Chapter 2 part 2: Spoils and Judgment
Polotsk’s great hall was colder than the road outside, the fire pit choked and the high timbers draped in smoke. The spoils of Novgorod—relics, gold, and the veche bell—were arrayed beneath flickering torches, watched by druzhina who did not speak. No feast marked the army’s return. Instead, the council gathered around the long table, every face turning, some wary, some hungry, all to Vseslav.
Sofia stood poised by her husband’s side, blue eyes calm but piercing, her bearing a deliberate blend of warmth and steel. Her hands never rested, quietly adjusting her sash, scanning for every shift in mood, her voice saved for moments when it would cut through noise like a blade. She missed nothing—the tension in Theodosius’s jaw, the way Sviatoslav’s fingers trembled as he traced the rim of a stolen icon.
Holy Father Sviatoslav lingered by the relics, a tall, broad, handsome man with hair cropped priest-short, his lips moving ceaselessly in half-voiced prayers. His right hand hovered over the icons, never quite touching, as if to do so might bring either blessing or ruin. His gaze darted often to the veche bell, suspicion and awe mingled in equal measure. Each breath, you could see the question: did God favor this raid, or had they earned only a curse?
Theodosius hunched over ledgers, feverish eyes flicking between columns of numbers, knuckles pale as bone. At thirty-one he was already marked by restless energy and the lingering shadow of illness; his meticulous penmanship betrayed not just discipline, but the anxiety of a man who knew that every error would be measured twice. Each time something clinked on stone, his head jerked up, as if catching a thief.
Yevdokia, the prince’s “tongue,” blended with the darkness by the wall, her slender frame swathed in sable, eyes half-lidded in the flicker of torchlight. Only eighteen, she watched the older men with a cruel sort of patience, a small amused smile twisting her lips as their voices clashed. When one of the stewards whispered to another, her attention flickered there, sharp and silent, as if weighing every secret for later use.
“We have won a great prize,” Vseslav announced, his voice low but carrying, the rough edge of fatigue clear beneath command. “But Polotsk’s fortune is not only gold. There will be consequences—for all of us.” His gaze swept the hall, lingering longest on Sviatoslav, who at last muttered, “Let us hope the saints favor boldness, this time.”
After the council, Vseslav slipped from the hall, boots silent on flagstones. In his chambers, Sofia followed, easing battered armor from his shoulders with hands practiced in both tenderness and strategy. “They look to you for certainty,” she murmured, brushing a dark strand from his brow. “But certainty is the one thing we never have.”
Rostislav waited just beyond the door—broad, battered, his half-face helm in the crook of his arm. He caught Vseslav’s eye and, for a breath, a rare smile broke his heavy features. “You brought us home, prince. The rest will follow. And if they don’t, let them try to stand against the druzhina next time.” With a glance to Sofia, he took up his post again, silent and loyal as a blade.
---
In the days after the return from Novgorod, the halls of Polotsk echoed with tension and industry. The great bell crouched near the hearth, shrouded in furs, a monstrous, watchful presence amid stacks of looted coin and relics. Council was called in the bitter cold, torches painting nervous faces with shifting shadows.
Vseslav stood at the head of the long table, Sofia at his side, her eyes sharp above her heavy mantle. Sviatoslav muttered prayers over the icons, gaze flicking from loot to bell and back. Theodosius, hollow-cheeked and feverish, poured over ledgers, tallying every coin and tally-stick. Yevdokia, the prince’s tongue in the shadows, watched the assembly through half-lidded eyes, her secrets close.
When the time came to fill the council’s empty seats, Vseslav summoned those who had earned their place in blood or cunning—or, in the case of the newcomer, by reputation alone.
The first to enter was Koz’ma Kholmsky, sleeves rolled, mud still drying on his boots. His hands were wide and calloused, his eyes scanning the council with the wary calculation of a man who measured every road by its ruts and every prince by his patience. He spoke in a low, practical voice: “You want the wagons full, you keep my schedule. You want bread on the tables, you pay on time.” Laughter and unease mingled around the table. Vseslav’s nod was curt, the deal sealed with a loaf and a look.
