My heart churns with remorse. The moon has turned its back to me. I am cold. I fall to my knees, hold my head in my hands, and call out to God: Adonai! What have I done? I burned Your holy book, Your sacred words. Pardon my transgressions.
I gaze ahead, gaze with unbelieving eyes. Struggle to comprehend the shifting landscape I face.
The branches of the pomegranate tree of mercy are shorn of leaves. They are steeped in fire. No! Not a burning fire! A lovely glow that does not consume the tree. And then…what do I see? Holy letters disengage themselves from fragments of parchment. The letters flutter overhead like luminous moths, like small blessings. Float down. Land on boughs and limbs, shoots and tendrils, adjusting and readjusting their placement to dress the tree with holy letters.
High above, a rainbow appears on the canvas of a night sky that leaks fat tears to extinguish the flames. And in the midst of the emerging ruins of smoke and ash and regret, the pomegranate tree of mercy, the keeper of the Torah, glows like a jewel.
I clutch my necklace and gaze into the translucent heart of the opal, searching for the image of the just-transpired miracle. I see my face instead. The face of a traitor. I razed the house of God. I murdered the king’s sons. I unleashed a series of events that will forever stain Judah. I raise my face to the heavens and vow to ensure the continuance of the House of David. My raw voice shatters the hearts of angels, letting loose a torrent of stars.
I find my way to the palace. It is time to bathe. Change into royal attire. Announce the death of our king. Announce my leadership. Present myself to my people.
Sari assists me into the rooftop bathing tub. A specter of a pale moon glides behind a funereal blanket of smoke. The stench of burned wood and parchment and treason hovers above the realm. He removes layers of my pomegranate-stained clothing, pockmarked by fire sparks, the pungent odor of sin woven into the fabric.
We sit shiva for seven days and nights in the house of Jehoram. My one-year-old grandson Joash and my daughter-in-law Tsibia are by my side. My people beat on their chests and sway on their heels, reciting the mourners’ kaddish.
On the eighth day, Tsibia and Joash bid me a tearful farewell. I ruffle my grandson’s curly hair. “You will become king one day, my Joash. And it will be your sacred duty to preserve the royal seed.”
The week after, I dispatch a messenger to invite my grandson and daughter-in-law to come live with me in my palace. We will raise Joash as befits a king of Israel. We will raise him with a firm hand and a compassionate heart.
Their house is silent, everything in its proper place, the messenger reports back. No sign of struggle.
The two are nowhere to be found.
And so it is that with the aid of the pomegranate tree of mercy, my loyal eunuch, and an army devoted to its murdered king, I have been ruling for six years a land bereft of an heir.
The first winter came with a deluge of rains, followed by a gray spring when the sun peered through smoke-tinged clouds, striving to purge the land of the stench of fires, grant a semblance of normalcy to our lives. Masons from all four corners of Israel toiled day and night to rebuild the temple on the ruins of the last.
Her boughs weighted with all 304,805 letters in the holy book, the pomegranate tree of mercy oversaw the completion of the magnificent edifice.
On the third spring, two saplings sprouted on each side of the tree, adorning the main entrance of the newly built temple with three rimonim of mercy in place of one.
On the eve of Rosh Hashanah, the land ablaze with scented torches and the air fragrant with amber and myrrh, a retinue follows me to the temple to celebrate the beginning of the seventh year of my reign.
The ram’s horn is blown, resounding across the desert and in every home around my kingdom, heralding the arrival of another year of peace and prosperity.
The blare of horns of the cavalry announces my arrival. My soldiers, ministers, and advisers follow me into the sanctuary. It is dim and silent, devoid of all signs of festivity. Candles do not flicker on mantelpieces. Dust balls roll underfoot, and dried twigs beat against walls. The eternal light carves a solitary path through the sinister gloom. The shriek of a developing wind forces its way through an open window, blowing sand into my eyes.
Why? Why is the temple in a state of disarray on this day of celebration? Why is it besieged by menace? Why is Sari shaking like a palm frond and darting around like a sacrificial rooster?
Suddenly the sanctuary comes alive with hundreds of shifting shadows. A procession of disembodied faces—men, women, and children—appears from all doors.
