The baptizer of Rus

 
  THE BAPTIZER OF RUS
  An Epic Novel of Saint Prince Vladimir the Great

*"And there was a great and terrible battle, and the crash of breaking spears, and the sound of clashing swords, and the sky could not be seen for the multitude of arrows..."*

---

   BOOK ONE

   THE WOLF CUB IN THE STORM

**Chapter 1. Birth Under Thunder**

**Kiev. Summer Night, 958 AD**

The storm tore through the sky above the Dnieper like the gods themselves were warring in the heavens. Lightning split the darkness again and again, and in those brief moments ancient Kiev rose from the gloom like a vision—wooden walls of the kremlin, church domes, merchants' houses huddled against the hills.

In one of these houses, standing by the very water, a woman was giving birth.

Malusha clenched her teeth to keep from crying out. She was of the line of Drevlian elders, those very ones who had rebelled against Igor and been crushed by his widow Olga with such cruelty that the blood had not yet dried in the people's memory. Now the daughter of a Drevlian chieftain was bearing a son to Sviatoslav—grandson of the one who had destroyed her people.

What irony of fate. What vengeance of the gods.

"Just a little more, my dove," whispered old Dobrogneva, the midwife who had brought the third generation of princely children into this world. "I can see the head..."

At that moment such thunder crashed that the walls trembled. And simultaneously—the first cry of the infant.

Dobrogneva took the child, washed him, examined him. The boy was large, with a shock of dark hair and surprisingly clear eyes—not clouded like all newborns, but as if he already understood everything.

"Strange child," whispered the midwife. "Born in a storm, and with such a gaze... He'll be either a saint or a brigand."

Malusha, still weak from her labors, took her son in her arms. In his eyes she saw the reflection of lightning—or so it seemed to her.

"Vladimir," she said quietly. "He who rules the world. If you were born of a prince and a slave, then become greater than both."

Outside the storm raged until dawn, while in the house by the Dnieper slept an infant destined to change the course of history.

**Chapter 2. Father's Shadow**

**Kiev. Spring 965 AD**

Seven-year-old Vladimir stood on the fortress wall watching boats rise up the Dnieper. At the head sailed the princely vessel—with red sail and gilded prow. Sviatoslav was returning from another campaign.

"Father comes!" people shouted on the shore. "Prince Sviatoslav!"

Vladimir listened to the cries and felt a strange emptiness in his chest. Father... He had seen Sviatoslav perhaps ten times in his life. The Grand Prince was constantly at war—with Khazars, Bulgars, Byzantines. War was his element, his love, his curse.

"Well, my boy, are you rejoicing?" Uncle Dobrynya appeared beside him, his mother's brother. Tall, fair-haired, with kind eyes and the strong hands of a warrior.

"I don't know," Vladimir answered honestly. "Should I be rejoicing?"

Dobrynya sighed. The boy was growing wise beyond his years, but he had no childhood. How can there be childhood for the son of a prince and a housekeeper? Too high for common games, too low for princely honors.

"He is your father. And he is a great warrior."

"But he doesn't know me."

"He knows you. It's just... princes have their own concerns."

The boats moored. Sviatoslav stepped onto the shore—tall, lean, with a shaved head and long forelock. He wore a simple shirt, his only ornament a golden earring. He looked more like a Viking mercenary than the ruler of a vast realm.

The prince did not raise his eyes to the wall where his youngest son stood. He hurried to the palace, to his mother Olga, to his elder sons Yaropolk and Oleg, to affairs of state.

"Dobrynya," Vladimir said quietly, "will I ever become a real prince?"

"You will," his uncle answered firmly. "But not like him. Different."

The boy nodded and continued watching his father disappear down Kiev's narrow streets. In his young soul at that moment something important was born—not resentment, not anger, but cold determination. He would be a prince. But what kind—that fate would show.

**Chapter 3. Lesson in Hatred**

**Iskorosten, Land of the Drevlians. Autumn 969 AD**

Ten-year-old Vladimir sat on a stump among the ashes and listened to the tale of old Mal, a Drevlian. They had come here with Dobrynya—his uncle believed the boy should know the truth about his roots.

"Here stood your grandfather's hall," said Mal, pointing to ground overgrown with grass. "Prince Mal ruled the Drevlians for twenty years. Justly he ruled, wisely."

"What happened?" asked Vladimir, though he already knew the answer.

"They killed him. Your grandmother Olga ordered it. For our rebellion against Igor."

Mal spoke without malice—a quarter century had passed, passions had cooled. But Vladimir heard the pain in his voice.

"How did they kill him?"

"By trickery. She invited him to negotiations, and then..." The old man waved his hand. "Burned him alive. Along with his retinue, along with his boyars. And ordered the city razed to its foundations."

Vladimir was silent. In his veins flowed the blood of both executioner and victim. What did that make him?

"You are not to blame, boy," said Mal, as if reading his thoughts. "Grandsons do not answer for their grandfathers' deeds. But they must remember."

"Why?"

"So as not to repeat the mistakes. Power is not the right to punish, but the duty to protect. Your grandfather Igor forgot this, your grandmother Olga too. But you... you can be different."

Vladimir rose and walked among the ruins. Here once life had bustled—children laughed, craftsmen worked, elders took counsel. Now only the wind whistled through half-ruined walls.

"Uncle," he said to Dobrynya, "if I become a prince, can I fix everything?"

"Fix what?"

"So that no one burns cities anymore. So there are no more wars between our own people."

Dobrynya embraced his nephew.

"You can, if you want to. But it will be difficult."

"I'm not afraid of difficulties."

And at that moment ancient Mal looked at the boy and saw something in his eyes that made him cross himself.

"God bless you, young prince," he whispered. "Perhaps you truly can..."

**Chapter 4. Novgorod Exile**

**Novgorod. Winter 970 AD**

Vladimir sat in Dobrynya's house reading a Greek book. Outside the blizzard howled, but the house was warm from the stove and not very warm from his thoughts.

Several months ago Sviatoslav had divided the lands among his sons. Yaropolk received Kiev, Oleg the Drevlian land, and Vladimir got Novgorod. To the youngest—the most distant and cold inheritance.

"Exile," Vladimir said aloud.

"What?" Dobrynya looked up from his sword. He was sharpening the blade—tomorrow he had to settle a dispute between boyars.

"Novgorod is exile. Father wants me far from Kiev."

"Maybe he does. But maybe he understands that you'll be better off here. In Kiev there are many temptations and few opportunities. But here..."

"Here what?"

"Here you can become yourself. Novgorodians judge not by blood, but by deeds. Show yourself well—you'll be like family to them. Show yourself poorly—and your princely title won't help."

Vladimir set aside his book. Outside the wind was dying down, and in the settling silence distant voices could be heard—merchants returning from the marketplace.

"Uncle, what if..."

"What?"

"What if I never return to Kiev? Stay here forever?"

Dobrynya put down his sword and looked seriously at his nephew.

"You won't stay. Sooner or later fate will call you there. But when you return, you'll no longer be the boy who left."

"What will I be?"

"A true prince."

Vladimir nodded and took up his book again. But he read inattentively now—thinking of Kiev, of his father, of what lay ahead. He did not know that in a few months Sviatoslav would die on the Dnieper rapids, and the brothers would begin war against each other.

Did not know that his own exile was only beginning.

**Chapter 5. Bloody Rapids**

**Kiev. Spring 972 AD**

The messenger galloped at full speed, driving his horses hard. Behind him lay the Dnieper rapids where the fate of Rus' had just been decided. Ahead loomed the towers of Kiev, where they awaited news from Sviatoslav.

Vladimir stood on the kremlin wall watching the road. Beside him crowded boyars, warriors, common folk. All were waiting.

"Someone's coming!" shouted a guard.

"One rider," added another. "And galloping like mad."

This was a bad sign. Good news doesn't require such haste.

The messenger flew into the city, rode to the kremlin, tumbled from his horse right at the gates. His face was black with dust and grief.

"Prince... Prince Sviatoslav..." he gasped, unable to get the words out.

"Speak!" roared Boyar Blud.

"Killed! Killed by Pechenegs at the rapids! The entire retinue slaughtered!"

