Sweet Love, Survive

by Susan Johnson

  “Well …” Apollo hesitated. “Not at the moment.” Then in a more formal manner, he continued, “I’d like to speak with you in private, sir. But first, come and meet a young lady who means a great deal to me.” Taking Iskender by the arm, he led him over to Kitty. Apollo lifted Kitty down from the saddle with a cautious tenderness, the old chieftain observed, and then turned. Holding Kitty tightly by the hand, he said, “Iskender-Khan, I’d like you to meet Countess Kitty Radachek. Kitty, this is my great-grandfather, Pushka.”

  The minute Iskender heard the name Radachek everything fell into place. Peotr had been a frequent visitor to the mountain aul since Apollo had first met him at the Corps de Pages, the beginning stage of their military training. Iskender first thought: Is Peotr dead? But courtesy precluded asking that. The young lady looked quite pale and drawn. Bowing in a courtly gesture, Iskender said pleasantly, “Welcome, Countess, to Dargo. Won’t you come in? Rooms have been prepared for you.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality. It would be quite wonderful to lie down for a moment—”

  “Lord, yes,” Apollo broke in. “I should have thought of that myself.” Bending low, he looked at her small face, concern evident in his gaze. “Do you want me to carry you? How do you feel?”

  Kitty flushed a bit. “No, no, I can walk. I’m feeling well.”

  “Sure?”

  She nodded.

  Iskender stood quietly aside, conscious of a change in his profligate, undisciplined great-grandson. No longer evident was Apollo’s usual careless inattention to a female. Instead, Apollo displayed thoughtful deference and for the first time Iskender witnessed something other than charming playful repartee between Apollo and a woman. Old in years and wisdom, Iskender decided the countess apparently performed more than a minor, transient part in Apollo’s life. “Tembot will show you your rooms,” Iskender said. “I wish to thank Karaim and Sahin for keeping you safe. I’ll join you shortly for tea.”

  Holding Iskender’s glance over Kitty’s head, Apollo said, “We’ll talk then.”

  “As soon as you’re refreshed,” the old chieftain said. Turning away, he strode toward Karaim, his hand outstretched in welcome.

  Apollo guided Kitty up the long flight of stairs, then followed Tembot down several narrow corridors to their rooms, which opened onto a balcony overlooking a walled garden. When Tembot left to see to hot water for bathing, Kitty timidly queried, “Are we staying here?” Her eyes swept the richly decorated room, hung with silken tapestries. This was her room, apparently, for Apollo’s saddlebags had been carried farther down the hall.

  “Only ’til dinner.”

  “Oh, good.” Kitty, comforted, gave a happy sigh. The thought of being alone with Apollo had sustained her for the last day of their cold, arduous journey, when the long miles had begun taking their toll on her last reserves of energy. “I’d rather be with you than alone in this room,” she said softly.

  “Not nearly as much, sweet, as I want to be alone with you.” Apollo pulled Kitty into his arms and nuzzled the tip of her nose with his lips. “A few hours more, to say hello to Pushka. Then …”—his grip tightened—“to our own place. It’s very nice to be home at last.” He sighed deeply. “And sheer heaven to have you with me.”

  “You don’t mind?” Kitty was still in need of assurance. She had seen the effusive welcome extended to Apollo, had seen the genuine pleasure in Apollo’s face, his sense of belonging, his feeling of coming home. It wasn’t easy to forget the soft women’s laughter when they spoke of the Falcon, or to disregard Apollo’s knowing, casual wink at the fresh-faced young girl. Although Kitty was with Apollo, the man she loved, all else was alien to her: the savage warriors; the feudal display of propriety and authority; the outward appearance of a life-style far removed from the bucolic aspects of her own Aladino. And despite her passionate love, so heady and irrational, Apollo was almost a stranger to her. She had been with him for a grand total of twelve days since first finding him in her bed last December, and the time since Stavropol had left little opportunity for conversation or intimacy.

  “Mind what?” Apollo placidly inquired.

  “That I came here with you.” With her chin resting against his hard chest, she looked up into his mildly startled face.

  “I asked you, remember? I want you with me.”

  A smile curved the full sweetness of her lips. “Then everything’s all right—even your great-grandfather?”

