The People's Will

by Jasper Kent

  Tamara’s mother, Domnikiia, had never visited Petersburg, and Aleksei had always preferred Moscow – not least because Domnikiia lived there – and so Mihail sensed quite a familial pressure, channelled through his mother, to favour the old capital over the new. But he had only experienced Petersburg for a few hours and decided to give the city a chance.

  He marched onwards, the snow creaking beneath his boots, passing the foot of the Nikolaievsky Bridge. There was nothing like that in Moscow, but then the Moskva was nothing like the Neva. It was not at its best frozen over. He would make sure to see it in the summer, when all its glory would be on display, a swathe of glittering azure cutting through the city. Soon he turned inland, walking across Senate Square until he was at the base of the statue. The Bronze Horseman – Pyotr the Great – gazed into the sky from the back of his horse, oblivious to Mihail’s presence. And yet Mihail, supposedly, was his great-great-great-great-grandson. Today the truth of it would be known. Mihail felt the urge to linger, to leave the truth for tomorrow, or the day after that.

  So much had happened here, to both sides of his family. It was here that Zmyeevich and Pyotr had met in 1712; here that Zmyeevich had drunk Pyotr’s blood and shared with him his knowledge; here that Pyotr had refused to drink Zmyeevich’s blood and thereby condemned the Romanov family through the generations; here that Zmyeevich had thrown himself into the billowing Neva and left Russia, but not left it alone.

  It was here too that Aleksei had confronted Iuda, in 1825; here where he had discovered the influence that Iuda had had on his son’s life; here they had fought, out on the frozen river; here that Aleksei had killed Iuda, shot him in cold blood; and here that Iuda had cheated death, drunk the blood of a vampire, and become a vampire himself.

  Perhaps it would be near here too – and soon – that Mihail would finally deal to Iuda the fate he had so long deserved. And Mihail would learn from his grandfather’s mistakes; he would not be tricked.

  He turned back to the embankment to continue his journey, taking one last look at the statue. Behind it Saint Isaac’s loomed, its dome glittering in the morning sunlight. Back then, when the Decembrists had risen against Nikolai I, the construction of the huge cathedral had scarcely begun. To a newcomer like Mihail, it seemed so permanent. He had only his guidebook to tell him of its history.

  He carried on alongside the river, heading roughly eastwards, past the Admiralty and then the Winter Palace. But neither of these was his destination, although the man he sought often frequented them. Across the Neva, to his left, he could see the Peter and Paul Fortress, the spire of the cathedral within reaching high into the air, but his destination was on this side of the river. At last he was there: the Marble Palace. The Petersburg residence of His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolayevich Romanov – ‘Papa’.

  He looked up at the building. The marble reliefs on the walls were impressive enough, but they were dull compared with the Winter Palace. It was a fitting residence for a grand duke – elegant, but not so extravagant as to make the tsar feel even a twinge of jealousy. By which door, Mihail wondered, had his mother made her clandestine entrances and exits on her visits to Konstantin? He struggled to picture it. His images of Tamara were recent; of her sallow skin and hollow cheeks – one horribly scarred – and of the continual pathetic coughing. It was hard to imagine that in her youth she had been a beauty, or that she had ever loved. Life had hardened her.

  He already knew Konstantin’s habits. He and his mother had studied them in the newspapers, even from distant Saratov. If he was at home and if his brother, the tsar, was at home – and the Romanov standards flying above both palaces showed that they were – then he would most likely make the short journey from the Marble to the Winter Palace at some point in the mid-morning. Mihail turned away from the river and towards Millionaire’s Street. The doors of the palace opened on to a courtyard from which gates led out on either side. The far side opened on to the embankment, but to reach his brother, Konstantin would use the gates through which Mihail now peered. It was scarcely nine o’clock, but already quite a crowd was gathering, waiting to get a glimpse of royalty as it hurried past. It would not make things easier.

  He took the small, square piece of notepaper from his pocket and looked at it again. The message was brief, almost curt.

  My Dear Kostya

  This is your son.