Yosef, the new physician, followed with a battered satchel and a merciless steadiness. Sofia met him at the threshold, questioning with only her gaze. “I serve the living,” he replied. “For the rest, I leave the prayers to others.” His hands, already stained with blood and tincture, moved with the assurance of a man who did not waste words.
But the last to arrive—unannounced, nearly silent—was Zelekman. He appeared at dawn, thin and sharp, a silver amulet flashing at his throat. He carried a bundle of parchments and a battered stylus, eyes bright with a cautious, hungry intelligence. An outsider’s accent marked his first words: “Your accounts are unbalanced, your tribute reckoned short. Three icons missing, two debts unpaid, and one relic uncounted.”
The council bristled. Theodosius grunted. “Who counts another man’s gold in his own house?”
Zelekman answered without fear, “A city that loses track of its treasure loses track of itself. I’ve seen courts fall for less.” He laid the corrected tally on the table, precise and uncompromising.
Vseslav weighed the stranger’s words, reading not just their content but the man behind them. “And if I give you the ledgers?” he asked.
“I keep them as I keep a chronicle—honestly, thoroughly, without favor. Legend and ledger are both ink. I serve the story and the truth.”
A moment of silence passed—a quiet contest of will. Then Vseslav inclined his head, granting the post of steward and chronicler to the outsider. Whispers circled the room: “Jew, stranger, too quick, too clever…” But Vseslav only said, “A city is what its records remember. Begin your work.”
Yevdokia’s shadow lingered by the door, eyes narrowed as she sized up the newest arrival. Koz’ma, arms folded, offered a curt nod, as if recognizing a fellow laborer in the grim work of order. Yosef said nothing; the physician’s gaze lingered on Zelekman a moment, calculating as ever.
That evening, as torches guttered in the winter gloom, Zelekman was already at work—balancing coin and myth, chronicling not just the gold, but the rumor in every whisper and the legend in every boast. He moved quietly through the halls, neither welcomed nor rebuffed, speaking little but hearing all.
By the next day, gold began to flow where it should, and the first stories of the Sorcerer-Prince’s triumph—shaped by Zelekman’s pen—began to spread beyond the city gates.
---
The first pale sun since the host’s return bled through the archways of Polotsk’s square, making every breath smoke in the frozen air. At the castle’s open gate, the veche bell crouched among the loot—enormous, battered, its hide wrappings gone, exposing old scars and Latin and Slavic prayers hammered into the bronze. No oxen or wagon waited; this was to be done by hand, as custom and penance both.
Vseslav stood at the head of the line, the folds of his black-and-blue cloak thrown back, a prince unafraid to soil his hands. Around him, the court formed—a tableau of ranks blurred by fear and hope. Koz’ma barked orders, sleeves rolled, jaw set, as he measured out the length of rope and the strength of each team. “No passenger’s share,” he muttered. “Every man pulls or none do.” His eyes flicked between druzhina, merchants, and nobles, ensuring even the reluctant ones found their place.
Trifon, broad and battered, laughed and spat on his palms before gripping the rope beside two red-faced merchants. Nikita, hawk-eyed and restless, tested each knot, murmuring the old words for luck and muttering warnings to any who slackened. Rostislav’s fists were already bleeding from some earlier contest, but he took his place without complaint, his glare enough to silence anyone thinking of shirking. Among them, a handful of nervous boyars—robes tied up to their knees, beaver hats askew—did their best to look equal to the task, some for honor, some for fear of being remembered otherwise.
Yosef moved quietly behind the ranks, his satchel of linen and tinctures ready. A murmur ran through the crowd as he knelt to bandage a farmhand’s palm before the work began. “No blood for the bell,” he muttered, “only sweat.” His tone brokered no argument.
Sofia was there too, her fur mantle standing out among the men. She watched the nobles and townsfolk alike, offering a nod to those who met her gaze and a word of encouragement to the children who crowded near. “One city, one burden,” she said, her voice even and public.
Yevdokia drifted through the gathering, pale and unreadable in sable. She caught every aside and secret look, weighing who whispered, who muttered, and who kept silent.
