been treated with the deference he accepted as his right. Everyone realistically understood that not only was he an extremely competent and successful general for Russia but he also controlled most of the border tribes in the Trans-Caucasus. His name alone could muster a hundred thousand mounted warriors. Not all were presently campaigning for the Tsar, but those not actually committed to Russia at least remained neutral. There wasn't a border tribe that would take arms against their Prince.
'Now, then,' Stefan genially said, as though time were not of the essence, 'if we've covered all the gossip sufficiently, what say we get down to business?'
Fresh tea was ordered and Stefan unrolled the maps he'd worked on during the train ride to Vladikavkaz. For the next hour he issued orders, explaining in detail what he wanted, what he expected of the cavalry in the attack, what he anticipated as defense from the Turks. His officers took notes, asked questions when they needed clarification, their attention riveted on the tall dark-haired man with the crisp clear voice. Stefan's tanned hands moved gracefully over the maps, detailing the nine forts of Kars, its citadel and numerous batteries and redoubts, pointing out small features of the terrain or indicating areas to approach with caution, stopping occasionally to punctuate his recital with a sharp stabbing finger. He was deferential to his officers, asking for their opinions when he'd fully described the assault plan, listening to those opinions with courtesy and attention. He rubbed his neck from time to time to ease the tension and fatigue from his muscles. Or stood completely still for long periods, concentrating on the details of his officer's recitals, the lantern light modeling his face in dramatic chiaroscuro. When the discussion became repetitive, when mild arguments erupted as to technique, he politely said, 'Any more questions, gentlemen?' and after a moment of silence, for they recognized his dismissive tone, he smiled and gently added, 'Very good. Wake me in an hour.' And lifting the tent flap, he walked out into the cold night air.
In his own tent, his batman had his cot turned down, a new uniform laid out, hot water at the ready and food set out on clean white linen.
'Ivan,' Stefan said with grinning affection, 'we have the amenities again, I see.' Everything was immaculate. 'You've been busy during the hiatus. What would I do without you?'
Ivan beamed with pride. 'Your father trained me well, Excellency.' Fifty years ago Ivan had been a young serf saved from hanging over the theft of a chicken he'd taken to feed his starving family. Stefan's father had interceded, paid the villainous landowner for the chicken
'Are we going to win this tomorrow, Ivan?' Stefan asked with a smile as he began washing his hands in the copper basin set on a table near his cot.
'The Bariatinskys are always victorious in battle, Excellency.'
Stefan looked at the small elderly man beside him holding a crisp white towel out for him. 'I like your confidence,' he softly replied, Ivan's peasant certainty in some measure more reassuring than his officers' confidence, as though the very earth and spirit of Mother Russia had affirmed his victory.
Stefan found he couldn't sleep, though. Until tonight he'd always been able to doze off immediately, a habit honed to perfection after years of campaigning, a necessity when sleep was often limited. But now when he should, he couldn't, and he lay on his cot with his eyes closed so Ivan wouldn't fuss.
The battle was going to be desperate, he knew, and its outcome decisive to the war. And, irrelevant to the assault on Kars but oppressively relevant to his sleepless mind, he missed Lisaveta with a wretched miserable despair. There had never been a woman he cared about on the eve of battle so he'd been able to sleep on horseback, on the hard ground, in rainstorms and blinding sun. He'd never loved a woman before and now it colored every thought he entertained as well as those he tried to avoid. It made him hopelessly sad and wildly happy, it caused him to lose much-needed sleep and it impinged dramatically on the assault on Kars.
He might never see Lisaveta again, or ever see his child, he realized. The reflection struck him like a blow and he held his breath for a moment, frantically rationalizing away that possibility. He was never hurt, he reminded himself, never wounded. He was charmed. The familiar phrases should have been more comforting. Two weeks ago they would have been enough, even a week ago they would have been acceptable, but in that time his life had irrevocably changed.
Ivan swiveled around when Stefan abruptly sat up.