  With many affectionate memories,

  Tamara Valentinovna Komarova

  Mihail had asked his mother if she didn’t have more to say, but she was not sentimental; this would be enough. She had used the name by which Konstantin had known her. Mihail could explain the rest, if it was appropriate. On the back of the note Mihail had scribbled his own name, and the address of his hotel. Now all he had to do was wait.

  He glanced at the faces in the crowd. Most looked like foreigners – French, German and English come to see what they imagined to be a spectacle. Some were merchants or professionals, part of a new class that had money but no family connections. Among the aristocracy, only a few had easy access to the royal family, but those who did not would not accentuate the fact by standing out in the cold, waiting for a glimpse of one of them. The scattering of peasants or workers who watched were merely passing by. They waited for a few moments, hoping to be lucky enough to spot the mighty grand duke, but did not have time to linger; they had work to do.

  And then there were two others that did not fit into any group. A man and a woman – apparently unconnected to one another, but giving the impression of having some common purpose. Mihail was reminded of hidden glances exchanged between Dusya and the bearded man on the train. His heightened awareness was no accident; being brought up to fear creatures that lurked in the shadows made him perceptive of the world around him.

  The man was barely twenty, with a square head of untidy swept-back hair and no beard. He had flat eyebrows and a broad, squashed nose. The woman was somewhat older, though it was difficult to judge. Her blonde hair and bright blue eyes gave the impression of youth, but other features indicated a greater maturity. She was plainly dressed and would have been pretty if it were not for her large forehead, which seemed to dominate her face.

  In the palace courtyard there was a commotion. Mihail looked and saw horses being made ready. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He was the only figure in uniform there, and the people let him past as if to do so was in their very nature. When the entourage emerged, it came quickly. First two mounted Cossacks, then the royal carriage itself, then two more Cossacks. It was not just the tsar who needed a bodyguard in these turbulent times. The gates opened and the carriage slowed to turn on to Millionaire’s Street. Mihail grabbed his chance.

  It took him only two strides to reach the coach and then launch himself from the ground. His hand caught the frame of the open window and his feet scrabbled momentarily before finding a secure place to settle on the running board. Konstantin turned, his expression not so much startled as offended. The two men locked eyes for only a fraction of a second, and then Mihail reached forward with his free hand, offering the grand duke his mother’s note. The coach continued to move, carrying them away from the crowd. Mihail waved the slip of paper.

  ‘Take it, please!’ he said, loud enough only for the grand duke to hear.

  Then hands grabbed him and he fell back, landing in the snow. Booted feet began to kick his sides. One hit his cheek and he covered his face with his hands, still clutching the note.

  ‘Stop that!’ came a shout.

  The barrage of blows ceased. Mihail lowered his hands. There were two Cossacks standing over him, rifles aimed, their muzzles almost touching him. A little way away, a third was doing his best to hold back an angry crowd, although the two misfits that Mihail had noted earlier were no longer a part of it.

  In the other direction the Cossack captain was looking up into the open coach door, in conversation with Konstantin, whose face could not be seen but whose hands poked into view as he gestur
ed with them. Mihail heard the crump, crump, crump of quick-marching boots on the snow, and saw more guards arriving from the palace, some to take their places in the group guarding Mihail, others to help fend off the crowd. The captain strode over and spoke to one of his subordinates.

  Mihail was hauled to his feet. His sword was removed from its scabbard and a mercifully superficial search revealed no other weapons. They didn’t even discover the note, which he had managed to slip into his glove. They held him by the arms and marched him away to the east. Behind him, the Cossacks remounted and the procession set off once again.

  Mihail’s journey was not a long one. On the right they passed a vast parade ground, which he guessed to be the Field of Mars. Then they turned left, walking alongside a small canal until, right on the Neva embankment, they came to a stone bridge, arched like a cat’s back, by which they could cross. They carried on along the embankment, past a beautiful park with a tall wrought-iron fence and over a larger canal via a three-span bridge. Then they turned away from the river again, along the side of this second canal.