From a shady corner emerges the high priest, Jehoiada, followed by lieutenants and cavalry of the army. Áhãh! Mutiny! My soldiers, at the command of my priest, are taking battle stations around me, their queen.
The bones of conspiracy I failed to see for six years glare at me now. I searched long and far in hope of capturing General Jehu, yet all the time, right under my watchful eyes, the high priest was plotting against me with my army.
Then all eyes swerve toward the commotion at the western portal. I, too, turn to look.
The love of my life, my seven-year-old grandson, Joash, olive-skinned, shining tight curls, and date-brown innocent eyes, stands at the threshold.
I open my arms wide. “My grandson!” I cry out.
The high priest’s voice echoes against stone walls: “Athalia, you have sinned! You burned the house of God. You murdered our Israelite princes. History will brand you as a daughter of Jezebel. Vilify you as the ‘Other.’ But your attempt to destroy the royal lineage failed. Joash was rescued from your wicked intents and raised in hiding.”
The snub-nosed wife of the high priest steps out of the shadows and wraps an arm around my grandson’s shoulders, the relief in his eyes more damning than the high priest’s pronouncement.
Lieutenants and runners step forward and raise their weapons. A battalion of soldiers takes its place around the sanctuary. My grandson ascends the steps to the altar, a practiced precision that heralds the rightful crowning of our king, at last. He sits in a chair carved from a solid piece of yellow cedar, the latticed high back decorated with the menorah and with the crowning wreath and insignia.
The high priest opens the doors to the cabinet by the eastern portal and retrieves two objects. “Witness a miracle. The spear and quivers of King David were spared from the fire!”
But he does not hand the spear and quivers to my grandson, nor does he lower the crown upon the child’s head. Instead the high priest raises his voice in the temple and appoints himself regent.
“Take this most evil of all women out to the columns!” He orders. “Let her not die in YHWH’s temple. Whoever attempts to save her, kill by the sword!”
I am dragged to the horses’ entryway. My opal ornaments are wrenched away. They bind me to a post that carries the long-ago stench of smoke and ash.
And as it had occurred on the night of the big fire six years before, plump drops of rain fall upon my head and a rainbow appears on the backdrop of the starry sky.
I shut my eyes and recite the Shema Israel, pray with my last breath to be forgiven.
The tip of an arrow pierces my left eye.
My soul rides on the wing of brilliant flames on a journey to another place.
***
Grigori Rasputin circles the bed on which Darya and the ambergris lounge like lovers. He is quiet, expectant, moving like an aroused beast. It is time to awaken Darya from her trance. The aroma of mint and fresh cucumbers, roasted lamb and goose, scent of pheasant in fresh cream and mushrooms sizzling in butter waft in from the window. The imperial kitchens are busy preparing tonight’s dinner.
Rasputin pulls out a soiled kerchief from his coat pocket and wipes his face. He was right, after all. This woman harbors more secrets than he imagined. When he first saw her in the auction house six years back, intent on acquiring The Cure, her regal demeanor, opal eye, and biblical appearance alerted him to her exoticism. But he did not expect her journey to go s
o far back in time, back more than eight hundred years before the year of our Lord, back to Judah to reveal the magic of opal and ambergris.
He comes closer to stand over Darya, willing his breath to normalize and his heaving chest to settle. In her sleep and smelling of fresh leaves, she appears approachable. He digs one hand into his coat pocket and pulls out a folding knife. Flipping the sharp blade open, he passes it between his thumb and forefinger, rubs it against his lips, examines it under the light of the chandelier, where it flashes invitingly.
He leans forward, reaches out, and thrusts the knife into the ambergris, where it slides with unexpected ease. He twists the blade this way and that, his teeth clenched, his biceps bulging as he struggles to cut off a piece. But invisible jaws have grabbed the blade from inside, the bone handle sticking out like an insult. He falls on top of the handle, manipulating it with all his might, turning and pulling, sweat dripping off his face. A sharp metallic click is heard. He is sent stumbling back, the broken handle left in his hand.
