He holds both palms up, and the Creator of Miniatures places a magnifying glass in one, and the pit of a peach on the other. Holding the glass over the pit, he brings his face close. The sharp intake of his breath can be heard around the hall.
Carved into the pit of the peach is Alexander Palace with all two hundred rooms. The music rooms, classrooms, playrooms, the tunnel leading from the palace to the kitchen building, the Empress’s Lilac Room, the Emperor’s study, Portrait Hall, the receiving room, and the private movie theater of the Tsarevich. And as if that were not enough to fit into the pit of a peach, the park with its flowers and fauna and the private island where the bridge can be hauled for privacy are all delineated with painful precision. The Tsar is riveted. What tools could be so precise, what hands so supple, what eyes so sharp, what patience so endless? It would take him days to identify every nook and corner of his palace so accurately represented here.
“You could hold your entire court in the palm of your hand, Your Majesty,” the Creator of Miniatures murmurs.
“Masterful!” The Emperor exclaims. “Impressive!”
“And for you, Your Majesty, a little car just like your father’s.”
She drops a small replica of the Tsar’s Delaunay-Belleville Landau into the Tsarevich’s cupped hands.
The child lets out a cry of joy. He rises on his feet to plant a kiss on her cheek. He holds up the miniature toy, carved out of a chunk of precious ruby, a million shades of reds, scintillating under the light of the chandelier. He twirls the steering wheel with one finger, all four small wheels rotating on gold hinges, the tiny spokes and studs, flicks the movable roof to reveal his parents in the back, their chauffeur in the driver’s seat, every detail in place, including the Tsar’s carefully trimmed beard and the Tsarina’s pearl earrings, all in different shades of red, carved out of the gem’s heart. The Tsarevich laughs out loud, kissing Tamara again. “Thank you, Tamara, thank you very much.”
The Emperor clasps his son’s hand as they walk toward the exit.
On his palm, the Emperor carries a treasure his wife will appreciate more than the Fabergé egg of green enamel and opalescent oyster he gave her this year for their anniversary.
The Tsarevich, in his cupped hands, carries a precious toy he will cherish for years to come, until the turn of history will force him to part with it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Darya picks up a pebble and tosses it into the depths of the Black Sea, which is not black at all but blue as heaven. She loves the Crimea with its native pine and sequoia, vineyards that supply the sweetest muscat and headiest champagne, trailing vines of rose and lavender, orchards of peaches and cherries and almonds, and a range of hills that keep the cold northern winds at bay and its handsome populace of Tartars content.
The Imperial Family and their entourage are here for the inauguration of the new Livadia Palace. To Darya’s great delight, she succeeded in convincing the Imperial Couple to bring the Tsarevich along, and under her tutelage and care, he has never looked healthier. The Empress seems stronger and happier too. And Avram, invited along with the other artists, is basking in the success of his latest collection of portraits, the primitive-looking nudes of his sole model: her!
The only cloud in the canvas of her clear sky is Grigori Rasputin, whose encroaching shadow slithers underfoot, flat and ominous, as she strolls along the fringe of the sea. Having been invited back to court by the Empress, Rasputin is in good humor. The Tsarevich, during a recent trip with his family, fell against the bathtub and bruised himself. The bleeding was terrible. The Empress did not leave her son’s bedside for ten days. Doctors admitted defeat. An announcement was drafted declaring the death of the heir. The desperate Empress sent Rasputin a telegram.
“God has seen your tears,” he wired back. “Do not grieve. The Little One will not die.” Within hours the bleeding had subsided. He had, once again, saved the life of the Tsarevich, and neither the most powerful of ministers, nor governess to the grand duchesses, or a single member of the Imperial Family dared to criticize him.
Darya detects something floating on the waves, bobbing up and down like a giant cork. Her hand shading her eyes against the sun, she squints to bring the shape into focus. An animal, she thinks, continuing to plow ahead. Warm sand sifts through her bare toes, but her gaze is riveted on the sea creature riding the waves, hissing and foaming like the Empress’s Chantilly lace skirts.
