Sweet Love, Survive

by Susan Johnson

  Yesterday, Karaim’s report had been followed by a message from Pushka informing him that horses and supplies were ready—the men only waited his decision to mount up. Now unstirring, Apollo stared out into the darkness and his lust for vengeance grew, uncurbed and violent.

  Her eyes on the back of the motionless man, Kitty ran her hands nervously over her silk-trousered legs. “Please don’t go, Apollo,” Kitty pleaded, sensing somehow that this was no ordinary foray, trying to understand Apollo’s feelings, but fighting her own terrible fear. “I know how much it means to you but please don’t go. For me—for the baby. …”

  Apollo shut his eyes briefly, his head still resting against the cool glass, his knuckles and nails yellow white with pressure on the dark windowsill. Did she think he wanted to leave her? Good Lord, it was the last thing he wanted to do. But mountain law required that an insult be avenged—and even if the Adat hadn’t demanded retribution, his heart would have claimed that justice. He could not rest until that pig who had dared to penetrate his woman was dead, and if there was time, he promised himself the general would stay alive much longer than he wished.

  Pushing away from the window, Apollo turned to Kitty, who was still sitting on the floor before the fire. She looked up at him, standing tall above her, his powerful body defined in the shadowy chiaroscuro of the flickering flames, his face restless, illuminated by the amber glare. He sighed softly, releasing some of the tension that had been building over the last three days. “Let’s not argue about this anymore; it’s senseless. You know I love you. I’d do anything for you.” His voice was placating but cautious.

  Tears were sliding down Kitty’s ivory cheeks, catching the firelight in staccato sparkles. “Don’t go on the raid, then.”

  It tore at his heart to hurt her. “Anything,” he said very gently, “except that.”

  Hours later, after the expected accusations and recriminations, the quiet tears and heart-stricken apologies, Kitty lay asleep in Apollo’s arms. He was wretched at having to leave her, understood her perplexity, but he could no more deny himself the need to punish the general than he could deny his love for Kitty.

  Mountain law demanded vengeance, the chivalrous warrior code demanded it, but most of all, a savage blood lust deep inside Apollo demanded it. A dozen times a day he remembered the night in Stavropol, remembered the way Beriozov’s large hand had leisurely caressed Kitty’s bared breasts, remembered the towering rage that had possessed him, and remembered most of all the necessity for curbing his murderous mood. That necessity was past. Kitty was safe. He was saddened by his leaving, but finally reconciled: he’d be back soon; he had promised her.

  But in case he didn’t return …? Even with his troop of riders, the possibility existed, Apollo knew, since General Beriozov lived behind a front line phalanx of guards and subalterns. The general lived warily, conscious of the thousands of deaths that bloodied his hands. He wouldn’t be easy to get to.

  Without disturbing her, Apollo shifted slightly, gently easing Kitty’s head from his shoulder. Slipping a pillow under the tumble of shimmering gilt waves, he covered her and slid from the bed. Walking barefoot into the sitting room, he lit a lamp, pulled out a sheet of heavy paper from the drawer of the faded rosewood writing table, and sat down to compose a good-bye note.

  He deliberated for long moments. How did one put down on a page of paper all that was in one’s heart—and worst of all, how did one say good-bye to the love of one’s life? If he were killed on this raid, he wanted to tell Kitty how much she meant to him, how she had brought him joy and changed his life; he wanted to try to explain again why he had to go; wanted to express his regret at not being there to help her raise the baby. And business matters should be mentioned: his will, newly revised since their return to the mountains; the European bank accounts; the homes he owned in Dagestan, Nice, Geneva, Paris, the Loire valley; the stud farm in Kent; the hunting box in Normandy—all left to her and the child in the event of his death. There was too much to say … and so little time. He contented himself finally with telling her of his love, his strong hand moving swiftly across the sheet, the dark scrawl rapidly filling the cream-colored surface. Turning the thick paper over, he added two more lines acknowledging the complicated financial interests by writing, “If I don’t return, see Pushka. You and the child are my beneficiaries.” With a quiet sigh, he finished, “I’ve loved you, kitten, from the first night, and always shall. Give the baby a kiss from me. All my love, Apollo.”

