Thirteen Years Later

CHAPTER XXX

THERE HAD ONLY BEEN THREE LETTERS FROM PAPA. THEY’D all been in Russian, but Mama had helped Tamara to read them. Papa did it deliberately, she knew, to make her learn. It was nicer – even if it was harder – to read his words in Russian, because that was the language he normally spoke to her. It was only recently she had understood that French and Russian were separate. Her parents had laughed when she mixed the two, but not in a nasty way. She still did it now sometimes, but not nearly so much.

Papa had also sent letters to Mama, but Mama had not let Tamara read those. Instead she had read bits of them out to her. It was obvious that Papa had very important business with the tsar. She hadn’t believed Papa at first when he said who he was going to see, but now she was convinced. Even so, she wished the tsar would hurry up and let Papa come home. He’d been gone almost two months. He would be concerned to know how much taller she had grown – he always commented on that.

‘He’s there again,’ said Mama. Tamara looked up. Her mother was standing at the window, peeking through the curtains. The words had not been addressed to her; Mama had been talking to herself. She did that a lot, particularly when Papa wasn’t here.

‘Who’s there?’ asked Tamara.

Domnikiia looked down at her. There was a frown on her face, but it changed into a smile, which Tamara returned.

‘Will you be a good girl and stay here?’ she asked. Tamara nodded. Her mother began putting on her coat, buttoning it rapidly down the front. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said. She kissed Tamara on the forehead and departed.

The little girl waited for a few moments, then trotted over to the window. She lifted the heavy curtain up over her head and disappeared behind it to gaze down on the street below. Even in the twilight, the whiteness gleamed everywhere. It had begun to snow a couple of weeks earlier, and by now it had settled. Wherever Tamara and her mother went was covered with it. She remembered having seen snow before, but could not specifically remember it arriving like it had this year.

Tamara decided that she loved the winter, whatever Papa might think of it. He’d said in his letters how much warmer it was in Taganrog; perhaps that was why he was taking so long to come home.

There was a man standing outside in the snow. He didn’t seem to be doing anything, just standing there. It was the same man who had been there before – the man who had stood and watched Papa leave. Perhaps that meant that Papa would be returning soon. She hoped so.

Another figure walked out into the snowy street, emerging from somewhere below where Tamara stood, and heading out to join the first. This was someone she recognized. It was Mama.

Dmitry wondered if there was really much point to what he was doing. He could tolerate the cold and the snow blowing in his face, but that didn’t mean that he was actually achieving anything. Essentially, he wanted to irritate her – to scare her – though what either of those might accomplish, he wasn’t sure. And if he scared her then he might scare the innocent little girl who her trusting parents had placed in her care.

But the monotony allowed his mind to empty, and allowed the music to swell. It was still strange and beautiful, and if only a fraction would stick, he would be a happy man. More than that, he would be a genius. Perhaps it was ambition like this that had persuaded God to prevent him ever remembering any of it. Perhaps God was just delaying the moment. Dmitry could wait.

He looked across the street. Someone was coming. The music faded as his attention was drawn. It was Domnikiia Semyonovna. He had been in no doubt that she was aware of being watched; now it seemed she had decided to do something about it. It was all to the good. Perhaps now he could really scare her off.

‘Just who the hell do you think you…’ Her voice tailed off as she approached him. Evidently she’d had no idea that it was Aleksei’s son who was watching her. ‘Oh,’ she said. She pulled down her fur-lined hood so that he could see her face. She tried to smile, but failed. Her mood seemed to have changed from anger to annoyance. ‘Your father asked you to keep an eye on us, I suppose.’

Dmitry looked at her blankly, then began to understand. The arrogance of the woman was appalling. Did she really believe that she held such a place in her father’s heart that he would ask his own son – his wife’s son – to look out for her safety while he was away? And did she really believe Dmitry would do it, even if he had been asked? Who did she think she was?

‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked, almost spitting the words. ‘You think I’m here to make sure you’re all right? Why should my father give a fuck about that?’

Domnikiia looked at him. There was none of the flirtation he had seen in her eyes when they had met in the street not so many months before. She looked confused – surprised too. She scanned his face as if trying to determine if this was some kind of joke. She decided quickly. She turned and walked back towards the house.

‘You’re not the only one, you know,’ Dmitry shouted after her. As far as he knew, she was, but there was little else he could think of that might rile her. It had some effect. She stopped still, then turned slowly and walked back towards him.

‘Dmitry Alekseevich,’ she said softly. ‘There’s no reason for us to be enemies.’

There was nothing suggestive in the tone with which she had spoken, but he chose to make her think he had taken it that way.

‘You’re insatiable,’ he said, attempting to convey disgust.

She smiled, as if at some comment that he had not heard. ‘When it comes to your father, yes I am. He loves you very much, you know.’

It was evident she was not going to rise to his bait. ‘Possibly – but it seems questionable whether he loves his wife.’

‘So who are you angry with?’ she asked. ‘Me or Aleksei?’

‘He loved her before he met you – loved us both. But not every whore that sleeps with a soldier during a war tries to dig her claws in.’

Her eyebrows dipped in the middle as she frowned. Dmitry could not help but note that it made her look even more attractive, but he was not so distracted by it to not also observe her surprise that he knew so much about her past.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I know all about how you found him. Whereabouts was it – that brothel? Near here? How many soldiers did you get through in a night? And did you manage more or less once the French got here?’

Now she seemed genuinely puzzled – not surprisingly. ‘But you were… five. How could you know?’ Still there was no anger though.

‘Your other former clients don’t hold you in quite the same esteem as my father does,’ he lied. ‘There’s still stories going round Moscow about Mademoiselle Dominique. You were a fool to give it up – if you did.’

‘I can’t change my past,’ she said.

‘You could change the present,’ said Dmitry. ‘Leave him.’ It certainly wasn’t something he had come here planning to say – he’d had no plan.

‘For you?’ Her smile mocked him.

‘If that would get you away from him.’ He meant it – he thought – as a joke, but it fell flat.

‘How noble,’ she said.

‘I’m sure there are plenty of others you could turn to. You’d only be losing – what – one night a week?’

‘And Aleksei would go running back to your mother – the happy family once again?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my family!’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I don’t think there is. He’s certainly raised you well enough.’

‘What would you know?’

She shrugged. ‘Does Marfa Mihailovna know?’

Dmitry clenched his jaw at the sound of his mother’s name on the whore’s lips. ‘Don’t bring her into this,’ he said coldly.

‘I’ve brought no one into it.’ There was anger in her voice now. ‘You’re the one who’s come to my home; who’s spied on me; who waited till his father was away so that I’d be undefended. Why couldn’t you leave me well alone?’

It was an anger he’d been waiting for, one that allowed him to release his own wrath. He’d hated this woman for years, silently brooding, unable to mention it to his mother – certainly not to his father – sharing it with the only true friend he had in the world. And now she was here, in front of him, and she dared accuse him; accuse him of destroying his family, of being a spy, a coward.

He raised his hand and brought it across her face. She was fast, bringing up her own arm to fend him off. Even then it must have hurt her arm – but at least it saved her looks. How typical of the woman.

‘Would your father do that?’ she asked. She had lost her anger, and had never showed fear. Dmitry lowered his hand. He had no idea of the answer to her question. He tried to place Aleksei in his situation, but he could not make him carry out any action. The worst of it was, she seemed to be pretty confident about how his father would behave.

This time he grabbed her wrist with his left hand before lashing his right across her cheek. Her head jerked to one side. She looked up at him, raising her hand to her face and touching the wound. She winced as her fingers made contact, but there were no tears in her eyes. She looked at her fingertips and saw the blood Dmitry could already see on her lips.

Then she said something that made no sense to him at all.

‘How very like your namesake.’

She turned and headed back into the house.

Dmitry looked back up at the window. The little red-headed girl was standing there looking down on them. Dmitry smiled to himself. With any luck she would tell her parents what she had witnessed, and then they’d have no choice but to fire her nanny.

The chapel of the Winter Palace, in the heart of St Petersburg, was at present as royal a location as any in Russia. Every member of the royal family who could reach it had come to attend a mass that had but one objective – to pray for the life of the one member of that family who beyond all others they wished could be there: His Majesty Tsar Aleksandr I.

Grand Duke Nikolai opened his eyes and, still with his head bowed, glanced around. As family gatherings went, it was not the greatest of turn-outs. The dowager empress, Maria Fyodorovna, was there. It would be a tragedy for her to hear of the death of her eldest son. She was sixty-six years old now, and had lived as a widow for twenty-four of them, as long – inescapably – as her son had reigned. Nikolai was the only one of her sons that was present. Grand Duke Konstantin, the tsarevich, was in Warsaw. It was his duty; he was viceroy, in practice if not in name. But Nikolai suspected it was more than duty that called him there. He shied away from Russia, and from his responsibilities there. He was not suited to take the crown – he was too like their father.

Grand Duke Mihail – youngest of the four sons – was at least returning from that same city, as far as Nikolai understood, but would not arrive for many days. A number of the dowager empress’s grandchildren were there, including his own son, Aleksandr – just seven years old. He felt a surge of pride at the thought the boy would one day be tsar.

He glanced over towards his mother again. Her eyes were closed and she was deep in prayer. He asked himself the question he had gone over again and again. Did she know the role her own son had played in the death of her husband? Nikolai had not been aware of it for very many years, and even now he could not be sure how much Aleksandr had been told. It was men like Volkonsky who were to blame. Nikolai would never trust him, however he might smile at him when they met. He’d been four at the time of his father’s death – and scarcely a man when he first heard the rumours of what had really happened. Initially he had been shocked, but the more he spoke to those who had been close to power at the time, the more he appreciated how unsuitable Pavel had been for his role. But was that a good enough reason for him to die? Could a tsar not… retire?

No, it was ridiculous. He was thinking like his elder brother. More than once Aleksandr had expressed the same wish. But it was a foolish idea. It was not what the Lord had ordained, nor what the people would want. The serfs could not retire and live in their dotage by the sea; what would they think if their tsar could do so? And yet that was effectively what his other brother, Konstantin, had engineered, with Aleksandr’s connivance. He had wed beneath him, and by thus entering into a morganatic marriage, he had voided his right to be tsar, and so the throne would pass to Nikolai, and one day to his son.

Nikolai did not fear the responsibility, but the circumstances of the transition would be difficult. Few outside the inner circle of the royal family knew what arrangements had been made. It would be all very well for Nikolai to declare himself tsar, but until Konstantin returned to Petersburg, there would be those who believed that Nikolai was trying to usurp his brother. Perhaps Nikolai should delay; acclaim Konstantin as tsar and then, once they were together, announce the true succession. The more he considered it, the better an option it seemed.

But he was writing his brother’s obituary. There was still hope – more than hope – and also confusion. Two days ago – on the evening of 25 November – a courier had arrived from Taganrog with the news that Aleksandr had died six days before. But the following day a letter had arrived from the tsaritsa, full of optimism that Aleksandr was over the worst. Nikolai suspected that people were clutching at straws, but there was nothing else to clutch at. Two masses had been organized for today; this small one for family and the highest nobility, and another for high-ranking civil servants and officers at the Nevsky Monastery. The Lord would be in no doubt as to the will of the Russian people, but the Lord might have His own plans.

The contemplation was broken by the tiniest of sounds; a knock at the chapel door. All heads turned in that direction. A face peeped around the door. Nikolai recognized it; it was his mother’s valet. Even across the chapel, Nikolai could see the sorrow on the man’s face. He had to make sure that it was not the dowager empress who received the news. He rose to his feet and strode across the room.

The valet displayed his relief that it was the grand duke who had come to the door. Once in the anteroom adjoining the chapel, Nikolai could see that it was still dark outside. He guessed it was no later than eight thirty in the morning. Waiting there was Count Miloradovich, governor-general of Petersburg. His face told the story even more clearly than had the valet’s.

The news was succinct and irrefutable. Nikolai listened calmly and understood.

His brother Aleksandr Pavlovich was no more.

His son, Aleksandr Nikolayevich, was tsarevich.

He, Nikolai Pavlovich, was tsar.

That was for Russia, but for him, there was only one item of significance: his brother, Aleksandr – Sasha – the man who had headed the family since Nikolai was four, was dead.

CHAPTER XXXI

IT WAS AN ODD SOUND; A THUD, BUT BROAD AND QUIET, FILLING the room but not deafening Tamara. She looked up. Mama was standing at the window, as she did for so much of the time these days. The man who had hit her had not returned. It had been almost a week. Tamara hoped they would never see him again.

But she knew it was not that man that Mama was looking for; she was looking for Papa. She had glanced out of the window, from time to time, every day since he had left, but it had not obsessed her. It was only since the news that the tsar was dead that Mama had leaned her hand against the window and looked out almost every spare moment she had.

Tamara knew she should be sad about the death of the tsar, but she had never met him. Mama Yelena and Valentin seemed to be very sad. Tamara could usually tell when people were pretending to be sad, and she’d suspected this might be the case with Yelena and Valentin, but once she’d seen them, she knew she was wrong. Rodion wasn’t quite so sad, but everyone else who came to the house was.

Only Mama seemed to share Tamara’s lack of concern about the tsar. She was worried about Papa. Tamara remembered that Papa had said he was going to Taganrog, and that was a place that everyone was talking about as where the tsar had been when he’d died. Mama had shown it to her again on the map, and she’d tried to remember where it was. It didn’t look very far away, but Petersburg looked even closer, and that was where Papa spent most of his time; it was still difficult for him to visit them from there.

The sound had come from Mama throwing her hand against the window. Tamara couldn’t think why she would be trying to break it, but it looked as though she had simply forgotten it was there and was trying to reach through it.

Her mother turned to her. Tamara had never seen such a wide smile on her face.

‘He’s here!’ she said.

She had smiled so widely it had hurt her. She put her hand up to her face, where the man had hit her. It had almost healed, but now it had started to bleed again, but only slightly. Mama went over to the dressing table and started to powder her face. When she turned back to Tamara, there was no sign of the cut.

‘Papa’s back,’ she said.

Tamara wasn’t stupid. She’d guessed that before her mother had said anything, but the excitement of it was only just beginning to affect her. Her mother knelt down in front of her and held both her hands.

‘Now you remember what you promised, Toma,’ she said. Tamara was fairly sure what it was her mother was talking about, but she didn’t nod, in case she was mistaken. ‘You won’t tell Papa about the man outside, will you? You promise?’

Tamara nodded. ‘I promise,’ she said.

‘Stay here.’ With that, Mama ran from the room. She didn’t put her coat on this time. Tamara went to the window and looked out again.

There were quite a number of people in the street, and Tamara couldn’t see any that looked like her father. There was one man, some way off, who seemed to be coming towards the house, but he was too far for her to recognize. Mama appeared on the street beneath the window and ran towards him. As soon as he saw her, he broke into a run too. Then Tamara could see that it was Papa. He caught Mama’s body in his arms as they met and she swung around him, her feet lifted off the ground. He put her down, and she buried her face in his chest. His hand was on the back of her head. Then she looked up and they kissed. It lasted for ten seconds, though Tamara hadn’t started counting right away. Then they separated and began to walk arm in arm back towards the house.

Mama pointed towards the window where Tamara stood, and Papa looked up. He grinned and began to wave. Tamara waved back. Then Papa started to run to the door, leaving Mama walking alone in the snow. Tamara jumped up and down with excitement for a few moments and then realized that she too should run.

She turned and raced out of the bedroom, through Papa’s study and into the hallway. There she brushed past somebody, but she didn’t look to see who it was. It was Valentin Valentinovich’s voice she heard shouting after her, but she ignored it.

Papa was just coming up the stairs – two, sometimes three at a time – when she reached the top. He picked her up without seeming to pause, but slowed his pace down to a walk. He hugged her close to him – she could feel his heart pumping, and his chest rose and fell rapidly as he breathed.

‘And how’s my little Toma?’ he asked.

‘I’m very well,’ she said. ‘And I’ve grown almost half an inch.’

‘That’s very impressive. And have you looked after Mama?’

Tamara knew that this was when she was going to have to lie to her father so as to keep her promise to her mother. ‘Yes, I have,’ she said. She decided she was good at lying.

They had arrived back in her parents’ bedroom, and Mama had joined them within moments. Her father put her down and looked at her.

‘You have grown,’ he said. She grinned up at him. Mama slipped her arm through Papa’s.

‘Will you be here long?’ Domnikiia asked. Tamara thought it sounded like a rude question, though her mother seemed more concerned than nagging.

‘I’ll try,’ said Aleksei, ‘but things may be on a knife edge in Petersburg now that Aleksandr is dead.’ He suddenly went pale. ‘You knew, I take it?’ he asked.

Domnikiia nodded, and Papa looked relieved.

‘Papa,’ said Tamara, ‘were you there when the tsar died?’

Her father looked down at her and smiled. ‘No, my darling,’ he said, ‘I was nowhere near.’

Tamara pressed her lips together thoughtfully. Papa was nothing like as good a liar as she was.

At times like these, some men drank, some smoked, some gambled, some whored and others got into needless fights. Dmitry played piano. Not all of Moscow’s representatives of the Northern Society had assembled at the club off Lubyanka Square, but it could cater for most of the activities they employed to pass the frustrating hours – except perhaps the whoring.

Dmitry was playing Scarlatti, but he wasn’t paying much attention to it. Moscow seemed desperately provincial at a time like this. True, they had received the news a few days earlier than Petersburg, but that was just a lucky consequence of where Aleksandr had chosen to die. They certainly knew in the capital now, and it was there that the decisions of the Northern Society would be made. Those in Moscow could only follow. Even the Southern Society was irrelevant for the moment. There was no point in seizing power anywhere but where the new tsar was. In reality, that meant Warsaw, but Tsar Konstantin would already be on his way to the capital. Then Ryleev and the others would decide what was to be done with him. After that there would be bickering. It would be the north that acted and the south that subsequently tried to sort out the new constitution. It did not matter – change was all that mattered. But for now, the waiting was corrosive.

The hand touched his shoulder at the same moment he heard the voice.

‘How have you been?’

He stopped playing and turned. It was his father. He felt a momentary annoyance at the memory of his encounter with Domnikiia Semyonovna, but it really changed nothing about his relationship with Aleksei. He had known about the woman for a long time; the fact that he had now spoken to her made little difference.

He stood and embraced his father. ‘I’ve been well,’ he said. ‘And you?’

‘I’ve dealt with things.’

‘Kyesha – is he dead?’

‘He won’t be a problem any more.’

Dmitry glanced around the room and then guided his father to one side. The matter of Kyesha was what had taken his father south, but that all seemed quite irrelevant. In fact, Dmitry had begun to wonder whether a lot of what he had seen had really happened. He feared using the word ‘voordalak’ to his father in case it was met with laughter. But much more significant events had taken place in the south, which were now of national importance.

‘Were you there?’ Dmitry asked in a low voice. ‘In Taganrog?’ His father’s letters had hinted that he had been in the south, but only now did Dmitry guess precisely where. He did not know why he was whispering; if his father had had anything to do with the death of Aleksandr, then everyone in the club would take pleasure from hearing of it. Within weeks – or at most months – it would be the entire nation that hailed him as a liberator.