The bell and relics—icons, chalices, strips of battered silk—were placed on sturdy planks and beams. The procession moved at a crawl, each lurch sending new shivers through the rope teams. The people lined the lane: women in faded _ponevas_ and embroidered _platoks_ clutching infants, men in rough _rubashkas_ and fur vests, merchants with colorful sashes. Old women crossed themselves “old-style,” two fingers quick and sharp. Children hushed and watched, some clutching their fathers’ knees.
A merchant’s son and a veteran druzhina found themselves shoulder to shoulder, the boy’s breath quick and pale in the cold. The older man grunted, adjusted the grip, and together they heaved as one.
Through torch-smoke and incense the column wound, the weight so great the bell barely budged at each turn. Koz’ma adjusted the teams, Theodosius called out for caution whenever the ropes threatened to slip, and Zelekman, silver amulet bright against his tunic, counted each item and recorded who bore it.
At the threshold of St. Sophia, the procession stopped. Sviatoslav, in gold and linen, his hair cropped close, advanced with a battered _evangelie_ and a carved _kovsh_ of holy water. He paused, voice thin with strain, and chanted the blessing—intoning the trisagion and calling on the saints, the Theotokos, the hosts of angels to sanctify the relics and the bell, to forgive “the violence by which they came, and the hands that now receive them.” His hand shook as he traced the cross in the air and sprinkled water onto the bell’s battered crown. The crowd echoed each “Gospodi Pomiluy”—Lord, have mercy—each petition rising like breath into the rafters.
Incense poured from swinging censers, the scent of frankincense and birch mingling with sweat and the faint copper tang of cold iron. The choir intoned the psalm, and the whole city felt pressed between awe and dread, hope and the memory of blood.
The nobles—fur-collared, boots muddied, faces set—took up the rope in the next effort, their struggle as public as any peasant’s. Koz’ma called the rhythm, Trifon shouted encouragement, and Vseslav himself set his shoulder beneath the beam. A child cried out when a plank slipped, but was hushed by a merchant’s broad hand.
Yevdokia watched as the crowd weighed every gesture: who pulled with grit, who faltered, who shirked. Already, stories were being born.
When the bell finally came to rest in the shadow of the altar, Sviatoslav finished the prayer with a final trembling sign. The crowd, all classes together, exhaled as one—a silence thick enough to hear the snow drift outside.
What happened next would test their strength more than any blessing. But for that moment, prince and people, conqueror and conquered, thief and priest stood bound by a labor that made their prize—perhaps, for a breath—truly their own.
---
The cold was absolute in the cathedral yard, the kind that burned fingers and numbed skin, even through felt boots and layered wool. St. Sophia’s was not much warmer, its doors flung wide. Only the pressing mass of people and their exertion provided a hint of warmth. Her belfry rose stark and unfinished against the pale blue sky. Inside, a timber scaffold rose into the belfry, burdened with heavy ropes, wooden blocks, hand tools, and men. The crowd pressed so close that the sound of breath and anxious prayer filled the air, thicker even than the freely flowing incense. The veche bell waited at the foot of the scaffolding, immense and mute.
Koz’ma’s voice rang out over the murmurs, brisk and sharp as an ax blade. Before he gave the signal, he pressed his fingers to his brow and then to the rough timber, murmuring a prayer just loud enough for those nearest to hear. “Strength comes to those who earn it,” he declared, his voice edged with conviction. “Teams to the lines! Mind your footing, mind your brothers, no heroics, no fools!”
He moved with purpose, mud still crusted on his boots, eyes sharp as he inspected each knot and length of rope, pausing to tug hard as if to test not just the cord, but the will behind it. When he set Rostislav at the front, where the pulling was hardest, Koz’ma gripped the man’s forearm in a wordless blessing, his gaze shining with something more than duty.
Rostislav moved forward as Koz’ma directed, cracking his thick knuckles and rolling his shoulders with a grunt. He eyed the bell, then the ropes, and gave a slow, crooked grin that showed no fear, only appetite for the contest. “If this beast means to kill a man, let it pick someone worth the trouble,” he rumbled, voice low and even. “Ready when you are.”
