‘You must pray, Matushka,’ the man said suddenly, his voice deep and low, as if it came from the very depths of hell. He stretched his arms wide in a pose that recalled the crucified Christ upon on the cross at Calvary. ‘You must put your faith in a greater power than princes and palaces. You are nothing, Matushka. And I am nothing but a channel through which the voice of God may be heard. Before His grace you must supplicate yourself. You must give yourself to God in whatever disguise he presents himself. You must do whatever he asks of you. For the boy’s sake.’
The woman said nothing, but buried her head deeper into the cushion at the front of the prie-dieu. I felt a chill enter my body and grew nervous as I watched the scene play out before me. However, I was hypnotized by the moment and found that I could not turn away. I held my breath, expecting the man to speak again, but in an instant he spun around, aware of my presence, and our eyes met.
Those eyes. To recall them even now … They were like circles of coal, mined from the centre of a diseased pit.
My own eyes grew wide as we stared at each other and my body became numb with fear.
Run
, I cried out in my mind.
Run away!
But my legs would not obey and we continued to stare at each other until finally the man cocked his head a little to the side, as if curious about me, and smiled widely, a horrible smile, a set of yellow teeth displayed in a cavernous darkness, and the dreadfulness of his expression was enough to break my spell and I turned and ran back the way I had come, finding myself at the junction once again and hesitating, already confused as to which direction would lead me back to where Count Charnetsky had instructed me to wait.
Running, convinced that he was giving chase to murder me, I
twisted and turned, running along the wrong corridors and in opposite directions, lost in the palace now, scared, my breath gasping, my heart racing, unsure how on earth I could ever explain my disappearance, whether I should just descend as many staircases as possible until I found myself outside the palace again, at which time I could run away, home to Kashin, pretending that this entire experience had never taken place.
And then, as if by some curious magic, I found myself back on the corridor where I had started. I stopped and doubled over, catching my breath, and when I looked up I realized that I was not alone there any more.
A man was standing at the end of the hallway, just outside an open door, from where a great light shone, illuminating him almost as a god. I stared at him, wondering what other terrors this evening was to bring. Who was this man, bathed in white glory? Why had he been sent for me?
‘Are you Jachmenev?’ he asked quietly, his voice low and peaceful but making its way down to me without difficulty.
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.
‘Please,’ he said, turning around and indicating the room behind him. ‘I thought perhaps you had disappeared on me.’
I hesitated for only a moment before following him. I had never met this man before, of course, had never laid eyes on him. But I knew immediately who he was.
His Imperial Majesty, Tsar Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias, Grand Duke of Finland, King of Poland.
My employer.
‘I apologize if I kept you waiting,’ he said as I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me. ‘As you can imagine, there are many matters of state to be taken care of. And this has been a very, very long day. I had hoped—’ He stopped short as he turned around and stared at me in amazement. ‘What on earth are you doing, boy?’
He was standing to the left of his desk, no doubt surprised to see me kneeling about ten feet away from him, supplicating myself on the floor with my hands outstretched on the rich carpet before me and my forehead touching the ground.
‘Your most Imperial of Majesties,’ I began, my words getting muffled in the purple and red weave in which my nose was buried. ‘May I offer my sincere appreciation for the honour of—’
‘All the saints in heaven, would you stand up, boy, so that I can see and hear you!’
I looked up and there was the hint of a smile flickering across his lips; I must have been an extraordinary sight.
‘I apologize, Your Majesty,’ I said. ‘I was saying that—’
‘And
stand up
,’ he insisted. ‘You look like some sort of whipped cur stretched out on my carpet like that.’
I stood and adjusted my clothing, attempting to discover some sort of dignity in my pose. I could feel the blood which had run to my head when I was on the ground causing my face to grow red and was aware that I must have seemed embarrassed to be in his presence. ‘I apologize,’ I said once again.