  At last they came to a squat, anonymous, three-storey building into which Mihail was led. They took him up the stairs to the top floor. An iron gate blocked their way, which a sentry opened. The corridor beyond had a blank wall on one side and doors on the other. Mihail was taken through the second door into a room that contained just a chair, a mattress and a table.

  They left him there. The door slammed shut and the key turned in the lock. Things were not going according to plan.

  Naturally they had been forced to wait until it was dark. Fortunately, at this time of year, darkness came early to Petersburg. It wasn’t even five o’clock. That was one of the things that had brought Zmyeevich to the place to begin with, him and his friend Pyotr Alekseevich Romanov, all those years ago. Pyotr’s reasons had been different. He wanted a northern port for his empire, and a fortress to hold back the Swedes. But they had managed to work together, for a while.

  Zmyeevich looked up at the Bronze Horseman. It was a close enough likeness, as far as he remembered. The statue hadn’t been cast until fifty years after Pyotr’s death, but there were plenty of portraits to base it on. And Zmyeevich too was immortalized in the statue – as if one already immortal needed such an honour – but for him the likeness was more symbolic than naturalistic. Under the hooves of Pyotr’s steed a serpent writhed, vanquished by the great tsar. The Empress Yekaterina had known the story when she commissioned the monument. Every Romanov did – they’d be fools not to pass the warning down to their children. She had put Pyotr in the role of Saint George and cast Zmyeevich as the dragon. How much had she really known, Zmyeevich wondered, to have come so close to the deeper truth?

  It was almost on this very spot, just a little closer to the river, that Pyotr had betrayed his comrade. It was all very different now from 1712, the year that Petersburg had become the capital. So much building had gone on since. Zmyeevich had been lucky to escape with his life, throwing himself into the river and swimming to freedom. Not so easy at this time of year, with the Neva sealed under an inches-thick layer of ice.

  It had been rare for him to return to Russia since then. Once he had done so, in 1762, to offer the new tsar, Pyotr III, the chance of immortality. Again he had come in 1812, but on that occasion had only made it as far as Moscow and had not seen the tsar. He’d been in Taganrog, or as close as he’d dared, in 1825, when prospects had seemed at their best, but every time he had failed.

  He had not failed; his emissary had failed – his unprofitable servant. On those two occasions it had been the same man, now no longer a man, now Zmyeevich’s captive: Cain, or Iuda, or whatever name he chose to go by. Zmyeevich had been a fool to trust him, both to trust his abilities and to trust his fealty. Zmyeevich had, for a while, regarded himself as minor European royalty; his rank of count did not come so far down the scale. But royalty was decadent, and he had tried to emulate it, sending subordinates to do work he would have done better himself – work that he would relish. That would change.

  True, he still had servants. Dmitry Alekseevich was one. Might he not, like Iuda, prove to be unworthy of the tasks assigned to him? It was possible, but unlikely. There were stronger bonds that tied him to Zmyeevich than there had been with Iuda. The two had sought each other out after Dmitry had become a vampire. Dmitry knew of Zmyeevich by reputation; Zmyeevich knew Dmitry through his father, a worthy adversary. His son might make a worthy ally. And so it had proved.

  Zmyeevich turned his head and saw the two figures standing in the shadows, Saint Isaac’s dwarfing them in the background, so much more imposing than the tiny church on the site when Zmyeevich had last been here, no more than a consecrated barn. Iuda was manacled and the wire rope meant he could not run far from Dmitry. It was not the safest arrangement for such a creature, but they had to bring him, otherwise they would never find their way in. And Dmitry was a stronger vampire by far. If anyone cared to question the strange arrangement, Dmitry’s rank and uniform were enough to see them off.

  Zmyeevich took one last look at the statue of Pyotr. Truly, they had been friends, as far as Zmyeevich could have one – as far as Pyotr could. It was back then that he had first taken on the Russian form of his name. Pyotr had told him that if he were to become a great boyar, then his name would have to be Russian. Zmyeevich was a simple translation of the original. They had debated whether ‘Son of the Dragon’ fitted better, but had gone with Zmyeevich – ‘Son of the Serpent’. And besides, there already was a Zmyeevich in Russian folklore – Tugarin Zmyeevich – though there was no connection between them. Zmyeevich used the Russian form in Russia, but everywhere else he preferred the original Romanian.

