The Tsarina's Legacy (34 page)

“I should think you'd be more upset. For all your talk of empire and legacies, when it comes down to it, all you care about is your own fortune and reputation.”

“And what do you think I should do if you insist on starting this rumor?”

“I suppose you might try to convince Catherine I'm wrong. She might believe you. But then she may not have the energy to deal with your foolishness any longer either.”

He had raised Catherine's hopes, and his own hope as well, for a new life together. And all for naught. The pain of it made him sick to his stomach. He would hurt her again. But he could not let her pay such a high price for his own thwarted ambitions.

“Personally, I think the empress will be relieved to see you go,” Zubov said, his voice tearing through the shadows in Grisha's heart. “She has grown so flustered these past few weeks. She believes the two of you work best when you are apart, even if you are man and wife. You will do her a favor by leaving. Some might see it as your duty to the motherland.”

“Perhaps so, perhaps not. But I cannot go to the empress because I intend to sap this rumor of its strength here and now.”

Zubov looked supremely proud of himself. “As I anticipated.”

Grisha rose to his full height and moved forward. The boy reeled, as though Grisha might strike him. But then, just as quickly, he extended a tentative hand, like he wanted to catch Grisha should he fall.

“I will leave the capital, as you request,” Grisha said. “But if either you or that dimwit Paul lets this falsehood carry any farther than your two ridiculous minds, I assure you I will return as quickly as the finest horse can fly, find you in the dead of night, and slit your throats myself.”

Zubov raised one of his pale hands protectively to his neck, the ruffles at the end of his shirt flopping. “What an empty threat, Prince. All that to defend your sullied reputation?”

“If you let a word of this breathe out, who else are you implicating?”

A slow light of recognition flickered in Zubov's pretty and vacant eyes. He made a little huffing sound.

“Whom have I had carnal relations with and might also carry the illness?” Grisha pressed.

“The empress…”

“If you impugn me, you cast doubt on Catherine's sanity. And perhaps you truly did not consider that part when you concocted this little plan with the grand duke. But I assure you, Paul had it in his head all along and will be more than happy to have those around us believe his mother no longer fit for her duties. They might fashion it a crisis for the empire.”

“But…,” Zubov sputtered, “anyone with a lick of sense knows Catherine is as clearheaded as ever. She is in her prime.”

“And when has the truth ever mattered when shifts of power are readied?” Grisha withdrew his handkerchief and mopped his wet brow. “You said as much yourself. When the Orlovs dispatched Catherine's late husband, they said he had died of hemorrhoids. Everyone believed that story as though angels had drifted down from the heavens to declare it true. If even a few power-hungry fools latch on to your ridiculous tale to have Catherine declared an imbecile, in exchange for a few choice positions granted by her moron of a son…”

Grisha paused, drawing in a deep breath, fingers flexing. He knew he took a risk revealing all of this, but on the other hand he knew he was merely collateral damage in this sordid affair. Paul's true target was Catherine. Zubov's talents in the boudoir would be of little interest to Paul—or at least if they were, Paul would need to keep that fact quiet. If Catherine were to go, Zubov could find himself kicked out of the palace with a far less generous pension than Catherine would provide for him should she ever tire of his companionship.

Zubov stomped his black boot on the carpet and made a quick half-turn to hide his expression. Grisha exhaled, feeling the fabric of his waistcoat tight against his bloated stomach. Try as the boy did to hide, even with one good eye Grisha could see everything clicking together in Zubov's mind, how Paul had manipulated him. Paul would never view Zubov as anything other than a pawn. Catherine, on the other hand, adored him.

“I admit I did not consider the matter in this light,” Zubov said slowly. “I thought only of the great fear Catherine has of acquiring the illness.”

“I will tend to a few last affairs in St. Petersburg and then I will return to the south as the empress has suggested, to negotiate peace with the Turks. That should satisfy Paul for the moment.” Grisha loosened a button at his throat. “But it will be on your shoulders to assure he never lets this rumor get out. That Paul is kept in his place.”