The world swayed around Vladimir. Father was dead. Sviatoslav, who had seemed invulnerable, who had conquered Khazars and Bulgars, had found his death in the Dnieper stones.

"How did this happen?" asked Princess Olga quietly. She looked old and tired.

"Pecheneg Prince Kurya ambushed us at the rapids. Our boats ran aground, we had to go by shore. And there was the trap..." The messenger sobbed. "Prince Sviatoslav fought like a lion, but there were too many of them."

Vladimir listened and felt something breaking inside him. Not love for his father—there had been little of that. Something else. Childish faith that adults always know what to do.

"What happens now?" someone in the crowd asked.

Olga straightened, and for a moment there showed through her that iron woman who had once burned Iskorosten.

"Now what must be will be. Yaropolk is the eldest, he inherits Kiev. Oleg remains in Drevlian land. Vladimir..."

She looked at her grandson. In her eyes flickered something strange—pity? foreboding?

"Vladimir remains in Novgorod."

Boyar Blud stepped forward.

"Princess, perhaps all the sons should be gathered in Kiev? Times are troubled, enemies all around..."

"No," Olga said firmly. "Let each restore order in his own realm. We'll manage here."

Vladimir understood—he was being sent away again. And this time, perhaps forever.

That evening he sat with Dobrynya in the palace and was silent. His uncle also said nothing—what was there to say?

"Uncle," Vladimir finally said, "is it true that Yaropolk hates me?"

"He doesn't hate you. He just fears you."

"Me? For what?"

"For being unlike everyone else. There's something... special in you. And people always fear the special."

Vladimir rose and went to the window. Somewhere out there, beyond the Dnieper, his father lay in the reeds. And here in Kiev, his brother was already making plans for sole rule.

"Uncle, it's time for us to go."

"Where?"

"To Novgorod. And for a long time."

Dobrynya nodded. He understood this too. To stay in Kiev was dangerous. But to leave meant admitting defeat.

"Well then, nephew. Let's see what becomes of you in the north."

"Something good will become," Vladimir said with unexpected confidence. "I feel it."


**Chapter 6. Northern School**

**Novgorod. Summer 975 AD**

Seventeen-year-old Vladimir stood in the veche square listening to Novgorodians argue about trade duties. The argument was heated—some demanded increased taxes on Varangian merchants, others insisted on reducing them.

Three years had passed since he had settled permanently in Novgorod. Three years of study in the harshest school of power—among free people accustomed to speaking truth to faces.

"Prince Vladimir!" called out Posadnik Ostromir. "What do you say?"

All eyes turned to him. Vladimir stood. In these years he had changed greatly—matured, hardened, learned to think with his head rather than emotions.

"Citizens of Novgorod," he said, "your argument is understandable. But you argue about how to take more money, not about how to make more money appear."

"How do we make more appear?" someone shouted from the crowd.

"Very simply. Lower the duties, but improve the roads. Build new wharves. Give merchants protection from brigands. Then there will be twice as many traders, and even from smaller duties the treasury will get more money."

Ostromir nodded.

"The prince speaks sensibly. But where do we get money for roads and wharves?"

"Borrow from those same merchants. Against future revenues."

The Novgorodians laughed—the idea seemed reasonable to them. And in that laughter Vladimir heard what he had never heard in Kiev—sincere approval.

After the veche, old Boyar Kosnyatin approached him.

"Well spoken, Prince. But do you know what was most important in your words?"

"What?"

"That you said 'we will borrow,' not 'we will take.' That's a big difference."

Vladimir thought about it. Indeed, a big difference. In Kiev they were accustomed to taking by force. Here one had to negotiate.

"Kosnyatin Dobrynich, what do you think—will I make a real prince?"

The old man smiled.

"You will. Only not like your father or brothers. Different."

"What kind?"

"The kind who builds, not just fights. Who thinks about people, not just about glory."

Vladimir nodded and went home. And the old boyar watched him go and thought that sometimes exile is a better teacher than luxury.

**Chapter 7. News from the South**

**Novgorod. Autumn 977 AD**

Vladimir sat in his palace reading a letter from Kiev merchant Zhiroslav. The news was troubling.

*"To Prince Vladimir Sviatoslavich from faithful Zhiroslav, greetings. Affairs in Kiev go badly. Your brother Yaropolk draws more and more power to himself. And brother Oleg in Drevlian land lives by his own order, doesn't obey Kiev. They say something is being prepared..."*

Dobrynya, reading over his shoulder, shook his head.

"This bodes no good, nephew."

"War," Vladimir said briefly.

"Yes. And when it begins, everyone will have to choose a side."

"I've already chosen."

"Which one?"

"My own."

Dobrynya smiled.

"That's not always possible."

"We'll see."

Vladimir set aside the letter and went to the window. Beyond the glass lay Novgorod—wooden houses, stone churches, trading rows. His city. His people. His responsibility.

"Uncle, what if Yaropolk defeats Oleg and comes for us?"

"We'll fight."

"And if we win?"

"Then we'll go to Kiev."

"No," Vladimir said with unexpected firmness. "Then I'll go to the Varangians."

"Why?"

"To learn. They have what we don't—the ability to fight not with numbers, but with skill. And something else..."

"What?"

"They know the world. They sail all seas, trade with all countries. And we sit in our forests thinking that the whole world is what we see."

Dobrynya looked attentively at his nephew. The boy he had once taken fishing was becoming a man. And a statesman.

"You reason well. But remember—beyond the sea it's easy to forget why you went there."

"I won't forget. I have something that will bring me back."

"What?"

Vladimir looked again out the window at his Novgorod.

"Duty."

**Chapter 8. Brothers' Blood**

**Ovrutch, Drevlian Land. Spring 978 AD**

Oleg Sviatoslavich sat in the besieged city and understood—the end was near. Yaropolk had approached with a large army. Ovrutch could not be taken by storm, but it could be taken by starvation.

"Prince," said Boyar Sveneld, "perhaps it's time to think about negotiations?"

Oleg smiled bitterly. Sveneld was one of those who had incited Yaropolk to this war. And now he advised surrender.

"What negotiations, Sveneld? You know my brother. He won't stop until he becomes sole ruler of Rus'."

"Then send a messenger to Vladimir. Let him help."

"He won't help. Vladimir is smart, he understands—whoever wins this war will come for him next."

Sveneld was silent. Then he said:

"What if... we try differently?"

"How?"

"Go out to Yaropolk alone. Talk as brothers."

Oleg was silent for a long time. Outside, crows cawed—a bad omen.

"You know what, Sveneld," he said finally, "you're right. I'll try."

The next day Oleg left Ovrutch alone, without weapons. Yaropolk met him in his camp.

The brothers stood facing each other, and they had little in common. Yaropolk—tall, fair, handsome. Oleg—stocky, dark-haired, with eyes that showed weariness.

"Brother," said Oleg, "why should we fight? Rus' has enough enemies as it is."

"Rus' needs one ruler," Yaropolk replied. "Not three."

"And Vladimir?"

"Vladimir is far away. And smart. He understands when to yield."

"He understands. But will he yield?"

Yaropolk shrugged.

"That's his business. I'll offer him good terms. If he refuses—it's his own fault."

Oleg nodded. He knew his elder brother—he would not retreat.

"Very well, Yaropolk. I surrender. But with a condition."

"What condition?"

"Don't touch my men. They fought honorably."

"Agreed."

The brothers embraced. And at that moment Oleg felt Yaropolk's hand tremble. Something sharp entered under his ribs.

"Forgive me, brother," Yaropolk whispered. "But there's no other way."

Oleg fell to the grass. Blood flowed from the wound, but he was still alive.

"Vladimir..." he wheezed. "Beware of Vladimir..."

These were his last words.

Yaropolk stood over his brother's body and felt something break in him forever. He had wanted to unite Rus', and began with fratricide.

"Prince," approached Boyar Blud, "what shall we do with Ovrutch?"

"Take it. And spare no one."

Blud nodded and left. And Yaropolk remained standing over Oleg's body, thinking about what he would say when the news reached Novgorod.

Reached Vladimir.