  He strode across the square to where Dmitry and Iuda waited, circling round to look the prisoner in the face.

  ‘So now we are here,’ he said. ‘Will you show us the way?’

  Iuda nodded sullenly, and they began to ascend the steps to the cathedral doors.

  It had made no sense to Dmitry, but he wasn’t surprised that Zmyeevich had quickly recognized the floor plans to be those of Saint Isaac’s, and noticed the scribbled modification in the north-eastern corner. It was hard to conceive that Iuda might have been able to influence the construction of the building to such a degree, but at the time he’d had a powerful position in the Third Section. He could have made any excuse about its purpose: a hiding place for spies; a secret dungeon. The church elders did not see the world so very differently from the tsar – not back then – and would have happily acceded. Even today they showed respect. When the three men entered, the only occupant was a priest, going about whatever his duties may have been. He frowned at the intrusion, but then saw Dmitry’s uniform. Dmitry jerked his head and the priest scampered away, leaving them in peace.

  Iuda led them towards the Nevsky Chapel, to the left of the Beautiful Gate at the centre of the main iconostasis. Beside the side chapel entrance, in the north-eastern corner of the nave, was a tall mosaic of a saint, framed by columns of green malachite. It was unmistakably Saint Paul, with his long sword and open Bible, to which he pointed. Iuda turned his head to look at his captors, his grin showing a little pride in his creation – perhaps justified.

  ‘I’ll need my hands,’ he said, raising his bound wrists and with an expression of humble entreaty upon his face.

  ‘Tell Dmitry what to do,’ Zmyeevich replied.

  ‘Very well, but … there are traps.’

  Iuda could easily have been bluffing, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Zmyeevich paused for a moment in consideration, then nodded. Dmitry handed him the end of the wire rope to hold while he unlocked the manacles that kept Iuda’s wrists behind his back. The rope still shackled him at the neck. He flexed his fingers, putting on a show. When they had first known each other, and for years afterwards, Dmitry would have been taken in by it all, but not any more.

  Iuda reached up and pressed his thumbs against the mosaic tiles, somewhere close to the saint’s big toe
s. The lock released without a sound. Iuda stepped back and the entire icon swung outwards, revealing a dark, narrow brick passageway, far smaller than the icon that had hidden it, its floor at the level of their chests.

  ‘Let him go first,’ said Zmyeevich.

  Iuda required no second bidding. He pulled himself up the high step into the passageway and disappeared into the darkness. Dmitry felt the rope tighten in his hand and yanked it back, telling Iuda not to go too far ahead, as though he were a disobedient mongrel. The corridor was tight for Dmitry, but he was used to such things. Any fear of enclosed spaces that he had felt in life had vanished the moment he had awoken in his own coffin, deep under the soil. He felt Zmyeevich at his back.

  The corridor ran only a few feet before arriving at a descending spiral staircase. They went down, Iuda still leading the way, until the steps ended in another corridor, long and straight. Dmitry felt that they must be below the level of the crypt, but he had lost his sense of direction on the twisting stair; he could not say whether this new passageway led out under Senate Square, or back beneath the cathedral, or in any other direction. All he could do was follow.

  At last the tunnel opened out into a chamber. It was a large space, about half as tall again as he was. The arched ceiling was supported by eight brick columns. The place smelt of damp; Dmitry guessed that they must be close to the level of the river.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ said Iuda.

  Dmitry tugged at his leash again, and he fell silent. Zmyeevich traversed the room, lighting the various lamps and torches that hung from the walls with the candle he had brought from the cathedral. The columns cast a criss-cross of shadows over the brickwork of the floor.

  ‘You had all this built?’ asked Zmyeevich, with genuine wonder in his voice.

  ‘No, no,’ admitted Iuda. ‘This has been here since Yekaterina’s time, perhaps longer, but lost for decades. I merely ensured that there was an entrance to it.’