‘You can stop apologizing, for a start,’ he said, stepping behind his desk now and sitting down. ‘All we’ve both done over the last two minutes is apologize to each other. There must be an end to it.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ I said, nodding my head. I dared to look directly at him as he examined me and found myself a little surprised by his appearance. He was not a tall man, no more than five feet and seven or eight inches in height, which meant that I would have stood a good head above him had we been standing side by side. He was quite handsome, though, compact in his frame, trim and apparently athletic, with piercing blue eyes and a finely trimmed beard and moustache, the ends of which were waxed but drooping slightly, perhaps because of the lateness of the evening. I imagined that he tended to it once a day, in the mornings, or if there was a reception at night, then once again in
preparation for his guests. It was not so important when receiving a lowly visitor such as I.
Contrary to my expectations, the Tsar was not attired in some outlandish Imperial costume, but in the simple garb of a fellow
moujik
: a plain, vanilla-coloured shirt, a pair of loose fitting trousers and dark leather boots. Of course, there was no question that these simple items of clothing were produced from the very finest fabrics, but they seemed comfortable and simple and I began to feel a little more at ease in his presence.
‘So you are Jachmenev,’ he said finally, his clear voice betraying neither boredom nor interest; it was as if I was simply another task in his day.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your full name?’
‘Georgy Daniilovich Jachmenev,’ I replied. ‘Of the village of Kashin.’
‘And your father?’ he asked. ‘Who is he?’
‘Daniil Vladyavich Jachmenev,’ I said. ‘Also of Kashin.’
‘I see. And he is still with us?’
I looked at him in surprise. ‘He didn’t accompany me, sir,’ I said. ‘No one said that he should.’
‘He is still alive, Jachmenev,’ he explained with a sigh.
‘Oh. Yes. Yes, he is.’
‘And what is his position in society?’
‘He is a farmer, sir.’
‘He has his own land?’
‘No, sir. He is a labourer.’
‘You said a farmer.’
‘I misspoke, sir. I mean that he farms land. But it is not his land.’
‘Whose is it then?’
‘Yours, Your Majesty.’
He smiled at this and raised an eyebrow for a moment as he considered my reply. ‘It is indeed,’ he said. ‘Although there are those who think that all the land in Russia should be distributed
equally between the peasants. My former prime minister, Stolypin, he introduced that particular reform,’ he added, his tone implying that it was not something he had been in favour of. ‘You are familiar with Mr Stolypin?’
‘No, sir,’ I replied, honestly.
‘You have never heard of him?’ he asked in surprise.
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Well that doesn’t matter, I suppose,’ he said, rubbing carefully at a spot of dirt on his tunic. ‘He’s dead now. He was shot at the Kiev Opera House, while I sat in the Imperial box looking down at him. That’s how close these murderers can get. He was a good man, Stolypin. I treated him unkindly.’ He became silent for a few moments, his tongue pressing into his cheek as he lost himself in memories of the past; I had only been with the Tsar for a few minutes but I already suspected that the past weighed heavily on him. And that the present was hardly any more comforting.
‘Your father,’ he said eventually, looking up at me again. ‘Do you think he should be granted his own land?’
I thought about it, but the concept, my very words, became confused and I shrugged my shoulders to indicate my ignorance. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about such matters, sir,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure that whatever you decide will be for the right, though.’
‘You have confidence in me, then?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But why? You have never met me before.’
‘Because you are the Tsar, sir.’
‘And what does that matter?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘Yes, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he said calmly. ‘What does it matter that I am the Tsar? Simply
being
the Tsar inspires confidence in you?’
‘Well … yes,’ I said, shrugging again, and he sighed and shook his head.
‘One does not shrug one’s shoulders in the presence of God’s anointed,’ he said firmly. ‘It is impolite.’
‘I apologize, sir,’ I said, feeling my face grow red once again. ‘I meant no disrespect.’
‘You’re apologizing again.’
‘That’s because I’m nervous, sir.’
‘Nervous?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
‘Because you are the Tsar.’