‘I was in Taganrog, but not for long,’ said Aleksei. ‘I went to the Crimea – that’s where Kyesha was. By the time I got back to Taganrog, Aleksandr was already dead. I came straight back here.’

Convenient, thought Dmitry. His father had been in Taganrog before the tsar’s death and after it, but not on the actual day it occurred. Either that was false, in which case he was trying to hide any connection between himself and Aleksandr’s death, or it was true, in which case he had made a clear effort to absent himself from the tsar’s presence at that vital time. Either way, he was clearly being circumspect; wise, for the time being.

‘I see,’ said Dmitry, avoiding an explicit wink, but trying to convey the same implication with the tone of his voice. He leaned forward and spoke into his father’s ear. ‘Don’t overdo it though. People will never believe what you did if you only announce it after the revolution.’

Aleksei scowled at him, and Dmitry realized he had probably said too much. Perhaps his father would never reveal his role – that would be like him; not so much modest as secretive. It was hard to believe that his father had actually raised his hand against the tsar, but there were others in the south who would have been eager to do that. Aleksei had obviously helped them in some way. And that meant there would be at least a few in the Southern Society who knew, and so the name Danilov would eventually make it into the history books.

‘What’s the mood here?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Confused. Impatient. The news can only have reached Petersburg a few days ago, so there’s been no time for us to hear anything back. We can only guess that they will start an uprising. There’s a lot suggesting we should all go up there, and concentrate our strength. But others say we’ll be needed here. If the new tsar takes flight, this is where he will come.’

‘Konstantin isn’t even in Russia at the moment.’

‘That’s why we should act now.’

‘Is there any consensus?’

‘For the moment, it’s wait and see – at least till we hear from Petersburg.’

‘And your personal view?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I’d rather be where the action is.’

Aleksei patted him on the shoulder. ‘A chip off the old block,’ he said. Dmitry was reminded of what Domnikiia had said to him, about his similarity to Dmitry Fetyukovich.

‘Do I take after Uncle Dmitry at all?’ he asked.

Aleksei frowned, and then laughed. ‘Not at all. Whoever gave you that idea?’

Dmitry had never really thought Domnikiia would say anything to Aleksei about their meeting – now he was sure she hadn’t, otherwise Aleksei would have made the connection. He was still curious to know what she had meant, though.

‘You named me after him,’ he said.

‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be like him.’ He changed the subject. ‘Anyway, how’s the training going? Every day at the manège, I hope.’

‘Most,’ said Dmitry, ‘but there are lots of other things to train in. They haven’t given up square-bashing yet.’

His father glanced down at the piano. ‘Not tempted to join the band?’ he asked.

‘It’s not easy to march with a piano.’

‘You’re keeping it up though?’

Dmitry nodded.

‘Good,’ said Aleksei. ‘Next time you’re in Petersburg, there’ll… well, you’ll see.’

Dmitry was about to ask his father what he meant, but it was clear he was being deliberately enigmatic. ‘So what do you think we should do, Papa?’ he asked instead.

‘About what?’

‘About the revolution.’

‘Like you said,’ replied his father. ‘We wait.’

Even in the Crimea it was turning cold now, especially at night. The crescent moon was low in the sky, but still cast a reasonable light. This was the third night in a row Iuda had sat out here. He hoped it would be the last. He’d chosen the spot some way to the north of Chufut Kalye. The hills were lower here, which helped with the cold. There was no snow as yet, but it could be seen on the mountain peaks to the south.

It was an ideal location. The trail he had left should be easy enough to follow. He had gone back to Karaite citadel and talked to several of the locals there. A few had recognized him from when he had first reconnoitred the land, years before, but none guessed how close he had been living to them in the meantime. Certainly, anyone who asked wouldn’t have too much difficulty gaining directions to an inn in Simferopol where he – still under the name of Cain – had been staying.

At the inn, they’d learn that the Englishman, Cain, had presented himself as a keen geologist, interested in the cave formations in the region. They’d be told the area he’d been asking questions about, and the fact that he intended to set up camp there.

Not too obvious, he hoped. It shouldn’t matter though; anyone – any creature – that followed the trail would have such an overwhelming sense of their own superiority – against all historical evidence – that they would not be looking for a trap. Even if they were, the worst it could do would be to scare them off.

On the other hand, it could be Lyosha who came after him. He might be buoyed by his victory over Iuda – however pyrrhic it had been, considering that it required the death of Aleksandr – and have decided to pursue him. Would he get lucky and actually manage to kill Iuda one day? The chances were that someone would – someone less squeamish about it than Aleksei, probably. It had become a growing concern for Iuda, and that was what tonight’s undertaking was all about.

His worst fear was that it would be Zmyeevich himself that came, though more likely he would see such personal involvement as beneath him. Iuda regretted having made an enemy of him. Their alliance had begun in 1812, when Zmyeevich had first sent Iuda to Russia to contact the tsar, under the cover of a band of mercenaries whose mission had been, even in Zmyeevich’s eyes, secondary, though the defeat of Russia would have done him little good. He would make a terrible foe, but better to be alive and faced with an enemy like that than to be dead. More and more recently, Iuda had been reminded of his own mortality.

Somewhere behind him, lower down the hill, he heard a sound. He reached into his pocket and drank from the small pewter flask he found there. It tasted foul, but he knew he had to drink it – not too much though. He almost gagged as he swallowed; there was little chance of overconsumption.

Whoever it was was skirting along the hillside, round to the right. Iuda could still hear them, though they had not yet climbed high enough to have come into view. It would seem they wanted to greet him face to face. Foolhardy, perhaps, but it was necessary for an avenger to be known to his victim. That was why Zmyeevich had insisted Aleksandr know most of what was going on. It had proved a mistake then; it would now.

A face appeared, rising up over the brow of the hill with the moon behind it, but illuminated by the single lamp Iuda had placed beside him. It was the face he had been expecting. There was no attempt at stealth. He came to a halt a few paces away.

‘Good evening, Cain,’ he said.

‘Good evening…’ Iuda pretended not to remember the name. ‘Ruslan, isn’t it?’

‘It was once. I prefer Kyesha now.’

‘Ah, yes! Maksim Sergeivich’s poor little brother Innokyentii.’

‘You knew I’d go to Saratov?’ asked Kyesha.

‘I knew it must have been you who gave my book to Danilov. The only link you could have with him was through Maksim Sergeivich.’

‘So you set me up? Aleksei too?’

‘I have to admit I had formed only the vaguest of plans,’ said Iuda. There was no need for deceit. ‘You really did all the thinking for me; though if I’d been organizing things, I’d have been a little better prepared for Lyosha when he arrived at Chufut Kalye – or I’d have made sure he arrived a few weeks later. One thing at a time is best, I always find.’

‘And now you’re starting all over again.’

Iuda looked around him at the barren hilltop. ‘Here?’ he said. ‘No, I think my cave-dwelling days are over. I was just waiting here for you.’

‘Just like you were waiting for Aleksei?’

Iuda decided it was time to show a little weakness. ‘You learn quickly,’ he said, with a self-effacing smile.

Kyesha took a step towards him. Iuda felt his heart quicken as he welcomed in the familiar sensation of fear. This was not the kind of fear he had experienced with Zmyeevich on R zbunarea – this was the good kind, the kind that told him he was alive.

‘Where are all the others?’ asked Kyesha.

‘Others?’

‘From the caves.’

‘Ah! Those others. Raisa Styepanovna has gone her own way. You are here. As for the rest – they’re still there.’

‘Still in the caves?’ said Kyesha. Iuda nodded. ‘Dead, you mean?’

‘Why should they be dead? They have long lives to look forward to.’ As he spoke, Iuda could see that Kyesha’s temper was on the verge of snapping. ‘Long, dull lives.’

‘Unlike you,’ muttered Kyesha. He launched himself into the air towards Iuda, covering far more ground in a single leap than any human could. The impact knocked Iuda backwards off the rock on which he had been seated. He felt a sudden panic fill him. Beneath his coat he had a dagger made of wood – a copy of the one he had seen years before in Aleksei’s hand. It would be so easy to use it now, so safe, but he resisted. Any safety such an action brought would only be for the short term.

He felt his back hit the ground. Kyesha was already on top of him and had him pinned down. Iuda knew how immense the strength of these creatures was, but it always shocked him to feel it directly.

Kyesha bared his fangs. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this,’ he said, ‘but there are two ways that an oopir likes to consume its prey. The quick way involves biting away the flesh of the neck. The slow way involves the gradual but ultimately total draining of the blood.’ He paused, and Iuda saw the lustful hunger in his eyes. ‘I hope you’re not in any hurry,’ he said.

Kyesha would not have seen the look of relief upon Iuda’s face, even had Iuda not successfully repressed it. His head went down on to Iuda’s throat and his fangs found their way through the skin. The entire length of his body began to pulsate in time with the slurping sounds that emanated from his mouth.

It was a fascinating experience. There had been no pain at the initial penetration. He had not yet isolated the chemical the vampire secreted to stop this. He did feel the sensation of blood being drawn from his body, but not enough yet to affect him. The strangest thing was – as Zmyeevich had described happening with Pyotr – the sense in which Iuda began to know Kyesha’s mind. He could see what he saw and know what he knew. It was a good job the reverse wasn’t the case, or Kyesha would have fled the mountains that instant.

Iuda could now see through Kyesha’s own eyes. In truth, there was not much to see; just the bottom of his own earlobe and the side of his neck. More delightful was the fact that Iuda could taste what Kyesha tasted – he could taste his own blood. There was nothing new in that – Iuda, like any human, had sucked his own cut finger more than once, but to drink down great mouthfuls at a time was glorious, refreshing, invigorating. Clearly there were some compensations to being a vampire. In a way, he was sad that Kyesha would soon have to stop, but stop he would, and the sooner the better, for Iuda would still need his strength.

Then he felt it, a tightening pain in his stomach which he knew was in fact a far greater pain in Kyesha’s stomach. The vampire pulled away from his body and raised his head upwards, screaming at the sky and clutching his belly. With a swift kick, Iuda was free of his weight and back on his feet. He felt a little dizzy – more from what he had been drinking than from the blood loss, he hoped. He grabbed the bandage he had placed on the ground beside where he had been sitting and pressed it against the wound on his throat. He held it there for a moment, and then tied it around his neck. He had little time. He reached into his bag for the few items he would need.

Kyesha had raised himself to his feet and was staggering across the rocky landscape like a drunk. Iuda caught up with him from behind and kicked him hard in the back of the leg. Kyesha collapsed to the ground in a kneeling position, his upper body gyrating in a small, slow circle, but never falling.

‘What have you done?’ he slurred.

‘I’ve improved on a master,’ explained Iuda. ‘Your Pyotr certainly was great if he could fool Zmyeevich, but he did it in a very haphazard way. I need no troop of men to rescue me. What you drank was your own undoing.’

‘Po-’ muttered Kyesha.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Iuda, leaning forward to better hear him, and also tucking his dark hair behind his shoulders.

‘Poison?’ It took Kyesha an effort to say even that one word.

‘For you more than for me,’ explained Iuda. He straightened up and had to steady himself on Kyesha’s shoulders. ‘A concoction of my own, devised and perfected after much experimentation. The effect on me, having drunk it, is – I now discover – not unlike the inebriation caused by alcohol. The effect on you, drinking my blood, is far more debilitating.’

‘Will I… die?’ gasped Kyesha.

Iuda cocked his head to one side and smiled. ‘A silly question. But my infusion won’t kill you. You creatures are – as you know – very exclusive in the methods by which you can be destroyed.’

‘So…’

‘Sh!’ said Iuda gently. ‘Now I’m just going to take back a little of what you’ve taken from me. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

He grabbed Kyesha by the hair and pulled back his head, bringing his knife round so that the vampire could see it. He pondered which side of the blades to use, the smooth or the serrated. The razor-sharp edge of the smooth side would be tidier, but probably less painful, and though he had no qualms about inflicting pain on Kyesha – quite the reverse – he had other more important concerns for now. He brought the two sharp, parallel blades close in until he felt them press against the skin, then he tugged the knife back firmly towards himself and across Kyesha’s throat.

Kyesha’s head moved back palpably under the strain of Iuda’s hold as the knife tore through neck muscles that had been trying to resist. Two wide, dark gaps opened up between his chin and his collarbone, out of which blood began to vomit. Calmly but quickly, Iuda put down the knife and picked up the small bowl he had brought for the task. He held it in front of Kyesha and let the blood cascade into it. The flow was slowing already, but it didn’t take long to fill the receptacle.

He let go of Kyesha’s hair and put the bowl down carefully some way away on a flat piece of ground. It would be ridiculous to risk spilling it now. Then he returned to Kyesha, reaching inside his coat as he walked.

The vampire had managed to crawl a little way away, in a hopeless attempt at escape, but he scarcely had the strength to move. Iuda strode over to him. His chest was matted with blood, and the ground around him was stained. Iuda grabbed his hair again and lifted his head. The two parallel lines across the neck where the blades had cut gaped open, but even as Iuda watched, he could see they were beginning to heal. He let go, but Kyesha’s head remained lifted under his own volition. The eyes opened and looked blearily in Iuda’s direction. The lips moved, but no sound escaped them.

Iuda knew that he was decades old, but now, in this battered, vulnerable state, Kyesha looked more than ever the boy he had been when he had first allowed a vampire to drink his blood. Iuda would have loved to let him recover just a little more. Inside his overcoat he felt the handle of his wooden dagger, but then he hesitated. It would be too easy, and Iuda was in the mood for some fun.

He picked his knife up off the floor again and examined it, walking contemplatively around behind Kyesha again. This time there was no need for neatness or precision. He flipped the knife over so that the jagged, toothed edge faced Kyesha’s neck, and grabbed his hair once again.

The blood spilled forth with the same eagerness as before, but now it was of no especial interest to Iuda. He felt its warmth flowing over his hand, but it was hard to distinguish from the folds of flesh that caressed him as his hand moved deeper into the gaping wound. Muscle and sinew yielded easily. Kyesha did not scream, but that was unlikely to be the result of any bravery. It was difficult for a man – or a vampire – to utter any sound with his windpipe severed and his voicebox lolling on his chest.

The bones of Kyesha’s neck proved more tricky. Iuda grabbed the hair tighter and pressed his knee into the back of the neck to brace himself. He could still feel pain in his own neck, where Zmyeevich had tried to kill him, but it was healing. He twisted and sawed with the knife, searching for a way through, but still the bones were too strong. Then suddenly one of the blades found a gap between two vertebrae, and he was through. He felt no more resistance.

Iuda looked down at the creature, but did not see what he had expected. Beheading should have led to instant death and the predictable collapse of the corporal remains to dust. But what Iuda’s eyes saw and what his hands felt was still flesh and blood. He realized he had been too slow. In the time it had taken him to cut through the neck bones, the front of Kyesha’s throat had begun to regrow. The decapitation had to be complete.

It was of little consequence. Iuda reversed the direction of his pressure and, with a flick of his wrist, the opposite edges of the blades cut back through Kyesha’s new-grown flesh with ease. At the same moment his right hand flicked forward as the knife became free, so his left lurched into the air, holding the severed head by its hair. He turned to look at it, but already the face was unrecognizable, falling away as it decayed and revealing a skull which itself crumpled and tumbled to the ground, its broken fragments retaining some slight vestige of shape as they lay in the grass. The hair entwined round his fingers broke apart and was scattered by the breeze.

Iuda felt a moment of exhilaration, but it was immediately followed by a wave of exhaustion. He was still weak from what he had drunk and what had been drunk from him. He picked up his bag and went over to where he had left the bowl of blood, sitting down on the ground beside it. It was a joy to have the weight off his feet, but his arms still felt heavy as he moved them. He picked up the bowl and swilled its contents around. The blood was still liquid – the only part of a vampire’s body that remained in its original form after the creature’s death, and even then, only if extracted before death.

He reached into his knapsack and pulled out a handful of glass vials. Each already contained a few drops of the liquid – itself extracted from the saliva of a vampire – that would stop the blood from clotting. He poured blood from the bowl into each of them in turn, watching it glisten, almost black in the moonlight. A little of it spilled on to his fingers. The taste for blood he had acquired in those few moments in which he had shared Kyesha’s experience still lingered, but he resisted it, wiping his fingers on the grass instead. He filled almost four of the vials. He should only ever need the first, but one could never tell. He wrapped them carefully in scraps of rag and then put them back in his bag. He still had one dose of Zmyeevich’s own blood, left over from the several he had taken during their plans to induct the tsar. But that blood would not suit his purposes, and might yet be needed to save him from his former ally once again.

He went back over to Kyesha’s remains, now scarcely visible. Only his clothes were left. It would be ridiculous not to take the opportunity to pilfer. He felt through the pockets of the coat. There was a watch, which seemed to be of reasonable quality, and a small number of gold coins. Then, in the side pocket, Iuda found something he could not comprehend. Six roughly shaped items he first took to be stones and then realized were made of bone. What their purpose might be, he could not fathom, but they had clearly had some significance for Kyesha. He slipped them into his pocket, along with the money and the watch. He could work out what they were for later.

He felt a sudden pain in his neck. He reached up and touched his finger to the bandage. The wound felt sore beneath. The bandage was damp, but not wet. The bleeding had stopped. He reached into the bag again and brought out a small package, wrapped in paper. He opened it. Inside was a small, dark lump of meat: kishka – another trick he had learned from Pyotr. To say it was meat was a misnomer; it was a sausage made from congealed pig’s blood. Normally, Iuda would not have willingly chosen to eat it. He was not squeamish about blood in general, but to consume it was a different matter. That was always one of the hardest things about passing himself off as a vampire.

But today, he had to eat it – it was good for him, as his father used to tell him, a long, long time ago. And besides, now that he thought about it, blood didn’t seem unappetizing at all. He wolfed the sausage down in a few bites and followed it with a second. He felt a little better, but still tired. He packed up his things and prepared to set off; a short trek back to Simferopol, thence to hire a horse, and northwards. There were two further matters to be attended to: one might help rebuild his relationship with Zmyeevich; one was purely for himself.

He dragged himself up on to his feet, but instantly felt ill. The loss of blood and the potion he had drunk beforehand combined to make him feel dizzy. He lay back on the frosty grass and let his eyelids droop. A few hours’ sleep there would do him good, despite the cold. He was in no hurry.

It was almost eight o’clock, and the sun was still an hour from rising. Tamara had woken Aleksei early and he had been happy to talk to her alone, letting her mother sleep in. He had spent as much of his time as he could with her in the four days he had had in Moscow – and most of the rest with Domnikiia. Domnikiia had now woken, and was playing with Toma. Aleksei decided it was time to do some work.

He still had a job to do. Aleksandr was – to all the world – a dead man, but there was still a tsar. Konstantin might not want to carry on using Aleksei in the role his brother had, and Aleksei wasn’t sure he wanted to continue it, but he at least had to put together some sort of documentation summarizing what he knew about the Northern and Southern societies.

