And what of the boy?

Let's hope he sees the monastery and takes an interest, he thought. Then he would have to tell Ivanushka the truth, that he would never succeed in being a boyar. That will break his heart, he acknowledged to himself. But by then there would be an alternative. And then we shall see, he concluded.

And so it was, that morning, that Ivanushka came to the monastery.

He had never been there before.

They reached the top of the promontory, then continued until, by a clearing in the trees, they came to a stout wooden gateway. A monk in a black habit bowed to them as they passed through, while Ivanushka, pale with excitement, looked about him.

It was not much of a place. There was a small wooden chapel and a cluster of dwelling houses, together with two low, barn-like structures, one of which was the refectory where the monks ate, the other a hospice for the sick. It was nothing like the grand cathedral, and Ivanushka was rather disappointed. It seemed to him that there was something sad about the place.

The morning dew still clung to the dark wooden huts although the sun was well up in the sky, as if the buildings had been permeated by the cold, wet ground. Rocks appeared amongst the trees. Here and there in the clearing were patches of light brown mud. Yet somehow, in the midst of rising spring, there was a feeling of autumn, as though leaves were still falling.

It was hardly twenty years since Anthony the Hermit, travelling from Holy Mount Athos in distant Greece, had come upon this deserted spot and found the caves. Soon others had joined the holy man in his cave above the Dniepr, and this little community of a dozen or so hermits had burrowed out a network of tiny cells and passages deep underground. These cells were under their feet now; and it gave Ivanushka a strange feeling to know that the holy men were down there, like rabbits in a warren, aware no doubt of his presence above.

Anthony himself, he knew, dwelt apart from the community in a cave on his own, occasionally appearing for some important purpose, such as to demand that the Prince of Kiev give the monks the hill, and then disappearing again. But his saintly spirit was said to hover over the place like a wreath of mist over the ground. Meanwhile, the faithful monks, led by kindly Theodosius, had built up the monastery above the ground as well as beneath. And of this number of saintly men was Father Luke.

Ivanushka and his father dismounted. One monk had led their horses away; another, after a whispered conversation, had walked to a small hut and disappeared.

'That is the way down into the caves,' his father explained.

They waited. Several minutes passed. Two elderly monks accompanied by a young monk in his twenties walked slowly past and into the wooden chapel. One of the old monks, Ivanushka saw, wore a big, heavy chain round his neck and seemed to walk with difficulty. 'Why does he wear a chain?' he whispered.

His father looked at him as though he had asked a foolish question. 'To mortify the flesh,' he answered abruptly. 'He is close to God,' he added with obvious respect.

Ivanushka said nothing. A faint, cold breath of wind made itself felt against his cheek.

Then the door of the hut opposite slowly opened and the monk emerged, holding the door open for an unseen figure. Ivanushka heard his father whisper: 'Here he comes.' He held his breath. He saw the skirt of a robe in the doorway. This was the moment the splendid figure who was to tell him his destiny was approaching.

And then from the doorway emerged a small, scrawny old man.

His hair was grey and, though he had combed it, not very clean; nor was his black habit, tied with a leather belt that was mottled with mildew. His beard was straggly and untidy. He shuffled slowly towards them, the younger monk walking just behind him as though to catch him should he stumble.

Father Luke's face was wrinkled and ghostly white, and his brows hung over it heavily, partly because he stooped so much. As he came slowly forward he opened his mouth once, as though flexing stiff muscles in preparation for a smile he knew he must make. Ivanushka saw that several of his yellowed teeth were missing. The eyes were not, as he had imagined, like suns. They were old, a little rheumy and, it appeared, slightly crossed. The old man seemed mostly concerned with staring at his feet, encased in leather shoes which were full of holes, so that his grimy feet could be seen within. But there was something worse than his appearance, something Ivanushka was completely unprepared for.

It was the smell.

For those who live long underground acquire not only pale skins like corpses, but also a terrible aroma; and it was this smell, preceding Father Luke, that came towards the boy. He had never encountered anything like it: in his mind rose a vague image of wet clay, dead flesh and rotting leaves.

And now the monk stood beside them.

'This is Ivanushka,' he heard his father say.

He bowed his head.