**Chapter 9. Flight Beyond the Sea**

**Novgorod. Summer 978 AD**

The messenger galloped in on a lathered horse and immediately asked for the prince. Vladimir received him in his palace, in the presence of Dobrynya and several trusted boyars.

"What happened?" he asked, though he already understood everything from the messenger's face.

"Prince Oleg is dead. Killed by Yaropolk. Ovrutch is taken, the retinue slaughtered."

Silence fell. Vladimir sat motionless, only his hands slowly clenching into fists.

"How was he killed?"

"At negotiations. He came to his brother without weapons, and he..."

The messenger didn't finish, but everything was already clear.

"And what does Yaropolk say?"

"He says he's uniting Rus'. And that you can remain prince in Novgorod if you acknowledge his supremacy."

Dobrynya snorted.

"Gracious offer."

"Very gracious," Vladimir agreed. "And if I don't acknowledge it?"

"The same as with Oleg."

Vladimir rose and paced the room. Everyone watched him, waiting for a decision.

"Gentlemen," he said finally, "gather the retinue. We're leaving."

"Where?" asked Boyar Ostromir.

"Beyond the sea. To the Varangians."

"Why?"

"To raise an army. And then we'll return and show Yaropolk what real war is."

Dobrynya nodded approvingly.

"Sensible. And Novgorod?"

"Novgorod will wait. Better to surrender the city without battle than to destroy people in a hopeless fight."

Ostromir frowned.

"Prince, won't this be seen as cowardice?"

Vladimir stopped and looked at him.

"Ostromir Konstantinovich, cowardice is when you're afraid. But I'm not afraid. I'm planning."

The next day Vladimir left Novgorod. Fifteen hundred loyal warriors went with him—the flower of Novgorod's army.

They sailed down the Volkhov to Ladoga, and from there to the Baltic Sea. Ahead lay an unknown path, behind—a homeland abandoned without battle.

"Don't you regret it?" asked Dobrynya when the boats entered the open sea.

Vladimir looked long at the shore disappearing in the haze. Somewhere there remained his Novgorod, his people, his youth.

"I regret it," he answered honestly. "But it's right."

"Where does such certainty come from?"

"From the heart, uncle. We'll return yet. And we'll be stronger."

Dobrynya nodded. In his nephew's voice rang that special steel that appears in people only after great losses.

"And what if the Varangians don't want to help us?"

"They will," Vladimir said with an unexpected smile. "I have something that will interest them."

"What?"

"Knowledge of these lands. And the promise of great booty."

The boats headed north, to the lands of Vikings, to the new life of a prince in exile.

**Chapter 10. Vikings**

**Sweden, M;laren Fjord. Autumn 978 AD**

King Eric the Victorious sat in his wooden palace listening to the Russian prince's tale. Before him stood a young man of about twenty—tall, broad-shouldered, with intelligent eyes and a determined chin. He spoke Norwegian without accent—clearly knew languages well.

"So, Prince Vladimir," said the king, "you want me to give you an army for a campaign against your brother?"

"Exactly so, King Eric."

"And what in return?"

"A share of the booty. Knowledge of Russian lands. And alliance with the future ruler of Kiev."

Eric smiled. He liked this young exile's self-confidence.

"Future ruler? What if you lose?"

"I won't lose."

"Where does such certainty come from?"

Vladimir stepped forward, and in his eyes flashed that fire that makes people follow a leader.

"Because I know what my brother doesn't know. How to rule people not by fear, but by loyalty. How to fight not just with strength, but with wit. And most important—why to do it."

"Why?"

"To build a state where people live by law, not by a prince's whim."

Eric thought. Usually adventurers came to him, thirsting for gold and glory. This one spoke of some laws.

"Very well, Prince. I'll give you men. A thousand warriors—the flower of my retinue. But with a condition."

"What condition?"

"First you'll serve me. A year or two. Show that you can fight not just with your tongue."

Vladimir nodded.

"Agreed."

"And one more condition."

"I'm listening."

"When you return to your lands, don't forget old friends."

"I won't forget, King Eric. I promise."

They struck hands. Thus began the Varangian school of Prince Vladimir.

**Chapter 11. School of War**

**Danish Shores. Spring 980 AD**

Vladimir stood on the prow of a longship watching the approaching shore. There, beyond the sandy dunes, Danish Jarl Harald awaited them with his retinue. An ordinary border skirmish, hundreds of which happened every year in these parts.

In two years of service with Eric, Vladimir had learned much. Most important—he understood that war is not just courage and strength. It's calculation, planning, knowledge of the enemy.

"Ready?" asked Thorstein Red-Beard, an old Viking who had become the Russian prince's mentor.

"Ready," Vladimir replied, checking his shield straps.

"Remember—the Danes are strong in frontal attack, but weak on the flanks. And their king is young and hot-tempered. He'll rush forward."

"Understood."

The boats entered a narrow bay. On shore the Danes were already forming—shield to shield, spears forward. The classic formation of northern warriors.

"Vladimir!" shouted Eric. "You lead the right flank!"

This was an honor—the king trusted him to command in real battle.

Vladimir leaped into the water, followed by a hundred and fifty Vikings. They ran through the shallows, shouting battle cries.

"For Odin! For Eric!" roared the Norwegians.

"For Rus'!" added Vladimir, and his men took up the cry.

The clash was fierce. Shields cracked under sword blows, spears broke against mail. Vladimir fought in the front ranks, setting an example for his warriors.

And then he saw what Thorstein had predicted—the young Danish jarl broke through the center and rushed straight at Eric.

"Thorstein!" Vladimir shouted. "Cover the king!"

"And you?"

"I'll manage!"

Vladimir turned his detachment and struck the rear of the Danes who had broken through. The maneuver was risky—it left his flank open. But the calculation paid off. The Danes, caught between two fires, wavered and fled.

Jarl Harald fell under Eric's sword. The battle was won.

"You fought well, Prince," said the king when they were dividing the spoils. "A real Viking you've become."

"Thank you," Vladimir replied. "But I'm not a Viking."

"Then what are you?"

"A Russian prince. And soon the time has come to prove it."

**Chapter 12. Return**

**Novgorod. Summer 980 AD**

The guard on the city tower was first to see the ships. At first one boat appeared, then another, then a whole flotilla. Black sails with red stripes—a sign few remembered.

"Vladimir is returning!" shouted the watchman.

The news spread through the city like lightning. People ran to the wharf—some with joy, some with apprehension. Two years of Yaropolk's rule had disappointed many. The elder Sviatoslavich had proved a harsh and greedy prince.

The first boat moored at the shore. From it stepped a tall man in mail, with a sword at his side. His face was tanned, his hair long, his eyes... In his eyes was that special hardness that appears in people who have passed through fire and water.

"Citizens of Novgorod!" Vladimir said loudly. "I have returned!"

The crowd was silent, not knowing how to react. Then old Boyar Ostromir emerged from the crowd.

"Prince Vladimir," he said, "welcome home."

"Thank you, Ostromir Konstantinovich. Glad to see you alive and well."

"We're glad too. Only... what will happen now?"

Vladimir smiled.

"Now there will be justice. And vengeance for brother Oleg."

Behind him Varangians were disembarking—tall, bearded, in rich armor. A thousand picked warriors such as Rus' had never seen.

"And who are these?" someone in the crowd asked.

"My friends," Vladimir replied. "They'll help us reclaim what belongs to Rus' by right."

Posadnik Kosnyatin approached.

"Prince, and Yaropolk? He won't just let you take Kiev."

"He won't," Vladimir agreed. "That's why we won't ask him. We'll take it."

Approving shouts arose from the crowd. The Novgorodians were tired of Yaropolk and his governors.

"But first," Vladimir continued, "we need to gather all of Rus'. Unite all who are against the fratricide. And show the world what Russian strength means."

He raised his hand, and the noise subsided.

"Citizens! Who is ready to go with me to Kiev? Who is ready to fight for the righteous cause?"

"Ready!" the crowd shouted. "Ready, Prince!"

Vladimir nodded. Everything was going according to plan. The first step was taken—Novgorod was his again. Now it was Kiev's turn.

**Chapter 13. Brothers' Last Meeting**

**Kiev. Autumn 980 AD**

Yaropolk stood on the kremlin wall watching Vladimir's camp. His younger brother had pitched his tents on the very spot where their father's boats once stood.