He went through to his study and sat at his desk, assembling piles of papers in front of him, but not looking at them. Ever since he had left Taganrog, he had wondered whether it might not be better to let the revolutionaries have their way. A republic might not be the best form of government for Russia, but it would be one in the eye for Zmyeevich – a way of cutting the Gordian Knot. Whatever influence Zmyeevich could then exert on subsequent generations of Romanovs, unpleasant though it might be for them, would have no bearing on the fate of Russia. If that was lost, Zmyeevich might not even bother with his revenge. Even if the revolutionaries went for the most moderate of their options – a constitutional monarchy – it could so weaken the role of the tsar that Zmyeevich would find him useless.

The problem was, not all of them were so moderate, particularly not in the south. There might not be subsequent generations of Romanovs – certainly not from the core of the family. Look what had happened to the Bourbons, those who had not got away. Aleksei had been eight years old when the French Revolution began. Four years after that marked the start of the Reign of Terror. The French themselves called it, more succinctly, la Terreur. That was when Petersburg had started to fill with émigrés fleeing for their lives. It was not their sudden poverty or their fall from grace that had terrified the young Aleksei; it was the stories they told. Tens of thousands were slaughtered by the bizarrely named Committee of Public Safety, which believed that somehow the safety of the public was an issue unconnected to the safety of individual members of that public.

They saw the guillotine as a clean, efficient, modern way of carrying out their year-long massacre, with an efficacy which only lawyers the likes of Robespierre could achieve – and take pride in. In Russia, the revolutionaries were more poets and soldiers than lawyers, but Aleksei knew what would follow them. At best, it could only mean their killing would be less well organized, but still they would massacre any they thought to be enemies of the state, and since they were the state – wasn’t it a French king who had said that? – that made them free to kill anyone they regarded as an enemy of themselves.

Perhaps the very inefficiency of the current batch of Russian revolutionaries would mean they could not kill so many with such a degree of sanitization, and that therefore the people, literally revolted, would turn against them. The French idea of death carried out by a machine was vital to the success of the whole venture. But compared to a Russia like that, being ruled by a tsar who was himself ruled by Zmyeevich seemed almost desirable – at least a sane form of tyranny.

Aleksei laughed out loud. It was a sorry state of reasoning that led him to such a conclusion. But the fault was in assuming there could only either be one outcome or another. There were two much more desirable possibilities: either to let the revolutionaries found a constitutional monarchy; or to defeat them, let Konstantin reign as tsar, and go on to defeat Zmyeevich when the time came. He’d beaten him once, when he had only just discovered what it was Zmyeevich was attempting. In future he, or whoever he chose to pass his knowledge on to, would be better prepared.

But who would that person be? It was a cruel chalice and a bitter poison to pass on to a child. Could he do that to Dmitry? He would have no desire to protect a tsar. But in any case it was not a matter that needed considering now. What mattered now was the immediate threat to Konstantin.

Aleksei pulled the papers towards him and started sorting through them, choosing which he would hand over intact to the representatives of the new regime, which he would summarize and which he would leave out. It would take all day just to do that.

‘Can you come and play?’

He turned. Tamara’s face was grinning through the door. It would be so easy to say yes, but this had to be done – and she had to learn that sometimes she couldn’t have what she wanted.

‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ he said. ‘Not just now.’

Toma ran back into the other room. Aleksei heard her voice as she went, speaking to her mother. ‘I told you he’d say no,’ she said, with an air of smugness. It looked like she wasn’t the only lady in the family who had yet to learn she couldn’t always have what she wanted. He turned back to his papers.

The one on top concerned the poet Aleksandr Sergeivich Pushkin. Aleksei moved it swiftly into a pile he would not be showing to anyone – he would burn them, most likely. Pushkin had a revolutionary spirit, but it manifested itself only in what he wrote, never in what he did. He was a better poet than Ryleev and a worse rebel – he would not have managed to kill a dozen in twenty years, with or without a guillotine, unless each one had challenged him to a duel.

Underneath that was a small paper envelope. Aleksei wondered for a moment what it was, and then remembered with a shudder. It was where he had placed the two fingers Kyesha had given him, the last time they had met in Moscow. It seemed a little crushed by the papers on top of it. Would a sensation as mild as that be transmitted to Kyesha, wherever in the world he might now be?

He picked up the envelope. It felt surprisingly light. He opened it and looked inside. There were no fingers. God forbid Tamara should have found them. But the desk had been locked all the time Aleksei had been away – and Domnikiia would not have let the little girl near it. What if Valentin Valentinovich had taken them? It was he who had allowed Aleksei the use of his desk – along with this section of the house – and had given him the keys. He might well have kept a spare set. Aleksei could only laugh at what his host might think at finding a pair of severed fingers in his desk. What if he had taken them out into the sun?

But when he looked inside the envelope once again, he saw that it was not empty. He tipped the contents out on to the desk. It was a dusty, grey powder – not a huge amount, but instantly recognizable for what it was: the final, rotted remains of a dead vampire. It had been over fifteen years since Kyesha had abandoned his humanity and become a voordalak. Now that he was dead, those years of decay had acted upon his remains in an instant. There was little left of him. It was hard to mourn his passing, but it was difficult, unlike with most of them, not to regret his becoming a vampire. Clearly Kyesha had chosen the path he had taken, but in their conversations there had been no sign of the base malice Aleksei had known in the Oprichniki. Even so, he knew Kyesha had killed, and would have killed again, and so ultimately his death had to be applauded.

There was one concern though. Aleksei could not be sure – there were a hundred ways in which he could have died, at the hands of any righteous Christian he might have chosen to attack – but Aleksei felt it in his bones. Wherever it had taken place, it had been brought about by the man for whom Kyesha had himself been searching.

It had been done by Iuda.

CHAPTER XXXII

ALEKSEI HAD BEEN IN MOSCOW FOR NINE DAYS, UNDECIDED as to what to do. It was easy to assert that action must be better than inaction, but to do the wrong thing now could bring disaster, and change the future of Russia for ever. Even if he simply went to the wrong place, he might find himself too distant from events when they finally occurred to have any influence over them. True, little was likely to happen in Moscow, but Moscow was at least reasonably central. The seat of government was to the north, in Petersburg; Tsar Konstantin was to the west, in Warsaw, though presumed to be preparing for his return, if he hadn’t already set out; the Southern Society, and its revolutionary fervour, was to the south, around Kiev. Minsk was the city most ideally positioned between those three potential powder kegs, but Aleksei was damned if he was going to Minsk.

And that was the point on which his judgement might have been a little more subjective. Moscow meant Domnikiia and Tamara. They were reason enough to stay, particularly when there was no good reason to leave. He was reminded of the winter of 1812, after Bonaparte’s hasty retreat from Moscow. Then he had lingered in the city with Domnikiia, awaiting events. Then, the event had been a letter from Dmitry Fetyukovich, announcing that he was on the trail of Iuda and the last remaining Oprichnik, Foma. This time, he would be summoned… how?

There was a polite knock at the door. Aleksei opened it. A footman stood outside.

‘A gentleman to see you, sir.’

‘Send him in.’

‘He’s in a great hurry and says you must accompany him,’ the servant replied.

Aleksei put on his coat and grabbed his hat, heading out to the front door. Waiting for him was Lieutenant Batenkov, that young stalwart of the Northern Society in Moscow.

‘I have a message for you, Colonel,’ he said, ‘from Dmitry… from Lieutenant Danilov. You must come at once.’

They walked briskly through the snow, towards the Kremlin and then past the manège and the Bolshoi Theatre before heading up to Lubyanka Square. The club was as busy as Aleksei had ever seen it. He saw Dmitry across the other side of the room, and forced his way through to him, half listening to the hubbub of conversation that filled the air. Three names stood out – the brothers Romanov: Konstantin Pavlovich, Nikolai Pavlovich and Mihail Pavlovich.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Aleksei as soon as he and Batenkov had reached Dmitry.

‘Grand Duke Mihail,’ explained Dmitry. ‘He reached Petersburg five days ago.’

Of the surviving brothers, Mihail, the youngest, was the only one whom Aleksei had met personally. Aleksandr had briefly introduced them six years before, and had recommended the soldier to the grand duke. The news that Mihail should have gone to the capital at this time was no surprise. ‘And Konstantin?’ Aleksei asked. It seemed the obvious question.

‘No,’ said Dmitry. ‘That’s just the thing, but worse than that, Mihail is refusing to swear allegiance to Konstantin.’

‘What?’ That was news – or more likely, rumour. ‘Are you sure?’

‘We’ve heard it from three sources.’

‘Why should he refuse?’ asked Aleksei.

‘It’s a coup d’état,’ said Dmitry. ‘Nikolai is trying to take over.’

‘But Nikolai swore allegiance to his brother days ago – as soon as he heard Aleksandr was dead.’

‘He would do, wouldn’t he?’ Dmitry seemed very sure of what was going on. ‘That way no one suspects him, and he can see which way the wind is blowing. And see what his agents could do in Warsaw.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Konstantin is being held prisoner – that’s why he’s not back in Petersburg.’

‘Oh, come on!’ Even as he spoke, Aleksei wondered if his scepticism was a reflection of his naivety. It would be a very Romanov way of doing things. Both the father and the grandfather had had power ripped from them by other members of the family. Why should this generation be any different? ‘What do our friends in the Polish Society say?’ he asked.

‘There’s no news,’ said Dmitry. ‘I’ll be honest – what we’re hearing from Warsaw is vague so far.’

‘The plan was for them to rise up at the same time as we did,’ said Batenkov, who had been listening intently to the conversation.

‘Exactly,’ said Dmitry. ‘And if they see that Konstantin has been arrested, who are they to know that it’s not as a result of a direct order from us, having taken charge here.’

Aleksei nodded. ‘So what’s the mood here?’ he asked.

‘We have to liaise with Petersburg, but the obvious plan is to back Konstantin. If we ensure he takes the throne, then he’ll have to repay us by delegating much of his power to us.’

‘A constitution, you mean? That’s less than we’d hoped for.’

Dmitry touched his father’s arm. ‘You’re such an old idealist, Papa. We have to grab what we can get when the chance arises. Who knows what may come of it in the end?’ His patronizing manner cut Aleksei to the quick, but not for the obvious reason. What really hurt was how utterly deceived Dmitry was as to his father’s motivations.

‘Why side with Konstantin though?’ Aleksei asked. ‘Why not with Nikolai? He’d be just as grateful for the victory, and he’s younger – maybe more in tune with our views.’ To be honest, it didn’t sound like the Nikolai Aleksei had heard descriptions of.

Batenkov nodded. ‘And he’s in a stronger position,’ he added, ‘being in Petersburg.’

‘That’s exactly why we have to support Konstantin. Nikolai is too strong. He’ll win and be under no obligation to give us anything.’

Dmitry was right, Aleksei knew it. There was another reason too. ‘Plus, we’ll have right on our side – in the sense of supporting the correct succession,’ Aleksei explained. ‘Anyone loyal to the crown will be loyal to Konstantin.’

‘I don’t like standing around waiting, though,’ said Dmitry. ‘We should act.’

Aleksei couldn’t help but agree. His mind was in turmoil. As a loyal Russian, he had to support Konstantin as the next in line to the throne. But if the Northern Society threw its hat into the ring with Konstantin, then whose side did that really put him on? And in his heart, didn’t he believe that a constitutional monarchy – what Aleksandr had seemed to promise in the early days – was best for Russia? On top of all that, there was the question of Zmyeevich and the next generation of Romanovs. Aleksei had already decided that a constitution would be a good way of blunting that threat. If a constitutional monarchy it was to be, Aleksei’s new ambition must be to keep it from descending into a French-style bloodbath.

‘What had you in mind?’ he asked.

‘Go to Warsaw,’ said Dmitry. ‘Free Konstantin.’

Aleksei shook his head. That would be a waste of time, whatever outcome they were seeking. ‘It’s too far. Konstantin may already have left – or may be dead. The Polish Society is best placed to deal with it.’

‘But someone has to communicate with the Poles,’ insisted Dmitry.

‘True – and that communication will have already been sent from Petersburg. They’re in charge and they’ve got a clear picture of what’s going on.’

‘So we go to Petersburg.’

‘Exactly,’ said Aleksei. ‘We have to stop Nikolai seizing power, or at least object to it. That will give Konstantin time to arrive.’

‘And if Konstantin is dead?’

Aleksei considered. If one brother had slain another for the throne, then none of them could be trusted. It would be the end of the monarchy. ‘Then God help Russia,’ he said.

But the thought of fratricide brought the name Cain back to his mind. Power moving from Konstantin to Nikolai brought it one step closer to Nikolai’s son, Aleksandr. That would be in Zmyeevich’s, and therefore Iuda’s interests. Could Iuda have played some part in what was happening? Aleksei dismissed it – it was paranoia. But where Iuda was involved, paranoia was a healthy trait.

‘When do we leave?’ asked Dmitry.

‘Today,’ said Aleksei.

‘Can I come, sir?’ asked Batenkov.

Aleksei looked at him, and then at Dmitry. Batenkov had a certain earnestness that it was hard not to admire, but there would be little benefit to his company. And now that their goals were concurrent – albeit from different points of view – Aleksei felt an unaccustomed closeness to Dmitry that he did not want to share. ‘No, you stay here, Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘We’ll be sending any information we get back to Moscow through you.’

The lieutenant saluted, and Aleksei and Dmitry left. Out on the street, it seemed even colder than when Aleksei had arrived.

‘We’ll meet in two hours,’ he said. ‘That should be enough time to pack. We’ll meet outside my hotel.’

‘Your hotel? Shouldn’t you be saying goodbye to Domnikiia Semyonovna?’

Aleksei froze. He should have expected it – his son was no fool. It was hard to judge his mood. There was a certain bitterness to his voice, but the very fact he mentioned it must indicate some acceptance. And was there a hint of friendly advice in there – a suggestion that Aleksei should do the right thing, and that meant saying goodbye to his mistress? Aleksei hoped so.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s not waste time. I’ll meet you at the Lavrovs’ house.’

They parted. Aleksei put his head down and forced his way through the blustering snow. It was impossible to judge Dmitry’s attitude over Domnikiia – the boy probably didn’t know it himself. The one consolation was that he was apparently quite unaware that living there in the Lavrovs’ house, along with her mother, Dmitry had a little sister, Tamara.

‘Well, I suppose if you have to go.’

Aleksei wondered who Tamara had been listening to, to come up with a sentence like that.

‘I’m afraid I do have to,’ he said. He was squatting down at Tamara’s level, looking into her face, but he knew he was addressing Domnikiia. ‘It’s only to Petersburg this time.’ He glanced up at Domnikiia. It was no consolation to her. Petersburg meant his other home – his other wife. His only wife as far as Domnikiia was concerned, however he might tell her he felt.

‘How long will you be?’ asked Tamara.

‘I don’t know. I’ll try to be home for Christmas.’

‘Will you bring me something?’

‘Of course.’ Almost immediately, Aleksei understood what was behind the question. He hadn’t brought her back anything from his journey to Taganrog. He thought quickly. ‘Don’t you want something now?’ he asked.

‘What?’

It was a good question. ‘What would you like?’

She pointed to his chest. His shirt was buttoned up tight against the cold, but he knew what she meant. He reached inside and fished it out, pulling the chain off over his head.

‘This?’ he asked.

Tamara nodded. Aleksei cradled it in his hand. The fine silver chain hung down. He could see the knot where he had once hastily repaired it, a long time ago. The icon itself was oval; the face of the Saviour looked back at him.

‘Do you want it?’ he asked. Tamara nodded again. He held the chain wide open with his fingers, slipping it over her red curls and sliding it down to her neck. Then he pulled at her hair so the chain disappeared under it. She picked the icon up off her chest, tilting her head in one direction and the image in the other so that she could see it the right way up.

Then she dropped it and flung her arms around Aleksei’s neck, squeezing tightly.

‘Thank you, Papa,’ she said. Aleksei hugged her back, feeling her heartbeat against his, and the tiny strength of her arms that was everything she had to offer. At last he let go and stood up. Her arms tried to hold him a little longer, but could not. He bent down one final time and kissed her. Then he picked up his bag and went to the door. Domnikiia followed him.

‘Did you have to give her that?’ she asked, once they were alone in the hallway.

Aleksei had guessed she might not be happy. Originally the icon had been a gift to him from Marfa. He touched Domnikiia’s arm.

‘It may have been my wife who gave me it, but it was you who insisted I wear it.’

‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘It was never much protection, anyway.’

‘There’re no vampires where I’m going,’ he said.

‘She’s there, though.’

Aleksei avoided the issue. ‘I was originally intending to give it to Dmitry, because of Dmitry Fetyukovich.’ The image came clearly to his mind; him breaking open the frozen, dead fingers of Dmitry’s hand to get hold of the icon he had once given him as a sign of their friendship.

‘No,’ she said, firmly. ‘It’s best you give it to Toma.’ She raised her hand to her cheek and thoughtfully rubbed the corner of her mouth. ‘Won’t Marfa expect you to stay with her for Christmas?’

‘I’ll make up some excuse.’ Marfa would need little persuading, he was sure. It would give her more time to spend with Vasiliy. He had almost forgotten about his wife’s lover. If the man’s very existence could slip from his mind so easily, how could he claim truly to care?

He held Domnikiia close to him. She did not put her arms around him; they were trapped between them, pressed against her bosom and his chest. He kissed her, closing his eyes and leaning against her, as if falling into her beautiful, sweet mouth. Eventually, she was forced to step back rather than lose balance. She giggled and slapped him lightly on the arm, then pushed him towards the door.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you soon. Christmas, remember? You promised.’

He let her herd him towards the stairs, then turned and kissed her once more, briefly, on the lips.

‘Christmas,’ he said.

Every day, Tamara knew, she got a little taller, and that meant that, every day, it was a little easier for her to look out of the window and on to the street below, pulling against the window-ledge with her fingers to raise herself up and see over it. It was already starting to get dark, and the snow in the street looked grey. She looked as straight downwards as she could and saw the top of Papa’s head – or at least the hat on it. He was standing just outside the front door, not going anywhere.

Then he moved, reacting to something. Tamara looked and saw another man, walking over to her father, who patted him on the shoulder. They walked off down the street together. That was very strange. Why should Papa be so friendly with the man who had hit Mama? Did he know what the man had done? Did Mama know that they were friends? Should she tell Mama what she had seen?

Her father didn’t turn and wave like he usually did when he left, particularly if he was going a long way away. Tamara wished he had. But he would be back at Christmas. And he’d given her the picture of Jesus.

She ran over to the bed and lay down on it, holding the icon so that she could look at the picture. Jesus looked like a very kind man, though a little stern. If He hadn’t had a beard, perhaps He would have looked a bit like Papa. She would ask her father to grow a beard when he came back; then she’d know. In the meantime, she had the icon, and she could look at it whenever she needed to be reminded of him.

CHAPTER XXXIII

FOURU DAYS LATER, DMITRY AND HIS FATHER WERE IN PETERSBURG. Dmitry’s first instinct was to go to the house and let his mother know that they were home, but Aleksei felt that political matters were more pressing. He was afraid to look into his wife’s face, Dmitry suspected – though he had not been hindered by any sense of guilt in the past. Neither man had raised the subject of Aleksei’s infidelity on the journey north.

