then, sighing, she nods. ‘All right, but Otto …’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Promise me you’ll do something for me on the journey. Promise me you’ll teach me German.’

161
    It is July the fifteenth, St Vladimir’s day, named after Prince Vladimir Sviatislav, son of the first Grand Prince of the Rus’; the same who took an army to Constantinople and came back with the Byzantine Emperor Basil’s sister Anna as his bride; he who, returning home to Kiev, tore down the graven images of the six gods – of Stribog, the god of the sky, Dazhd’bog, the god of light, Mokosh, goddess of nature, Hors, the sun god, Simargl, god of fertility, and Perun, the old Norse god of thunder and war – and set a great cross in their place, leading the people of Kiev – all fifty thousand of them – down into the waters of the River Dnieper, there to be baptised in the faith of Christ.
    Long ago that was, yet I remember it well, for I was there, standing waist-deep in the river beside the Grand Prince as, one by one, he submerged his people, drawing the sign of the cross upon each brow and washing away their sins as that long hot summer afternoon wore on.
    On another summer’s day two hundred and fifty years later, I lie back, my darling Katerina beside me as our boat slowly crosses Lake Ilmen, the shorelines to either side of us lost in distance, the oars of the boatmen pulling strongly against the northward current.
    Behind us, the sled is packed upon a cart, secured with chains and padlocked, the only key secreted on my person. Though its loss would not be a total disaster, it would make things hard for us, and so I take cautious measures.
    As well I might, for we venture now into lawless regions.
    There is a secret compartment beneath the floor of the cart, accessible from beneath, wherein I’ve stored certain items of importance. As for the cart itself, a thick tarpaulin – not of this age – covers the load, strapped tightly so that no thieving fingers can get in.
    Katerina is wearing a large straw hat and a summer dress, like a peasant girl, and from time to time I catch one or another of the men staring at her. But I make no issue of it. These are good men; as good as one might find in a wilderness town like Novgorod, and the
tysiatskii
’s pass carries weight with them. They might dream of having her, but they know better than to act on the desire. Besides, there is the prospect of a handsome bonus if I return safely, so they row hard and keep their thoughts to themselves, even if their eyes sometimes stray.
    For the past half hour I have been writing in my journal, but now Katerina interrupts me, asking me to run through things just one more time, so that she has it clear in her mind.
    I take out the hand-drawn map, then turn, pointing north across the great lake towards the distant mountains. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘See the clouds gathering already. In eight, maybe nine weeks the rainy season will begin. We must be in Gzhatsk before then.’
    I draw a line on the map with my right forefinger, tracing it from where the River Lovat begins, on the south shore of Lake Ilmen, down through Velikie Luki to the tiny village of Zajkava.
    I say village, but it is little more than a trading post. A wooden jetty and a cluster of small wooden buildings built for the river trade. There we leave our friends, the boatmen, and travel south-west overland some twenty miles to Velizh, another trading post, but this time on the River Mezha.
    Katerina listens attentively. She is keen to be no burden but to be an equal