The siege had lasted two months. Vladimir was in no hurry to storm—he knew time was working for him. Famine was beginning in the city, discontent was ripening among the boyars.

"Prince," approached Boyar Blud, "perhaps we should try to negotiate?"

"With Vladimir?" Yaropolk smiled bitterly. "You know him. He won't forgive Oleg's death."

"But what if... we offer him something valuable?"

"What could be more valuable than the Kiev throne?"

Blud was silent, then said:

"Life."

Yaropolk turned sharply to him.

"What do you mean?"

"Vladimir isn't an evil man. Perhaps he'd agree to exile?"

"How do you know what kind of man he is?"

Blud lowered his eyes.

"I... correspond with his people."

A long silence fell. Yaropolk looked at the boyar who had served him for ten years and saw in his eyes the same weakness that had once destroyed Oleg.

"I see," he said quietly. "So you too betray me."

"I don't betray you, Prince. I just... want to avoid bloodshed."

"Very well, Blud. Tell my brother—I agree to negotiations."

"Where?"

"In the Church of the Mother of God. On neutral ground."

Blud nodded and hurried away. And Yaropolk remained standing on the wall, thinking that history repeats itself. Only now he was in Oleg's role.

**The next day. Church of the Mother of God.**

Vladimir arrived first. He stood before the altar praying—not for victory, but that everything would pass without unnecessary blood.

Yaropolk appeared with two bodyguards. He looked tired, aged during these months of siege.

The brothers looked at each other for a long time. In Yaropolk, Vladimir saw a reflection of his own fate—what would have become of him if he had stayed in Kiev? And Yaropolk saw in his younger brother what he himself had lost over the years of rule—inner strength.

"You've changed, Volodya," said Yaropolk.

"So have you, brother."

"What now?"

"Now you abdicate the throne. And go into exile."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then the war continues. And ends with your death."

Yaropolk nodded. He knew—Vladimir wasn't bluffing.

"And my people?"

"Whoever swears allegiance to me—stays. Whoever doesn't want to—leaves with you."

"Where?"

"To Byzantium. The Emperor is always glad to accept experienced warriors into service."

Yaropolk thought. The offer was merciful. Much more merciful than what he himself had once offered Oleg.

"Very well," he said finally. "I agree."

The brothers embraced. And at that moment a shadow flicked behind Yaropolk—one of Vladimir's bodyguards crept up from behind.

"Stop!" Vladimir shouted.

But it was too late. The knife entered Yaropolk under the ribs. He fell to the church's stone floor, and blood spread around him in a dark stain.

"Who ordered this?" Vladimir asked furiously, grabbing the assassin by the chest.

"Boyar Blud," the man wheezed. "Said it was better for everyone."

Vladimir pushed him away and fell to his knees beside his brother. Yaropolk was still breathing.

"Volodya..." he whispered. "Forgive me... for Oleg..."

"I forgave you two years ago, brother."

"Be... better than us..."

These were his last words.

Vladimir sat beside his brother's body and felt something new being born in his soul. Not the joy of victory, but the weight of responsibility. Now he alone answered for all of Rus'.

"Prince," Dobrynya said quietly, "what shall we do with Blud?"

"Exile him. Forever. I don't tolerate traitors, even if they betray in my favor."

"And the assassin?"

"Execute him. Before all the people. Let them know—blood in a church is forgiven to no one."

Vladimir rose and crossed himself.

"Now we go to Kiev. We have much work to do."

---

   BOOK THREE
   THE CHOICE OF FAITH

**Chapter 14. The Pagan Prince**

**Kiev. Summer 981 AD**

Vladimir stood on the sacred hill looking at the wooden Perun. The idol towered over the city—fierce, mighty, with a silver head and golden mustache. Around stood other gods—Khors, Dazhbog, Stribog, Semargl, Mokosh.

"Great is Perun!" chanted the crowd. "Great is Prince Vladimir!"

The priest raised the sacrificial knife above his head. On the stone altar lay a white horse—a gift to the god from the new ruler of Kiev.

Vladimir watched what was happening and felt a strange emptiness. A year ago he would have been glad for such a celebration. Now something had changed.

"Prince," approached Boyar Dobrynya, "the people await your word."

Vladimir nodded and stepped forward.

"Russian gods!" he said loudly. "You gave me victory over enemies! You brought me to the throne of my fathers! Accept then gratitude from Prince Vladimir!"

The crowd roared with delight. The priest lowered the knife, blood gushed onto the altar. The gods were pleased.

But Vladimir was not pleased. That evening he sat in his palace and pondered what troubled him.

"Uncle," he said to Dobrynya, "are we living rightly?"

"In what sense?"

"In the sense of faith. We have many gods, but little use. Look—the Khazars pray to one god, and they have order. The Bulgars pray to one god, and they have law. And us?"

"We pray as our grandfathers prayed."

"But our grandfathers were wild. And we want to be civilized."

Dobrynya thought. There was truth in his nephew's words.

"What do you propose?"

"For now, nothing. But I'm thinking. Thinking a lot."

Outside the window the moon rose over Kiev. Somewhere in other lands people prayed to other gods, lived by other laws. And perhaps lived better.

**Chapter 15. The Envoys**

**Kiev. Spring 986 AD**

Guests arrived at the grand princely palace. First came the Bulgars—Muslims from the Volga. Their leader, a gray-bearded imam, bowed to the prince and began his speech:

"Great Prince Vladimir! We have come to tell you of the true faith. There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet!"

Vladimir listened attentively. The Muslims spoke wisely—of one god, of justice, of law equal for all.

"And what does your faith forbid?" asked the prince.

"Drinking wine, eating pork, playing dice..."

"Drinking is the joy of Rus'," Vladimir replied. "We cannot be without it."

The Muslims left empty-handed. The next day came Khazar Jews.

"Prince," said their rabbi, "we worship the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. The God who gave people the law on Mount Sinai."

"Where is your land?" asked Vladimir.

"We are scattered throughout the world for the sins of our ancestors."

"If your God is so great, why are you without land? Do you want to deprive us of our homeland too?"

The Jews also left unsuccessful. Third came Germans from Rome.

"Great Prince," said their priest, "accept the Christian faith according to the Roman rite. The Pope is Christ's vicar on earth, and whoever submits to him will inherit the kingdom of heaven."

"Go whence you came," said Vladimir. "Our fathers did not accept faith from the Pope."

Last came Greeks from Byzantium. Their philosopher was a learned man, spoke beautifully and convincingly.

"Prince," he said, "we heard that people of various faiths came to you. They all distort the truth. We profess the true faith, Orthodox..."

And the philosopher began telling the history of the world—from creation to Christ's coming. Vladimir listened without interrupting. In the Greek's tale was some special truth.

"And what happens to the righteous after death?" asked the prince.

The philosopher unrolled a cloth with an image of the Last Judgment. On the right stood the righteous in paradisiacal gardens, on the left—sinners in hellfire.

"If you want to be on the right—be baptized. If you want to be on the left—remain pagan."

Vladimir looked long at the image. Then said:

"Beautiful is your teaching. But I'll send my men to look at your faith."

**Chapter 16. The Choice**

**Constantinople. Summer 987 AD**

The Russian envoys stood in Hagia Sophia and couldn't believe their eyes. The enormous dome was lost in golden haze, mosaics shimmered in the light of thousands of candles, the choir sang so that the soul lifted from earth.

"We don't know whether we were in heaven or on earth," whispered Boyar Iskusovich. "For there is no such sight or beauty on earth."

"Whoever sees such beauty will no longer want ugliness," added another envoy.

They spent a month in Constantinople, saw the empire's wealth, the wisdom of its laws, the strength of its army. And understood—this is what a state should be.

**Kiev. Autumn 987 AD**

Vladimir sat surrounded by boyars listening to the envoys' report.

"We went to the Bulgars," said Iskusovich, "saw their prayers in the temple. They stand without belts, bow and sit, look here and there like madmen. There is no joy in them, only sorrow and great stench."

"And the Germans?"

"With the Germans we saw much service, but no beauty at all."