Once in the city, they made straight for Prince Obolensky’s house, but he was not there. The butler recognized Aleksei and told them to try Ryleev’s home. There they found Ryleev, Obolensky and a number of others.

‘Colonel Danilov,’ said Ryleev enthusiastically as they entered, coming over and shaking him warmly by the hand.

‘Kondraty Fyodorovich,’ responded Aleksei. ‘This is my son, Dmitry Alekseevich.’

‘We’ve met already,’ said Ryleev, shaking Dmitry’s hand. There was general greeting all round.

‘We’ve just today returned from Moscow,’ explained Aleksei.

‘What’s the mood like there?’ asked Ryleev.

Aleksei looked to Dmitry, who realized that – since his father had only been in Moscow for about a week – he was in a better position to explain.

‘There’s a great deal of expectation,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard that Mihail Pavlovich has refused to swear allegiance to his brother, and also that Konstantin Pavlovich is still in Warsaw – perhaps a prisoner. Is Nikolai really trying to take command?’

‘We’re not sure,’ said Ryleev, ‘but that’s the way we’re going to tell it. Restoration of the rightful order of things will be a lot easier to sell to the masses.’

‘The slogan will be “Konstantin and Constitution”,’ added Obolensky.

‘And after a little while, we drop the “Konstantin”,’ said the man who had just been introduced to Dmitry as Kakhovsky.

‘But what if it turns out that Nikolai isn’t trying to take over?’ asked Aleksei, ever cautious.

‘It will be too late by then,’ said Ryleev. ‘If not, no one will blame us for trying to support the rightful tsar, even if it was based on a misunderstanding. Carry on with the news from Moscow, though.’

‘All those who are friendly to our cause are ready to rise up,’ continued Dmitry, ‘but they await a signal from you – or an event that will force them to act.’

‘The latter is unlikely in Moscow, I think,’ said Ryleev. ‘And what of the ordinary people?’

‘They mourn Aleksandr and accept Konstantin.’

‘So they suspect nothing of Nikolai’s actions?’

‘Not when we left. Many have already sworn allegiance to Konstantin, so they may be on our side when they hear.’

‘Good,’ said Ryleev.

‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Aleksei.

‘We wait.’

‘More waiting?’ Dmitry was horrified. Aleksei raised a hand, indicating that he should listen.

‘Wait until Nikolai declares himself tsar,’ continued Ryleev. ‘It will be a few days, at most.’

‘How can you be sure?’ asked Aleksei, quite prepared now to speak rather than listen.

‘Trust me, we are certain. We already have agitators in the streets and in the barracks. Once the news of Nikolai’s announcement spreads – even if we have to spread it ourselves – then the focal point will be the Winter Palace. We’ll demand the proper reinstatement of Konstantin and a formal constitution to stop such an outrage from ever happening again.’

‘But Konstantin will still be days away from Petersburg,’ said Aleksei.

‘Exactly,’ replied Ryleev, with not a little pride, ‘and that is why we will suggest the appointment of an interim dictator.’

‘You?’

‘Goodness, no. Prince Troubetzkoy has been elected to the role.’

‘Is he happy with that?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Sergei Pyetrovich is a moderate,’ said Ryleev. ‘He sees the position as a way of preventing things from getting out of hand.’

‘Does Nikolai suspect?’ asked Aleksei.

‘We must presume that he does,’ said Ryleev. ‘That may be why he has hesitated to move. But every day he waits, the confusion grows and with it we grow stronger. In the end, he may be able to command more men than we do, but they will not fire upon their fellow soldiers.’

‘What can we do?’ asked Dmitry.

Ryleev looked at Aleksei. ‘Your brigade is the Life Guard Hussars, is it not, Aleksei Ivanovich?’

Dmitry’s father nodded.

‘You are in a minority there – they have been amongst the hardest to persuade to our cause. Do what you can to bring them round, or at least, keep them away if Nikolai calls on them.’

‘My regiment’s in Moscow,’ Dmitry told them, fearful of the implication.

‘I would not send you back there at a time like this,’ replied Ryleev. ‘We’ll find a role for you.’

Dmitry was thrilled.

Nikolai Pavlovich wondered if he didn’t hate his brothers. All except Mihail. Mihail was the only one of them younger than Nikolai, and he was loyal. Konstantin was a wastrel – he didn’t deserve to be tsar, and it was a good thing he wasn’t going to be. But that he should refuse even to come to Petersburg and acknowledge his brother as rightful leader threatened to throw the whole country into chaos. It was typical of him.

It was Aleksandr who was currently the object of his brother’s greatest wrath. The emotion disgusted him, and he was certain – and prayed for that certainty to transform into reality – that in a few weeks or months he would feel different. He had loved Aleksandr all his life, almost as a replacement for the father who had been taken away from him when he was only four. He had disagreed at times with some of Aleksandr’s earlier liberal attitudes to the modernization of his country, but Aleksandr had seen the error of his ways. Above all, Nikolai could only regard his brother as a hero – a world hero – for his stand against Bonaparte.

But Aleksandr could not have picked a worse time to die. That was not fair – nor was it ultimately Nikolai’s complaint. Aleksandr could not choose the time and place of his death, but as emperor, he should have been prepared for it to happen at any moment. As it was, he had left his affairs – the nation’s affairs – in a terrible state.

For a start, there was the shocking vagueness over the succession. The decision that Nikolai should become tsar was clear and sensible, but why had that clarity not been conveyed to the very people he was intended to rule? It was not their place to decide who governed them, but it was a matter of simple practicality that they should be aware of who that person was. On top of that, Nikolai now discovered, there was the fact that Aleksandr had been aware for several years of groups within the army that were plotting against him. Had he not understood that the very idea of ‘plotting against him’ did not mean ‘plotting against Aleksandr’, but ‘plotting against the tsar’, whoever that might be? And now – de facto if not yet de jure – Nikolai was the tsar. The plots had not stopped with Aleksandr’s death; if anything, they were likely to intensify.

Nikolai had to concede that he had not been completely unaware of what was going on, but he had assumed that his brother had things under control. Now, here in front of him, sat Baron Frederiks, fresh from Taganrog, with news that should have been known in Petersburg long before.

‘I cannot but apologize for the delay, Highness. His late Majesty told me to leave with all haste, but upon his death I delayed. Then when Baron Diebich heard of the dispatches I had, he told me to depart immediately.’

‘The fault is not entirely yours, Baron,’ replied Nikolai. ‘You were but the final link in a chain of delays.’ It was as close as he could bring himself to criticizing his brother in front of another. He did nothing to correct the way Frederiks addressed him. The announcement of the fact that he was tsar would have to be handled with care.

‘What action has been taken against the Southern Society?’ he asked.

‘When I departed, nothing,’ said Frederiks, ‘but much was planned. Arrests may have been made already; if not, then in the next few days. Pestel will be detained for sure.’

‘And without him, the rebellion in the south will collapse?’

‘It will be greatly hindered.’

Nikolai nodded curtly. Frederiks was wise not to employ hyperbole, however much he might be tempted. There was one document amongst the papers of the greatest interest, made up of just five sheets of paper, with the briefest of notes attached in his brother’s hand.

Membership of the Northern Society – for NPR only

Nikolai’s attitude momentarily softened as he saw this reminder of his brother, possibly one of the last things he had written. He touched the paper with his thumb, making sure that Frederiks would not discern the action, and felt the whisper of a connection. He sat down and glanced through the list. Many names were unfamiliar to him, some he could easily have guessed, others were horrifying. Troubetzkoy was a shock; Volkonsky a greater one. He checked carefully. It was S. G. Volkonsky – Sergei Grigorovich. It would have been unthinkable to see Pyotr Mihailovich on the list.

Perhaps more shocking than the names of the élite were those of the high- and middle-ranking officers; men with whom the royal family should have been able to trust their lives. A. I. Danilov, for example. He was a colonel in the Life Guards, wasn’t he? Nikolai couldn’t picture the face, but he remembered Aleksandr specifically commenting on some action he’d carried out. It was horrible for his brother’s trust to be so brutally betrayed, but it was his own fault. He’d been too soft-hearted; too ill disciplined. Well, that wouldn’t happen in the reign of Nikolai I – and this list would make a good start for showing everyone who needed reminding that treachery was the greatest sin of all.

Dmitry had chosen to stay a while longer at Ryleev’s, but Aleksei thought it was best that he himself returned home. It had been an excuse to visit the leaders of the Society first – he had simply been shying away from the encounter with his wife. The fact that Dmitry now knew about him and Domnikiia didn’t change anything – not with regard to Marfa. Aleksei felt certain Dmitry hadn’t and wouldn’t tell her. He could have asked him about it on their journey home, but he was always a coward when it came to things like that. Even so, he felt confident his son would keep his secret. How would it help to let Marfa know?

Aleksei’s apprehension about seeing his wife after over two months was not related to his infidelity, but to hers. He had only just discovered the existence of Vasiliy – Vasya – before his departure. Now he had had time to consider it. Many men were hypocrites. They were happy to screw their own mistresses, but appalled at the idea that someone else might be doing the very same thing to their wives. In fact – as with most hypocrisies – there was a logic to it, deep, deep down. Men did not care so much that their wives had lovers as they feared other men might discover the fact. They did not fear the discovery of their own infidelity – most would admire them for it; most men at least.

Did Aleksei not fear such a discovery? Not greatly – not for himself. He had been so many things in his life – a Jacobin to the French, a Bulgarian to the Turks, a rebel to the revolutionaries – that he had almost completely managed to fortify himself against any consideration of the ill the world in general might think of him. There were four people on the planet whose good opinion he cherished, positioned with an obvious symmetry; two companions, two children: Marfa, Dmitry, Domnikiia, Tamara. There were a few others whose estimation he valued: Yelena Vadimovna, perhaps; Dr Wylie – he was too recent an acquaintance to judge; Tsar Aleksandr – undoubtedly, but the good opinion of the dead was worth little.

He stopped briefly in the street and uttered a single, abrupt laugh, causing a number of his fellow pedestrians on the Nevsky Prospekt to look. Aleksandr was not dead. He had managed, however momentarily, to fool himself. It was a good sign; if he believed it, how many others might? He smiled. The most important thing was that Iuda and Zmyeevich believed it. He cared little for Zmyeevich, but it dawned on him how much pride he felt to have fooled Iuda – Iuda, who had so often played him for the fool. It was a shame Iuda could never know.

Aleksei began walking again, through the snow. It was dark now, as it was for the vast majority of the day in Petersburg at this time of year. He was still a few blocks from home, and he returned his thoughts to the matter of his – and Marfa’s – reputation. If he admitted that he desired the high opinion of the dead then the list grew longer. Maks and Vadim were both men whose low esteem of him would have shattered Aleksei. Dmitry Fetyukovich? – No, not in the end. Perhaps it was those early deaths, of two people who had truly mattered to Aleksei, that explained why he was so selective now in whom he gave a damn about. Or perhaps he had simply been thick-skinned since he was a boy, and that was what made him someone who could survive as a liar, a cheat and a spy.

But the fact that he did not care for his own reputation did not mean he had no concern for that of his wife, or his son. The revelation of Marfa’s infidelity would do infinitely more harm to her standing in Petersburg than it would to Aleksei’s. Even Dmitry risked becoming a laughing stock if his comrades discovered such a story about his mother. But that was not a reason to chastise Marfa for her behaviour – simply one to help her keep it secret.

Ultimately, Aleksei felt relieved. He and Marfa were on an equal level once again. He could not object to her having a lover when he had one – even if she had been unaware of the symmetry. Now at last, they could again be the friends they had once been. The passion – mostly – was long past, but now Aleksei did not need to feel guilty about it. She had her own recourse for passion, as did he. There was no need for Marfa and him to discuss it, but nevertheless his attitude could change. She did not know his secret, and never needed to be aware that he knew hers. And yet he was afraid that the moment she saw him, she would read the whole thing on his face.

He had arrived at their home. He let himself in and went up to the salon. There was no one there. There was no light in any of the rooms. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. There he could see a light emerging under her dressing-room door. It was not yet seven o’clock, so she would not be preparing for bed. More likely she was getting ready to go out – or to receive a guest.

He knocked softly on the door, but there was no reply. He turned the handle and went in. The dressing room was empty. On the other side, the door to their bedroom was ajar. He walked over to it. Through the gap, he glimpsed the mirror, and in it, the image of pink, amorphous flesh, writhing in shared pleasure.

Aleksei took a rapid step back and pressed himself against the wall. He couldn’t help but grin. He’d come to terms with his wife’s infidelity, but it was a cruel God who immediately presented him with the fact of it in all its wanton glory.

He listened – he would only stay for a moment, or two. Even though Marfa articulated no specific words, her tone was unmistakable in her halting, voiced breaths and short, eager sighs. Her partner was quieter. Aleksei heard the low murmur of a male voice, to which the instant response came, ‘Da, Vasya! Da!’

So there was no doubt – as if there could have been in the mind of any husband with enough respect for his wife to assume she would limit herself to a single lover – that the man who currently occupied the Danilovs’ marital bed was Vasiliy. He heard Vasiliy’s laugh. He knew he should have been outraged, but he was not. There was even a certain excitement in listening to his wife being fucked by this stranger – one more reason he should leave soon. It was enthralling to know that Marfa could respond in such a way, could so enjoy it. Their marriage had started out something like that, or so Aleksei hoped, but the passion had quickly faded. He thought she had been uninterested, but now he realized that perhaps it had been him – or both of them together. It was thrilling to hear his wife so enjoying the act of sex, even if it was not and never would be the case that she enjoyed it so intently with Aleksei himself. It was simply a pleasant surprise to know she had within her depths of carnal desire not often revealed in a woman, desires which put her on a level with – well, to be honest – Domnikiia.

The voices of Vasiliy and Marfa began to merge into a succession of rhythmic, guttural grunts, and Aleksei realized it was time to leave. He would come back later tonight, or even tomorrow, having worked out some way to announce his presence well in advance so that no embarrassment need be felt by either of them. Even so – disguise it though he would try – in future he would look at Marfa in a slightly different way. He would look at her with a certain feeling of – God help him – pride.

As he departed, he glanced around the dressing room. The signs that there had been a man there were all too obvious now that he looked for them. Marfa’s own clothes were strewn about in a way that was quite out of character for her, but mixed in with them, Aleksei could easily spot the coat, the boots, the breeches of a man. There was even a leather bag on the chaise longue, which he knew was not his own. On top of it was what he took to be a cardboard box – a shirt box or something like that. He felt mildly peeved at the idea that Vasiliy might be taking advantage of the account Aleksei held at his tailor’s – a minor insult in the circumstances.

But as Aleksei moved closer, he realized that what he had seen was not a box, but a book – a book that was not properly bound, but which had a cover made simply of cardboard. There was no writing on the front of it. Aleksei flipped it open and examined the first page. The text was remarkably familiar for something written in an unfamiliar language. Then he looked at the inside of the cover. What he saw there told him everything; absolutely everything.

Richard L. Cain F.R S.

CHAPTER XXXIV

AS I THINK I TOLD YOU, LYOSHA, I AM KNOWN BY MANY NAMES.’ Iuda had emerged from the bedroom. He was naked, as if deliberately to disgust Aleksei. ‘But here in Petersburg I am Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov.’

‘You really must hate me,’ said Aleksei.

‘No,’ said Iuda thoughtfully, ‘no, I don’t think I hate you. But don’t feel flattered – I don’t hate anyone, any more than I love anyone. You really do interest me, though.’

‘How kind.’

‘I’m being honest, Lyosha.’

‘And Marfa – does she interest you?’

‘She does her best to entertain me,’ Iuda replied. ‘And I do likewise – which is more than you do.’

‘So which came first?’ asked Aleksei. ‘Your plan to tempt me with Kyesha and your book, or your plan to make me a laughing stock by screwing my wife?’

‘A laughing stock? That’s not you at all, Lyosha.’ Iuda knew Aleksei as he knew himself. ‘It doesn’t hurt you that your friends will know your wife opened her legs for some passing stranger, or that her love for you is not so consuming she cannot even contemplate the idea of being with another man. What you object to is that it’s me; that I can wander into your own bedroom without you having the slightest knowledge, and that I’ve been doing it for years. What you’re asking yourself now is, whither else have I wandered?’

‘For years?’ said Aleksei.

‘Several,’ confirmed Iuda.

Aleksei tried to think how long ‘several’ might be. Was there any moment in his marriage when there had been a noticeable change? When Tamara was born? When he returned from Paris? They were all times of change, but all had their explanations. But he was forgetting the golden rule: never believe Iuda. The earliest evidence of ‘Vasiliy’ being on the scene dated back only a few months. That was the limit he would give with any confidence to the time over which Iuda had been sleeping with his wife.

And it occurred to Aleksei that there were other, much more basic areas in which he should verify the facts for himself rather than believing Iuda. The words Nullius in Verba were no longer visible on the notebook, but they rang just as true as they had ever done. He leaned and tried to peer in through the bedroom door, but Iuda took a side step to block his view.

‘How ungentlemanly, Lyosha,’ he said. But then he seemed to read Aleksei’s thoughts. ‘Don’t fret; it is Marfa Mihailovna in there, for sure. I’m playing no is she-ain’t she, Dominique-Margarita tricks here tonight. Though I will admit, I did at first toy with trying that one with the lovely Marfa.’

‘What?’

‘I considered whether it might not be entertaining for you to see me at some window in the arms of your wife rather than your lover – or your lover’s colleague; we still don’t know, do we?’

‘In 1812?’

‘Yes,’ said Iuda.

‘But Marfa was in Petersburg in 1812. We were in…’ Aleksei tailed off. He already knew where Iuda had been for part of that autumn. He had paid a visit – in the guise of Richard Cain – to Tsar Aleksandr, as Aleksandr himself had told Aleksei. And the tsar had been in Petersburg. It could have been no great additional effort to locate Marfa and pay a visit to her in the guise of Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov.

‘What did you think I’d be doing while you were in Yuryev-Polsky hiding from the French?’

Aleksei was about to point out that it had not been the French he had been hiding from but Iuda and the other Oprichniki, but he decided it would do him little benefit.

‘So it’s been going on all that time,’ he said instead.

Before Iuda could reply, a call came from the bedroom. ‘Vasya!’ Aleksei could detect a timbre of repressed panic in his wife’s voice. Iuda went back inside, returning almost immediately.

‘Your wife would like to get dressed, Lyosha,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should retire.’ He picked up a robe – Aleksei’s robe – and put it on, then opened the door and invited Aleksei to step through it first. Aleksei was being made a guest in his own house, but now that he was in front of Iuda, at least he could decide where they would go. He led the way downstairs and chose the salon. Dmitry’s harpsichord had been pushed to one corner of the room. Where it had stood there was now a pianoforte – the instrument Aleksei had ordered as a gift for his son before they had left. It had not yet been fully removed from the wooden crate it had come in. Even in the present circumstances, Aleksei found time to hope his son would be pleased with it. He sat down in an armchair. Iuda seated himself opposite.