So this was Father Luke. He could not believe it. He wanted to run away. How could his father have cruelly deceived him in this way? If only, he prayed, he does not touch me.

When he looked up, he was aware of his father and the old man talking quietly. The monk's eyes, which looked up at him, were blue, sharper and more inquisitive than he had supposed. They glanced at him from time to time, before staring down at the ground again.

His father and the monk were discussing quite mundane affairs in a matter-of-fact way the trade and politics of Tmutarakan, the price of salt, the building of the new Monastery of St Dimitri inside the citadel. He found this surprising and rather dull. So he was taken off-guard when Father Luke suddenly nodded towards him and remarked: 'So this is the young man you told me about?'

'It is.'

'Ivan,' Father Luke went on, half to himself, though smiling slightly at the boy. 'A very Christian name for a young man.'

It was true that as yet few Russians had taken the name Ivan, the Slavic form of John, as their first name. But while Igor had given his first two sons the usual Slav names and reserved the Christian ones for their baptismal names, he had for some reason given his third son only a single, Christian name.

Ivanushka saw that his father was giving him an encouraging smile that was meant to reassure him, but in fact told him only that Igor was anxious he should make a good impression: and as always upon such occasions, he immediately felt something tighten within him, while his mind became a sea of confusion. The monk's next question completed this.

'Do you like it here?'

What could he say? He was so upset, so disappointed, and the direct question seemed suddenly to bring all his misery to the surface. With tears coming into his eyes, half in fury at his father, half in numb disappointment, unable to look up at them he blurted out: 'No.'

He could feel his father stiffen with rage. 'Ivan!'

He looked up and saw Igor's furious look. The monk, however, did not seem put out. 'What do you see here?' he asked quietly.

Again, the question took him by surprise. It was so simple that, too agitated now to collect his thoughts, he answered it without thinking at all: 'Rotting leaves.'

He heard his father's gasp of exasperation, then saw to his surprise the monk reach out his pale, bony hand and take Igor gently by the arm. 'Do not be angry,' Father Luke admonished soflty. 'The boy has only spoken the truth.' He sighed. 'But he is young for such a place.'

'Some boys have come here,' he heard his father say crossly.

The monk nodded, but apparently without much interest. 'Some.' He turned back to Ivanushka.

What was coming next? Ivanushka could not imagine. Certainly not what did. 'So, Ivan, should you like to be a priest?'

A priest? What could the old man be thinking of? He was going to be a hero, a boyar. He stared, open-mouthed, at the monk in horror.

With a wry smile Father Luke turned to Igor. 'Are you sure about this, my friend?'

'I thought it would be best.' Igor's brows were knitted, both in anger and embarrassment.

Ivanushka looked up at his father. It was hard for him, at first, to understand even what was being said, but through the fog of his confusion he began to realize: if his father thought he should be a priest, then he must be judged unworthy to be a boyar. And so now, fresh from the disappointment of finding the awesome Father Luke to be nothing more than a shabby old man, two thoughts formed themselves in his mind. His father had betrayed him, never even told him about his plans; and he had rejected him.

Father Luke now drew out a book from the folds of his habit, and opened it. 'This is the liturgy of St John Chrysostom,' he said. 'Can you read this?' And he showed Ivanushka a prayer.

The boy stumbled through it and Father Luke nodded quielty. Then he drew another little book out and showed it to Ivanushka; but in this one the writing seemed different and Ivanushka shook his head. 'This is in the old alphabet which the blessed St Cyril invented for the Slavs,' the monk explained. 'In fact, some monks still prefer this old writing which uses some Hebrew characters; but today we use the alphabet designed by Cyril's successors, which is mainly Greek and which people call, incorrectly, Cyrillic. If you were a priest, it would be useful to know both.'

Ivanushka hung his head and said nothing.

'We in this monastery,' Father Luke went on quielty, 'live by the rule which our Abbot Theodosius has chosen. It is a wise rule. Our monks spend much of the time singing and praying in the chapel, but they also occupy themselves with useful tasks like caring for the sick. Some, it is true, follow a harsher discipline and remain in seclusion in their cells or in the caves for long periods. But this is their own choice.'

'It is a holy choice,' Igor said respectfully.