“If you concede and leave … and leave Catherine to me … I assure you this rumor will not come to light. I swear it on my life. If I go back on my word, return and cut my throat. And if Paul makes any move to threaten Catherine, I shall cut his throat myself.”

It was in the boy's best interest that Catherine remain on the throne, but Zubov also carried a note of true affection in his voice when he spoke of her. Even with the tremendous age difference between them, he supposed Zubov might have developed a measure of passion for Catherine's keen and ever-curious mind, her spirit. It was something they shared, their mutual respect and love for this woman. Zubov's love could never match Grisha's, of course, but the thought left him feeling a bit warmer toward the boy.

“I will do as I'm told,” Grisha said, bowing. “But I desire private time with the empress now, so that I may break the news to her. I expect it will take her by surprise.”

Zubov's lip twitched. “Of course.”

“And you needn't worry,” Grisha said casually. “The rumors of the venereal illness are just that. Rumors. It is one scourge I have avoided in this life.”

“I was not worried,” Zubov said, too quickly.

“Even so,” Grisha said, backing away from him so that he might find Catherine, “I thought it would be best to put your mind at ease.”

*   *   *

The pasha waited, as Grisha expected he would, even before he detected the chill in the air. He stood right outside the entrance to the room where Catherine and the others were watching the French comedies, laughter still ringing in the halls. From the stern expression on his face, it seemed he had heard every word Zubov uttered.

“They say your woman awarded you a saber covered in diamonds to reward you for your victories over our empire,” the pasha said. “Such a prize, crusader. Did you earn every last one of those jewels? Do they each represent a soul slaughtered?”

Grisha turned right and left and then made a full circle to ensure they were alone before he spoke. “You were never awarded such mementos by your superiors? Were there no battles that gave you pause? That made you remember the blood you had spilled rather than the glory? Are your hands so clean you feel compelled to haunt me?”

The pasha bent to stroke the golden fur of the lion crouched at his feet. Grisha cringed and leaned against the wall, sure the lion might leap and sink his teeth in his throat. Both of them seemed corporeal to Grisha, no fuzziness around their edges at all. He kept telling himself these were mere apparitions, visitors in this world. And yet the pasha's presence was no less real.

“I have done all I could,” Grisha whispered to the pasha. Stage voices rumbled through the walls along with raucous laughter. He supposed the noises of the audience covered his own voice well enough, but he didn't want to take any chances. “You heard the boy. I must return to the south. It is in God's hands now. My work here is done.”

“Your woman will construct the mosque in Moscow?” the pasha said.

“I don't know. I must leave her now. I can stay in St. Petersburg a while longer, but I must withdraw from her affections or these boys will destroy her. She can't fight her favorite and her son when they conspire together, nor can I.”

“It would be a terrible thing to leave now when you almost have your woman back in the palm of your hand.”

“I will leave to save her. It is the right course of action, even if it comes with regrets.”

“I have regrets as well, infidel. We all make mistakes in war.” The pasha stared at him intently, even more closely than he had during his past visits.

A powerful sensation washed over Grisha, making his limbs tremble and clouding his vision entirely. He had returned to Ochakov, as though his body had been transported south.

His men wanted vengeance. Whenever they looked toward the fortress, they saw the grotesque and slowly rotting heads mounted along the walls, bruised now with frostbite. The faces of his remaining soldiers grew grim, set with determination. He sympathized with their frustration, felt it gnaw deep in his own soul. Still, he could not give the order. He paced the encampment, biting his inflamed red thumb, already haunted by the number of casualties both sides were sure to incur. There had to be another way. The Ottoman leaders in Constantinople would see the foolishness of their stubborn refusal to relent.

But they did not surrender, not even in the face of a Russian force with far superior numbers. Constantinople was not so far away, merely across the Black Sea. It must have seemed the infidels were closer than ever to triumph in their latest crusade.