  Quickly sealing the note, he put it in a larger envelope addressed to his great-grandfather and took it to one of the servants with instructions to have it delivered immediately.

  Returning to bed, he slept restlessly until daybreak.

  He and Kitty said good-bye in the breakfast room.

  “Don’t come out,” he suggested, rising from his chair. “There are too many people about to properly bid you adieu.” He was trying to avoid any further hardship on her.

  Kitty stood up, fighting back the terrible fear haunting her, trying to present a brave front despite her distress.

  One look at her face and in three strides Apollo was at her side, drawing her into his arms. He was dressed all in black; silk beshmet, heavy worsted trousers, leather boots—only his sunlit hair dazzled. Against such somber hue, Kitty in her Chinese silk robe, small, fragile, golden as a sunrise, contrasted starkly, like a rare orchid clinging to a towering, dark tree.

  “Please, be careful,” she whispered into the curve of his chest. Kitty was well aware of the dangers waiting outside the protected mountain valley. Reports had it that the Red Army had taken Azerbaijan and was marching on Georgia’s borders.

  “I’m always careful.” The soft silk of her robe felt warm beneath his hands. He buried his face in the perfume of her hair.

  “When will you be back?” It was no more than a hesitant murmur.

  Five days down, five back, he thought, maybe one or two days to reconnoiter the general’s defenses. “Probably in two weeks,” Apollo said, lifting his head. “Maybe a day or two sooner.” He didn’t want to continue any further discussion about the raid. Hours last night had been devoted to the subject and at best a reluctant stalemate existed between them on that score. Above all, he wanted to leave without acrimony. It might be the last time he ever saw Kitty, or held her. His embrace tightened. “I love you, remember that,” he said softly. “Take care of the baby.”

  Kitty looked up anxiously. An ominous apprehension gripped her. Apollo sounded so … final. “You’ll really be back in two weeks?” Her voice was tinged with fear.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Promise?” She knew it was a childish demand, but she needed the blanket assurance.

  He nodded to please her. “Promise.” His golden eyes took in every detail of Kitty’s exquisite face, storing away the memory against an uncertain future. Then his arms dropped away. “The men are waiting. Au revoir.” He kissed her lightly and strode from the room.

  Kitty listened unmoving to the light footfall passing down the long hall and swiftly descending the stairs. With the slam of the front door she ran from the breakfast room and climbed to the high terrace affording a view of the courtyard and trail leading down into the valley. She watched Apollo, heard his familiar voice, unfamiliarly crisp, giving last-minute instructions, saw his face totally without expression, all the graceful nuances swept clean as he concentrated on details, questions, the buckling on of his arsenal. Weapons on, tack checked, all the men mounted, Apollo, in the lead, turned Leda out of the courtyard and a moment later put her to a trot down the incline. The men followed in pairs, the narrow trail accommodating no more than two horses abreast.

  He rode with animal grace, his hair gleaming silver pale against the sleek black of his tunic in the spring morning light. His weapons, thoughtfully added outside to save Kitty alarm, bristled from his large body: double cartridge belts were crisscrossed over his broad shoulders; a carbine was slung behind his back; pistols were hol
stered on his hips; his cavalry saber lay conveniently scabbarded near his right leg. The two kinjals stuck into his belt didn’t show from the vantage point of the terrace.

  The troop’s array of weapons was quite complete. Their mounts were the finest of mountain-bred horseflesh; they were well equipped with supplies and money. Each man was hand-picked by Apollo and Iskender-Khan. The weather was pleasant. Now all they needed was an enormous amount of luck to ride five days across enemy territory, pluck out the general from his well-guarded retreat, kill him, and find their way back to safety.

  At the point where sentry posts guarded the narrow pass into the valley, Iskender was waiting to bid his great-grandson good-bye.

  “Do you have enough men?” he asked Apollo.

  Apollo nodded. “Plenty.”

  “If you decide you need more, send back a messenger.”