  “Of course,” Apollo gruffly replied, bestowing a light kiss on her forehead. “He understands.”

  Kitty sighed contentedly. Considering the utter chaos of the world they lived in, she was blissfully happy.

  I hope he understands, Apollo thought—which consideration reminded him that a private conversation with Iskender was urgent. A few moments later when Tembot returned, followed by a number of servants bearing buckets of hot water, Apollo excused himself. “I’ll freshen up,” he said, rubbing the golden stubble on his face, “and meet you for tea with Pushka.”

  12

  Apollo’s bath and toilette were completed in record time. With his hair still damp and curling on his neck, he greeted Iskender-Khan.

  With his long absent great-grandson—his favorite—home again, standing deferentially before him, Iskender-Khan knew Allah had indeed been beneficent. Tall, vital, matured into a man, Apollo was both his hope for the future and a poignant reminder of his own youth. Apollo remained standing out of respect for elders, the cornerstone of tradition and of the unwritten Adat. Old age, a woman, honor, and a guest in your home were all sacred. Apollo was now lavishly dressed in expensive silk and finest leather, as befitted his station. Iskender’s knowledgeable eyes scanned the smooth, tanned skin, the gilded hair, the long hands, jeweled again after months of nothing but sweat-stained leather gloves.

  Apollo smiled diffidently at the scrutiny, an amused gleam in his eye. “Finally back, and all the parts are intact. Remarkable after four years of slaughter.”

  “Not remarkable, necessarily,” Iskender replied, pride in his low voice. “Karaim said you are a heroic warrior—a real djighit.”

  Apollo smiled serenely. “Lady Luck,” he said modestly, “rode with me.”

  “And a little skill, no doubt.” The gaunt, chiseled face creased into a smile. “We’ve missed you, As-saqr As-saghir. Come, sit down.”

  They were both seated cross-legged on silk cushions, and after all the homecoming amenities were concluded and a glass of pungent Khahetian brandy was before each of them, Iskender-Khan came right to the point, his tone mild and of a grave delicacy. “I understand the countess is with child.”

  Apollo knew Karaim and Sahin would have reported to their chief. A trace of color rose under his bronzed skin. “My child, Pushka,” Apollo said evenly.

  His great-grandfather eyed him attentively. “Karaim says she was found in Stavropol … a kept woman. A Red pig of a general’s kept woman. The child may not be yours.” Iskender spoke in a soft and savorless voice which Apollo found peculiarly uncomfortable. “You must consider that.”

  “The thought isn’t new to me,” Apollo replied, his voice empty of expression. “Nevertheless, it’s mine,” he said intently, not mentioning any of his own skepticism.

  With the wisdom of his years, Iskender-Khan had his doubts concerning the truth of that declaration, but since Apollo was his favorite, he was inclined to indulge his fancy if need be. Time enough to decide what steps to take after one saw what the child looked like. “What about the husband? Could the babe be his?”

  The answer came a trifle too fast. “No.”

  “I see,” Iskender said composedly. “Well … in any case, what of Peotr? He’s alive, I understand. Will he be seeking the return of his wife and … your child?”

  “Not likely,” Apollo replied curtly.

  Iskender’s gray eyebrows levered upward.

  “As you may know”—Apollo’s voice was quick and caustic—“he has a mistress and two children in Baku—as well as a d
ecided predilection for females of every persuasion if the mood strikes him.”

  “Not too unusual conduct for the Russian aristocracy,” his great-grandfather said dryly.

  Apollo gave a curious grimace. “No, I suppose not. His marriage to Kitty wasn’t so unusual, either, in society’s eyes. A marriage of convenience. Very acceptable. The problem arose only when the advance of the Red Army threatened Astrakhan and was massing to march on Baku almost simultaneously.” Apollo shrugged. “Peotr couldn’t be in two places at once. He chose the woman most important to him. The children, of course, were significant in his decision. He asked me to see to Kitty. He was hoping she had escaped ahead of the Red advance, but barring that, he asked that I escort her to the evacuation port of Novorossiisk.” Apollo looked carefully at a distant point beyond Iskender’s head and picked his words. “I have no idea what Peotr’s plans were, if any, should they all meet in Paris. I didn’t ask him.” He stirred a wine ring on the delicate inlaid table with a long slender finger. “I probably didn’t want to know.”