Darya’s eyes spring open. At the sight of Rasputin at her side, she jumps up into a sitting position. “Áhãh! What have I done? I murdered the princes! I burned the temple! I set the holy book on fire!”
Rasputin drops the knife handle in his pocket, cracks his bulging knuckles, pushes back the sweat-drenched hair plastered to his forehead. He coughs to recover his voice. “Darya Borisovna! Be vigilant. Know that the rest of your life will not be easy. You will experience many years of unprecedented chaos. Such tragedies, you might wish to die. You will live to be older than one hundred. Then, and only then, will a number of paths be revealed to you. Beware! Keep your eyes open. Choose the right path. Or you will be condemned to come back again and again until you…”
Darya jumps down from the bed, grabs Rasputin by the collar, shakes him violently. “Hear me, Grigori, hear me well! This is my last life. I am a different woman now. Aware of my sins. I will right the wrongs I committed in my other life.
“I will stand by Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov, protect him as if he were my own son. I will fight with my last breath for his right to occupy the throne. I will fight for the survival of the monarchy. This I vow on the grave of my beloved parents.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
— 1911 —
They make their way gingerly across the bristling pine clover toward the Byzantine-style Church of the Exaltation of the Cross, where the religious ceremony preceding the formal gala to inaugurate the Livadia Palace will take place soon, awarding the architect, Nicholas Krasnov, the title of Academician in Architecture.
Imperial Cossacks on horseback patrol the perimeter of the park. Wearing scarlet tunics, boots and sabers shining in the moonlight, they raise fur caps to salute Darya and the Tsarevich.
Gardeners arrange water lilies in moonlit ponds, scoop out a stray leaf, a breeze-blown bud, collect objects one or another guest has misplaced—a silk fan, a half-empty goblet of wine, a jeweled hair pin, a shawl fluttering in the breeze.
Alexei stops in front of the imperial garage, nods at the chauffeurs, removes the Kodak camera slung across his shoulder. He snaps photographs of his father’s cars, washed and polished to a high sheen—Delaunay-Belleville Triple-Phaeton, three Delaunay-Bellevilles, a limousine, two landaus, and a Mercedes Landau. Numerous other cars are housed in other palaces, the expenses of which the minister in charge of the imperial budget has been complaining about. But when it comes to his collection of cars, his pride and joy, the Tsar will not hear of curtailing expenses.
Imitating his father, the Tsarevich clasps his hands behind his back as he walks to each imperial chauffeur, reaches up to adjust a khaki coat that doesn’t need adjusting, pats the coat of arms stamped on a uniform, and brushes a peaked cap that has been removed in his presence. He directs the men to pose around the cars. Pleased with his choreography, he takes a few more photographs. “Thank you,” he says, snapping his hand up in a military salute. “Good-bye now.”
A warm breeze ruffles his hair, like spun gold in the moonlight. Seagulls wheel overhead. The heady scent of ripe fruit wafts from the east. Notes of the orchestra tuning their instruments can be heard from the palace. Windows frame glimmering chandeliers and shadows of waiters completing last-minute tasks.
Perhaps later tonight, Darya muses, after the festivities, she might invite Avram to her quarters. Their relationship has had its share of twists and turns before settling into the grooves of her life. His compromises, she knows, have been far greater than hers. What man, after all, would remain loyal to a woman whose primary allegiance is to a sickly little boy? Only now does she understand the reason behind her fierce devotion to Alexei. Will Avram understand? Yes, she tells herself, he will. She will tell him what happened yesterday, tell him about Athalia, about her loss and sin and her attempt at redemption. Such knowledge will support his ultimate belief that she has always been two different women: the young, fierce Darya he loves, and the ancient soul he has come to admire.
The Tsarevich squeezes Darya’s hand. “I’m going with father for a ride tomorrow, all the way from Yalta to Sevastopol.”
“The Crimean highroad is great fun, Loves.”
“I’ll bring back many, many photographs for you.”
“Bring me photographs of Chufut Kale on your way, a cave town perched on one of the Crimean plateaus. I’ve studied its ancient history, all the way back to the eighth century when the Khazar Kaganate adopted Judaism. It’s called the Fortress of Jews.”
“What’s Jews, Darya?”