'I can't sleep,' Stefan brusquely said. 'Could I have a glass of tea?'
He dressed while Ivan made fresh tea, putting on his boots and clean tunic, strapping on his revolver belt and his sword scabbard decorated with his Saint George ribbon. At the last he added an extra cartridge bandolier and placed the long-bladed knife within easy reach in his belt.
Standing, he drank his tea and then the small glass of arrack Ivan always handed him before an attack. It warmed his throat and he smiled at Ivan and thanked him. The familiar activities eased the disturbing turmoil in his mind and brought the focus of his thoughts back to the assault.
'We'll dine at Kars tomorrow, Ivan,' Stefan said, sliding his hands into his pigskin gloves. 'Wish me luck.'
'May God ride with you,
Stefan was smiling broadly when he stepped out into the chill night air. How could he lose, he thought, with God and the peasant spirits on his side?
The troops had been moved into position in the past hour under cover of the moonlit darkness. As was customary for him, Stefan went among his men, talking to them, telling them just what they were to do, offering encouraging words and good-natured chaffing, promising the musicians they would play a waltz in the streets of Kars tomorrow, answering the question asked a hundred times, his smile white against the darkness of his face. Yes, he would be leading the assault in person.
Stefan would be leading the Eleventh Cavalry Division, twelve battalions strong, on the right wing, directing their columns against the Karadagh and Tabias forts, guardians to the citadel. The cavalry had the most serious task to perform-the initial charge, clearing the way for the infantry-and everyone knew, although the orders hadn't yet been given, that they were to carry the forts at any cost. For twenty minutes or more Stefan conversed with his men, taking special care to talk to his noncommissioned officers, who bore the brunt of the decision making once the attack began. When he was satisfied each understood his directives and goals, he stood at the head of his troops for a final prayer. As he always did before battle, he asked for courage and God's grace to see them through. His dark hair whipped by the wind, Stefan stood, head bowed, and spoke the words so they carried across the moonlit army, his men murmuring the prayers with him, row upon shadowed row, calling on God's succor in the coming hours.
This final prayer was a ritual learned at his father's knee, comforting more for the litany than the content. As a cultivated man, Stefan realized Mukhtar Pasha prayed to his God for the same victory. In the end it would be men and not gods who determined the outcome, but the rhythm of the phrases soothed him and the priests' chanting was a calming, familiar musical undertone to the restless agitation gripping him before an attack.
A low hum of conversation broke out afterward as each soldier spoke for a final time to his companions. Haci was trading facetious remarks with one of the Kurdish troopers. The numerous cavalry officers around Stefan were exchanging comments or smoking their last cigarette or checking their weapons. For a small space of time, Stefan stood alone in the midst of his cavalry. Shutting his eyes, he shook his hands briefly at his sides to stimulate the circulation-for his sword grip would be essential in the coming minutes-took a deep breath, opened his eyes and quietly said, 'Mount up.'
His muted order was immediately obeyed, as though his soft voice had carried to every man in his corps.
Leaning forward in his saddle, he spoke to Cleo, promising her green pastures and respite when Kars was taken, his fingers smoothing the soft velvet of her ears, his voice so low it didn't even carry to Haci at his side. Whether Cleo understood the words or merely responded to his tone and the preparations for battle, she turned her head for a moment and looked at him with her large intelligent eyes. She'd carried Stefan across the plains of Asia on the Kokand campaign and in every battle since with as charmed a life as his own. A bond existed between them that was based not just on sentiment but on mutual need.
With a brushing stroke down her neck, Stefan straightened and turned to survey his officers and men formed in ranks behind him. His cavalry was mounted in tight order, knee to knee. Circassians, Kurds, Daghestanis, cossack lancers and some of the elite Gardes, the grenadiers and infantry arranged behind them by battalion. All eyes were on Stefan, the only general who actually led his men himself, dressed in his white Gardes uniform on his favorite