‘Since 1812,’ said Aleksei, picking up where he had left off.

‘Not as lovers, but as friends, at first.’

‘How did you find her?’

‘Oh that was no problem. The wife of Captain Danilov? They were all proud of their soldiers back then. I introduced myself as a friend of yours – at the time I still may have been, I can’t recall.’

‘You weren’t,’ growled Aleksei.

‘I’ll bow to your opinion on that. She was very friendly – not in any untoward way, I assure you – and by the time I left, I’d only dropped the fewest, lightest hints that you might have a lover in Moscow. But I presume it was enough to ensure she never mentioned me to you.’

He paused, waiting for Aleksei to confirm his side of the story. It was true enough, Marfa had not mentioned meeting Vasiliy, or any friend of his from Moscow, but he wasn’t going to give Iuda the pleasure of hearing him say so.

‘Then, of course, events intervened,’ Iuda continued. ‘I almost died in the Berezina – I really did – but I was washed up on the far bank, and some kind French soldat dragged me to my feet and forced me to march on with them. I was in Warsaw before I could get away.’

‘But you came back,’ said Aleksei.

Iuda nodded. ‘It was over a year before I managed to. By then you were marching across Europe in the opposite direction, and poor Marfa was all alone. She asked me directly whether you had a lover and – well, if you’d looked into that poor, confused woman’s eyes, you’d have had to tell the truth – I told her about this pretty young thing in Moscow called Dominique. I told the story backwards really. First how you’d set her up in a small home, then how you’d met her at a brothel and how she’d been working there since really just a child, then how you’d spent your free hours wandering in and out of such establishments and how I thought it was probably a good thing you’d settled down with just one whore rather than flitting to a different one every night. She teased it out of me, Lyosha.’

‘And you were there to help her find… restitution?’

‘Not then, Lyosha, no. That wasn’t until 1818, I think. She knew I was your friend – still your friend, even knowing what you were – and so it would be inappropriate for me, however much she begged.’

‘What changed?’

‘I don’t suppose you even noticed. It was 4 June. Mean anything to you?’

‘Marfa’s name day,’ said Aleksei.

‘And do you know where you were?’ Aleksei could guess, but he said nothing. ‘You had an “urgent appointment in Moscow” apparently. All three of us know what that meant. It was pure chance I was in Petersburg, and I finally took pity on her.’

‘Seven years of screwing my wife – just for this moment?’

‘This moment?’ asked Iuda.

‘The moment I would find out.’

‘Oh, you do have a high opinion of yourself, Lyosha – and of my foresightedness. I had no idea how I was going to use our relationship when we first formed it. I will admit that the thought of you discovering us was – throughout – an added excitement, though not, I think, so much for Marfa. Not at first. Early on, I imagined the possibility of you rushing in on us and smothering her in some jealous rage, like that Moor, and then you would go to prison for it, but I quickly realized you don’t have that kind of mettle.’

‘I might have killed you,’ said Aleksei, with the intended implication that he still might.

‘Then you would still have been convicted as a murderer. But that is why I’ve obtained a little protection.’ He tapped his chest lightly with the flat of his hand, but Aleksei did not understand what he meant by the gesture. ‘It seemed that was unlikely too though, so I’ve been forced to live merely in the hope of the sense of betrayal you would feel on your discovery.’

Aleksei smiled. He didn’t feel so betrayed. ‘You must be disappointed,’ he said.

‘Time will tell.’

Aleksei might have dismissed the comment as bravura, but he knew Iuda well enough to fear there might be more behind it.

‘So what do you plan to do with Marfa now?’ he asked. ‘Kill her?’

Iuda laughed. ‘Why should I?’ He leaned forward and spoke confidentially. ‘You and I are both fortunate, Lyosha. Men of our age seldom get the chance to enjoy the body of a beautiful, sensual woman. I would be a fool to put an end to it.’

He stood up, seemingly impatient, and walked over to the piano. He sat down and began to play. Aleksei did not recognize the piece, nor did he like it, but there was no doubting Iuda’s talent. He noticed for the first time a scar on Iuda’s neck – almost healed. He felt his heart jolt as he wondered briefly if Iuda had at last become a voordalak. But the fact he could see the wound proved no such transformation had occurred. If Iuda were a vampire, his flesh would have healed. Besides, his reflection was clear in the mirror that hung on the wall behind the piano, as it had been in the bedroom mirror. Iuda was as human as he had ever been, but clearly he’d had some kind of falling-out with a vampire – perhaps even Zmyeevich. Aleksei began to formulate a question on the matter, trying to find the words that would most rile Iuda. At the very least it would interrupt him from playing that strange, discomforting music.

But before he could say anything the door opened. It was Marfa. She had dressed, but not formally. Her cleavage was deliberately obvious, as were her ankles and calves. She walked over to Iuda and placed her hands on his shoulders. She looked more alluring than Aleksei had seen her since they were first married. She was just turned forty, and getting a little plump, but not excessively. That evening, her skin seemed to glow. That was thanks to Iuda. Aleksei pushed the thought from his mind.

‘That’s beautiful, Vasya,’ she said. Her voice still sounded nervous, but she hid it well – not as well as Iuda, but he was practised at extemporization. As much as they both might try to appear confident, Aleksei guessed his arrival had taken them by surprise, though Iuda at least had known it would happen one day.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ Iuda replied. He stopped playing and reached for her hand, placing it against his lips.

‘I’m not sorry, Aleksei,’ said Marfa, turning to her husband. ‘There’s no reason I should be. I’m not even angry any more.’

‘Angry?’

She frowned in annoyance, and raised her voice just slightly. ‘With you, for being with… that woman. You should have told me if you weren’t happy.’

‘I was happy,’ said Aleksei, but he realized his explanations were not going to help. He was happy with Marfa, then he had met Domnikiia and he became even happier.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘And we’re both happy now. You can’t object to me taking a lover, can you?’

‘I object to it being him.’ Iuda gave a look of mock indignation as Aleksei spoke.

‘Because he’s your friend?’ asked Marfa.

Hardly, thought Aleksei, but what could he explain of Iuda to Marfa? What he had done in Moscow in 1812? What he had done in Chufut Kalye just weeks before? It would sound less like the pathetic excuses of a cuckold and more the ravings of a madman. Neither would achieve anything.

‘He’s not my friend,’ he said simply.

Marfa frowned and looked down at Iuda. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been the cause of that. Vasiliy Denisovich is a fine man.’

Aleksei leapt to his feet. ‘I can’t stay here,’ he said. He headed for the door. Marfa caught up with him just as he was stepping out into the street. He turned and looked at her. She was shivering from the cold. It was ridiculous for her to stand at the open door in the winter weather dressed like that, but Aleksei relished the sense of vulnerability it gave her. He remembered how much he had once loved her. He still loved her, but he loved Domnikiia more. It was she that was forcing him to choose.

‘You can’t leave,’ she said.

‘I’m not leaving,’ he replied. ‘I’m just going.’

‘We have to think of Dmitry.’

‘I know. I know. But I can’t think now.’

‘Nothing really has to change,’ she pleaded.

He paused. He really couldn’t think, but he had to. ‘That’s what I thought,’ he said, ‘until I found out it was him.’

She looked bewildered – not the strong, confident woman of moments before. In Iuda’s absence she was lost. And that was why Aleksei knew he could not abandon her – because, one day, Iuda would.

‘We’ll find a way,’ he said, ‘but not right now. Give me a few days.’

He kissed her and then put his arms around her, squeezing her briefly, but tightly. Even after, he liked to think he’d felt her hug him back.

CHAPTER XXXV

ALEKSEI HAD TURNED ON TO NEVSKY PROSPECT AND WAS heading he didn’t know where; to the west, towards the river, but that was merely a direction, not a destination. The city was busy, despite the snow and the early dark – these were things the people were used to. Aleksei walked briskly, his head down, ignoring those around him. He felt the road slope upwards and then down again as he crossed the bridge over the Moika, but he did not look into its frozen waters.

Iuda must die. That was the only solution – and the solution to many problems. He could see no prospect of Marfa abandoning her lover, and if she stayed with him… it was too insane to contemplate. At worst, Aleksei would have to leave her. It would cost her her reputation and eventually far, far more. Iuda would find some abominable way to treat her; there was no doubt about that. He was like the scorpion Aleksei had discussed on the hilltop of Chufut Kalye – it was his nature. Aleksei could not leave his wife to that. He would have known that anyway, but he had felt it as a certainty since he had looked into her eyes just now on the threshold of the home they had made together.

And so he would have to kill Iuda – not in the way he had tried so often before; this would be simple murder. In 1812 there had been a war, and one more body would have made no difference. In the caves of Chufut Kalye, there would have been no remains – he would have been devoured by his erstwhile captives, if only Aleksei had had the guts to stay and ensure that it happened. Even on the beach in Taganrog, where a single thrust of his blade would have destroyed the monster, he would have got away with it – he was a member of the tsar’s personal bodyguard, defending His Majesty as was his duty.

In all of those circumstances – had he succeeded – he would have got away with it not only in terms of there being no legal retribution, but in that Marfa would have had no idea it was her husband who had killed her lover. Even if she heard the story that Aleksei had stabbed Richard L. Cain in Taganrog, the name would mean nothing to her – at least, Aleksei presumed Iuda had not told her any of his various other noms de guerre. But after their encounter that evening, even if Aleksei were to commit the otherwise perfect murder, Marfa would instantly connect the disappearance of her lover with the actions of her husband. Even so, it would be better than letting him live. If Marfa never spoke to him again, he would at least have saved her. But ideally, Iuda would not simply disappear. He would have to die obviously, either in an accident or at the hands of some other – but who could Aleksei find to put in the frame for that? It would not be easy to kill any man that way – with Iuda, it might prove impossible.

He looked up. Ahead of him were the yellow walls of the Admiralty and, beyond them, the frozen Neva. He felt a hand on his arm. For a moment, he thought Marfa had pursued him, but the grip was much firmer, pulling him round.

It was Iuda.

‘Aleksei,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I appreciate we have our domestic disagreements, but we have other matters to discuss of more national significance.’

‘What?’ spat Aleksei, knocking Iuda’s hand from his arm.

‘Concerning the tsar.’

Aleksei felt the sudden urge to smile victoriously and, beyond that, to tell all, to explain to Iuda how they had all fooled him, that the tsar – Aleksandr – was alive and well and free of his machinations, able to live in peace without ever hearing of Zmyeevich or Iuda again. It would be delicious to reveal it all, and might almost compensate for much of what Aleksei had felt that evening, but in the very telling, the victory would evaporate. Iuda would tell Zmyeevich and the pursuit of Aleksandr’s soul would begin again. It was a tragedy, but Aleksei knew he could not speak. That was where Iuda’s intrigues outdid his – Iuda could trick him, and had done so many times, even with all the facts out in the open.

Of course, there was one variation that would fit in very well with Aleksei’s other problem. It would be safe to let Iuda know he had been duped – taken for a prostak – if he did not subsequently have the chance to tell Zmyeevich; if, for example, he learned the fact just moments before his death. That would make the revenge complete. It added one further layer of complexity to what Aleksei had to achieve when devising Iuda’s obliteration. But it would be a pleasure to rise to the challenge.

Meanwhile, he couldn’t help but be intrigued by what Iuda had said.

‘The tsar?’ he replied.

‘Who do you think is the tsar, Lyosha?’

Aleksei felt his stomach tighten. So it seemed Iuda already knew of the deception foisted upon him. It was like him to allow Aleksei to feel that sense of victory, before deflating it utterly. Even so, it was best that Aleksei maintained his bluff until all was lost for sure.

‘Konstantin Pavlovich, of course,’ he said.

Iuda shook his head with a smirk. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s Nikolai Pavlovich.’

So it seemed that Iuda had heard the same rumours that had reached the Northern Society. He had a simple answer for it. ‘Nikolai might like to be tsar, but that doesn’t make it so.’

‘It’s not what Nikolai likes; it’s what Konstantin doesn’t,’ said Iuda. ‘He’s refused to accept the crown – or abdicated within moments of taking it. It amounts to the same thing.’

‘What?’

‘It’s true. Believe me, Aleksei, it is.’ Iuda paused briefly. ‘I concede that’s not something you’re very likely to do, but check it out for yourself. Nikolai is the emperor.’

Aleksei considered. He would check, though he doubted Iuda would lie about something that could so easily be verified. Even so, Iuda would have needed a better reason for telling him the information than the simple fact that it was true.

‘Why should you care?’ he asked.

‘Because if people believe that Nikolai is usurping the throne, they’ll rise against him. It could mean the end of the Romanov monarchy.’

‘Zmyeevich may care about that, but why do you?’

Iuda smiled to himself. ‘I have more reason than ever to see that Zmyeevich gets what he desires,’ he said. ‘But for now, my goals concur with yours. You helped to kill one tsar in order to save his dynasty.’ Aleksei’s expression remained sceptical. Iuda pressed the point. ‘Look, Lyosha, I’ll be honest. The reason I came up here, apart from the desire to visit your lovely wife’ – he couldn’t resist, even when trying to cajole Aleksei – ‘was to try to ensure that the crown skipped through the generations as quickly as possible. It turns out that Konstantin has helped do that for me. I’m happy to settle at that – Aleksandr Nikolayevich would have a regent if he became tsar now; that wouldn’t help our cause.’

Aleksei considered. Iuda’s reasoning was sound. Nikolai becoming tsar would force him and Zmyeevich to pause for at least a decade, if not more, until young Aleksandr came of age. And even then, they would first have to kill Nikolai, which would be no easy thing given the protection he would enjoy as tsar. Unless, of course, the revolutionaries got their way. If they were to succeed in killing Nikolai, then there were two possible consequences: a republic, or a quick accession of Aleksandr II. Was Iuda instead choosing the safer option of letting Nikolai live, or was this just another bluff?

‘Think about it,’ Iuda said, and then vanished into the billowing snow.

Aleksei slept that night in a tiny, cramped room underneath the rafters of a run-down tavern. It was the first time in two decades he had spent a night in Petersburg other than in his own home. On waking, he had at first felt confused by his surroundings, but that had only lasted a moment. Then he had been aware that there was some problem in his life that he had to resolve – a serious problem, but one he could not quite discern; perhaps that implied it was not significant. Then he remembered Marfa.

There was little else in his whole life – since the death of his parents – that had so unnerved him. It seemed a ridiculous thought, given that he had in his time fought battles against men, stalked voordalaki by night, and conspired to convince the whole world that the leader of a nation was dead. And yet in all those things, he had known that it was he who must take charge of things, organize them, survive. Even in the thankfully occasional tribulations in his relationship with Domnikiia, he had always felt in charge of his own destiny. And why? Because throughout all that, he had been aware of Marfa Mihailovna sitting in Petersburg, always waiting for him, always loving him. She was his foundation, and now she was gone. And yet there was still hope. Iuda had to die for that hope to flourish, but that very thought gave him the energy to face the day.

But there was another matter to occupy him today, of higher precedence: the crown of Russia. He suspected that what Iuda had told him about Konstantin and Nikolai was true, but it had to be verified, and he could think of only one man in Petersburg whose word he would trust on the subject – and that man would be difficult to reach. He headed over to the Winter Palace.

Yevgeniy Styepanovich was surprisingly easy to get hold of. The Lieutenant General emerged from the Winter Palace almost as soon as Aleksei asked after him. His mood was curt.

‘What is it, Danilov? This is not a good time.’

‘I need an audience with the grand duke,’ said Aleksei.

Yevgeniy seemed flustered, and Aleksei could well guess the reason. To the outside world, there were two grand dukes in the palace – Nikolai and Mihail. To the cognoscenti, there was only one, the other having been recently promoted to the rank of tsar. Aleksei allowed Yevgeniy a few moments of confusion before providing a clarification.

‘I mean Grand Duke Mihail,’ he added.

‘Some hope! He’s gone back to Warsaw.’

Aleksei looked over at the Lieutenant General. He was a big man, but Aleksei knew him to be weak. ‘No, he never made it to Warsaw. He got as far as Neenal and then was told to turn back.’ The information had been simple enough for Aleksei to pick up. ‘He arrived here earlier today.’

Yevgeniy considered for a moment. ‘Wait here,’ he said at last, and marched off back towards the palace. Aleksei leaned out over the Neva. The bridges that spanned it were almost meaningless at this time of year. A thick crust of ice covered the river, though the water beneath flowed as quickly as ever. Most who needed to cross to the northern islands of the city could walk straight over. Only those on horseback or with heavy cargos that risked cracking the ice stuck to the bridges. At this time of the morning, when the sun was as hot as it would get, a mist rose off the river. The sun’s heat probably did little to weaken the strength of the ice-sheet, but if Aleksei had needed to go across, he would still rather use a bridge.

He was on the English Quay, between the Admiralty and the Winter Palace, a little further east than where he had last met Yevgeniy Styepanovich. He did not have to stand there for very long.

‘Three o’clock,’ said the Lieutenant General on his return. ‘His Highness will allow you five minutes.’ With that, he was gone once again. Aleksei had four hours to wait.

Aleksei ate, and then drank, and then drank some more. It was still only one o’clock. It would not do to appear in front of Grand Duke Mihail in any but the most alert state of mind, so he decided a walk through the cold winter streets would refresh him. He’d gone to his barracks and changed into his full dress uniform. It would impress the grand duke and, moreover, it was well made – it kept him warm. He glanced at his gloved hands. On the left, the two redundant fingers had been folded over and sewn neatly into the palm. It was the same with all his gloves – Marfa had done that for him.

In total, he walked past the front of his own house seven times. He glanced up occasionally, but saw no sign of her. His own servants might have seen him, but they would be discreet – they had been discreet enough over the years about what their mistress had been doing. Twice he almost went in, but never quite made it. The previous evening he had told her they would find a way of working things out, and he was convinced that she accepted it. To go to her now would not change that – what it might change was precisely where the advantage lay in their relationship once they had sorted things out. It would make him seem weak, and even she would not be happy for him to have that status in the long run.

The sun was already setting when he arrived back at the Winter Palace. Yevgeniy Styepanovich took him through corridors and hallways, until they eventually arrived at a first-floor room that overlooked the river. Mihail Pavlovich was in conversation with two other men when Aleksei arrived, so he stood quietly in the shadows and waited. When the others had left, the grand duke beckoned him over.

‘Colonel Danilov,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘May I offer my condolences on your brother’s death, Your Highness,’ replied Aleksei. He looked at the grand duke. It had been a few years since their first and only brief meeting. Mihail was now twenty-seven. Between his fingers, as always, he clutched a foul-smelling cigar. He did not look like any of his brothers. Aleksei wondered if he really was the son of Tsar Pavel, though he had never heard even the slightest rumour to the contrary.

‘Aleksandr Pavlovich set great store by your abilities,’ said Mihail, ‘and therefore so do I. What is it that brings you here?’ He sat down and offered the seat opposite to Aleksei, who took it.

Aleksei knew there was no option but to speak frankly. ‘Why have you not sworn allegiance to your brother as tsar?’

‘To my brother?’