Father Luke did not look impressed. 'But not for all.' He sighed, though it sounded more like a short hiss. It seemed to Ivanushka that the monk used less breath than other men. 'The life of a monk is a constant drawing closer to God,' he went on quietly. Whether he was addressing Igor or his son now was hard to say. 'In this process, the flesh dries up, but the spirit is fed, and grows, through communion with God.' To Ivanushka, the monk's quiet voice sounded like the falling of leaves.

Then Father Luke coughed, with a dry, rasping sound. And Ivanushka thought: He is like a husk, buried in the earth.

'And so the body dies, that the soul may live.'

Ivanushka knew that some monks kept their coffins in their cells, in this long preparation for death.

He realized that Father Luke was watching him dispassionately, observing how he received these words. But he could not conceal his disappointment, his desire to escape from this image, as it seemed to him, of death.

'Yet it is not death,' Father Luke went on, as though following his thoughts. 'For Christ overcame death. The grass withereth, but the word of the Lord does not. So it is that, even in our mortal condition, our souls live in the world of the spirit, humble before God.' But if this was meant to bring Ivanushka comfort, it brought him none.

It was an old idea, this ascetic ideal of the withering of the body. For centuries it had been practised by single-minded hermits in Christian Syria. This was not the wild infliction of pain that was often indulged in by the flagellants in the west, but rather the slow process of sapping the vital juices from the body, reducing it to a useless husk that would not interfere with the life of the spirit and the service of God.

Still watching him carefully the monk continued: 'These extremes are only for a few. Most of the monks here live a simpler life, devoted to the service of God and their fellow men. Indeed, this is the rule favoured by our Abbot Theodosius.'

Ivanushka was too discouraged, however, to find comfort even in this.

'Do you wish to serve God?' the old man asked abruptly.

'Oh, yes.' He was almost in tears though. The idea of serving God had always been such an exciting thought before. With a single heart, a single mind, he had seen himself riding in God's service over the waving grasses of the steppe, fighting the heathen horsemen.

The old man gave a grunt.

'The boy is young. He loves his body.' It was said calmly, without anger, but it was obviously the monk's final judgement. He turned his back on Ivanushka.

'You do not think he would make a priest?' Igor asked anxiously.

'God touches each man at the proper time. We do not know what we shall be.'

'He should not be trained for the priesthood then?' Igor sought clarification.

Instead of answering, Father Luke turned back to Ivanushka and laid his hand on his head, in a gesture that might, or might not, have been a blessing. 'I see that you are going on a journey,' he said, 'from which you will return.' Then he turned away again.

A journey? Ivanushka's mind was racing. Could he mean his plan to go to the great River Don? Surely he must. And he had said nothing about him becoming a priest. At last there was hope.

Meanwhile, the old monk was gazing at Igor rather severely.

'You fast too much,' he said abruptly.

'Surely fasting is permitted?' Igor said in surprise.

'A fast is a tithe we pay to God. And a tithe is a tenth, not more. You should limit your fasts. You are too severe with yourself.'

'And my prayers?'

Ivanushka knew that his father prayed for a long time at dawn, and then again, three or four times, before the day was over.

'Pray as much as you wish, as long as you don't neglect your business,' the monk replied sharply. He paused for a moment, then went on: 'This fasting, you know, came into our church from the Latin west, through Moravia. I am not one of those who condemn the west, but too much fasting amongst the laity is foolish. If you want to do that, you must join the Romans and say their creed,' he added with a faint smile.

For more than a decade now, there had been, technically, a breach between the eastern and western Christian churches between Constantinople and Rome. The disagreement concerned mainly the form of addressing God and the Trinity in the creed, though certain differences in style and theological emphasis underlay the division. The Pope claimed the highest authority. The eastern Church did not agree. But it was not as yet a deep rift.

The monk's gentle taunt, therefore, was merely a way of reminding Igor that, as his spiritual son, he owed him obedience.

'I will do as you say,' the noble replied. 'As for the boy, if he's not to be a priest, what's to become of him?'

Father Luke did not even look at Ivanushka.

'God knows,' he replied.

1067.

Kiev the golden. There was only one problem in the land of Rus. This was that its rulers had invented a political system that did not, and could not possibly, work. The problem lay in the system of succession.

