We sit at long, bare, oak tables. The servants bring us kvass made from bread crumbs, day-old cabbage soup, rye bread, beef boiled with onion, and buckwheat porridge. We eat, discuss our plans quietly. Our silent bells sway back and forth. Each wing of the oprichnina has its own plans: some are busy in the Secret Department today; some in the Mind Chamber; some in the Ambassadorial; some in the Trade Department. Right now I have three affairs going. The first: deal with the clowns and minstrels, and approve the new performance for the holiday concert. The second: snuff out the star. The third: fly out and visit Praskovia, the clairvoyant of Tobol, on a special errand. I sit in my place, the fourth to Batya’s right. It’s a place of honor, a lucrative place. Only Shelet, Samosya, and Yerokha are closer to him on the right side. Batya is strong, imposing, young in countenance, though completely gray. It’s a pleasure to watch him eat: he doesn’t hurry, he takes his time. Batya is our foundation, the main root of the oak that supports the entire oprichnina.