Trifon spat in his palm, eyes gleaming, his pride bruised at seeing a commoner set ahead of him in the labor. He flexed his battered fingers beside Rostislav. “We lift for Polotsk! And if this bell lands on my head, let it ring for my sins.” His laughter cut through some of the tension, even as his bravado drew snorts from the older men.
At his side, Nikita pressed two fingers to his lips and then to the bell itself, whispering a prayer for strong backs and sure knots, eyes darting warily to the clouds overhead.
Nobles and merchants, red-faced with cold, pride, and strain, tugged at their sashes and rolled up their sleeves. Koz’ma ordered a grumbling boyar into the thick of the ropes, and the old man, Borya—once famous for refusing to kneel—glared but obeyed, hands clumsy but fierce. “If the bell crushes us, perhaps the saints will get a better crop,” he muttered, though no one heard but Nikita, who grinned at the omen.
Sviatoslav hovered by the bell’s base, wrapped in gold-threaded vestments that seemed too thin for the cold. His lips worked ceaselessly. “Lord, have mercy… Holy martyrs Boris and Gleb, witness this offering… Intercede for Polotsk, turn wrath to blessing… Forgive what was taken, sanctify what is given.” A wooden icon was set upon a crate beside him, and, one by one, a handful of druzhina and laborers crossed themselves and joined his murmur. Nikita’s voice wove in with the bishop’s, a low chant in the old tongue, the kind mothers taught to frighten children and comfort the dying.
Theodosius hovered at the edge of the chaos, clutching his ledger tight, his face pale and eyes shadowed with fever. He counted out the teams and, unable to help himself, called out warnings. “Watch the left, Koz’ma, that beam’s notched! Don’t waste strength, save it for the last haul!” His thin voice, roughened by illness, was half-ignored, but his worry echoed in more than one set jaw.
The first attempt began at Koz’ma’s signal. “Now, Polotsk, pull!” The ropes went taut, muscles corded, boots slipped in the mire of slush and straw covering stone and mosaic floors. The bell inched upward in silence, its clapper removed, while the tackle moaned with a sound like the world’s oldest door creaking open.
As the timbers groaned, Theodosius caught Koz’ma’s arm, his voice low and urgent. “Hold back, the rigging isn’t right, wait…”
But Koz’ma, eyes burning, shook him off. “We are not in the land of the _Romaioi_, master Theodosius. Saint Boris did not pause for _Greki_ counting, nor did Gleb wait for permission from _Tsargrad_. They bore their burdens and did not look back.”
He jerked his chin toward the ropes, voice steady. “Strength and sweat speak louder than Greek ledger lines. In Rus', it’s the bold who are blessed.”
Theodosius drew himself up, indignation rising. “My blood has been in Polotsk since before—”
He never finished. The rope snapped with a sound like thunder, and chaos erupted as the bell lurched.
A rope whipped free with a thunderclap. The bell lurched, and a merchant’s son went down hard, shrieking as the rough cord tore and twisted his hands, flaying the skin from his palm. Another team staggered; the beam holding the pulley shifted dangerously. Panic rippled outward. Someone slipped from the scaffold, plunging into the crowd below. An old woman wailed, children screamed, and even Sviatoslav paused his ceaseless prayers. Yosef was already moving, sliding between men to reach the injured boy, his hands sure and steady, voice flat: “Breathe. Let me see. You’ll have your hand yet.” The boy moaned softly, his skin draining pale.
Trifon, furious, kicked at the broken rope and cursed, shaking blood from his hand. “Damn the bell and damn Novgorod!” Saying the city’s name drew a gasp and a hiss from the crowd nearby. “Where’s the prince, let him pull!”
A ripple of laughter followed, mixed with anger, but it died quickly.
Just then, a voice cut through the chaos, steady, unhurried, louder than it should have been. “Pull, Polotsk. You are not beaten yet.” Vseslav had appeared at the rope’s end, his cloak dark with old blood, his hands bare and clean. For a second, there was uncertainty. Some swore he had not been there a moment before. A mutter ran through the crowd: shapeshifter, they whispered, or wolf-prince, or simply a lord who moved where eyes slid away.