"And the Greeks?"

"The Greeks led us where they serve their God, and we didn't know whether we were in heaven or on earth. For there is no such spectacle and beauty on earth. And we cannot forget that beauty."

Vladimir thought. The decision had been ripening in him for a long time, but now the moment had come to make it.

"Boyars," he said, "what do you advise?"

The senior boyar rose.

"If the Greek law were bad, your grandmother Olga would not have accepted it, and she was wisest among people."

"Where shall we be baptized?"

"Wherever you wish."

Vladimir stood. The choice was made.

"Next year we'll go to Cherson. And there accept baptism."

**Chapter 17. Cherson**

**Chersonesos. Spring 988 AD**

The city had been under siege for six months. Vladimir was in no hurry—a storm would cost much blood, and he needed Cherson whole and unharmed.

"Prince," said Voevoda Wolf's Tail, "perhaps we should try to take it by storm?"

"No," Vladimir replied. "We'll wait. The city will open by itself."

And indeed, soon a defector crept to the Russian camp—Cherson priest Anastas.

"Prince," he said, "I know how to take the city without battle."

"Speak."

"They have a well behind the eastern wall. Cut it off—and they'll surrender themselves."

Vladimir nodded. The plan was reasonable.

The next night Russian warriors cut off the water supply. In a week Cherson surrendered.

"What do you want from the city?" asked the boyars.

"I want to be baptized," Vladimir replied.

But first he sent envoys to Constantinople to Emperors Basil and Constantine.

*"I have heard that you have an unmarried sister. If you don't give her to me, I'll do to your capital what I did to Cherson."*

The emperors were horrified. Give a purple-born princess to a barbarian prince? But there was no choice.

*"It's not fitting for Christians to give wives to pagans. If you're baptized, you'll get her and inherit the kingdom of heaven."*

*"I too want to be baptized," Vladimir replied. "Even before I tested your faith and it pleases me."*

**Chapter 18. Baptism**

**Chersonesos. Cathedral of the Assumption. 988 AD**

Vladimir stood waist-deep in the font and felt the cold water burn his skin. Beside him—a Byzantine bishop and Cherson priests. In the cathedral were gathered his boyars, warriors, Greek nobility.

"Vladimir," pronounced the bishop, "is baptized in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit!"

The bishop thrice immersed the prince in water. And at that moment a miracle occurred.

A few days before baptism Vladimir had begun to go blind. His eyes hurt, covered with a whitish film. Doctors threw up their hands—the disease was unknown.

But when the sacred water touched his eyes, the film fell away. Vladimir saw the world as if anew—bright, clean, full of light.

"Now I have seen the true God!" he exclaimed.

The warriors, seeing the miracle, immediately demanded baptism for themselves. The priests could barely keep up with performing the sacrament.

After the ceremony they brought Vladimir a woman in rich robes. Anna Porphyrogenita was no longer young, but preserved beauty and royal bearing.

"Princess Anna," said the bishop, "here is your husband, Prince Vladimir, new son of the Orthodox Church."

Anna bowed. In her eyes was fear—she had come to a barbarian, but met a man.

"Your Highness," Vladimir said in Greek, "don't be afraid. I am not your enemy, but your protector."

"I believe, Prince," Anna replied. "And I hope God will bless our union."

The wedding took place that same day. Cherson bells rang until evening.


**Chapter 19. Return to Kiev**

**Kiev. Summer 988 AD**

Vladimir stood on that same sacred hill where a year ago he had sacrificed to pagan gods. Now a crowd had gathered here, awaiting his decision.

"People of Kiev!" the prince said loudly. "A year ago I stood here and offered sacrifices to the gods of our fathers. Today I stand before you as a different man."

The crowd was silent, tensely waiting. Beside Vladimir stood his wife Anna, Byzantine priests, newly baptized boyars. At the foot of the hill loomed the statues of pagan gods—still whole, but already doomed.

"In distant Cherson I accepted the Christian faith. Not by compulsion, not by calculation, but because I saw truth in it. Truth about how people should live."

Discontented voices arose from the crowd. Perun's priest Bogomil stepped forward:

"Prince! Why do you abandon the gods who gave you victory? Perun is angry!"

Vladimir looked calmly at the priest.

"Bogomil, tell me—where were our gods when brother killed brother? Where were they when innocent blood was spilled in the land? What did they give Rus' except discord and cruelty?"

"They gave strength! They gave glory in battle!"

"Strength—yes. But they didn't give justice. They didn't give law. They didn't give peace between people."

Vladimir stepped to the edge of the platform so all could see him.

"I have traveled many lands, seen many peoples. And everywhere people worship one God, there is order. There is justice. There the strong don't oppress the weak simply because they can."

"And what of our customs?" someone shouted from the crowd.

"Good customs will remain. Evil ones will go. There will be no more human sacrifices. No more blood revenge without trial. No more slavery for debtors."

Anna quietly touched her husband's hand. In her eyes was pride—she saw how a barbarian prince was becoming an enlightened ruler.

"Prince!" called out Boyar Putyata. "What if the people don't want to?"

Vladimir surveyed the assembled crowd. The faces were different—curious, wary, hostile, but not indifferent.

"Putyata, I don't compel anyone. Whoever wants to be baptized—come tomorrow to the Dnieper. Whoever doesn't want to—remain in the old faith. But know all—Rus' henceforth becomes a Christian realm. And we will live in it by Christian laws."

"And the gods?" croaked the old priest. "What of the gods?"

Vladimir was silent. He had thought about this moment for many days.

"The gods of our fathers were for their time. The time of Rus' childhood has passed. The time of maturity has come."

He raised his hand, and warriors moved toward the statues. First fell Perun—his silver head crashed to the ground with a roar. After him—Khors, Dazhbog, the other idols.

Women in the crowd wept, men clenched their fists. But no one dared oppose the princely will.

"Tomorrow at dawn," said Vladimir, "whoever wishes—come to the Dnieper. We'll begin a new life."

**Chapter 20. The Baptism of Rus'**

**Kiev, Bank of the Dnieper. August 1, 988 AD**

Dawn was misty. Light haze hung over the river, hiding the opposite shore. Vladimir stood on the bank in a white shirt watching people slowly gather by the water.

Not everyone came. But many came—thousands of Kievans, from young to old. Some from conviction, some from curiosity, some from obedience to the prince.

"Dobrynya," Vladimir said quietly to his uncle, "I'm afraid."

"What do you fear, nephew?"

"What if I'm doing wrong? What if I'm breaking what can't be restored?"

Dobrynya, also already baptized, put his hand on the prince's shoulder.

"Volodya, remember what your Greek teacher said? 'By their fruits you shall know them.' Look at these faces—do you see malice in them? Hatred?"

Vladimir peered into the crowd. People stood quietly, with curiosity and even some reverence. Children clutched their mothers' skirts, old men leaned on staffs, young warriors stood apart, but they had come.

"I don't see it," he admitted.

"Neither do I. So everything is right."

Byzantine priests approached the shore led by Bishop Michael. The choir began a solemn troparion, and over the Dnieper rang words this land had never heard:

"When You were baptized in the Jordan, O Lord, the worship of the Trinity was made manifest..."

Vladimir was first to enter the water. After him—his family, boyars, warriors. Then the people began to come.

Bishop Michael raised his hands:

"People of Kiev! Today you are born anew! Today Rus' becomes part of the great family of Christian nations!"

And the great sacrament began. Priests stood waist-deep in water and baptized all who wished. Old and young, rich and poor, free and slave.

"The servant of God is baptized..." rang over the river.

Vladimir watched what was happening and felt something new being born in his soul. Not the joy of victory, not the pride of a ruler, but special responsibility. Responsibility for the souls of these people, for their future, for the fate of all Rus'.

A little girl being baptized nearby surfaced from the water and laughed. In her laughter was no fear—only childish wonder and delight.

"Uncle," Vladimir said to Dobrynya, "I think we're doing the right thing."

"I think so, nephew. I think so."

By midday most of Kiev was baptized. The priests could barely stand from exhaustion, but continued performing the sacrament.

"Enough for today," Vladimir finally said. "Whoever didn't manage—we'll continue tomorrow."