  “Too many will only attract attention. Even now we might have more than we should.”

  “We’ll watch for you after ten days.”

  “It’ll be closer to two weeks, so don’t begin to worry.”

  “Take care. I know you want to do this yourself, but no Red swine is worth the sacrifice of your life.”

  “I’ll be careful, Pushka. Karaim’s my voice of reason.” Apollo grinned at his companion, who was lounging in the saddle alongside him.

  Karaim only snorted through his hawklike nose. He’d ridden bodyguard to Apollo since Apollo was old enough to mount a horse and to the best of his recollection his advice had usually gone unheeded.

  “Until a fortnight.” Apollo raised his hand in casual salute. “Good-bye, Pushka. You have my letter to Kitty?”

  “I do.” The old man’s eyes took in the splendid, rangy form of his great-grandson and he prayed he’d never have to deliver it.

  “Take care of her if need be … and the child.” Their eyes met, old and young, and understanding passed between them like a living thing.

  “She’ll have the honors due your woman, and the child those of your heir. My oath on it.” Iskender lifted his hand in benediction. “Allah travel at your side.”

  Apollo loosened his grip on the reins and Leda sprang forward. The riders moved out, tunics fluttering, fringes swaying, passing by their chieftain Iskender-Khan. His dark glance swept the score of men turned out in battle array, selected for their courage, fearlessness, and savagery. “Protect him with your lives,” he quietly said to them in passing, and each dark, fearsome warrior nodded mutely in acknowledgment.

  Kitty tried to keep herself busy after Apollo left, but the day was endless. She paced, she tried to read, she walked up the mountainside to a glen she and Apollo had favored. But with nightfall her melancholy only deepened, and with it the shattering fear, poised and menacing, crept closer.

  Without Apollo her loneliness was appalling. She felt a stranger in the mountain aul. Unfamiliar with its customs, unused to the limited role allowed women, unaccustomed to the language, she was painfully aware in Iskender’s presence that she was only here on his sufferance—as though he were delaying judgment until some certification was accredited. He was never impolite, only reserved. It was daunting to be alone here, pregnant and alone, with Apollo on some undisclosed raid. Alone, with no family, no friends, no other home left in Russia; alone amidst luxury; alone in a palace staffed by hundreds.

  She had been a princess in her own right, born to wealth and privilege, had married and added to her fortune. Now none of that remained. She was destitute, entirely dependent on Apollo, not only for her physical existence but emotionally dependent as well. The change in her status, in her life, brought with it a turbulent chaos of uncertain feelings. The adjustment from supreme independence to one of dependence was not easily reconciled.

  Still, she was bound to Apollo by more than love; she carried his child. And while the growing child gave her joy, it had, by its existence, sapped her self-reliance. It had necessitated her subjugation to the general—a sore point still not entirely rectified between Apollo and herself—but, more than that, it physically limited her ability to fend for herself. When Apollo left, she could no longer follow, and she despised the feminine feebleness cast upon her suddenly. Forced now into a docile waiting role, she chafed at its awful limitations.

  She found herself restlessly wandering around the huge palace trying to recapture Apollo’s presence: sitting in his library for hours, picturing him lounging in the worn leather chair near the window; walking out to the pond in the garden where they used to lie in the sun; straightening his clothes in his dressing room; touching his ivory-handled brushes on the lowboy; remembering him shaving, standing tall and tanned before the oval pedestal mirror, carefully drawing the gold razor down his lean cheek.

  She spent long hours in his mother’s sitting room, surrounded by family photos scattered atop tables, desks, consoles, gracing the liberty print walls, arranged haphazardly on the grand piano. She especially liked the one of Apollo as a boy of ten, tall already, his eyes bright with youthful mischief belying the seriousness of his face. He’d been dressed in full mountain regalia, the rugged Caucasus range as background. Even then a duplicate of Leda was standing beside him, the reins held in his small gloved hands, the wind ruffling golden hair and mane alike. Apollo’s father, Prince Alex, as amateur photographer had captured the barely suppressed excitement underneath the outward show of maturity. It was his first full-sized thoroughbred, Apollo had told her, the day he had left childish ponies behind. Kitty would have liked to have known him then, to have been a part of his life and memories. She knew so little about him, only fragments of his life depicted in these photos—his mother and father, his sister … the glorious day he bought his own airplane.