Vseslav’s eyes swept the crowd, neither angry nor pleading, and he took his place by the rope, beside the battered Trifon and the sullen boyar. “All that matters is the bell in its place. Pull with me, or stand aside.”
A moment’s hush followed, broken only by Nikita’s muttered prayers and Sviatoslav’s trembling voice, stronger now: “Christ be with us. Saint Sophia, witness.” Even Theodosius, white-knuckled, joined his voice to the call. Koz’ma, steadying the beam, nodded to the teams. “Now.”
The effort surged again. Ropes strained. Faces contorted with pain and determination. Sofia pressed close to the line, offering bread to the youngest laborers and a whispered word to Koz’ma: “You will be remembered for this, whatever happens.”
Sweat mixed with blood. Nikita, eyes wild, spat into the dirt and spat again, muttering of bad omens even as he pulled harder. Trifon grunted curses, bloodied, stubborn and unyielding, his bravado restored. The bell rose, trembling and uncertain, higher this time.
Sviatoslav pressed the icon to his chest, his voice ringing with desperate clarity. “Let the bell be made holy, let our hands be forgiven!” A druzhina beside him echoed the prayer, tears streaking his cheeks. The shouts and prayers rose into a roar that climbed the scaffold and reverberated in the belfry. The veche bell began to hum, vibrating with a sound that seemed miraculous.
Some of the men high on the scaffolding, overcome by the noise and the moment, sobbed openly. One fainted, pitching sideways and sending another crashing to the story below, earning both an injury and a grudge against his neighbor.
Finally, with a grinding groan, the bell cleared the final ledge. For a heartbeat, it seemed as if the whole world stopped. Koz’ma, breathless, shouted, “Hold steady! Ease it now!” His face shone with sweat and awe, his hands trembling on the rope.
Theodosius gasped, clutching his ledger as if it could ward off disaster. He pressed his fist to his mouth, eyes wide, too stunned to count. “Saints preserve us,” he whispered, the words barely audible.
On the scaffolding, Trifon let out a triumphant bark of laughter, pounding Rostislav’s back. “There! Let Novgorod hear us now!” Rostislav only grinned, breath coming in hard bursts, blood on his knuckles and pride in his eyes.
Down below, Sofia closed her eyes in silent thanks, then opened them, searching the faces of her people for doubt or relief. “It is done,” she said quietly, her voice carried by the hush.
In the crowd, an old woman fell to her knees, crossing herself again and again. “A miracle. A miracle, by the prince’s hand.” Children pressed forward, eyes wide with fear and wonder. Merchants embraced, shouting prayers and boasting in the same breath. Even the sullen boyar Borya, his face streaked with sweat and grime, wiped his brow and murmured, “So, the saints are with us after all.”
A silence spread outward like a ripple, no one moving, no one daring to be the first to speak. For that single moment, prince and people, court and commons, stood joined by breathless awe as the bell, finally and impossibly, hung in its new place.
For a heartbeat, it seemed the world was holding its breath. The silence was shattered as voices rose—not in one tongue or one faith.
Koz’ma, voice raw with relief, muttered a quick prayer to Boris and Gleb, but as he stepped back, he pressed three fingers to his brow, breast, and shoulders in the old, two-fingered style before crossing himself with the triple sign favored by the new order. Beside him, a young apprentice, hair tied with red cord, flicked his fingers to the earth and then to the bell, an ancient gesture meant to ward off the evil eye, unnoticed by most but not by Yevdokia, who watched from the edge of the crowd with narrowed eyes.
Trifon, chest heaving, made a loud, clumsy sign of the cross, then spat over his shoulder for luck, drawing a scandalized gasp from a merchant’s wife. Rostislav, sweat streaking his brow, whispered something to his dead ancestors, then tapped the bell’s rim twice, a habit from the north that some said brought good fortune.
An argument broke out near the steps as two old men disputed whether the bell’s safe raising proved the saints’ favor or owed more to the stubborn will of Polotsk’s people. “Boris and Gleb protected us!” one insisted, brandishing a battered icon. “No,” snapped the other, “it was the blood and bone of men, old gods still watch these stones.” His words drew a quick hush and sidelong looks, but in the swirl of victory, no one moved to scold or silence him.