People dispersed to their homes. In their eyes was confusion, curiosity, hope. Many didn't fully understand what had happened, but felt—something important had changed.

That evening Vladimir sat with Anna in his palace. The princess was reading a Greek book, the prince looked out the window at the Dnieper.

"What are you thinking about?" asked his wife.

"About what we've begun. And whether we'll reach the end."

"You will. I believe in you."

"Where does such certainty come from?"

Anna set aside her book and approached her husband.

"Because I've seen how you change. A year ago you were a pagan barbarian. Today you're a Christian sovereign. If such change is possible with one person, then it's possible with a whole people."

Vladimir embraced his wife. Outside the window stars rose over Kiev—the same ones that had shone on his pagan ancestors, but now they illuminated Christian Rus'.

**Chapter 21. Resistance**

**Novgorod. Autumn 990 AD**

Dobrynya rode through Novgorod's streets accompanied by a thousand-man detachment. Two years had passed since the Kiev baptism, and now the turn had come to the north. But Novgorod met the princely envoys quite differently than Kiev.

"Uncle Dobrynya!" a familiar voice called out.

It was Posadnik Ostromir, an old friend from the time of Vladimir's rule.

"Greetings, Ostromir! Good to see you."

"Good to see you too. Only your business here won't be easy."

"What do you mean?"

"Our people are stubborn. They love their gods, fear the new faith. And most important—Tysyatsky Ugonyay is turning the people against you."

Dobrynya frowned. Ugonyay was an influential man, descendant of an ancient boyar family. If he was against baptism...

"What does he say?"

"He says Prince Vladimir was seduced by the Greeks, wants to subject Rus' to Byzantium. That the new faith is slavery, and the old one is freedom."

"I see. And what do you think?"

Ostromir was silent.

"I think Prince Vladimir is a smart man. If he decided—then it's necessary. But convincing the Novgorodians..."

He didn't finish, but Dobrynya understood. Novgorodians were a willful people, accustomed to deciding their own affairs. You couldn't take them by force.

That evening at the veche square all the city's nobility gathered. Dobrynya stood before the assembled crowd and began his speech:

"Men of Novgorod! Prince Vladimir sends you greetings and commands you to accept the Christian faith, as the people of Kiev have accepted it."

"And if we don't want to?" shouted Tysyatsky Ugonyay.

"Then he'll come himself with an army and compel you."

The veche grew noisy. Some shouted: "We won't surrender!", others: "We must think!"

Ugonyay raised his hand, demanding silence:

"Brothers! Do you hear? They want to compel us! But is compulsion from God? Is true faith planted by force?"

"Ugonyay is right!" his supporters echoed.

"He's wrong!" objected Posadnik Ostromir. "Our prince knows best what Rus' needs!"

The argument flared. Dobrynya understood—it couldn't be settled peacefully.

"Citizens," he said, "I give you three days to think. And then we begin baptism—with the willing or without the willing."

**Three days later.**

Novgorod was divided. On the Trading Side gathered supporters of baptism led by Posadnik Ostromir. On the Sofia Side—opponents led by Tysyatsky Ugonyay.

"We won't let them defile the sanctuary!" shouted some.

"We won't oppose the prince!" replied others.

Dobrynya stood in the middle of the bridge over the Volkhov and understood—it was heading toward bloodshed. The Novgorodians had taken up arms, and now each side was only waiting for a pretext.

"Putyata," he said to the voevoda, "we'll have to act by force."

"I hear you!" replied Putyata. "By fire and sword?"

"By fire and sword," Dobrynya agreed heavily.

Thus began what chroniclers would call "Putyata baptizes with the sword, and Dobrynya with fire." Princely warriors burst into the city, set fire to several houses on the Sofia Side, seized the main opponents of baptism.

"Bring Ugonyay to me!" ordered Dobrynya.

They brought the tysyatsky bound. His face showed hatred.

"What do you want, Dobrynya? To kill me?"

"Not to kill. To convince. Ugonyay, you're a smart man, don't you understand—resistance is useless? Vladimir has decided—so it will be as he wishes."

"I understand. But my ancestors didn't bow to foreign gods!"

"But your grandchildren will bow. Do you want them to remember you as a wise man or as a stubborn fool?"

Ugonyay thought. Around him houses burned, women wept, Novgorodians submissively went to the river for baptism.

"All right," he said finally. "I surrender. But know—you can't plant faith by force. You'll only plant fear."

"We'll see," replied Dobrynya. "We'll see."

**Chapter 22. Building Churches**

**Kiev. Spring 996 AD**

Vladimir stood on that same hill where pagan idols once towered and watched the church being built. Eight years had passed since the baptism of Rus', and the prince decided to immortalize this event in stone.

"Master Mironeg," he addressed the chief builder, "how are things going?"

"Going well, Prince! By autumn we'll put up the dome, and next spring there'll be consecration."

The church was being built after the model of Constantinople churches, but taking into account Russian traditions. Byzantine masters worked alongside Kiev ones, passing on their knowledge.

"And the mosaics?"

"The Greeks are doing the mosaics. They say—such beauty has never been seen in Rus'."

Vladimir nodded. The church was to become not just a temple, but a symbol of new Rus'—Christian, enlightened, beautiful.

Anna appeared nearby. In eight years of marriage she had come to love her husband and his country, learned Russian, became involved in Rus's concerns.

"Volodya," she said, "envoys from Cherson have come to see you."

"What do they want?"

"They're complaining about Pechenegs. Asking for protection."

Vladimir sighed. Eight years of peace were coming to an end. Pecheneg hordes were again troubling the Russian borders.

"Call them. We'll talk."

The envoys were worried. Pecheneg Khan Belguk with a huge army stood under Belgorod and demanded tribute.

"Prince," said the senior envoy, "if Belgorod falls, then Kiev too will be in danger."

"I know," Vladimir replied. "I'm gathering the host. In a week we march."

"And if there aren't enough forces?"

"There will be enough. Rus' now is not what it was under my father. We have what the Pechenegs don't have."

"What?"

"Unity. And faith in a righteous cause."

**Belgorod. Summer 996 AD**

The Pecheneg army was enormous—thirty thousand mounted archers. Belgorod held by its last strength, and its fall was a matter of days.

Vladimir approached the city with an army half the size. But his warriors were better armed and, most important, better organized.

"Prince," said Voevoda Wolf's Tail, "the Pechenegs propose to settle the matter by single combat."

"What single combat?"

"Each side chooses a warrior. Whoever wins is in the right."

Vladimir thought. The proposal was tempting—it could avoid a great battle. But where to find a warrior capable of defeating a Pecheneg champion?

"Who do we have?"

"That's the problem—there's no one suitable. The Pechenegs will put up a giant, and we..."

"Prince!" an unfamiliar voice interrupted them.

They turned. An old tanner was approaching with a young fellow.

"What do you want, old man?"

"Prince, I have a son. He's uncommonly strong. Listen—from childhood bulls fear him. When he grabs one by the side—it dies."

Vladimir looked at the fellow. Medium height, strong build, but not gigantic.

"What's your name?"

"Nikita," the young man replied. "Nikita the Tanner."

"Very well, Nikita. We'll try. But know—if you lose, all Rus' will lie under the Pechenegs."

"I won't lose, Prince. God will help."

**The next day.**

Between the armies a space was cleared for single combat. The Pechenegs put forward their best warrior—huge as a bear, in iron armor.

Nikita came out against him in a simple shirt, with only a knife at his belt.

"Ha!" the Pecheneg laughed. "This is your warrior, Prince? I'll strangle him with one hand!"

"Try," Nikita said calmly.

The combat didn't last long. The Pecheneg rushed at the Russian, hoping to crush him with mass. But Nikita dodged, grabbed the giant by the belt and... broke his spine.

The Pechenegs watched in horror as their fallen champion lay still. And the Russians shouted "Hurrah!" and praised Nikita the Tanner.

"We're leaving!" shouted Khan Belguk. "The gods are against us!"

The Pecheneg horde broke camp and went into the steppes. Belgorod was saved, the border protected.

"Nikita," said Vladimir, embracing the hero, "ask what you want. I'll give you anything."