Darya slows down, moves to the water’s edge. The sea has vomited a silvery elliptical object onto the shore, an object the size of the Tsar’s traveling valise. It glistens under the sun, as if imbued with a life of its own. Fossilized squid beaks and shells poke out of its hide that resembles brittle pumice stone, or some spongy material with the voluptuous scent of leather and tobacco and sea, a seductive perfume that curls up to embrace her like a womb.
Cherish it, the Ancient One says. Its journey has been long and hard. It has crossed seas and oceans, has been cured for decades in salty waters and under hot suns to reach you. Valuable ambergris, Darya Borisovna. It is yours!
Oblivious to the lapping waves and the warm sand, Darya falls to her knees. Rasputin’s hunched-over body is so close, her skirt will inherit his donkey odor. She presses her forehead to the buttery surface, an impulsive act of a desert traveler thirsting for water.
She is thrust to another place, a queen teaching her disciples how to burn ambergris as incense to purify the air and to heal evil thoughts, how to flavor wine to enjoy long life, rub on wounds to stem bleeding, lace with hashish to alleviate pain, brew in tea to add sexual vigor, or consume in fertility rites to make the barren fertile.
“Ambergris is a powerful conduit.” She hears Rasputin above her, relieved, for once, to find him close, as if they are partners on an imminent journey.
She rubs her temples. “I was in a strange place.”
He gazes down at her, eyes warm, encouraging, saying she is safe with him.
“I don’t know where I went. I was someone else, I think.”
“Come with me. Will you? We’ll go there together.”
“The ambergris is mine,” Darya echoes the Ancient One. “I won’t leave it behind.” Slowly, cautiously, she reaches out a trembling hand and breaks off a small piece.
And six years after the night she lost her child, she unlocks her necklace and replenishes its bejeweled egg.
Rasputin checks the chunk of ambergris this way and that, raises it slightly from all sides. It is heavy, but he is a strong man. He slides his arms under and lifts it as if he were carrying a woman in his arms. He follows Darya toward the Livadia Palace with its Florentine tower and 116 rooms, past the arched portico of dazzling Carrara marble, the Italian patio with its limestone columns and enclosing balconies, where the Tsarina has her afternoon tea, past inner chambers decorated in stucco and wood carving, and into Darya’s apartments, all the way to her bedroom, where he deposits the ambergris on her bed.
Then, without considering the oddity of what she’s doing, she takes a deep breath and stretches out next to the ambergris, inhaling its scent of musk and sweet earth and mossy forests. She is safe, safer than she has felt in a long time, her womb at peace as if she is forgiven, at last, by herself, by Avram and his dead son, even by the aurochs.
The drone of bees can be heard outside, the click of shears, the low voices of gardeners arguing. Sweet scents of ripe cherries and peaches drift in from fruit-heavy arbors.
Rasputin’s voice wends its way to settle in Darya’s head, weigh on her eyelids, and produce a subliminal sleep that transports her to caramel-colored sands and unblemished skies, where the sun and stars shine in symphonic harmony. The air is laced with the aroma of molasses and dates, and palm fronds sway in the breeze.
Rasputin stares at Darya with a freedom she would not have allowed when awake. He gazes at the delicate contours of her face, the vein pulsing at her temples, mouth parted as if to accept his kiss, and this man, who has never known fear, is terrified of
the woman with the power to make him weak with desire. He approaches the bed and reaches out a cold hand to fondle her breasts. Steals his hand back, regards her with curiosity, and then comes down to take her in his mouth.
She lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.
He springs back as if she has been transformed into a deity who might strike him dead on the spot. He pulls a chair behind him. Shuffles backward, farther away from the bed on which she lies—this mysterious woman who will live to see the world twist and turn out of shape, live to hear the toll of millions of death bells, witness brother turn against brother and seas and oceans overflow with tears.
He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Darya Borisovna Spiridova, who are you?”
