by Jasper Kent
‘Any news?’ he asked.
I jerked my head to indicate that he should come away from his lackeys.
‘You can speak in front of them,’ he snapped.
I had no choice – and I had no specific reason to think that these two were not loyal to him. ‘Last night,’ I said, ‘after I left you, I was followed and attacked. There were four of them – vampires.’
‘Vampires? The very fact you survived would suggest not.’
‘Don’t underestimate me. I’m the grandson of the three-fingered man, remember? And it was me that killed Iuda.’
‘Touché. But why does it have anything to do with me?’
‘One of them was Ilya Vadimovich. The rest might well be your other … deserters.’
‘Did any of them survive?’
‘All of them, I think.’ It was a comedown to have to admit it after my earlier bravado.
He raised an eyebrow, but let it pass. ‘What did they want with you?’
‘I don’t know, but they didn’t want me dead. They were trying to grab me.’
‘Ilya’s not smart enough to think beyond his next meal, unless he has someone telling him what to do.’
‘Exactly. Anastasia.’
‘You think they’ll try again?’
‘Why not?’
Dmitry considered for a moment. ‘When you go home tonight, I’ll send these two with you just in case.’
I eyed the vampires. To me they were indistinguishable from the four who had attacked me, whatever faith Dmitry might place in them. And even if they were the sweetest-natured creatures in the world, I did not want voordalaki at my side.
‘I’ll take my chances,’ I said.
‘If you insist. Anyway, we have more important matters to concern us. What’s happening at the Winter Palace?’
‘It’s surrounded. Most of the guards have run off – as has Kerensky. I don’t know why they don’t just walk in and take it.’
‘They’re waiting,’ said Dmitry.
‘For what?’
He walked over to the river’s edge. The road along the embankment wasn’t empty, but what traffic there was was at a standstill. The two voordalaki stuck close to him – closer than I’d seen before, as if he or they had decided there was some extra need for his protection. He pointed across the river. ‘They have control of the Peter and Paul Fortress. Its guns are trained on the Winter Palace, just like the Avrora’s. The signal to attack will be a red lantern that they’re going to raise up the flagpole. At the same time the Avrora will fire a blank round, so that those who don’t see the light will still know. Then they’ll attack.’
‘How did you find all this out?’
‘I can be very persuasive.’ He smiled as he spoke, just enough to reveal his sharp white teeth. ‘They’ve already taken the Mariinskiy Palace – God knows why.’
‘That’s where the Pre-Parliament sits. It’s the only legitimate power in the city – unless you count the Soviet. You’re sure they’re in control there?’
‘I saw it for myself.’
‘What were you doing there?’
He looked down into the water, embarrassed. ‘I went to the theatre,’ he confessed. ‘Not for a performance – just to take a look at the place.’
‘The Mariinskiy Theatre?’ He nodded. I remembered following him there one night, years before, thinking he was going to feed, only to discover that his sole purpose had been to play the piano.
‘I couldn’t have got a seat anyway,’ he continued. ‘The place was packed. All the restaurants are busy too. No one’s got the faintest notion what’s happening around them.’
‘Possibly. Or perhaps they understand too well, and know they have no hope. What would you have done on the Titanic? Jumped into the sea, or gone to the restaurant for one last good meal?’
‘I was on the Titanic,’ Dmitry replied. ‘And I had a very good meal.’ One of the vampires standing beside him sniggered, but I had no reason to think it had been meant as a joke. ‘Do you know what’s playing at the Mariinskiy?’ Dmitry asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, trying to give the impression that neither did I care.
‘It’s Boris Godunov – Shalyapin’s in the title role. It seems fitting, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’
My agreement didn’t stop Dmitry from explaining. ‘The tsar who came to power after the fall of the Rurik dynasty. He was an oprichnik himself, you know; a real one – one of Ivan the Terrible’s bodyguards. Brought stability to a turbulent nation.’
‘Not for long.’
‘The Time of Troubles, you mean? A necessary period of adjustment until Mihail Romanov came along and brought three centuries of prosperity – for some.’
‘And that’s where we are now? With Kerensky as Godunov? Or maybe that was Lvov. And Lenin as Mihail I?’
‘Lenin, or Trotsky, or whoever comes after them.’
It seemed he was trying to tell me something – that he had made up his mind and that he now saw in the Bolsheviks the best hope for Russia.
‘And what about the False Dmitrys?’ I asked. ‘Where do they fit in?’ During the Time of Troubles three men had come forward claiming to be Ivan’s lost son, Dmitry, heir to the throne. All were lying.
Dmitry raised his eyebrows, understanding the connection I was making with him. ‘Don’t accuse me of falsehood. I’m merely fickle. At my age, it’s difficult not to be.’
‘One of those Dmitrys actually became tsar.’
He laughed. ‘Not my ambition, I assure you. I’m not that fickle.’
He gazed out across Senate Square, looking not into the distance, but into the past, when he’d stood on this very spot against Nikolai I, along with thousands of his fellow soldiers. Aleksei and Iuda had been here too, but for other reasons. I could understand why Dmitry would hate that tsar – and any tsar. The cannon had been lined up in front of Saint Isaac’s, from what I’d heard. Nikolai had given the order and they’d fired upon the ranks of his own countrymen.
An explosion shook the ground we stood on, but it hadn’t come from the direction of the cathedral. It was behind us. I whirled round. Even Dmitry’s companions appeared momentarily shocked. Only Dmitry himself was calm. He turned slowly. I’d already guessed where the sound had come from – the Avrora. Because the shot had been a blank it was even louder than a standard round. It would have echoed across the whole of Petrograd – telling all that the Bolshevik coup had begun.