‘To Konstantin Pavlovich.’

‘Konstantin Pavlovich is not tsar; Nikolai Pavlovich is,’ the grand duke explained simply.

‘So it’s true that Konstantin has abdicated?’

‘He was never in line of succession.’

It seemed clear enough to Mihail, but Aleksei was dumbfounded. Perhaps it was Konstantin who was not his father’s son – but that was absurd. ‘Never in line?’ was all he could manage.

‘“Never” is an exaggeration; not since 1823, though some of us suspect that Aleksandr had it in mind much earlier. He decided his brother could never become tsar, and Konstantin, so it seems, was more than happy to agree.’

‘But why?’

‘From Konstantin’s point of view – because he loathes responsibility. From Aleksandr’s, it’s more a legal matter. Konstantin married beneath him. Our father changed the succession laws in 1897, and by most interpretations Konstantin could not become tsar. The decision of Aleksandr was merely a formality.’

‘So Nikolai Pavlovich has known for two years that he would be tsar?’ Aleksei’s voice revealed his astonishment.

‘Indeed.’ Mihail ran his hand through his hair before resuming. ‘But he feared that no one would accept the news if he simply announced it, so he awaited Konstantin’s arrival. But Konstantin refuses to come. Half the army has already sworn allegiance to Konstantin – as has Nikolai. Now if he attempts to set things right, they’ll call him a usurper.’

‘What does he plan to do?’

‘Tomorrow he will ask the senate and the army to swear their allegiance to him. Enough people have now heard of Konstantin’s refusal, even if some don’t believe it.’

‘You think the men will comply?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I believe that is the sort of information my brother used to rely on you for.’ The grand duke was more wily than his years suggested.

Now Aleksei had to decide. In reality, he doubted whether what he said would make much difference, but it would show the world – and himself – where his heart lay. If Konstantin was unwilling to be an absolute tsar, then it was unlikely he would become a constitutional one. Nikolai would never compromise with the rebels, so the options were either a republic, or Tsar Nikolai. A republic, Aleksei was convinced, would lead to chaos and a bloodbath. Tsar Nikolai I would lead to Tsar Aleksandr II and the risk of Zmyeevich once again seeking his revenge against the Romanovs. That was the more remote possibility, and the one Aleksei would rather live with. He would tell Mihail all he knew – most significantly that the attempt to make the army swear allegiance would almost certainly be the flashpoint. After he had betrayed all their secrets, then all he had to do was to save one particular member of the Northern Society – his own son.

He took a deep breath and began. ‘Highness, as far as I know…’ The door opened and in walked a figure that Aleksei could recognize only from portraits. It was Grand Duke Nikolai. A second later, he corrected himself; it was Tsar Nikolai. He leapt to his feet, as did Mihail.

‘Good evening, Brother,’ said the tsar, somewhat formally, presumably because he was in the presence of a stranger.

‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ said Mihail. ‘May I present a gentleman who was a loyal servant of the late Aleksandr Pavlovich.’

Nikolai held out his hand, and Aleksei bent to kiss it. He was not a man to be affected by grandeur and status, but he felt a swelling of pride within him as he considered the honour of this early introduction to the new tsar – before many Russians even realized that Nikolai was tsar. He could not tell whether he would ever love him as he had Aleksandr, but he felt profoundly sure in the knowledge that it was his duty to serve him.

‘Colonel Danilov, Your Majesty,’ he said, his head still bowed. ‘Aleksei Ivanovich.’

Aleksei felt the tsar’s hand suddenly withdraw. He looked up and saw Nikolai backing away, with an utterly unconvincing pretence of casualness. With every step he took, the look of horror on his face grew. Aleksei could not fathom what had caused it. He glanced over his shoulder to see what it was that had so shocked the new tsar, half expecting to find that Iuda had broken into the palace, but there was no one there. He looked back at Nikolai.

‘Kolya?’ asked the tsar’s brother. ‘What’s the matter?’

The tsar raised a trembling hand and pointed at Aleksei. ‘That man,’ he said, ‘is a traitor.’ He had reached the door and opened it to shout through. ‘Guard! Guard!’

‘You must be wrong,’ insisted Mihail. ‘Our brother put great faith in him.’

Nikolai remained by the door, moving the line of his gaze between Aleksei and the guards he was hoping to see outside. ‘Only yesterday I received a letter from Aleksandr Pavlovich declaring this man a turncoat, along with the whole of their damned society of rebels.’

It took Aleksei a moment to realize what Nikolai meant. It was a simple misunderstanding to clear up – the very list the tsar referred to was written in his own hand. At that moment, the guards arrived. There were three of them. Aleksei realized that he might prove his innocence, but that it would take time, which for now he didn’t have; not if he was to save Dmitry.

He grabbed hold of one of the long, sleek velvet curtains that hung from the window and jumped into the air, pulling himself up on it. The curtain swung back towards the window, and with it went Aleksei. He held his feet out in front of him and heard the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood as they made contact. He closed his eyes momentarily to avoid them being hit by any shards, and when he opened them, he found himself suspended above the snowy street below, at the very limit of the curtain’s swing, before he slowly began to fall back towards the palace.

He let go just before reaching the broken window and landed on the ledge outside. The snow was halfway up his calves and felt slippery under his feet. Inside, the guards were almost up to the window, swords drawn. Aleksei edged along the ledge as fast as he dared, and soon found his way blocked by one of the towering Corinthian columns that decorated the walls of the palace. He began to climb down, lowering himself from the ledge and scrambling with his feet for the ornate golden leaves of the capital of the column below. He found them and allowed himself to slip a little further downwards.

Suddenly, there was a shot. He looked over to the window and saw one of the guards leaning from it, smoking pistol in hand. Even as Aleksei looked, he saw the guard withdraw so that another might take his place. Aleksei let himself fall, and then grabbed the tiny ridge that ran above the next row of windows, scarcely able to grip it through the snow. He dangled there, wondering whether to let himself drop or try to climb further down.

The decision was taken from him. Another shot rang out, and he felt a sudden burning pain in the middle finger of his left hand. He snatched it away instinctively, but his right hand could not take his weight alone. He fell to the ground and immediately found himself in blackness and unable to breathe. He pawed the snow aside with his hands until he saw light and felt the cold night air fill his lungs again. The snowdrift had to some extent broken his fall, but he could not waste time determining whether he was injured. He scrambled to his feet and ran along the quay to the east, keeping close in against the palace wall.

Another shot was fired at him, but came nowhere near. Now all three guards had fired, and Aleksei felt safer. He forgot about hugging the wall and ran with all his strength, his aging lungs and legs straining for life and freedom. When he did stop, he fell down exhausted in the snow.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Monday 14 December 1825

IT WAS MORNING – AS DARK AS ANY WINTER MORNING IN PETERSburg; the solstice had occurred just five days before. Aleksei had slept in the same tavern as the night before. His one goal since fleeing the Winter Palace had been to find Dmitry, and so far he had failed. He had gone first to his own home, but the footman had informed him that neither Marfa Mihailovna nor Dmitry Alekseevich was there. The man had bandaged Aleksei’s finger, which was a relief. In future he would be known – amongst those voordalaki who cared – as the two-and-a-half-fingered man. The bullet had gone clean through between the first and second knuckles, leaving a reasonably neat stump. The cold had numbed it, but once he had got into his house, it began to throb with pain. He could not stay. His address was registered. Soldiers, under Nikolai’s orders, would soon arrive there.

He had gone to Ryleev’s house and found it bustling with officers, each with the same thought on his mind: tomorrow was to be the day of revolution. But Dmitry was not among them. Someone suggested he should try Obolensky’s, but that had been his next port of call anyway. The prince’s house was quieter than the poet’s had been, but amongst those who were there, the mood was the same. There was still no sign of Dmitry.

Aleksei had wandered through Petersburg searching the streets, the taverns, even the churches. He was aware there might be troops out looking for him, but they wouldn’t recognize his face, and it was a chance he had to take. None of it proved to be of any avail. It was after midnight when he trudged back to the tavern.

In the morning he awoke feeling refreshed. It was still dark outside, but he had more desire to rise than he had done for many months. Today was simple – simpler than any other day of his life had been. He must get Dmitry away from the rebels. They would fail; that was obvious. Nikolai was far too well prepared. Aleksei had done his son a service by erasing his name from that list, but it would all be meaningless if Dmitry was caught in the act with the other revolutionaries. As for his own fate, Aleksei cared little – at least for today. Tomorrow he would see whether he could save his own neck; today was about Dmitry. Still, his own survival was important – if dead himself, how could he ensure the death of Iuda?

Aleksei left the house and headed once again up Nevsky Prospect, towards the Admiralty, or the Winter Palace, or wherever in that area of the city the uprising might begin. He still wore his full uniform. It was all he had to wear, but he knew that most of the rebels – those who were soldiers rather than poets, at any rate – would do the same. His sword was at his side and his gun was in his pocket. The city was eerie in the morning twilight. The streets were as busy as they might be on any Monday morning, but Aleksei saw in the eyes of all he passed the sense that something of unspeakable enormity was about to happen. Before he reached the Admiralty, he saw someone he recognized; a young captain by the name of Yekimov – a keen member of the Society.

‘What’s the news?’ Aleksei asked. There was no one near them who might eavesdrop.

‘The senate has assembled already,’ said Yekimov. ‘They’re going to swear loyalty to Nikolai Pavlovich.’

In reality, it didn’t much matter. The senate had no power – less even than its Roman namesake at the height of imperial ascendance – but the symbolism might prove significant.

‘Have any of the regiments marched on the Winter Palace yet?’ Aleksei asked.

‘I don’t know, but when they do, it will be Senate Square, not the palace. Troubetzkoy thinks that if we can sway the senate, everything else will follow. At least that’s what he said last night. No one’s seen him today.’

‘Thanks,’ said Aleksei. ‘Where are you headed?’

‘To the fortress. Ryleev’s told me to see what can be done about raising the battalion there.’

‘Have you seen Lieutenant Danilov? Dmitry Alekseevich? My son?’ Aleksei realized that his intensity risked frightening the captain.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t.’

They walked a little way together, then Yekimov headed off to complete his task. When Aleksei reached Admiralty Boulevard he looked west towards Senate Square. Even at this distance, it was clear that a crowd was assembling. Between him and them, outside the Admiralty, stood a group of concerned-looking men on horseback. Aleksei could only guess that they were loyal to the tsar, keeping an eye on how events unfolded. It would not be safe for him to approach the square directly. Instead he slipped north, between the Admiralty and the Winter Palace.

The Neva was a stunning sight – not just because it was a vast, wide, gleaming sheet of ice, but because of the soldiers, converging from all directions on to Senate Square. In the middle of the widest part of the river, opposite the Peter and Paul Fortress, just before the Great and Lesser Nevas split, the crowds separated, avoiding the invisible but potentially deadly weak spot in the centre of the ice. How many hundreds were there altogether? It was impossible to count. There were typically around twelve thousand soldiers stationed in the city in total; both sides would be considering how those would divide. If the split were balanced, it would probably mean a victory for the rebels, as a drift would begin from previously loyal troops. But they were unlikely to get half – how many fewer would still be enough? It was possible that Nikolai had brought in additional troops, but he could not be entirely sure which side they would take.

Aleksei stepped down on to the frozen river. He would far rather have walked along the paved embankment, but that would mean passing close to the Admiralty, where loyal soldiers would be stationed. His fear of them was more rational than his fear of the ice, and so he overcame the latter. The Neva allowed him to give the building a wide berth. It was slippery, though most who crossed seemed to be dealing with it better than Aleksei was. He was reminded of two previous occasions when he had been forced to travel on foot across an icy plane. Both of those had been in battle – once on Lake Satschan, after the Battle of Austerlitz, and then seven years later as the French fled across the Berezina. Then cannonfire, and slightly warmer weather, had meant that the ice was unstable. Today at least, as during every winter in Petersburg, it was as reliable as any other thoroughfare.

His way was eventually blocked by the Isaakievsky Bridge, but it marked the point Aleksei wanted to reach. The pontoon bridge stretched out from Senate Square, across the Great Neva towards the Twelve Colleges on Vasilevskiy Island. With the river frozen, it was impossible to crawl under it, and it would be difficult to climb up on to it, but along the embankment, steps that in summer led up from the water’s edge now led up from the ice. From the river he was too low down to be able to see into the square – all that was visible was the top half of the statue of Pyotr the Great – but he could sense from the murmuring noise that a vast crowd had assembled.

As he ascended the stone steps away from the ice, the whole scene became clear to him. In the background stood Saint Isaac’s, the scaffolding already in place for its planned demolition, but the crowds were keeping well away from there. They were clustered around the statue of Pyotr – an odd choice for rebels in a republican cause, but Aleksei doubted if many truly knew what their leaders had planned for the country. There were over a thousand there, and more flocking in all the time.

Aleksei stood on the quayside, a little way from the crowd, watching. He was about to cross over to the square when a sudden chill came over him – noticeable despite the winter cold. He remembered a story he had heard about what had happened on that very spot, one hundred and thirteen years before. The landscape would have been different then. The embankment would not have been built, and there would have been no statue of Pyotr. Saint Isaac’s was just a church, small compared with the current building and minuscule in comparison with the new one that was planned. The Admiralty would have been there, but nothing like as grand.

In Aleksei’s mind, Pyotr had approached from the east, emerging from the Admiralty. Zmyeevich stood there waiting. Where could Colonel Brodsky and his men have been hiding? How had they been strong enough to subdue a creature like Zmyeevich? It was all the stuff of myth, handed down from generation to generation of the Romanovs and embellished at every step. Could the whole thing have been invention? Nullius in Verba. There was little concrete evidence that there was anything in Aleksandr’s blood. He claimed that he sometimes saw through Zmyeevich’s eyes, but that could be simple hallucination, brought on by the fear of the tales his grandmother had told him. Zmyeevich believed it though – or at least Iuda claimed he did. Zmyeevich had been there – here – so the story went. It may not have happened the way Aleksandr described it, it may not even have happened here, but there had been a meeting between Pyotr and Zmyeevich. And Pyotr had come out on top. If not, why had Yekaterina ensured that his statue, close to that very spot, depicted him trampling a serpent?

Aleksei crossed over to the square and joined the crowd. There seemed little coherent purpose to their presence. They simply stood and waited. Occasionally a shout could be heard: ‘Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya!’ But at whom they were shouting was not clear. Aleksei spoke to the first officer he came to.

‘What regiment are you with?’ he asked.

‘The Moskovsky,’ he said, ‘but there are Grenadiers here too, and some of the Marine Guard.’

‘Who’s in charge?’

‘Bestuzhev led us here, but we’re waiting for Prince Troubetzkoy. He’s going to take charge until Konstantin Pavlovich can be freed.’

‘Freed?’

‘It’s all a lie that he’s abdicated – Bestuzhev told us. They have him in chains in Warsaw on Nikolai’s orders. It’s an outrage. Even the senate’s fallen for it.’

‘They’ve already sworn allegiance to Nikolai?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Apparently. They took the oath at seven this morning. They already left.’

It was almost laughably disorganized. Perhaps Aleksandr had done his brother a favour by bringing on the succession so suddenly. If the rebels had been able to stick with their plans of acting the following year, they would have had more time to prepare. But any comedy that there was would vanish if this crowd continued to grow. Loyal troops would have to do something to disperse it – and that would mean a massacre. But none of that was Aleksei’s immediate concern.

‘Do you know a Lieutenant Danilov?’ he asked. ‘Dmitry Alekseevich.’

The man shook his head. Aleksei moved on through the crowd, asking for Dmitry, but of the few who had even heard of him, none had seen him. It seemed hopeless that he would ever find him; his main hope lay in his son’s height. He would stand out from the crowd, but only by a little.

Over to the east and south, Aleksei could see more troops assembling, many on horseback. There was no indication that they were part of the rebellion – they were here to put it down, and were merely awaiting the order so to do. Aleksei again saw the group of horsemen that he had noticed outside the Admiralty. Now they had been joined by Tsar Nikolai. At that distance it was impossible to see his expression, but on his decision of whether to end the rebellion by persuasion or by force lay the fate of thousands of men.

Aleksei turned back and scanned the crowd. He still saw no sign of Dmitry and – as the numbers swelled – had little hope of finding him. Then he noticed movement around the statue of Pyotr. A figure was climbing up on to the Thunder Stone, preparing to address the rebels. It was Ryleev. Aleksei ran over to listen.

Dmitry looked up into the sky. The face of Kondraty Fyodorovich Ryleev looked down on him and the whole crowd. Behind him, Pyotr’s bronze horse reared into the air. Dmitry felt elated. Ryleev had been a hero to many at the Cadet Corps College, and though there had never been any official path of recruitment, a number of the youngest members of the Northern Society – those, like Dmitry, who had never seen battle – had joined on the basis of his reputation. In all there were at least three thousand here, he’d heard, with more on the way. Those soldiers who remained loyal to Nikolai – fooled into thinking he was truly tsar – would never fire on their comrades. Nikolai would have to relinquish power and let Troubetzkoy take over, if only Troubetzkoy would arrive soon. Perhaps they had already arrested him. Then Ryleev would have to lead. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

Dmitry had arrived at Ryleev’s house the previous night, to be told that he had missed his father by less than an hour. It was a disappointment, but he knew Aleksei would appreciate that forthcoming events would take precedence over kinship, at least for the day. He had stayed at the house, and in the morning all had been in chaos.

First, Bestuzhev had arrived with news that Kakhovsky had promised to assassinate Nikolai at the first opportunity. Ryleev paused at the news, and then said, ‘Remember the garde perdue. He must not be linked to us.’

‘He knows,’ Bestuzhev had replied.

The conversation had taken place as a shouted exchange through Ryleev’s bedroom door as he prepared himself. When he finally emerged, Dmitry was shocked at what he saw – too shocked even to laugh. He was not alone in his emotions. Ryleev himself described what he was wearing – and the motivation behind it – far better than Dmitry ever could have.

‘I’m dressed as a peasant, you see,’ he explained, indicating his rough clothes and knapsack. ‘But’ – the word was long and drawn out – ‘I’m also carrying a rifle – like a soldier. That’s what today is all about; the union between the soldier and the peasant – the first act of their mutual liberty.’

Dmitry would have observed that Ryleev was neither a soldier nor a peasant, but he bit his tongue. Bestuzhev had been more outspoken.

‘There are only soldiers with us today – no peasants,’ he said. ‘They won’t understand any of this sort of patriotic symbolism. All they believe is that Nikolai should not be tsar.’

Ryleev had eventually agreed and had gone again to change, with the words, ‘Perhaps I was being a little too romantic.’ Bestuzhev left the house to search the city’s barracks for more support. Ryleev had dressed once more and was about to leave when his wife rushed out to him and grabbed his arm.

‘Don’t stir from the house today,’ she begged.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he had replied.

‘You will die,’ she shouted.

Ryleev had pulled himself away from her, and she shouted up the stairs, ‘Nastenka! Nastenka! Beg your father to stay.’