Children, emboldened by the crowd’s joy, tossed a fistful of rye grains at the scaffold’s base, an old harvest rite barely remembered except at such moments. A woman in a faded _platok_ traced a circle in the dust with her thumb before joining the prayers, her face caught between laughter and tears.
Over it all, Sviatoslav, trembling but radiant, held his icon high and sang out a final “Gospodi pomiluy,” his voice answered by dozens more—some Orthodox, some not as much, some half-pagan, all Polotsk, unified for an instant by relief and awe.
For a breath, the city was one. The bell, bloodied, battered, and sanctified by labor, was theirs at last.
---
As night fell, the city’s tension unraveled into noisy relief. St. Sophia’s square overflowed with people, their breath rising in clouds above firepits and torches. The bell’s deep hum seemed to linger in the bones of every man and woman present. Tables appeared as if by magic, laden with black bread, salt herring, boiled barley, and hunks of smoked pork, set out beside casks of honey-wine and the sour *kvass* beloved by every house.
Inside the great hall, the mood swung between exhaustion and wild celebration. Merchants raised toasts to the prince, claiming credit for every knot tied and rope pulled. Boyars clapped druzhina on the back, pride warring with the memory of their own faltering hands. Songs in every tongue echoed from the rafters—some Orthodox, some old as the rivers, many invented on the spot. Trifon stood on a bench, mug in hand, recounting his near-martyrdom beneath the bell to anyone who would listen. “If not for my quick feet, the saints would have another relic tonight!”
Yosef moved quietly from table to table, tending wounds and quieting bravado with brisk competence. He found Trifon bellowing at a crowd, one arm wrapped in a makeshift sling, the other waving a mug. Scowling as Yosef approached, blood crusted on his arm. “Out of my way, Zhid, I’ve had worse from a hungry sheep!”
A few at the table went quiet, but Yosef met the insult with the same steady hands. Sofia, appearing at Trifon’s side, cut the tension with a sharp word: “If you’d rather bleed into your cup, Trifon, there’s no shortage of fools to wager on it.”
Chastened, Trifon grumbled, letting Yosef work as Sofia watched.
Elsewhere, Koz’ma and Nikita shared a rare, wordless nod, each grateful to have survived the day. Rostislav, his knuckles still raw, was surrounded by children begging for stories. Theodosius, pale but alive, counted every cup of wine poured and made silent note of who had feasted most and worked least.
At the edges of the celebration, Yevdokia slipped among the revelers, ears sharp for whispered boasts, new rivalries, and quiet bargains. She noticed which boyar sat with which merchant, who offered gifts, who demanded a promise, who nursed a grudge. Already she saw alliances shifting, new debts owed, old ones quietly settled beneath the table.
Not all was peace—an apprentice who had taken a blow on the scaffold cursed a rival for clumsiness, but the fight was broken by laughter and the promise of more drink. A woman in a bright *platok* drew a circle in spilled grain and whispered thanks to both saints and old spirits. The sense of a city reborn ran through every song and every story told that night.
As the feast slowed, Sofia found Vseslav at the head of the hall, cup in hand, gaze distant as the firelight flickered. She joined him in the hush, setting her hand on his. “You’ve given them more than gold or victory, my prince,” she murmured. “Tonight you’ve given them a legend.”
Vseslav squeezed her fingers, tired but proud. “A legend, or a debt to fate. We shall see which it is.”
They sat in silence for a while, the bell’s memory humming through the floor.
Much later, when the fires had died and the hall emptied, Zelekman appeared at Vseslav’s side, his ledger and quill at the ready. “Shall I write this night as it was, or as it should be told?” he asked softly.
Vseslav looked past him, listening as the bell tolled one long, heavy note into the night. “Write it true, and let the telling do its work.”
Across Polotsk, the sound rang out, over rooftops, over the cathedral, through the packed, sleeping streets, echoing hope and myth into every home.
For this night, and for many after, the city’s burdens were shared, and its story belonged to all.