  Iskender, noting Apollo’s disquiet without comment, asked, “Did you kill the general?”

  “No.”

  “You should have.”

  “I couldn’t,” Apollo said in a low voice. “We needed the extra hours he would spend sleeping off the vodka to get us into White territory. If I had slit his throat, his orderly would have sounded the alarm at dawn.”

  “A pity, but sensible,” Iskender said briefly. “What was his name?”

  “General Beriozov.”

  “I’ll send out four men in the morning.”

  Apollo’s voice sharpened. “I’ll do it myself.” He used the most sacred of all oaths. “I swear on the bread.” The strain was apparent in the tersely worded statement. “Only wait until Kitty is settled—then I’ll go.”

  “Very well, as you wish.” Honor was sacred in the mountains. Iskender understood Apollo’s wish to see to the general’s death personally. Only then would his integrity be cleared.

  The mountains were like another world where pagan mysticism, the flame of Islam, the lily of chivalry, and the trickle of blood were interwoven into sacred custom. The heart of the Caucasus had remained unchanged for hundreds of years. Iskender-Khan knew what Apollo was feeling, felt his need for vengeance, and knew as well that the countess was more than “important” to him.

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “Yes,” Apollo said simply.

  “You know I don’t object to her having a husband.”

  “I know,” Apollo returned, unruffled. Having been raised in the mountains, he understood that abduction was a recognized form of courtship.

  His great-grandfather was looking at him very hard. “I do object to the general, however, if the countess had a choice in the matter.” He raised a prickly eyebrow. “If you can’t trust her, she’ll bring you unhappiness. Promiscuity is not acceptable to the woman you choose for your own.”

  Apollo stirred uneasily. “She was a captive, Pushka.” He repressed his own niggling doubts on that matter. It served no purpose to torture himself. “The general was cruel to her; he whipped her frequently. He even had a chastity belt locked on her.”

  Iskender said nothing, he merely sat back in his chair, stroking his neatly trimmed beard, and stared thoughtfully at Apollo. Now why, the old man mused, would anyone need a chastity belt—because of the general’s own neurotic needs, or because the lady couldn’t be trusted? He would see that the countess was watched. If Apollo wanted her, he could have her, but if she dishonored him, he must be told. To punish her then would be Apollo’s privilege. Not a tactless man, Iskender-Khan perceived his great-grandson’s unease and stopped his inquisition. His own curiosity could wait. “In any event,” Iskender said ambiguously, “the general can be taken care of.”

  “Pushka—” Apollo said sharply, but his eyes were wary, sensing the words left unsaid.

  “And I hope,” Iskender went on mildly, a half smile on his face, “you and the countess will be very happy.”

  Apollo had half risen from the silken cushions and now sank back, a warm grin appearing across his fine features. “As happy,” he said softly, “as two rabbits in a clover patch.”

  Kitty came in for tea an hour later. She had bathed and rested before dressing. Her clothing was native garb: loose silk trousers of pristine whiteness; a knee-length tunic of forest-green surrah buttoned with a line of tiny amber buttons; and gold-embroidered velvet slippers decorated lavishly with semiprecious gems.

  Rising when she entered the room, Apollo swiftly walked the length of the large hall to greet her with a kiss. “I like the clothes,” he said, admiration in his voice and eyes. The sight of Kitty in the supple, fluid silk tunic and trousers … she seemed so much more a part of his life now. Dressed as he preferred, here in his own mountain aul, the reminders of her former life were remote. No Paris gowns, no elaborate coiffure, her heavy golden hair now falling in simple waves down her back.

  “The trousers feel very strange.”

  “But not uncomfortable?”

  “Oh, no, on the contrary.”

  Apollo bent to whisper into her ear.

  Kitty blushed, her eyes glancing nervously in the direction of Iskender-Khan, who remained seated several paces away. “Please, Apollo—your great-grandfather.” Kitty slid another sidelong look at the imperious old gentleman whose profile was as sharply chiseled as a rugged mountain landscape.