A little girl had appeared – Ryleev’s six-year-old daughter – seeming as upset by her mother’s shouting as by her father’s departure. In the end, she had to be dragged away from her father’s legs, to which she had clung desperately. His wife had swooned on the couch. Ryleev left hurriedly, accompanied by Dmitry and several others. It was a terrible way for a man to part from his family on a day that carried such risk, but if he had stayed, he might never have got away. Again, there were times when the affairs of the nation had to be placed above those of the family.

They had arrived at Senate Square to the news that Troubetzkoy had not arrived and that the senate had already sworn allegiance to Nikolai. Ryleev decided that he must speak. They had helped him up on to the plinth that supported the statue of Pyotr, and he had addressed those that could hear him.

‘Let them read Aleksandr’s will,’ he shouted. ‘They’ve got the parchment sealed there in the senate.’ He pointed over to the building. ‘That will tell us whom His late Majesty wanted to succeed him.’

There were cheers in the crowd. Dmitry had never felt more convinced of their victory. He stood and listened to Ryleev’s words and to the roars of the crowd. When the speech had finished, a familiar chant rose up.

‘Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya! Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya!’

After that, Ryleev climbed down and Dmitry lost sight of him. Then came disappointment. Dmitry overheard a conversation between Obolensky and Bestuzhev.

‘Troubetzkoy’s not coming!’ snarled Obolensky.

‘What?’

‘The man’s turned chicken.’

‘He’ll be here,’ insisted Bestuzhev.

‘He’s already been here. He didn’t like the look of what was going on, so he nipped along to the office of the chief of staff and asked where he was supposed to go to swear allegiance to Nikolai. You know where he is now?’

Bestuzhev shook his head.

‘Hiding in the Austrian embassy.’

For the first time, Dmitry felt doubt. What kind of men were they led by? Ryleev made no claim to be a commander, but the farces of that morning proved that his poetical head was irredeemably in the clouds. Troubetzkoy had been a brave soldier – not least at Borodino – but that had been years before. Here they were – thousands of brave men with hope of a new future for Russia – brought to the square like sheep and then abandoned. Just a little leadership could make all the difference, but there was nowhere for it to come from.

Obolensky and Bestuzhev began to bicker about who should take charge – each trying to pin responsibility on the other. Bestuzhev insisted that he only had naval experience, which would be no use here; Obolensky argued that he was no leader of men. But Dmitry had stopped listening. He had seen someone through the crowd, approaching him.

It was his father.

Aleksei rushed through the crowd and embraced his son.

‘Thank God I found you,’ he said. Then he saw Dmitry’s face. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s falling apart, Papa. There’s no one to lead us.’

‘What about Troubetzkoy?’

‘Troubetzkoy made a run for it,’ said Dmitry, ‘and none of the others has the wit to take charge.’

Despite himself, Aleksei felt some of Dmitry’s disappointment. There was a dignity to the rebels, or to many of them – those involved at Dmitry’s level, chiefly. The ordinary soldiers here knew nothing. They had been deceived into thinking they were here to support Konstantin, when in reality Konstantin wanted no support. The men at the top were a mixture of politicians and dreamers – the former in the south and the latter in the north, to make a broad generalization. It was men like Dmitry who truly wanted a better Russia, and might have created one, given the opportunity.

‘You could lead us,’ said Dmitry suddenly.

Aleksei gave a curt laugh and then saw his son was in earnest. ‘Me?’ He laughed again. ‘I’m a colonel. I have no nobility in my blood, and no ability to make pretty speeches. More than that, it’s my profound belief that this day is beyond salvation. If I were to lead them anywhere, it would be back to their barracks.’ Aleksei did not have to lie for any of it. He had no need to admit to his son that he wanted the uprising to fail, because he could see now with certainty that it would fail.

Dmitry looked at him with a gaze of utter disappointment. He shook his head slowly and turned away, saying, ‘I never took you for a coward, Papa.’

At that moment, a silence settled on the crowd. Aleksei looked around and saw a figure on horseback riding boldly towards the centre of the square, where Bestuzhev and Obolensky stood. Aleksei recognized the man immediately – it was Mihail Andreevich Miloradovich, the governor general of the city. Aleksei remembered him from Austerlitz and more recently his heroic efforts to save lives in the floods the previous year. He also remembered that Miloradovich had submitted to Aleksandr a practical plan for the abolition of serfdom – and there was no man working on his own estates who was not free. Was it possible that he was coming here to join the rebellion? If so, Dmitry’s fears would be transformed. This would be a man to lead them.

Aleksei stepped forward and put a hand on Dmitry’s shoulder. Dmitry glanced at him and Aleksei could see in his eyes that sense of hope he had anticipated. They moved closer to hear what the governor general had to say. As soon as they were in earshot, it was evident that he had not come to succour the rebels.

‘And so I implore you,’ he was saying, ‘return to your barracks. You have my word; Nikolai is rightfully tsar. Those of you who have been deceived will not be punished for misplacing your patriotism. I’ve fought alongside many of you. I hope you’ve found me to be a man you can trust. I in turn trust our tsar, as appointed by his predecessor and by God – Nikolai Pavlovich.’

There was no cheer of support, but his speech was met with a thoughtful silence. Aleksei’s heart leapt at the prospect of a peaceful outcome, though the tension in the square remained a physical presence. Obolensky stepped forward to speak. Beside him was that odious figure, the volunteer for the garde perdue, Pyotr Grigoryevich Kakhovsky.

‘You have no friends here, Mihail Andreevich,’ Obolensky said. ‘You may support this despot, but these men love their country. I suggest you leave. If you remain, you may find yourself in danger.’

Miloradovich glanced from man to man of those who had gathered round, avoiding the gaze of Obolensky.

‘Miloradovich is right, Mitka,’ Aleksei murmured to his son. ‘You must leave. Now.’

‘Never!’ whispered Dmitry in response.

The governor general spoke again. ‘I’ll leave you all to consider matters,’ he said. ‘There may not be much time to end this peacefully.’

He turned his horse and rode back through the crowd, which parted to let him pass. There was a movement behind him. Aleksei saw the raised pistol. He threw himself towards Kakhovsky with a shout, but it was too late. The pistol fired with an explosion of smoke. The hole in Miloradovich’s back was small, but he fell forward in an instant. There were shouts all around, some of approval, others of anger. Cavalrymen galloped to rescue the governor general, but Aleksei did not see what happened to his body as the crowd surged forward.

Somebody began a chant of ‘Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya!’, which was soon picked up by the rest. Whatever contemplation Miloradovich might have inspired was quickly forgotten. Now there was no hope of a peaceful ending to the day. There were ten thousand soldiers out there with rifles, horses and cannon. It would be carnage.

Aleksei felt hands lifting him up from the ground. It was Dmitry. Holding his father’s arm, he seemed to notice for the first time the bandage which covered Aleksei’s left hand.

‘That was needlessly cruel,’ said the boy. ‘And you’re no coward, Papa.’

Aleksei had no time to ponder whether the last comment was inspired by his actions or by his latest wound. As he pulled himself up to his feet, the crowd around them thinned, and walking slowly towards them, looking calm and serene in civilian clothing, came Iuda.

Shock and loathing welled up in Aleksei’s stomach at the sight. Of all places and times, this was not one at which he wanted to be concerned with Iuda. But Aleksei’s reaction to the sight was quite different from that of his son.

Dmitry let go of his father and strode over to Iuda, his hand held out in greeting.

‘Vasiliy Denisovich,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘What an honour.’

CHAPTER XXXVII

‘WHY HAVE YOU COME HERE?’ THE QUESTION THAT DMITRY spoke was identical to the one on Aleksei’s mind, but he uttered it with none of the bile which Aleksei would have injected.

‘I came to see you, Mitka,’ replied Iuda. ‘Your mother is very concerned.’ He turned his attention to Aleksei, who had now caught up and stood beside his son. ‘It’s good to see you, Lyosha,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘It’s been many years.’

Aleksei’s mind raced to understand what on earth Iuda could mean. Clearly, his words were for Dmitry’s benefit.

‘Good Lord, yes,’ said Dmitry, with a hint of surprise. ‘I’d almost forgotten you two actually knew one another. It must be a long time.’

‘1812,’ said Iuda. ‘You were just a little boy. And a good boy, too – though it was hateful of me to ask you to deceive your father, and for so long.’

‘I think I’ve deceived him no more than he’s deceived me,’ said Dmitry. ‘I saw her, Vasiliy, in Moscow, just like you said.’

‘So it wasn’t only Marfa you introduced yourself to,’ said Aleksei. He couldn’t take his eyes from Iuda, much as he wanted to gauge his son’s reactions.

‘Mama’s told you already?’ asked Dmitry. ‘Vasiliy’s been a great friend to both of us – particularly when you’ve been away.’

Aleksei perceived the slightest shake of Iuda’s head, as if to tell him, no, Dmitry did not know just how close a friend Iuda had been to his mother. That certainly fitted the boy’s tone. No son could speak so lightly of the man who had turned his mother into an adulteress. And what would be the benefit of revealing the truth, even if it were to be believed? Dmitry had clearly been robbed of much of his respect for his father. Would it be fair to take away his opinion of his mother too? But on the other hand, it might be worth it if it would also strip away any regard in which he held Iuda.

‘Almost like a father,’ Dmitry continued. There was no suggestion of any artifice in his voice, but that did not change the fact that he believed what he was saying. Now Iuda’s eyes smiled in victory. Aleksei felt weak.

‘I’m a soldier,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t always be at home.’

‘God no, Papa,’ said Dmitry, stumbling over his words as he realized what he had said. ‘I didn’t mean anything of that kind.’ But it was too late for him to take it back.

Iuda was characteristically two-faced. ‘Nor did your father think it, Mitka. I couldn’t begin to take Lyosha’s place in your heart, any more than I could in your mother’s. I’m just someone who’s kept a benign eye on you when he’s been away. I’m sure you’ll have much less need of me now you’ve grown up and flown the nest.’

Iuda had played it so simply – Dmitry was forced to disagree. ‘No, Vasiliy,’ he said, gripping Iuda’s shoulder, ‘you’ve been far more to us both than that. And always will be.’

Iuda patted Dmitry’s hand and smiled kindly. ‘Thank you for that, Mitka,’ he said. ‘I will try to live up to your expectations. But we have chatted long enough. We must turn to the reason I am here.’

‘Go on.’

‘Your mother has sent me. I’ve told her what you’ve been planning for today.’ Iuda raised a hand as he spoke, as though to stop any objection from Dmitry. ‘I’m sorry, but I hold you both in too much regard to keep it from her.’ With the clear implication that Aleksei did not. ‘She begs you to leave, before you are killed.’

Dmitry did not even need to think about his answer. ‘As does the mother of every man here,’ he explained. ‘No freedom would ever be won if women ruled the world; they all love their sons too much.’

Iuda nodded. ‘That is much what I told her you would say, but at least I have done what she asked of me.’ He paused, lifting Dmitry’s hand and holding it in both his own. ‘This appeal, however, comes from me. Leave the field. You can do nothing here. Nikolai is tsar; you cannot change that.’

‘I can die trying,’ insisted Dmitry.

‘You will die failing,’ said Iuda.

Iuda held the pose for several seconds, looking up into Dmitry’s eyes. Neither spoke. It was Aleksei who broke the silence.

‘Listen to him, Mitka,’ he said. It revolted him to urge anyone to take Iuda’s advice, and to be deferring to him, rather than to take the lead in imploring Dmitry to go, but none of that mattered if it succeeded in saving the boy’s life. Aleksei loved Dmitry as a person more even than he loved him as a son. He was prepared to lose the relationship in order to save the man.

Finally, Dmitry was resolved. ‘Very well,’ he nodded, ‘but you’ll both come too.’

‘Of course,’ said Aleksei. ‘But Vasiliy and I have an important matter to discuss first.’

Iuda raised a questioning eyebrow at Aleksei. There was a hint of admiration in the smile that crossed his lips.

‘Here?’ exclaimed Dmitry. ‘Surely it can wait.’

‘No,’ said Iuda, ‘your father is quite right. Besides, if we all three leave together it’s more likely we’ll be stopped. We’ll see you soon. We both will. And don’t worry, I’ll be quite safe.’ He tapped his chest again in the same way Aleksei had noticed two days before. If Dmitry observed it, he made no comment.

Instead he gave Aleksei a brief hug, then did the same with Iuda. He headed off to the east, pushing his way through crowds of rebellious soldiers who did nothing to stop him.

‘What is it that we have to discuss?’ Iuda’s voice spoke in Aleksei’s ear as they watched Dmitry depart.

The truth was there was only one thing Aleksei wanted to talk to Iuda about, and that was to tell him that he had been taken for a fool and that Aleksandr was not dead. But he had already decided that he would do that only in the moments before Iuda’s death. Now he had the perfect opportunity to kill Iuda, or at least to see him die.

Iuda – Vasiliy Denisovich Makarov – Richard L. Cain – all would die by a single bullet, fired from the gun of a soldier loyal to Tsar Nikolai I. There were plenty of them about, the square was almost surrounded by now, and if none of them managed to fire a fatal shot, then Aleksei had a loaded pistol in his pocket, and was as loyal to Nikolai as any. Neither Marfa nor Dmitry could lay any blame at Aleksei’s door for the death. There would be hundreds killed here today, it was inescapable. No one would be suspicious if one of them was Iuda. Dmitry had heard for himself that Iuda was prepared to stay a while longer. Perhaps there would even be witnesses who could attest to seeing Aleksei desperately attempting to save his old – and so recently reconciled – friend’s life. He felt sure he could stomach a little play-acting for that.

‘You play a long game, Iuda,’ he said.

‘You’re too generous, Lyosha. You see structure in the present and assume that my every action in the past was working towards it. In reality, the reverse is true. I do things that seem interesting at the time and then decide later what I can make of them.’

Aleksei was only half listening. His eyes were scanning the square. Dmitry was not yet out of sight. To the south, he could see a definite, organized movement of the troops.

‘Do you really think,’ Iuda continued, ‘that in 1812 I ingratiated myself with your wife and son with the intention of revealing the fact to you in 1825?’

‘You planned to reveal it some time.’

‘How could I even know how they would react to me? I couldn’t have guessed that your wife would be so eagerly accommodating; nor how much your son would search for someone to fill the gap left by his absent father.’

Aleksei glanced at him. It wasn’t so surprising that barbs concerning Dmitry stung more than those about Marfa, and it wasn’t just that one was a fresher wound. ‘I don’t think Dmitry would be too fond of you if he knew what you and his mother had been doing.’

‘Her thoughts exactly,’ said Iuda. ‘To him I’m just an old family friend – a sort of uncle, whom he has known longer than he can remember.’

‘You had to make sure he never mentioned you to me.’

‘Again, you see patterns after they have emerged and assume they are part of some grand design. Do you play chess, Lyosha?’

Aleksei’s mind jumped back to a frozen army camp where – as now – he had believed he had Iuda at his mercy. ‘You know I do,’ he said. ‘Last time we spoke of it, you described how disappointed you got whenever I fell for one of your little traps, because it meant you wouldn’t get to spring the bigger trap you’d been planning all along.’

‘I did say that, didn’t I? Well, I lied – it’s a vile habit and I apologize for it. But the big trap is not the one that was designed to be big; it’s the one that grows that way. I never told Marfa or Mitka to avoid telling you about me. The boy was only five at the time – how could he have understood? And what would it have meant to you to hear of Vasiliy Denisovich? But then, when I learned later that you knew nothing of me, that’s when I decided to encourage the idea. I was already fucking your wife as often as she could take it, so she wasn’t going to tell. And Dmitry wasn’t too pleased with you at the time, thanks to your failure to take his piano playing seriously – it was I who first taught him to play, incidentally.’

Aleksei let the words bounce off him. It was all true, but it did not matter. Whatever Iuda might have attempted, Dmitry had grown up to be a good man – a man who did not get on with his own father, but that could be remedied, once Iuda was out of the way.

Iuda himself seemed to have detected Aleksei’s lack of interest, and had changed tack. ‘I’m glad we persuaded him to go though, Lyosha. That was teamwork, you’ll have to admit. Neither of us wants him to die here amongst these failures.’

‘Failures?’

‘Oh, come on. You know it as well as I do. The leaders are romantics and the men are dupes. Listen to them.’ He paused, cocking his ear to the air with his usual theatricality. Various shouts filled the square, but one phrase which had become the rallying cry of the rebels stood out.

‘“Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya!”’ he repeated. ‘I asked one of them what “Konstitutsiya” meant. You know what he said?’

‘What?’

‘He said it was the name of Konstantin’s wife. These people don’t deserve liberty.’

Aleksei was still eyeing the square. Dmitry was almost out of sight. He could hear shouted orders flying back and forth in the distance. Soon they would open fire. Iuda needed to be prepared for what Aleksei planned to tell him – it was time to do a little knife-turning of his own.

‘You think that’s Zmyeevich up there?’ He nodded towards the bronze statue. ‘Vanquished by Pyotr – crushed under his horse’s hooves?’

Iuda looked up at the serpent. ‘It must have been around here, mustn’t it?’ He sounded as though it had genuinely only just occurred to him. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Do you think they’ll do one of Aleksandr in a similar pose?’ asked Aleksei. ‘Of course, it won’t just be Zmyeevich they show him defeating. How would you like to be depicted? A cockroach must be very tricky to carve.’

Iuda smiled tightly. ‘I don’t think Aleksandr’s victory was all that brilliant. To triumph by dying? Did he perhaps never get as far as the end of the Bible? Saw what the Son of God did and decided to emulate it, not realizing that he needed to manage resurrection as well as crucifixion? Pyotr was the true genius. To have his blood drunk by a vampire and to live through it into old age – that’s a feat that would be almost impossible to surpass.’

Aleksei had to hide his excitement. Soon Iuda would know the truth of what he was saying. It would be a joyous moment.

Dmitry had forgotten to thank his father for the piano. It was a small thing, but it mattered. It was Vasiliy who deserved the real thanks, for the encouragement, the advice, the first inspiring lessons. All Aleksei had done was to spend some of his money; a lot of his money. But it was money well spent, and Dmitry felt it indicated a change in his father’s attitude. He would have time to thank them both later, he hoped.

He stepped over the tiny low fence that marked the boundary of Senate Square. For the crowds on both sides, it was as good as a thick, solid brick wall. On the inside stood the rebelling soldiers. They had been told to assemble in Senate Square, and assemble there they did. One foot placed outside would have ruined the plans so carefully laid down by their diligent, absent leaders. On the outside, it was all civilians, by now quite a number of them. It was coming up to three in the afternoon – almost sunset – and news of what was happening had spread through the city. The citizens had gathered to watch. But just as the rebels knew their place, the onlookers, even without explicit instruction, knew that to step over those small slats of wood and into the square would transform them from observers into participants. It was as invisible and as impenetrable a barrier as that which separated a stage from an auditorium.

From over by the cathedral, Dmitry heard a shout. He looked. It was Nikolai himself who had given the order. In a second, a dozen cannons roared and their mouths spat canister across the square. A wave of men at the front of the crowd collapsed. Dmitry whirled on his heel and looked back towards his father and Vasiliy. Around them, some men fled and others stayed rooted to the spot. The men he was looking for stared back in his direction.

