Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw
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tell you my secret,” said Nestor.
“I almost forgot your promise, but I hold you to it.”
“Below this building is an entrance to a cave. It is that cave that is the actual Great Library of Yaroslaw the Wise. Only I and one other monk know of its entrance. We bring books up for copying in the scriptorium, and take our scribes’ best work down for safekeeping. Today, we write up here where the light is better. But I’m told the earliest chroniclers actually wrote day and night in the cave.”
Ratibor stopped chewing on his meaty bone. “And so then, what is the Pysaniy Kamin, the Written Rock that stands above us?”
“It is there to seal the entrance to the Great Library. This is how we were to protect the wisdom of the centuries if the city ever fell or was put to the torch.”
“And how many times was it employed?”
“Never successfully,” said Nestor. “In the year 6677 by the chroniclers’ count, when Mstyslaw, son of Andriy Boholubsky of Suzdal, razed this city, the ihumen did not have the strength to move the wedges that hold the rock. Many books were lost but it was God’s will that the fires did not burn through the floor.”
“And you think that you have the strength?”
“With God’s will.”
“With rope,” said Ratibor. He turned to where his page was drawing a cup of mead for his master. “Kyrylo, find me a goodly length of strong rope.” He took the offering of strong drink. “Mind the arrows if you go outside.”
“I know where such materials are stored, Pane Sotnyk,” replied the young dzhura as he scurried away.
“One more question, my dear monk,” continued Ratibor. “When the great rock drops, do you intend to be above it or below?”
“I do think, above,” said Nestor, feigning courage. “Death would be swifter.”
“So, there is no passage out of the Great Library except for the one under our floor?”
“There is also a great door in the Library,” said Nestor slowly. “It bars entry of unclean spirits and demons. It must never be opened.”
Ratibor downed the last of the contents of the cup as he mused aloud, “I have seen the great demon. Nought could surpass what I witnessed today.”
“Ratibor!” cried Vsevolod from above. “They come!”
Ratibor stood to arm himself. “I thank the unclean devils for allowing me to sup before battle,” he said; then, raising his voice so that Vsevolod could hear on the battlement above, he called, “Bid them prepare, for I go on them!”
* * *
Ratibor observed that Vsevolod had prepared his formation cleverly. Here, where the newer battlements of the City of Yaroslaw met those of the older City of Izyaslav-Svyatopolk, they formed an acute “V.” Vsevolod had placed archers in three rows of four facing along the Yaroslaw wall as it sloped down towards the now missing Lyadski Gates. Ten paces behind these, he stationed twelve more in the same manner. On the old battlements of the City of Izyaslav-Svyatopolk, he placed two rows of twelve archers behind the parapets, facing across to the new battlements which were lower and thus fully exposed.
The Mongols had been facing tough resistance from defenders on the wall, who had fought to the last man. But now, in the dark, they were moving quickly along the battlement in massed formation like a black tide towards Ratibor’s sector.
“Vsevolod,” said Ratibor, “the enemy is well within range.”
“Ready!” commanded the leader of the otroks.
“Row one shoot! … Down!” began Vsevolod.
“Row two shoot! … Down!”
“Row three shoot! … All stand!”
“Row one shoot! … Down!”
“Row two shoot! … Down!”
This process had deadly effect. By the time each archer had shot but twice, the young otroks had killed and wounded as many as Ratibor had at the Lyadski Gates. Now the archers on the old battlements began shooting into the rear of the Mongol formation, creating an obstacle of dead and wounded. Vsevolod ordered the second group of twelve archers to replace the first. This gave the first group time to rest and refill their quivers. The mass of Mongol-Tatars had stopped advancing, and a half dozen ran back in panicked retreat. To Ratibor’s amazement, these few were cut down by their own rearguard. The cruelty of Mongol tactics was beyond his comprehension.
“This battle is over,” announced Ratibor. “You have covered yourself in glory. Now I expect they will bring up their own archers. Move to the ladders. I want the rear group of twelve down and into the scriptorium now. If they shoot arrows, I will order the rest of you down.”
A hundred arrows whistled through the sky towards Ratibor’s sector.
“Down the ladders now!” ordered Ratibor. He used his shield to cover the otroks’ retreat.
“What now?” asked Vsevolod.
“They are disengaging for the night. We hold the high ground and it is dark – so their shots aren’t effective.”
“So what do we do?”
“Go mind the boys below. Bid them sleep. But station a half dozen otroks on the old wall as sentries.”
The Mongols ignored Ratibor’s isolated pocket of defenders. They too were resting and preparing for the next day’s assault. Several hundred Mongols were pressed to the job of clearing a mountain of bodies and smoothing the path through the gap where the Lyadski Gates once stood. The ground had to be level to be able to bring the porok trebuchet catapults inside the outer walls of Kyiv.
* * *
Ratibor woke to a sound like thunder. He climbed up a ladder to the old battlements. He faced the sun as it rose from behind the snow-covered steppes on the left bank of the Dnipro River. Its light glinted on the white prairie and outlined Kyiv’s ramparts in gold. Ratibor doffed his pointed helmet, and slipped off the leather hood that shielded his head and neck from the savage cold. The scalp-lock on his clean-shaven head whipped in the wind, as did the drooping tips of his bushy moustache. Both were snowy-white, except for the dark bit at the tip of the oseledets scalp-lock, serving to remind Ratibor of long-faded youth. He wore these in the forgotten style of Rus′ warriors of old, harkening back to the days of Sviatoslaw the Conqueror. A gust blew frigid crystals off the wooden battlements. Eyes closed to the sting of sun and wind, Ratibor silently asked the Sun God, Dazhboh, for his blessing. As it was for many others in his cohort, the worship of the dead foreign gods of Christianity was only for show. In times of real need, they turned to the gods of old.
The sound of thunder had come from the Zoloti Vorota behind him. There was fire and smoke by the Golden Gate.
“What was that?” asked Vsevolod, shaking from more than just the cold. He was one of those on sentry duty.
“That’s the demonic thunder that they used to make the Lyadski Gates fly.”
“I count four poroks inside the outer wall,” Vsevolod said matter-of-factly, trying his best to mask the terror that the sight before him created.
“They are closer to the walls of the City of Volodymyr than they need to be,” said Ratibor. “They are there to draw the last of Rus′ arrows.”
The noise of a hundred thousand Mongol-Tatars shouting “Urra!” thundered and echoed between the walls of the city. The area between the outer wall and the dytynets was filling with a hundred thousand men. The poroks cast their huge boulders but could not be heard over the din. Flaming arrows streaked over the walls of the City of Volodymyr. Flaming arrows also streaked towards Ratibor’s sector. Almost unnoticed was the advance of the battering ram against the Sofiyski Gates of the citadel.
“Sentries back down inside!”