She replies in a voice he does not recognize: “I am Athalia the traitor.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
— 842 to 830 BC —
I am Athalia the Omride, daughter of Omri, queen of Judah. Swathed in silks and brocade, a headdress of silver tossed over my hair, opal headgear adorning my forehead, I wend my way in a procession across the halls of my palace. Slaves flutter peacock feathers above my head, men and women bow at every turn.
“A sip of rosewater, my lady.”
“A spray of ambergris, perhaps.”
I am the most beloved of King Jehoram’s forty wives, also known as the Opal Queen. Merchants scour all four continents to bring me translucent opal, the rarest of all opals. So pure, it portends my future in its heart. The ignorant denounce opal as a vessel of bad luck. Such nonsense. Like life, opal symbolizes both the bad and the good, birth and death.
My red-haired jester prances in and out of sight, around my sandaled feet, behind the stone columns. His froglike eyes unhinged in their bony sockets, he flaps his short arms like wings, and as if propelled by some magical force, his hooflike feet scramble up Sari’s plump thighs, hairless chest, and shoulders to land on top of the poor eunuch’s head.
I laugh out loud. Others join in. My servants attempt to erase my sadness. My husband, Jehoram of Judah, the son-in-law of the house of Omri, is away at the battlefront. Seasons have come and gone; spring is here. Cisterns and jugs on rooftops flow with bathing rains. Roads and ditches are dried of lethal diseases, valleys and ravines are pregnant with wild flowers, palms are heavy with dates, yet no word of my beloved king, Melekh Israel.
“My lady, please rest, it is hot today. Tell us about the ambergris. It is time you revealed its secrets.” Sari, my eunuch and confidant, breathes heavily, unable to keep up with my pace.
I gaze down at his freckled, balding head and pity this man who must have harbored his own dreams of wives and children. “We will rest, Sari. Here, chew on some ambergris to strengthen your heart.”
Years have passed and I have honored my vow to the ancient spice merchant to keep the secret of ambergris to myself. But unable to shake my loneliness, I open my mouth and say what I should not.
“An ancient spice merchant with four fingers on one hand and a knapsack on his back crossed lands, seas, and deserts on foot, on horseback, by boat, and on camel to find me, Athalia the Omride, mistress of alchemy. He was tall. His handsome, sunbaked face was lined with wisdom, his silver hair braided and held back with many ribbons. Did I know how to extract youth from ambergris, he asked me, after which he opened his knapsack to reveal a waxy, flammable slice of heaven.
“It smelled of love and life. It smelled of death and renewal. I had to have it.
“We bartered.
“‘Look at my opal necklace,’ I said to the spice merchant. ‘It is the rarest of its kind. Its color is deep like gold, but it is as clear and pure as air and water. I will give it to you in exchange for half your ambergris. And I will teach you how to stay young. Not with the help of ambergris. That I do not know yet. But I will teach you to reach deep into the heart of this pure opal to unravel the mysteries of the universe.’
“He laid his four-fingered hand on my shoulder. ‘I will accept. And in return you must promise to hold the ambergris dear. Do not share its secrets. It possesses power beyond your imagination. Handle it intelligently. And never, ever use it as a means of…’”
Howls of a developing storm, followed by heart-wrenching wails, force their way into the palace.
A flash of lightning brings to life two silhouettes framed by the backdrop of the domed portal. Lit by dim torches, messengers of the king gradually emerge from the shadows, bows and arrows spent, eyes bloodshot for lack of sleep, feet blistered from the long journey.
“Our king is dead, my queen! By the hand of Jehu, his trusted general.”
“An uprising!”
“A bloody revolt against the House of David.”
“King Jehoram of Judah is dead!”
I gesture with an open palm and order my procession to keep their distance. My other hand presses to my chest to lock my grief inside. “Where is my son?” I ask the messengers. “Is he back from war?”
I listen, clutching my chest, holding on to the pieces of my shattering heart. My son, Ahaziah, is dead too. General Jehu incited an uprising. Murdered my husband. Murdered my son. Forty-two other Omride princes were also killed. Only five spared. I am in danger, they say; Jehu is bent on destroying all Omrides.
“Where are my grandson and daughter-in-law?” I ask. “Are they safe?”