Aleksei was gesticulating with exaggerated arm movements, pointing at Dmitry and at himself and Vasiliy and in other directions too. The message was clear enough. Dmitry should carry on in the way he was heading; they two would try to escape across the other side of the square. Still Dmitry hesitated. He should go back and help them, though there would be nothing he could do but encourage them to run faster. They were both the type of men who knew how to survive. His father was, anyway. Vasiliy always had a slightly spiritual, unworldly air to him, a sense of benign impracticality, which Dmitry loved, but caused him worry as to the dangers it might bring upon its bearer.

But Dmitry knew he need not be concerned. However little experience Vasiliy might have under fire, Aleksei was an old professional, and Dmitry knew that his father, whatever differences he and Vasiliy might have had in the past, would not leave the square without first ensuring his friend’s survival. It was Vasiliy himself who had taught Dmitry that much about his father – taught him more than he had ever had the chance to experience for himself.

Dmitry took one last look towards the two of them, still in a state of indecision. Aleksei repeated his gestures once again, as if Dmitry had not understood them, but surprisingly it was Vasiliy who appeared the more calm. Standing just behind Aleksei, his only movement was a slow nod, but Dmitry understood entirely what Vasiliy meant. He always did.

Dmitry Alekseevich turned and fled into the twilight.

Aleksei turned back towards Iuda the moment he saw Dmitry at last depart. There was no one there. He heard a second volley of cannonfire. This time, panic spread through all assembled. Those who had stood their ground in the face of the first barrage now ran for their lives. Through the crowd, Aleksei caught sight of Iuda; he was past the statue of Pyotr and heading for the far corner of the square. Aleksei set off in pursuit. Most of the crowd was flowing in that direction, and Iuda soon became lost from sight again.

Aleksei kept on running. Iuda was easy to spot as one of the few in civilian dress. He had reached the corner of the square and had stopped, deciding which way to go. Half of the crowd was pouring into the narrow gap between the buildings that was the entrance to Galernaya Street, hammering on doors which refused to open, whilst the other half – more than half – were heading for the river. Some were making for the Isaakievsky Bridge; others ran straight out on to the ice itself. Iuda chose the river. His indecision had allowed Aleksei to catch up with him a little, but he was still not close.

Now, there were more civilians. Those crowds that had gathered to watch the stand-off as though it were some public spectacle had suddenly found themselves a part of the entertainment at which they had come to gawp. Soldiers showed them no more respect than they did their comrades, and many – men, women and even children – were trampled underfoot.

Iuda was out on the ice now. He would have been a fool to take the bridge. It was already overflowing with fugitives and many were forced to leap off its sides and on to the flat, white surface below. In summer, the entire bridge might have capsized, but the ice that locked its pontoons into place allowed no movement. Aleksei was on the rim of the stone embankment. He had the advantage of height over Iuda and was within range, but he did not want to shoot him in the back; that would be no fun. He drew his pistol.

‘Iuda!’ he shouted.

Iuda turned and saw the gun in his hand. He stood still and upright, his head slightly to one side. He seemed shocked – as if Aleksei had cheated. And it was true, if Aleksei were to shoot him stone dead now, it would be to cheat them both. But Aleksei was a pretty good shot, and Iuda would live long enough to hear what he had to tell him.

There were a hundred witnesses, but none would bother to look in the direction of the two men who faced each other across the ice. Even if they did see, they would not volunteer any information. ‘And what were you doing in Senate Square that evening?’ would not be a question for which many could find a satisfactory answer. For the same reason, many broken limbs that night would go unset, many wounds unbound; many who might have lived would die.

Aleksei took aim and curled his finger around the trigger. Above him, he heard a whistling sound. It was a cannonball. At almost the same instant he heard a second. Some of the fools had loaded their guns with round shot rather than canister. It would do nothing but shatter the ice of the river – unless that had been their intention. The first shot sailed over the river and landed somewhere on the Vasilevskiy Island. The second smashed through the Neva’s frozen surface close to the far bank. Iuda was thrown from his feet on to his back. Aleksei tried to adjust his aim, but it caused him to lose his balance. He jumped down on to the ice and managed to remain on his feet. He walked towards Iuda, holding the pistol out in front of him.

‘We should do this in summer next time,’ said Iuda as Aleksei approached.

‘There won’t be a next time,’ replied Aleksei.

‘Doesn’t it seem to you like fate? The bridge? The icy river? The cannonfire?’

‘The difference is I have a gun this time,’ said Aleksei.

Iuda pulled a face that acknowledged Aleksei’s point. Aleksei took aim. He remembered the advice of Kyesha’s letter: no poetry, just certainty.

‘Can you do it, Lyosha?’ Iuda asked. ‘Can you really kill me with such callousness? Not leave me in a burning building? Or thrust my head under the water of a freezing river? Or abandon me in a cave with a horde of ravenous vampires who despise my very soul? You have to leave me some way out.’

Aleksei thought about what Iuda was saying. Was there really some weakness, some sentimentality in Aleksei’s make-up that meant he had to give Iuda a fighting chance, or that he had to let God decide his ultimate fate? History might indicate it, but that said nothing for the future, or the present. He allowed a parade of faces to pass in front of him: Maks, Vadim, Margarita, Major Maskov, Captain Lishin, countless unnamed others, even the vampires that he had tortured, even Kyesha. And what of what he had done to Marfa and Dmitry; to Aleksei himself? If Aleksei had given Iuda a chance before then he had been a fool. But that could be remedied. He was older now, and wiser.

He pulled the trigger.

The pistol recoiled in Aleksei’s hand and Iuda’s body jerked with the impact of the pellet. Blood spurted from the centre of his chest, but Aleksei knew he had missed the heart. Iuda had to be alive to be able to listen.

Now for the play-acting – just in case somebody chose to bear witness to this event, to report it back to Marfa or Dmitry.

‘Oh my God! Vasiliy!’ shouted Aleksei. He ran over to the prostrate figure and knelt beside it. Looking back towards the square, he saw government troops begin to arrive at the riverbank. Behind them rode Pyotr in triumphant bronze, silhouetted against the moonlight. Aleksei grabbed Iuda under the arms and dragged him out further towards the middle of the river, as if to protect him from those terrible men who had shot him, but he still made sure that they were in a place where Pyotr’s bronze eyes could look down upon them.

‘You surprise me, Lyosha,’ said Iuda. His voice was croaky and punctuated by coughing. Blood showed on his lips, flowing out down his chin each time he spoke. ‘But I suppose you have won. A checkmate is a checkmate, however dull.’ His fingers scrabbled at his coat buttons. Aleksei helped to undo them, knowing that he had to breathe in order to hear what Aleksei had to say.

‘Oh, this is no simple checkmate, Iuda,’ said Aleksei. ‘You’ve been fooled – played for a prostak – and now I’m going to tell you all about it.’

Iuda’s hand slipped inside his coat. His fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt and finally found their way inside. For a moment Aleksei was fearful that he had his own gun, but he doubted he would have the strength to use it.

‘Do go on, Lyosha,’ said Iuda. Any pretence he made at encouragement was lost in the gargling of blood in his chest. He really didn’t seem interested in what Aleksei had to say. Aleksei thought he had been pretty smart – finding a way of solving all his problems and of puncturing Iuda’s ridiculous ego at the moment of his death. But when the moment came, Iuda was refusing to play the game. His hand reached inside his shirt and finally caught a grip on whatever was within. He sighed and closed his eyes, breathing more easily. In any other man, Aleksei would have suspected that he had taken hold of a crucifix.

Iuda opened his eyes again. ‘Go on, Lyosha,’ he said.

At last, Aleksei understood the difference between them. It was not that Iuda was better at devising a deception than he was. He probably was, but that was not the point. The real difference was that Iuda did not so eagerly play the victim as Aleksei had always done. He managed to keep up the veneer of being in control even as he lost everything – his life included. It did not matter. Iuda would die and Aleksei would have the pleasure of telling him that Aleksandr was alive. Iuda might pretend not to care, but Aleksei would know, and that would be enough.

‘Iuda,’ he said, patting him consolingly on the chest, ‘I have beaten you.’

Iuda’s body was ripped by convulsive coughing. Aleksei realized he would have to hurry things along, but Iuda seemed to appreciate that too. He pulled his hand from inside his shirt. Two strands of a leather cord emerged from it, by which whatever he was holding had been hung around his neck. He opened his hand and in it Aleksei saw nestling a small glass vial, containing a dark liquid. With a jerk, Iuda tugged at it. The stopper, attached to the leather band, came loose, and in a moment Iuda had the vial to his lips. He drank very little and then his arm fell to one side. He breathed more slowly now, as a contented smile spread across his face.

‘Carry on, Lyosha,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it was you were going to say.’

Aleksei didn’t speak. He looked down at Iuda’s hand. The glass vial had rolled out of it on to the ice, spilling the remainder of its contents. A small, dark stain spread out across the ice – black in the moonlight, but Aleksei knew well enough not to trust that fickle illumination. He picked up the vial and sniffed it. The scent was unmistakeable – blood.

‘Please, Lyosha, grant a dying man his wish.’

Aleksei said nothing. Iuda’s words from earlier that day echoed in his mind.

‘Pyotr was the true genius. To have his blood drunk by a vampire and to live through it into old age – that’s a feat that would be almost impossible to surpass.’

But Iuda had surpassed it. He had had a vampire drink his blood – the scars Aleksei had seen on his neck proved that – and had kept in that bottle which he hung around his neck blood from that same vampire; an insurance policy – a lifesaving elixir he could consume whenever his life was at risk. Perhaps Kyesha had been the voordalak from whom he had taken that blood, perhaps another. It did not matter.

‘Please, tell me. How did you fool me?’

Aleksei smiled. ‘I didn’t, Iuda. I was pretending, but I won’t lie to you. I could never devise a trick clever enough to fool you.’

‘I thought perhaps you’d finally discovered it was Dominique you saw me with at that window in Moscow.’ His lips curled into a grin. ‘Or equally, that it was Margarita.’

‘No, Iuda,’ said Aleksei. ‘You’ve still got me there.’

Iuda coughed again. His stomach contracted and his upper body rose up towards Aleksei. His eyes stared out at him, and tried to smile, but it only meant that more of his own blood spewed from his mouth. His eyes lost their focus and his body went limp, falling back on to the ice. On last, great, bloody cough issued from him, but Aleksei knew it was only the wind escaping from his body.

Iuda was dead, but not dead. He was undead. How long it would take for the full transformation – the induction, as Iuda had termed it – to be complete, he did not know. But it would happen. Iuda had preferred to live as a man for as long as he could, but in the end had chosen to live as a voordalak rather than not live at all.

Unless Aleksei could do something about it.

He had not brought his wooden sword with him – he had not thought to encounter any voordalaki in Petersburg. But he had his sabre, and although he knew he could not use it to stab Iuda’s lifeless body through the heart, he could still make use of it to sever Iuda’s head.

He rolled the corpse over on to its front and then stood up. He drew his sword, raising it up above his head and squeezing the handle tight. He felt pain in his left hand, where his newest wound had scarcely begun to heal, but he ignored it, focusing all his hatred upon the back of Iuda’s inert neck.

‘Halt!’ came a shout from the riverbank. ‘You there! What the hell are you doing?’

Aleksei ignored the soldiers and brought down the blade. A shot hit him in the arm, but it did not hamper him as he swung the steel inexorably towards Iuda’s undefended neck. Then the ice shook beneath his feet. A cannonball landed in front of him, just beyond Iuda’s body. Aleksei was thrown back. He felt his sword briefly connect with Iuda’s flesh, but it would have been no more than a scratch. He landed on his back, but was soon sitting up again.

It was too late. Even as he watched, Iuda’s inanimate body slipped into the hole in the ice the round shot had created. There was barely the sound of a splash as it vanished. Aleksei was reminded again of Satschan and even more of the Berezina. It was ever the same in Russia – snow and ice and freezing cold. This time, though, things were different. There was more certainty. This time he knew for sure that Iuda was dead. But though, like his namesake, Iuda would be entombed in ice, and though he had chosen a fate that ensured he would encounter Satan himself, neither would be permanent. This time Aleksei was confident that, when the ice melted, Iuda would live again.

Aleksei turned over on to his front and raised himself to his feet. He began to run across the ice, towards Vasilevskiy Island and – perhaps – freedom.

Nikolai’s loyal troops ran after him in close pursuit.

Aleksei remained imprisoned in the Peter and Paul Fortress for seven months. He’d made it across the river, but there were troops already waiting on the other side, rounding up the fleeing rebels. Aleksei opted for arrest rather than a bullet.

Prince Volkonsky – Pyotr Mihailovich – had been his most frequent visitor and greatest supporter, but there was nothing he could do to get Aleksei off the hook. He’d been a favourite more of Aleksandr than of Nikolai, and any sway he might have had was reduced by the involvement of the other Prince Volkonsky – his brother-in-law, Sergei Grigorovich – in the plot itself, which had taken on the appellation of the ‘Decembrist Uprising’. Even if none of that had been the case, there was little hope for Aleksei; he had infiltrated the movement too well. His name – in his own hand – was on the list in Nikolai’s possession, many of the rebels could identify him personally, and he had fled arrest from the tsar himself at the Winter Palace. Any defence would risk the true story of what had happened in Taganrog coming out, and exposing Dmitry as one of the plotters. Neither was worth Aleksei’s freedom. They tortured him, but they were amateurs compared with what Aleksei had experienced. Other prisoners did not stand it so well; Colonel Bulatov, so the grapevine had it, had committed suicide – by cracking his skull open against the wall of his cell.

The greater help that Volkonsky could offer was the promise that he would ensure the financial security of Aleksei’s family – both his families – and the spiritual security of the Romanovs. Aleksei did not know whether his trial would lead to death, prison or exile, but there was a strong likelihood he would not be in a position to do anything useful when Aleksandr Nikolayevich came of age. He told Volkonsky that Cain was now a vampire, and told him all his aliases – all those he knew.

The thaw came as usual in spring and the ice on the Neva melted. Hundreds of corpses began to be washed up on the riverbanks, of both rebels and bystanders, but there was no sign of Iuda. Volkonsky argued that the corpse could well have floated out into the sea and sunk to the bottom, or could have been misidentified – easy in the case of a man with so many names – but Aleksei knew that, like Christ, like Caesar’s dynasty, Iuda had required his own death in order to rise again and become the thing that in his heart he had always been: a vampire.

Letters from Dmitry and Marfa made no mention of Vasiliy Denisovich, either in terms of his disappearance or his continued presence, but to discuss him would be to kick Aleksei while he was down.

On 13 July 1826, the sentences were carried out. There were 289 convicted. Suspiciously, 290 of those who had gone on trial were acquitted. It seemed that Nikolai was being mathematically precise in his demonstration of erring on the side of leniency. Many of the men had taken part in a revolt in the south, some weeks after the events in Senate Square. It had been better organized and better supported, but so far away from the seat of power it had meant nothing, and the strength of Nikolai’s loyal armies had proved the greater.

It was three in the morning when they began to be led out of the dingy cells – still damp from the floods of two years before. Whereas at the time of the uprising there had only been six hours of daylight, now there were only the same of darkness. It was a bright morning twilight that Aleksei and the others emerged into, though the full moon still hung in the air. At least he would have the satisfaction that Iuda could not be there to witness his undoing.

Aleksei stood stiffly to attention as the insignia were ripped from his uniform. There were so many prisoners they had to queue, but none was allowed to see what was happening to the man in front of him. Aleksei had been proud to be made a colonel, and many people now long dead – his father, his mother, Vadim Fyodorovich – would have been proud of him too. But if they were now in a position to know he had become a colonel, and to know that he had been stripped of that rank, then they must also know the reasons behind it; he felt no shame.

He was moved on and next instructed to remove what was left of his uniform and change into a simple peasant robe, but then, strangely, he was issued with a sword. It was not his own, but he could guess the symbolism that led to its being issued to him. He was brought out into the early sunlight. It had been raining overnight, but it was clear now, though the ground was still damp. In front of Aleksei stood five gallows, empty for the time being, and beside them a raging fire.

The sword he had just been given was taken from him. The officer who had taken it raised it above Aleksei’s head, holding its handle and its tip, and began to bend it. This was the symbolic degradation that was applied to a traitor. Aleksei himself had once before been on the other end of the ceremony, when he had held Maksim Sergeivich’s sword above his head and snapped it in two. Then he had believed Maks to be a traitor and Maks had known that, ultimately, his treason was justified. Aleksei could not feel sorry for himself. There were people alive who knew what Aleksei had done – not many, but enough. He would die in the knowledge that somewhere out there, those that he cared for most still loved him. Maks had only regained that love after he had died, and for him that was too late. He remembered Maks’ tearful eyes as the sword shattered, and the surrounding circle of voordalaki, with Iuda gloating as he looked on.

The sound of the sword breaking – that same metallic scream, which he had not heard for thirteen years – awoke him from his thoughts. The two halves of the blade were thrown on to the fire to melt, and Aleksei was led to a group of his fellow traitors who stood and waited before the gallows. That was the worst affront of all. Russia did not sanction capital punishment, not for the last three quarters of a century. It seemed that Nikolai, like his brother before him, had plans to modify the constitution. Once all the officers – now officers no more – had gone through the process of degradation, the hangings began.

The names of the five ringleaders were read out and they were led up to the gallows; Pestel, Muriev-Apostol, Ryleev, Bestuzhev-Riumin and the murderous Kakhovsky. Each man climbed the ladder and had a noose placed around his neck and tightened. The hangman struggled with the ropes, wet from the overnight rain, but eventually all five men were ready. They were kicked away from the ladders.

A groan was uttered in unison from the watching crowd and heads were turned away. Three of the men slipped from the ropes and landed on the ground below; Muriev-Apostol, Ryleev and Kakhovsky. While the other two men kicked at the air with ever decreasing vigour, the process began again for the ‘lucky’ three. This time there was no mistake. In Aleksei’s mind, only Kakhovsky deserved it.

Another list of names was read out – around thirty in all – Aleksei’s amongst them. Then the sentence was declared. It was not to be hanging. Aleksei could not tell whether he was relieved. To die would have made a quick end of it, but life meant hope, and Aleksei was in need of hope.

A few hours later he was led, in amongst a small group, out of the Neva gate of the fortress and along the short, stone pier to a waiting barge. He looked across the broad, flowing river at Saint Petersburg. He could see the Winter Palace, and a little of the Admiralty, but Senate Square and the statue of Pyotr were out of sight. He stepped down into the boat and within minutes it pushed off, taking him, and his fellow rebels, to a new life, from which there would be no return: a life of exile.

He looked once again at the city’s skyline. As they moved upstream, he just caught a glimpse of the monument to Pyotr’s proud victory, where once, like Saint George, he had defeated a serpent. If only, like George, he had managed to kill it. The statue disappeared from view. It would be the last he saw of Petersburg, or of any real civilization, but he would get used to it.

Even so, he wished his final glimpse of a city could have been of Moscow. He’d always preferred Moscow.