He burst out laughing at this, a long, lingering laugh that went on for almost a minute, leaving me in a state of utter bewilderment. Truthfully, I had not expected to encounter the Emperor that night – if at all – and our meeting had come about with such little preparation or formality that I was still confused by the fact of it. It appeared that he wanted to question me thoroughly for a position I did not yet understand, but he was being deliberate and cautious in his queries, listening to my every answer and following up on it, trying to trap me in a mistake. And now he was laughing as if I had said something amusing, only for the life of me I could not think what that might have been.
‘You look confused, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he said finally, offering me a pleasant smile as his laughter came to an end.
‘I am, a little,’ I said. ‘Was I rude in what I just said?’
‘No, no,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘It’s just the consistency of your answers that amuses me, that’s all.
Because I am the Tsar
. I am the Tsar, am I not?’
‘Why, yes, sir.’
‘And a curious position it is too,’ he said, picking up a steel diamond-encrusted letter-opener from his desk and balancing it on its tip before him. ‘Perhaps one day I shall explain it to you. For now, I believe I owe you my gratitude.’
‘Your gratitude, sir?’ I asked, surprised that he could possibly owe me anything.
‘My cousin, the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaievich. He recommended you to me. He told me how you came to save him after an assassination attempt.’
‘I’m not sure it was as serious as all that, sir,’ I said, for the very words seemed astonishingly treasonous, even coming from the mouth of the Tsar.
‘Oh no? What would you call it then?’
I considered the matter. ‘The boy in question. Kolek Boryavich. I knew him since we were children. He was … it was a stupid mistake on his part, you see. His father was a man of strong opinions and Kolek liked to impress him.’
‘My father was a man of strong opinions too, Georgy Daniilovich. I don’t try to murder people because of it.’
‘No, sir, but you have an army at your disposal.’
His head snapped up and he stared at me in surprise, his eyes opening wide at my impertinence, and even I felt utterly shocked that I had said such words.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said after what seemed like an eternity had passed.
‘Sir,’ I said, scrambling to correct myself, ‘I misspoke. I only meant that Kolek was in thrall to his father, that’s all. He was trying to please him.’
‘So it was his father who wanted my cousin murdered? I should send soldiers to arrest
him
, should I?’
‘Only if a man can be arrested for the thoughts that are in his head and not the actions that he commits,’ I said, for if I was responsible for the death of my oldest friend, I was damned if I was going to have his father’s blood on my hands too.
‘Indeed,’ he said, considering this. ‘And no, my young friend, we do not arrest men for such things. Unless their thoughts lead to plans, that is. Assassination is a terrible thing. It is a most cowardly form of protest.’
I said nothing to this; I could think of nothing to say.
‘I was only thirteen years old when my own grandfather was
assassinated, you know. Alexander II. The Tsar-Liberator, he was called at one time. The man who freed the serfs, and then they murdered him for his generosity. A coward threw a bomb at his carriage while he travelled through streets not far from here and he escaped unhurt. When he stepped outside, another ran at him and exploded a second. He was brought here, to this very palace. Our family gathered while the Tsar died. I watched as the life seeped out of him. I recall it as if it was yesterday. One of his legs had been blown off. The other was mostly missing. His stomach was exposed and he was gasping for breath. It was obvious that he had only a few minutes left to live. And yet he made sure to speak to each of us in turn, to offer us his final benediction, such was his strength even at a time like that. He consecrated my father. He held my hand. And then he died. Such agony he must have felt. So you see, I know the consequences of this kind of violence and am determined that no member of my family will ever suffer assassination again.’
I nodded and felt moved by his story. My eyes drifted to the rows of books which lined the wall to my right and I glanced at them, narrowing my eyes to make out the titles.
‘You do not turn your head away from me,’ said the Tsar, although his voice contained more curiosity than anger. ‘It is I who turn away from you.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, looking at him again. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘More apologies,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘I can see that it will take some time for you to learn our ways here. They may seem … curious to you, I imagine. You are interested in books?’ he asked then, nodding towards the shelves.