“Not what, Loves, but who. Jews are like us, except they believe in Moses instead of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“They’re different then.”
“I don’t know, maybe, but not really; they seem to be a God-fearing people like you and me, except that we are Christian.” Not completely true for one Israelite zealot who committed the most heinous of crimes in her past life. Some knowledge is better left buried, she sighs, longing for yesterday’s innocence.
“Why do you call Chufut Kale fortress of Jews, Darya?”
“Because many Jews lived there once.”
“Where are they now?”
She wraps one arm around his shoulders. “I’ll tell you when you are older and the world is calmer. There’s time, Loves, a lot of time to learn about hatred.” Her glance falls on the amulet on the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. She holds him back, cups his elbow in her hand. “Come, let me straight your amulet. There, that’s better.”
“Come along, Darya. I’ll not miss the fun.”
She taps one finger on the amulet. “You won’t, not while you have your good luck charm. No one will start without Alexei Nikolaevich, sovereign heir Tsarevich, Grand Duke of Russia.”
He pulls his hand out of hers and continues his climb toward the palace church.
She trails close behind, trying not to touch him, to allow him a semblance of the independence he craves.
A sudden sound, a loud, startling boom bursts out of the sea.
He jumps back to grab her hand. She squeezes him tight against her thumping chest, waits for her heart to settle. She gazes at the horizon, far away, where the sky and sea bleed into each other and the entire Crimean night flickers on the surface of the Black Sea. “Look all the way out there, Loves, beyond that passing ship that looks like an illuminated Christmas tree. See that small gray hill? Good. Promise not to laugh, and I’ll tell you something.”
“I promise,” he whispers, his cheeks trembling with the effort to keep himself from crying.
“That, Loves, is the hump of a sperm whale. And this is the sound of its complaining stomach. Sperm whales suffer from terrible tummy aches. So what you hear is the poor animal belching.”
He raises his incredulous eyes to her, and she plants a kiss on each. “I learned this from my papa on our way here when your mama was pregnant with you.”
He skips ahead, a few steps forward, hesitates, then stumbles as if not certain where to go, as if he changed his mind. A pebble
rolls under the sole of his shoe, sliding, scuttling, his arms flailing as if he might fly. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. The camera flies off his shoulder.
Darya screams, her arms dart out to steady him, catch him, leaping forward to cut his fall.
He comes crashing down on his back.
She drops on her knees beside him. “Are you hurt, Loves? Talk to me! Alyosha!”
He is still, wide-open eyes staring at the sky. A white kite glides overhead. The sperm whale rumbles in the distance. A lizard slips under a rock. A gardener whistles somewhere in the park. A flock of shrieking crows alight on the Greek cross on top of the chapel.
A chill like an ominous ghost slithers up her spine. She cradles his head in her lap. “Oh, God! You are hurt, Loves. Talk to me. Please!”
He sucks his breath in, licks his dry lips, swallows. His eyes are round with fright. “Don’t tell Mama, Darya, please.”
“Oh, Loves! Don’t worry about that.”
He is trying to prop himself on both elbows, struggle up to a sitting position.
“Wait! Don’t move. Let me check you.”
He pushes her away. Brushes clean his tuxedo jacket, pants, sleeves. “Please, Darya, I don’t want to be sick. Let’s go! Mama and Papa are waiting.”
“I know, Loves,” she replies, unable to keep her alarm out of her voice. “Tell me where it hurts.” She unbuttons his coat and shirt, examines him from all angles, unfastening the waist of his trousers and passing her hands across his legs.
He holds up his elbow for her inspection. “Hurts here. Not much, Darya. I’m fine.”
But she knows better. Nothing will stop the onset of bleeding now. There is no predicting how serious this episode will be. She tries to button up his jacket, but her cold, trembling fingers will not allow. “Come, Loves, we’ve got work to do.”
“But I will not miss the ceremony,” he protests.
“Either this, or you’ll have to stay in bed for a long month, maybe more. Yes, I know, it’s unfair.” She kneels, wipes a tear off his cheek with her thumb. “Come, jump on my back. I’ll carry you. You shouldn’t be walking. Up, now, up.”
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