When the Bishop completed the final ceremony, the noble Prince and his wife's coffins were immediately placed into the church's niche, which faced the gates of Novgorod.
This was a Rus' tradition: a Prince would be interred in the church he had built after his death.
Although the construction of Novgorod's Saint Sophia Cathedral was ordered by his grandfather, it was his father, as the Prince of Novgorod, who saw it through.
After silently mourning his son, the Wise Man composed himself and rose to leave; the immense backlog of state affairs accumulated in Novgorod during this period still required his attention, and everyone else dispersed as well, as the ceremony was complete and the Grand Duke had departed, leaving no reason to remain.
The crowd inside the church quickly thinned out, and soon the Lord's hall became quiet and deserted, with only a few people remaining for some private, undisclosed discussions.
"I wonder who the next Prince of Novgorod will be."
In a corner of the church, an old nobleman, highly influential in the city, expressed this sentiment with a sigh. Though his beard was white and his body stout, his every gesture still exuded the gravitas of a military noble.
"Father, mind your words."
His son, Vishata, with his shoulder-length golden hair, was greatly uneasy. He nervously looked around; the Rus' nobility now felt like small boats adrift in a stormy sea, rising and falling with the waves.
Even as a prominent family of Novgorod, and generational in-laws of the Kiev Grand Duke, they had to be cautious, lest the future of their family's ruin become less of a distant threat.
"Don't be so paranoid. This matter ultimately depends on how our Grand Duke views it. As for your worries, hmph, I'm not afraid. Those people are just a bunch of howling pups, making a lot of noise but utterly useless."
The old nobleman was as stubborn as an old ox. As an influential figure from the same era as the Wise Man in his youth, he was even bold enough to burn the Wise Man's boats when he wanted to flee north during the civil war (Note 1). The old nobleman had no fear of those juniors. What he cared more about now was his son's thoughts.
"Compared to these things, I'm more interested in what you think: will you be loyal to Vladimir's child, or choose another master?"
His father's words made Vishata recall what his friend Vladimir had told him before his death: "Though I lament my fate, my lament is not for myself, but for my son's destiny."
When a man dies, the fate that awaits the children he leaves behind is self-evident.
Vishata couldn't help but feel a touch of irony; in this sacred church, the only ones truly concerned about the child's fate were his father and him, and the Grand Duke.
He remembered Rostislav at the funeral; although the fourteen-year-old child was ostensibly the focus of the funeral, everyone merely regarded him as a noble adornment.
Vishata felt a sudden, inexplicable sadness. He was a close friend of Vladimir; the two had once embarked on a campaign together to the southern imperial capital (Note 2), only to unfortunately encounter a storm, forcing them to fight the imperial army on shore.
The two relied on each other within the shield wall of their personal guards, fighting side-by-side, forging a deep friendship; their camaraderie bound them tightly together.
Later, due to the division of forces, Vishata was unfortunately captured by the Imperial Grand Lord's army and spent three years in the imperial monarch's dungeon, his eyes even nearly gouged out at one point.
However, thanks to Vladimir's efforts, he was still able to successfully leave that great city and return to Rus' with his less fortunate companions whose eyes had been gouged out.
Now, seeing his comrade pass away and his descendants fall into such a tragic situation, Vishata was naturally filled with immense sorrow. Those magnificent and powerful scenes of the past now seemed to vanish like grains of sand in the wind, as if they had never existed.
After reminiscing about the past, Vishata met his father's gaze.
"Vladimir was my comrade-in-arms, so his son will also be my comrade-in-arms. I will fight for him until the very last moment."
"Is that so? Good, you're right. We cannot betray friends, nor abandon their descendants when they need us most. Every sword added to the shield wall will make us stronger. Today's efforts will be rewarded tomorrow."
A heartfelt smile appeared on the old nobleman's face, a sign of his approval for his son. He had initially thought his son would directly switch allegiances, but his son still chose to be loyal to his comrade's son, and this was precisely what the old nobleman approved of, and the kind of person he hoped his son would become.
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"Teacher, what do you think Grandfather came here for?"
At the same time, in the inner chamber of the church, Rostislav stood before an elder, who was Rostislav's teacher, the Bishop of Novgorod, Luka Zhidiata.
The Bishop's chin was covered with a thick white beard, and he wore an episcopal robe embroidered with small crosses along its edges, giving him the aura of a wise man.
For Rostislav, this elder held a special significance; now that both his parents had passed away, the only elder he could trust was Bishop Luka, his teacher, and his father's close friend despite their age difference.
"I think you already know."
The Bishop, seated at the scribal desk, closed a heavy tome without turning around or answering his question.
Bishop Luka understood this student well; while it would be normal for his peers not to know these things, it was impossible for him not to figure them out.
He had expended immense effort on this student, imparting all the knowledge he possessed without reservation, yet even so, it was not enough for Rostislav to learn.
The Bishop regarded all this as a divine gift. He greatly regretted that this student had no interest in God; if he could devote himself to God, his future achievements would surely be limitless. But he did not lose heart; wasn't cultivating an excellent ruler also a great deed?
"Yes... but I didn't expect it to come so soon."
Rostislav sat down beside his teacher, a hint of bitterness appearing on his face. He understood perfectly that his grandfather's visit to the north had another purpose: to see him, to assess the caliber of his grandson.
And this was related to his future.
"But, no matter what we have already attained..." Bishop Luka placed his hand on the cross, looking directly at his disciple.
"...we should still proceed in the same way."
Rostislav was startled at first, then instinctively uttered the next line from the Bible. As a Rurik noble, the study of the Bible was an important part of his education.
"Philippians 3:16." The Bishop stood up and patted his disciple's shoulder, "You've already done so much; wouldn't it be ridiculous to be afraid at the critical moment?"
"I understand."
Rostislav also stood up, the wavering on his face completely gone, as if it had never existed.
He bowed to Bishop Luka in gratitude, then left the inner chamber of the church. As he walked out, his steps were firm, without the slightest hesitation he had shown before.
Seeing this, Bishop Luka smiled at Rostislav's departing back. This student was never a coward; he just sometimes needed a little help.
And he, as a teacher, also had to do something to help this student, not only for him but also for himself. It was time to contact his colleagues in Kiev.
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Note 1: In 1018, Yaroslav was defeated by his brother and rival, the "Villain," who invited Bolesław I of Poland. After the defeat, he wanted to flee directly to Northern Europe, but the people of Novgorod, fearing the loss of princely leadership in battle and protection, burned Yaroslav's ships, forcing Yaroslav to stay and continue fighting.
Note 2: Refers to the Rus' campaign against Byzantine in 1043. This campaign first encountered a storm and was forced ashore, then was defeated by the Byzantine army.