“Yes, they were spared. But you must take matters into your own hand, our queen. The surviving princes are not worthy of the throne. Your grandson is a mere child. The survival of the monarchy depends on you.”
Sari holds a vial of ambergris to my nose. I push his hand away. “I will be alone with my God. Do not follow me!”
He thrusts the vial in my pocket.
I cross halls of stone and marble, where rooms open into other rooms, into inner worlds of ambition and deception. I walk out of the palace and down stone steps. Gusts of wind blow sand into my eyes and the sour stench of carrion and urine into my lungs. Clusters of grieving stars congregate overhead. Tarantulas dig their way out of the earth, and vultures shriek into the wind. I weave my way between olive and palm trees, across the desert, and toward Mount Ephraim, seeking the temple between Ramah and Beth-El. I take shelter under the Etz Rimmon, the pomegranate tree of mercy by the main entrance to the temple. I hide my face in my hands and wail, “Why, Adonai? What have You done?”
An arid wind transports the odor of decaying dates and the sound of conversation in the sanctuary. The high priest, Jehoiada, must be here with his wife, preparing the temple for the day of mourning. I rise to my feet, straighten my spine, turn the knob, and open the back door. The air smells of incense and of the Ner Tamid, torch of eternal light. I step across the narrow corridor, separated from the main sanctuary by a stretch of embroidered fabric, and nudge the fabric back. Diffused light from the latticed dome falls on a circle of men. Desert-colored robes and delineated features come into focus—a square jaw, an imbecilic smile, a broken nose, twisted mouth spitting secrets.
What business do the remaining five Davidic princes, sons of King Jehoram from other wives, stepbrothers to my murdered son, have here?
They are congregated around the bimah altar scattered with sacred objects—havdalah spice boxes, Rosh Hashanah honey pots, sash of the high priest, glazed candleholders. Their heads come together, fists flashing gold and silver rings, their petulant murmurings a hum in the sanctuary.
They step up to the altar and unlock the holy ark. Remove a Torah, protected from harm for decades in the holy ark, where no outsider is allowed.
How dare they remove the Torah when such a sacred duty belongs to the high priest!
Why are they kissing the embroidered mantle that covers the holy book, kissing the jewel-encrusted breastplate that hangs over the mantle, unlocking the cover to reveal the holy scroll inside? Why are they removing the sash girthing the scroll, praying with eyes closed and foreheads touching the scroll? A word here, another there, a broken phrase and before long a string of remarks solidify around
the hazy edges of my brain. “Accept us, Adonai… The glory of Israel…in our hands…King Jehoram of Judah is dead. His other son…We are Your servants…allow us to serve Your land.”
My mouth fills with bitter ash. Treason! The princes are planning to rob my grandson of his rightful place as king of Judah.
I move away from the curtain and take the narrow back corridor toward steps that lead to a ledge behind the eternal torch. I step on the ledge and reach out for the light.
I grab and aim it at the traitors. Hurl it with the force of my rage.
They stare around. An accident, they think, trampling the flame, attempting to suffocate the anemic fire.
I snatch the vial of ambergris from my pocket, gaze at it with a sense of trepidation. It is buttery, glazed with oils and throbbing with possibilities. I think of the spice merchant, of the promise he extracted from me. I shut my eyes and toss the vial across the sanctuary. It shatters. Pieces of glass embed themselves in the men’s flesh. The ambergris blooms like a dazzling rose, bursting into hundreds of blazing petals that roar into life with capricious explosions that soar to lick the ceiling, walls, windows, and doors.
The startled men scramble to find their way out, but the flames are spreading and encircling them like molten lava, scorching hair and fabric, melting skin and flesh and bone.
I make my way across the corridor and out into the dusty road, heedless of poisonous insects underfoot, the pounding in my temples, the screech of vultures overhead. Fire blasts behind, illuminating my path. A grove of palms ahead. Farther down, the horses’ entryway to the stables. I slow for an instant, gaze back: wood planks come shattering down. Blazing fabric and smoldering parchments float above.
The roof of the temple collapses with a great wail.
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