  Drawing her into the circle of his arm, Apollo smiled that irresistible smile that never failed to send her heart into flutters. “Relax, darling; Pushka knows I’m very pleased to have you with me, and he’s not too old to understand that you’re damnably distracting.” He winked at her still rosy flush and said, “I hope dinner isn’t too long.” And he meant it. Since walking into the general’s suite in Stavropol, Apollo and Kitty hadn’t had more than a few moments alone and Apollo was, indeed, looking forward to the coming night—alone with Kitty in his own home, his own bed. A surge of heated desire tore through him. Drawing himself back to the present with an effort, he said in a pleasant conversational tone that had, from tedious teatime through midnight rendezvous, charmed many a hostess, “Come now. Pushka is anxious to talk to us both. You’ll enchant him.”

  The patriarch and leader of half a million mountain people was benign courtesy through tea and dinner. With a deference he rarely utilized, Iskender-Khan inquired into the aspects of Kitty’s life politeness allowed and tactfully avoided those areas pertaining to her husband or General Beriozov. The absence of prying, moral or otherwise, was deeply appreciated by Kitty.

  Tea was sumptuous, served in rare T’ang bowls; dinner more extravagant yet: gold plates, ivory flatware, eight wineglasses at each setting, and obsequious servants by the score, while a full repertoire of Khahetian wines smoothed over any awkwardness. In addition to European fare Kitty had an opportunity to taste the mountain delicacies: pickled lamb’s tongue that seemed to melt in your mouth, leaving a sour tang; eggplant stuffed with lamb and rice; cold mountain trout; and goat cheese roasted on coals—soft and creamy inside with a crisp crust smelling a little of smoke.

  As ten o’clock approached, Kitty, although she’d declined most of the wine, found herself becoming sleepy. Since her pregnancy, she lacked her usual energy, and drowsiness was all too common. Stifling the third yawn in five minutes as unobtrusively as possible, Kitty raised her eyes and met the dark discerning gaze of Iskender-Khan.

  “Apollo, the countess is fatigued,” he offered softly, and Apollo turned to Kitty beside him, his pale eyes instantly distraught.

  “I’m sorry, darling. I wasn’t thinking.” Addressing his great-grandfather, he said, “Please, excuse us, sir. Kitty’s going to have a baby,” he added unnecessarily. “It’s very tiring.”

  “Of course.”

  Rising to his feet in a swift blur of black silk, Apollo lifted Kitty from the low cushions, saying, “Come, sweetheart, we’ll go home. You must take care of you
rself and our child.”

  “Maybe your child,” Iskender softly reminded.

  There was a tiny silence while Apollo set Kitty on her feet. The softly spoken question was uttered in a language known only to the two men—not in Dagestani, the native tongue, but in a language of princes discernible only to those privileged few in the mountain hierarchy.

  Kitty didn’t understand Iskender’s mildly enunciated words but she saw Apollo’s chin jut out belligerently, saw the dangerous set to the mouth, and heard his sharp, angry retort. “Mine!” Apollo said curtly.

  Iskender’s eyes rested fondly on his favorite great-grandson, so light and fair, so different from the dark, hawk-visaged men of his clan, so much like his favorite daughter’s husband, chosen so many years ago when he had come riding into camp from the outside world.

  “As you wish,” he said with gentle indulgence, exactly as he had so many decades ago to his lovely daughter Shouanete when she had demanded the baron for herself. “I won’t interfere.”

  “See that you don’t!” Apollo retorted, still in a ferment of fury, for in truth Iskender’s skepticism was too near the mark for comfort and he didn’t care to be reminded of the fact. “And,” Apollo continued in a low, tight voice, “if Kitty disappears as Noenia did, I’ll take this village apart brick by brick.” He was almost shouting by the end, incensed by his own unanswered questions concerning the paternity of Kitty’s child.

  Iskender’s deep, hoarse voice spoke calmly. “I understand perfectly, Apollo. I give you my word.” The wily old chieftain hadn’t lived more than four score years, ruling hundreds of thousands of high-strung warriors, without learning the diplomacy of retreat. In this case Iskender readily acquiesced when Apollo’s temper flared—and irrevocably, honorably, he would stand by his word. But he had his private reservations. If, when the child was born, it resembled the blackguard of a general or whomever other than Apollo, well, in that case … the lady herself might decide to leave Dargo entirely on her own initiative. If that were to happen (the ways of Allah are mysterious), his given word would not be impugned.