He could not turn away. The Turks would only follow and no doubt feel even more emboldened by his cowardice. Even if they did not engage, they would take a few of his men at the very least, stragglers in the back. They would behave as savages, slice off the heads of his men and throw them at Grisha's feet. He must not allow that to happen.

He waited, silently praying he was wrong and the enemy would surrender. He thought he could see their eyes on him, judging, and rightly so.

And so Grisha had given the order to take the fortress, to plunder at will. The fighting commenced. The siege was a success. A massacre, as he knew it would be. He had no choice. The enemy had had ample opportunities to surrender and refused. He did what he had to do.

When Grisha gave the call to charge the fortress, his soldiers were merciless. The bodies of fallen warriors piled on top of one another on the streets, trampled by horses and soldiers. The blue lips and sickly pallid faces of Ochakov's defenders were etched in his memory, constantly accusing him. He had done this. He had given the order. He had destroyed them, had destroyed their world, all for the sake of his New Russia. His version of God, a deity who could allow this destruction, was a cruel being. They hadn't spared the women. They hadn't even spared children. He watched one of his adjutants wander past the remains of the city's mosque with a child gripping his hand. The girl had tangled black hair and blood on her face and the expression of a shocked recruit. When a Russian soldier passed them, the adjutant shielded the child instinctively with his arms. She could not have been more than seven.

The little girl lowered her gaze, afraid even to look at Grisha.

Later, safely inside his own tent, he would vomit into a basin.

Allah would demand retribution, or at least atonement. God would punish him. The Muslims may have called their God by another name, but their deity was one and the same. In the end, he hadn't chosen God. He had let his men run wild. He had chosen war and glory and ambition and blasphemy. God would never allow it to stand.

The Russian mosque was to have been his atonement.

“Make this right,” the pasha said, startling Grisha back to the present.

“I'll try,” Grisha told him. “But I fear I don't have long left.”

“Then you must make the most of your time.”

Grisha stared into the eyes of the pasha, vivid and flashing.

“If I fail you,” he said, “I have failed you for my empress and my wife.”

“Both of whom are below Allah. Even below your God.”

“God might punish me for my choices,” Grisha said softly. “But I can't ignore the boy's threat and leave Catherine to the wolves. I belong to her. This is my destiny.”

*   *   *

As the final performance of the evening drew to a close, Catherine stifled another yawn. The instant the curtain was drawn, Grisha rushed to her side and offered his arm, which she accepted gratefully. She allowed him to drape a warm stole over her Russian gown and watched his reflection in the gilt-framed mirrors on the opposite wall. Grisha tried to smile, but his heart had already compressed into a hard ball. His lips could scarcely part to speak and he loathed the solemn lack of humor in his voice. “Would you see the Winter Garden one last time before you depart?”

She regarded him slyly. “Trying to get me alone?”

He tried to keep his tone formal. “I would be honored by the pleasure of your company.”

As they walked to the garden, Catherine noticed the change in him, the stiffness in his shoulders and the stern set of his lips. “What's wrong?”

“Let us wait to speak until we are in private,
matushka
.”

The Winter Garden looked as beautiful as he had dreamed, filled with exotic plants, winding paths, and small ponds. A circular temple stood in the center, surrounded by tall pillars and plants native to the Mediterranean climate, with a marble statue of Catherine in the center of it all, as though they had been transported back to ancient Rome and a devoted cult worshipped the empress.

He took a seat at the edge of one of the gurgling fountains, taking in the lush and florid scents. Catherine had been smiling up at her own image on the statue, but as soon as she saw him slump on the bench, she rushed to him and took his hand. “It was too much for you,” she said in a low voice. “I should have insisted you not pursue such a lavish celebration. It is my fault.”

“I'm fine.” One of the trees had been adorned with miniature lemons fashioned from gold topaz. He plucked one of the gems from a low-hanging branch and shifted it from hand to hand, finding comfort in its solidity. “You have seen the night was a tremendous success.”