"I don't need anything, Prince. I did what I should. For faith, for Rus'."

Vladimir understood—here it was, the new Rus'. Christian, just, where a simple tanner becomes a hero, and a prince becomes protector of the weak.

**Chapter 23. The Wise Judge**

**Kiev. 1001 AD**

Vladimir sat in his new wooden palace hearing court cases. Thirteen years of Christianity had changed not only faith, but the entire way of life. Now justice was administered not by the old custom of blood revenge, but by new law.

"Next case," said Clerk Elisey.

They brought in two merchants—one from Novgorod, one from Smolensk. They were disputing a debt.

"Prince," said the Novgorodian, "I gave him goods worth a hundred grivnas, and he hasn't paid for three years."

"He lies!" objected the man from Smolensk. "The goods were rotten, I couldn't sell them!"

"Do you have proof?" asked Vladimir.

"I have witnesses," said the Novgorodian and brought forward two men.

"And you?" the prince addressed the man from Smolensk.

"I... also have witnesses."

Vladimir heard both sides, evaluated the witnesses' testimony. Then he was silent for a long time, thinking.

"Here's what," he said finally. "Novgorodian, you'll get half the debt. And the man from Smolensk—you'll pay half and be more careful choosing goods in future."

"But Prince..."

"No 'but.' Both are guilty—one of negligence, the other of greed. Justice is for both to bear responsibility."

The merchants left dissatisfied but not offended. And Vladimir moved to the next case.

"A land dispute," announced the clerk.

Two peasants from near Chernigov were disputing. One claimed his neighbor had seized his field, the other swore the land came to him from his father.

"There are no witnesses," said Vladimir after hearing the litigants. "No documents either. How do we find the truth?"

He thought. In the old days such disputes were decided by combat or lot. But a Christian prince must seek other ways.

"What do the neighbors say?" he asked.

"The neighbors... say different things," admitted one of the peasants.

"I see. Then here's what we'll do. Divide the disputed land equally. And next year we'll see—who has the better harvest. Whoever loves the land more will have it more fertile."

"And if it's the same?" asked the second peasant.

"Then God so willed—both own half each."

The peasants looked at each other and nodded. The decision seemed fair to them.

When the people had dispersed, Metropolitan Leontius approached Vladimir.

"Prince, you judge cases well. But perhaps we should create written law? So everyone knows how to act?"

Vladimir thought.

"You speak truly, Your Grace. Only what law? Byzantine doesn't suit us—they have different customs. Russian hasn't been written yet."

"So let's write it. We'll gather wise men, study our customs, reconcile them with Christian faith."

"Good idea. Summon the scribes. We'll begin composing the 'Russian Truth.'"

**Chapter 24. Enlightenment**

**Kiev. 1005 AD**

In the new stone church—the Tithe Church—school was in session. The first school in Rus' where children of boyars and merchants learned literacy, arithmetic, God's law.

Vladimir walked between the rows listening to children read the Psalter. Seventeen years had passed since baptism, and already a generation had grown for whom Christianity was their native faith.

"They read well," he said to the teacher, the Greek John.

"Capable children, Prince. The Russian people are inclined to learning."

"How many have been taught already?"

"In five years—more than three hundred. Some have already become priests, some clerks at court."

Vladimir nodded. The plan was working. Rus' was slowly but surely becoming an enlightened country.

One of the students approached him—a boy of about twelve with intelligent eyes.

"Prince," said the boy, "may I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"Is it true that we used to have different gods?"

Vladimir knelt beside the child.

"True. What interests you about it?"

"Why did you abandon them?"

"Because I learned of the true God. Of One who teaches people to love each other, not to fight."

"Were those gods bad?"

"Not bad, but... incomplete. They taught how to be strong, but not how to be kind."

The boy thought.

"I understand. May I also become a priest?"

"You may. Study well, love God, help people—and you'll become one."

Vladimir rose and continued on. In these years he had opened dozens of schools throughout Rus', invited hundreds of teachers, copied thousands of books.

"Prince," Clerk Elisey caught up with him, "envoys from Rome have come to see you."

"What do they want?"

"Pope Sylvester proposes church union. He wants Rus' to recognize his supremacy."

Vladimir frowned. The proposal came not for the first time.

"What shall I answer?"

"The same as before. Rus' is Orthodox, and will remain Orthodox. We have our own metropolitan, our own traditions."

"And if they insist?"

"Let them insist. They can't take us by force, and by persuasion—even less so."

Vladimir approached the window and looked at Kiev. In seventeen years the city had changed greatly. Stone churches, schools, hospitals had appeared. There were fewer drunkards on the streets, more scribes.

"Elisey, what do you think—are we living rightly?"

The clerk thought. He had served the prince for ten years and seen all the changes.

"Rightly, Prince. Before, blood flowed in the streets every day—robbers, blood revenge, or just drunken brawls. And now?"

"And now what?"

"Now children go to school, the sick go to hospitals, the poor receive alms. Even our enemies see this."

"What enemies?"

"The Pechenegs. Their envoy recently said—they're amazed that Russian people have become different. They haven't lost their courage, but their anger has diminished."

Vladimir smiled. This was the best praise for his rule.

**Chapter 25. The Test**

**Kiev. 1015 AD**

Vladimir lay in bed feeling his strength leaving him. Fifty-seven years—a respectable age for a medieval ruler. Twenty-seven years he had ruled baptized Rus', and now the hour approached to pass power to his heirs.

"My children," he said to his sons gathered at his bedside, "the hour of my death draws near."

The eldest, Svyatopolk, shifted impatiently from foot to foot. Boris and Gleb stood with tears in their eyes. Yaroslav had come from Novgorod stern and concentrated.

"Father," said Boris, "don't speak of death. You'll recover yet."

"I won't recover, son. And that's good. I've done what I could. Now it's your turn."

"What will become of Rus'?" asked Yaroslav.

"What you make of it. If you live in peace—it will prosper. If you begin war—you'll destroy all we've built."

Svyatopolk snorted.

"Father, there can't be two princes in one country. Someone must be chief."

"The chief is he who is wiser and more just, not who is older," Vladimir replied sternly. "And remember—you're not just princes, you're Christian rulers. Rule by conscience, not by whim."

"And if one of us doesn't obey?" asked Gleb quietly.

Vladimir looked at his youngest son—young, pure of soul, unsuited for cruel political struggle.

"Then God will judge, son. God will judge."

Three days later Grand Prince Vladimir Sviatoslavich died. With him went an epoch—the epoch of Rus' baptism, the epoch of a Christian state's formation.

**Chapter 26. Fratricide**

**Vyshgorod. Summer 1015 AD**

Boris stood in his tent reading the Gospel. The young prince had received news of his father's death and now pondered—what to do next?

"Prince," entered Voevoda George, "the retinue is ready. Say the word—we'll go to Kiev. Svyatopolk is a usurper, the throne is rightfully yours."

Boris set aside the book.

"George, should a Christian fight his brother for power?"

"He should, if the brother is wrong!"

"But who among us will decide who's right and who's wrong? We ourselves?"

The voevoda had no answer. Boris approached the icon of Christ hanging in the corner of the tent.

"Father said—rule by conscience. My conscience says: don't raise your hand against a brother."

"And if he raises his hand first?"

"Then God will judge."

George shook his head and left. And Boris remained praying before the icon.

At dawn riders approached the tent. At their head rode Boyar Putsha—faithful servant of Svyatopolk.

"Prince Boris!" he shouted. "Svyatopolk Vladimirovich summons you to Kiev for council!"

"I'm coming," Boris replied and left the tent.

"Prince, don't go!" whispered George. "It's a trap!"

"I know. But what to do—hide from brothers all my life?"

Boris mounted his horse and rode to meet Svyatopolk's men. He knew he was going to his death, but couldn't act otherwise.

At the small river Alta, Putsha's men attacked the prince. Boris didn't resist—he prayed and accepted death as a martyr.

**A week later. Near Smolensk.**

Gleb received news of Boris's death when sailing down the Dnieper to Kiev. The young man wept—not from fear, but from grief.

"Prince," his faithful servant Goryaser said, "turn the boat around. Svyatopolk has sent assassins for you too."