For when the royal clan had chosen that cities should pass, not from father to son, but from brother to brother, they had not foreseen the consequences, which were disastrous.

Firstly, when a prince ruled a city, he might set his sons to rule over the lesser towns in that territory. But when he died, they usually had to give these up to the next prince in line, perhaps without compensation. Worse still, if one of the princely brothers died before being granted a city, his children were completely left out of the long chain of succession. There were many such landless princes without prospects, and these political orphans were known by the same name that was applied to other dispossessed or dependent folk in Russian society: izgoi izgoi.

And even when the succession of brothers did not create izgoi izgoi, it still produced ludicrous situations.

For the princes of Rus were often long-lived, and they had many sons. What if the eldest son produced children who were fully grown warriors and statesmen by the time his youngest brother, their uncle, was still a boy? They would still have to give up power for their boy-uncle. No wonder they were angry.

Indeed, as the generations passed, it became harder and harder even to work out who was entitled to what, let alone to get the parties to agree to it. Thus the ruling clan of Kievan Rus spent generations devising makeshift arrangements within a system that was inherently unworkable. They never solved their problem.

Kiev the golden. Of late it seemed to Ivanushka that a harsh, angry light menaced the golden city. Treachery was in the air. And now, a year after it had appeared, in the dead of winter, the meaning of the terrible portent in the heavens was becoming clear in the land of Rus.

At first, Ivanushka had even been afraid for his father.

Of all the princes in the land of Rus, none was stranger than the Prince of Polotsk. Men said he was a werewolf. He was certainly terrible to look upon. 'He was born with a caul wrapped over his eye,' Ivanushka's mother had told him, 'and it's there to this day.'

'And is he really so evil?' Ivanushka had asked.

'As wicked as Baba Yaga the witch,' she had replied.

The revolt of the Prince of Polotsk was a typical dynastic quarrel. Though not a landless izgoi izgoi, this grandson of the Blessed Vladimir had been cut out of the main chain of succession: so while he kept the city of Polotsk, which lay towards Poland in the west, he could never inherit Kiev, Novgorod, Chernigov, or any of the greatest cities of the land of Rus.

For a time, while other, less important izgoi izgoi princes had been creating trouble in the outlying territories, the Prince of Polotsk had remained quiet. Then suddenly, at the dead of winter, he had struck in the north, at the great city of Novgorod; and as the snow lay thick upon the ground, Igor and his two eldest boys had ridden north with the Prince of Kiev and his brothers. princes had been creating trouble in the outlying territories, the Prince of Polotsk had remained quiet. Then suddenly, at the dead of winter, he had struck in the north, at the great city of Novgorod; and as the snow lay thick upon the ground, Igor and his two eldest boys had ridden north with the Prince of Kiev and his brothers.

If only Ivanushka could have ridden with them. Since the interview at the monastery, he had spent a miserable year. Because of Cuman raids in the steppe, the caravan with Zhydovyn the Khazar had been postponed. Igor had made several attempts to place him in one of the princely households, but with no luck. More than once, his father had asked him if he would not like to visit the monastery again; but each time he had hung his head, and Igor had shrugged and turned away. And now his father and brothers were hunting the werewolf.

'Father will kill him,' Ivanushka had cried as they left. But in his heart, he had not been so sure. Three weeks had passed. They heard that the western rebel city of Minsk had fallen, and that the armies had passed on towards the north. After that, silence.

Then, one afternoon in early March, while the snow still lay on the ground, Ivanushka heard the stamp and jingle of a horse coming into the courtyard and ran out to see a tall, stern figure dismounting.

It was his brother Sviatopolk. How handsome and brave, how like their father he looked. He glanced at Ivanushka. 'We won,' he announced drily. 'Father's on his way back with Boris. He sent me ahead to tell Mother.'

'And the werewolf?'

'He lost and ran away. He's finished.'

'What happened at Minsk?'

Sviatopolk smiled. Why did his mouth look bitter when he smiled, and why did he only do so when he was talking about people being hurt? 'We butchered all the men; sold the women and children as slaves.' He gave a short laugh. 'There were so many slaves it drove the price down to half a grivna grivna a head.' a head.'