  That photo Kitty had moved to her bedside table while Apollo was gone. Splendid in high leather boots, jodhpurs, and a leather aviation jacket, he stood, one hand possessively on his airplane, smiling that heart-stopping, boyish smile of his. The sunlight was caught in his hair, his eyes looking straight at the camera, and Kitty felt when she saw it that he was about to make some typical teasing remark. Between the photo and his few things scattered about the room Kitty kept the feeling of him close.

  She hadn’t moved the riding boots carelessly tossed half-under the chair the night before he left—and she wouldn’t allow the servants to move them, either. It was silly, but who was there to notice, and it gave her the illusion of Apollo’s nearness.

  Please, Apollo, Kitty silently prayed during those lonely days, come back safely. She refused to even consider what would happen if he didn’t return.

  By the morning of the third day, Kitty decided she simply must “do” something rather than mope around. Her attempt at managing the palace met with quiet but determined resistance. The servants were quite capable of directing the palace functions and indeed had done so, with a minimum of interference, since it had been built. Apollo’s father thought households ran themselves, while his mother, Princess Zena, though aware of the error in this assumption, was more interested in her husband and children’s company or her newest research project than in any chatelaine duties. As a result, the entire staff was stubbornly autonomous.

  With the housekeeping activities denied her, Kitty turned to the outside, to aspects of farming which truthfully were much more appealing. Luckily Apollo’s steward didn’t guard his prerogatives as jealously as the inside servants, and when Kitty approached him about taking a hand in some agricultural project, Edyk was more than happy to oblige the Falcon’s companion. He immediately took Kitty around the acres of fields, explaining their methods, producing, and harvesting. He showed her the experimental plots for short-season wheat, the hybridized vineyard, the pear orchard where grafting was systematically producing a better, sweeter, larger pear. Kitty was instantly in her element, and while the fear and loneliness remained there were moments in the days that followed when they would be pushed aside briefly. Edyk was her savior.

  Sochi was close to paradise this time of year, warm, sunny, all t
he semitropical vegetation in bloom.

  General Beriozov relaxed on the cushions of the chaise located near the balustrade on the sunlit terrace of the mansion overlooking the sea. After the fall of South Russia and the conclusion of mopping-up operations against odd fragments of the White Army, he had taken a vacation at Sochi, a resort community formerly serving the aristocratic classes of the empire. He was occupying, and had for two weeks now, the former residence of Grand Duke Vladimir. The general was amusing himself in his usual manner with drinking and women, but since the abrupt departure of Countess Radachek he hadn’t found a proper replacement. Only transient females came and went in the mansion by the sea.

  Snapping his fingers for a fresh vodka, he shaded his eyes against the saffron glow of the setting sun, gazing down the endless expanse of beach lying at the foot of the steep, grassy incline running down from the many terraces of the villa. Lemon groves were planted on the distant hills; tea plantations skirted the town and the fragrance of bougainvillea attested to the semitropical nature of the climate.

  The general’s musing of late—and today was no exception—often dwelt on the retribution he intended to exact from a certain pseudo-Colonel Zveguintzev and Countess Radachek when they were apprehended. His patrols were out, and had been since the morning he’d awakened to discover his paramour gone. It was possible the pair had escaped on one of the numerous ships embarking for Europe, but then again … perhaps they hadn’t. In any case, he intended to find them eventually. Escape to Europe would merely cause a delay in picking up their trail on the continent. The general was determined. No one had ever bested General Dmitri Beriozov and lived to tell the tale—and the ersatz Colonel Zveguintzev and devastatingly tantalizing Countess Radachek were not about to become the first. He was a patient man. It was simply a matter of time. The only fretful grievance in his rather persistent musing was the possibility that disease, starvation, or the subzero temperatures might have cheated him of the pleasure of personally killing the colonel and countess.