"I know," Gleb replied quietly. "But where can I flee? You can't hide from a brother."

"To Novgorod, to Yaroslav!"

"What's the use? If Svyatopolk has decided to kill us all, he'll reach Novgorod too."

The boat moored at the shore. Armed men rode out of the forest led by Boyar Goryaser—namesake of the princely servant.

"Prince Gleb!" shouted the assassin. "Svyatopolk Vladimirovich commands you to appear in Kiev!"

"I'm coming," Gleb replied and stepped onto the shore.

Like Boris, he didn't resist. He accepted death with prayer on his lips, becoming the second martyr in Vladimir's line.

**Novgorod. Autumn 1015 AD**

Yaroslav received news of his brothers' deaths and understood—now his turn had come. Svyatopolk wouldn't stop until he had exterminated all possible rivals.

"Gather the host," he ordered Posadnik Constantine. "We go to Kiev."

"And if we lose?"

"Then Rus' will be left without Christian princes. Only fratricides will rule."

The Novgorodians answered the prince's call. Varangians joined the Russian retinue—Yaroslav remembered his father's lessons and wasn't ashamed of foreign help.

"Men of Novgorod!" he addressed the army before departure. "We go not for power, but for truth! Svyatopolk killed innocent brothers—Boris and Gleb. Such a crime cannot go unpunished!"

"We'll avenge them!" the warriors shouted. "For the holy martyrs!"

And they went south to punish the fratricide and restore justice.

**Chapter 27. Battle for the Legacy**

**Lyubech. Winter 1016 AD**

On the banks of the Dnieper two armies met. Svyatopolk stood with Kiev retinue and Pecheneg allies. Yaroslav—with Novgorodians and Varangians.

The brothers met in the middle of the field under white flags of truce.

"Svyatopolk," said Yaroslav, "why did you kill Boris and Gleb?"

"They wanted to take the throne from me," the elder brother replied.

"They didn't want to! Boris himself refused the struggle!"

"You lie! You all conspired against me!"

Yaroslav looked into his brother's eyes and saw madness there. Svyatopolk feared everyone and everything—and this fear had turned him into a murderer.

"Svyatopolk, come to your senses. Repent before God, and I'll forgive you."

"Forgive?" Svyatopolk laughed. "I'll forgive you if you submit!"

"Then let God judge us in battle."

The battle began at dawn. The Pechenegs attacked first, but Novgorod infantry withstood the blow. Varangians struck the flank, scattered the Kiev retinue.

By midday Svyatopolk's army was fleeing. The fratricide himself rushed to the Pechenegs, hoping to return with new forces.

"Prince," approached Voevoda Budy, "what about the prisoners?"

"Release them all. These are Russian people, they're not guilty of their prince's crimes."

"And Kiev?"

"We'll enter Kiev as liberators, not as conquerors."

**Kiev. Spring 1016 AD**

Yaroslav rode into the capital to the ringing of all the church bells. The people of Kiev met him with joy—in a year of Svyatopolk's rule the city had known the horrors of tyranny.

First of all the new prince went to the Tithe Church built by his father. There he prayed for the repose of his murdered brothers' souls and asked God for wisdom in ruling.

"Prince Yaroslav," approached Metropolitan John, "what will you do with Svyatopolk's accomplices?"

"Whoever repents—I'll forgive. Whoever doesn't repent—I'll exile. I won't kill anyone—enough blood has been spilled already."

"And if Svyatopolk returns?"

"We'll meet him worthily. But I hope God will bring him to reason."

But Svyatopolk didn't come to reason. A year later he returned with Polish King Boleslaw's army. Another year later—with a Pecheneg horde. And each time he suffered defeat from Yaroslav.

Finally the fratricide died in exile, cursed by his own people and forgotten by allies.

**Chapter 28. The Wise Ruler**

**Kiev. 1025 AD**

Ten years had passed since the victory over Svyatopolk. Yaroslav sat in the same palace where his father once ruled and pondered the fate of Rus'.

The country was gradually healing the wounds of fratricidal war. New churches were being built, schools opened, books copied. The murdered brothers Boris and Gleb were canonized by the church as the first Russian saints.

"Prince," entered Clerk Ostromir, "the draft of the new legal code is ready."

Yaroslav took the scroll and began reading. "Russian Truth"—so was called the first written collection of laws of Rus'. It took into account old customs and Christian principles and Byzantine experience.

"Well written," said the prince. "But one thing is missing."

"What?"

"A preamble. We need to explain to people why these laws exist."

Yaroslav took a pen and wrote: "In the name of the Father and Son and Holy Spirit. I, Grand Prince Yaroslav, son of Vladimir the blessed and baptized, establish laws for the Russian land, so that people may live in truth and justice..."

"What next?" asked Ostromir.

"Next—the laws. Simple, clear, just. So everyone knows—what brings punishment, what brings reward."

By evening "Russian Truth" was ready. The first document in Rus' history that placed law above princely will.

"Ostromir," said Yaroslav, "do you think father would approve our deeds?"

"He would approve, Prince. You continue his work."

"What work exactly?"

"You're building Christian Rus'. Not in words, but in deeds."

**Chapter 29. Testament to Descendants**

**Kiev. 1054 AD**

Yaroslav lay on his deathbed feeling the end approaching. Forty years he had ruled Rus'—longer than his father, longer than his grandfather. In these years the country had become unrecognizable.

Around his bed stood his sons—Izyaslav, Svyatoslav, Vsevolod, Vyacheslav, Igor. All were educated men, raised in the Christian spirit.

"My children," said the dying prince, "hear your father's last words."

"We're listening, father," replied the eldest, Izyaslav.

"I bequeath to you what grandfather Vladimir bequeathed to me—live in peace. Rus' is great, there's room for all. Don't destroy what your ancestors built."

"And if someone breaks the peace?" asked Svyatoslav.

"Then the others must restrain him. But remember—the goal is not to punish, but to restore justice."

Yaroslav fell silent, gathering his strength. Then continued:

"Remember the main thing—you're not just princes, but Christian rulers. Your power is from God, and before God you'll answer for it. Rule not for yourselves, but for the people."

"We'll remember, father," promised Vsevolod.

"And one more thing. Value books, learning, wisdom. Rus' must be not only strong, but enlightened. Then its strength will be real."

Yaroslav closed his eyes and quietly died. With him ended the epoch of Rus' great baptizers—Vladimir and his son.

**Epilogue. The Light of Rus'**

**Kiev. 1100 AD**

Yaroslav's grandson, Vladimir Monomakh, stood in St. Sophia Cathedral looking at the mosaic icon of the Virgin Orans. More than a hundred years had passed since the baptism of Rus', and the fruits of this great deed were visible everywhere.

   THE BAPTIZER OF RUS'
   English Translation (Finale)

Rus' had become one of the mightiest states in Europe. Russian princes intermarried with Byzantine emperors, French kings, German kaisers. Russian merchants traded from London to Baghdad. Russian scribes created chronicles, lives of saints, translated Greek and Latin texts.

"Grandfather Vladimir," whispered Monomakh, gazing at the icon, "you were not mistaken. Christianity made us not weaker, but stronger. Not poorer, but richer. Not more foolish, but wiser."

In the cathedral served descendants of those priests whom the prince-baptizer had brought from Cherson. Prayed descendants of those Kievans who were baptized in the Dnieper. Sang descendants of those singers who first chanted "Lord, have mercy" in the Russian language.

Beyond the cathedral windows lay Kiev—city of churches and schools, city of scribes and craftsmen, city called "mother of Russian cities" and "second Constantinople."

And somewhere in distant lands—in Novgorod and Pskov, in Chernigov and Pereyaslavl, in Galich and Vladimir—candles burned in temples, prayers were read in Russian, children grew in Christian faith.

The work of Saint Prince Vladimir continued. And would continue for centuries.

**THE END**

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*"And there was joy in heaven and on earth, seeing so many souls saved. But the devil groaned, saying: 'Woe is me! I am driven out from here! Here I thought to dwell and rule, for here was no apostolic teaching, they knew not God here. And now I am already defeated by a simple man, and not by apostles and martyrs!'"*

**The Primary Chronicle on the Baptism of Rus'**