Thirteen Years Later (64 page)

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?