I looked over to the Peter and Paul Fortress, but I couldn’t see any sign of a red lantern. Even so the guns there had begun firing on the Winter Palace. It was laughable. The fortress’s weaponry was ancient – it hadn’t been needed to defend the city for centuries. Their range wasn’t even enough to reach the far bank. The cannonballs splashed harmlessly into the water. If they’d brought up just one heavy gun from the Front they could have ripped the palace open with a single round. But that wasn’t the point. This was a show of strength – it would be the men on the ground who did the real work. The Avrora’s guns would have been devastating, but she remained silent after her first signal.
The effect on those around us was instantaneous. At the sound of the ship’s gun, almost everyone in the square had begun to move in the direction of the Admiralty and beyond it to their true destination – the Winter Palace. There were far more of them than was necessary. Those defending the palace were outnumbered a hundred to one, but it would mean thousands who would be able to say to their grandchildren, ‘I was there.’
Soon there were only a few of us left – me, Dmitry and his comrades, and a handful of stragglers. Even if Dmitry had been minded to help defend the palace, there would have been little he could do. He might kill a few Red Guards, but to no avail. It was better to let history take its course.
I held my hand out to him. ‘I won’t come again,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be free to once—’
I stopped mid-sentence. Dmitry looked at me, puzzled, but I was no longer
looking at him. That handful of stragglers had diminished now to just four figures – familiar figures, one of whom I recognized very clearly. It was Ilya. I nodded in his direction and Dmitry turned to look. He showed no surprise at what he saw, but paused a moment or two before speaking.
‘Ilya Vadimovich. I thought I told you to leave Petrograd.’
Ilya ignored him; instead he turned to face first one, then the other of the two vampires that still flanked Dmitry. ‘Louis,’ he said to the first, and then ‘Riccardo. It’s time for you to choose. Whose side are you on?’
He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead walked past them and Dmitry, coming straight towards me. The one he’d called Louis moved first. He thrust his hand upward, faster than I could really see, catching Ilya in the chest. The impact sent him sailing through the air to land on the pavement. Riccardo glanced at him and then seemed to make up his mind. He raised his fists, with the look of someone who knew how to box, and approached the nearest of Ilya’s cohorts. Dmitry strode purposefully towards the other two.
The odds weren’t too badly against us. Three voordalaki against four – and Dmitry was bigger than any of them. I wasn’t completely defenceless either. I didn’t think my arbalyet would be much use in a fight like this, but it took me only seconds to have my sabre in one hand and my cane in the other, its sharpened tip exposed. It had been time enough for Ilya to get back on his feet. He lowered his head and charged in the direction of Louis. Louis did likewise. A collision between two men at that speed would have cracked both their skulls, but I was eager to see what the effect would be on vampires. It was not to be. Ilya’s move had been a ruse. He slowed a little, letting Louis come to him, and lowered himself even further. When the impact came Ilya rose quickly and it was Louis’s turn to be hurled through the air. But Ilya had been aiming more precisely. Louis careered over the wall of the embankment and landed in the Neva with a splash. It would take him precious minutes to return to the fray.
Ilya now began to march towards me. To his left Dmitry appeared to be doing well enough in subduing the two he had taken on. I held my sabre out wide to my right, ready to swing it at Ilya’s neck, but perhaps it would prove unnecessary. Riccardo had managed to fell his opponent with an almighty punch. The creature lay dazed on the ground – I couldn’t guess how long it would take him to recover. Meanwhile Riccardo was on course to intercept Ilya before he could reach me. He still had his fists raised in that classic pose, but as he approached Ilya he grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to turn and face the fight.
Ilya did turn, and quickly, and at the same time he reached under his coat for something. It was not an object that I would have expected to see a vampire carrying, but it demonstrated that he had come prepared. It was a wooden sword, much like the one I had in my knapsack. It was simply fashioned – just a sharpened wooden stake with a short handle lashed to it – but perfectly effective. Riccardo was fast, but not fast enough. The blade went under his guard and straight into his heart. Ilya didn’t even stay to watch his opponent’s remains crumble to nothing. His attention was turned once again to me.
I raised the cane a little, making it clear that I knew how to use it. He stopped, standing just far enough away to be out of my reach. He could have come closer and I still wouldn’t have attacked. I knew that I had to sever his head completely with my sabre, and that would require the middle of the blade.
He walked a few feet to one side, and then the other, prowling like an animal, as if trying to find a way round. I made sure that the points of both my weapons followed him all the way. Behind him I could see that Dmitry was now in trouble against two of them, but there was nothing I could do. Then suddenly Ilya seemed to give up. He relaxed from his predatory pose and stood upright. He spoke, but I could make no sense of his words.
‘Oh, go on then.’
Too late I realized that he wasn’t even talking to me. Four of them had not been enough to deal with me the night before, so why should there be only four this time? From behind me a fist came down heavily on my forearm, knocking the cane to the ground. Ilya lunged forward, aiming his heel close to its tip. I heard it snap as it sank down into the mud. I still had hold of my sword and began to turn, judging the threat from the rear to be the greater, but it was too late. Now the hand grabbed my wrist. Ilya took hold of the blade and twisted it harshly. It drew blood, but the force was strong enough to wrench the hilt from my grasp. I fell backwards and found myself gazing up at the statue of Pyotr; more specifically at the face of the serpent that writhed beneath his horse’s hooves. Then I saw nothing. I felt dirty cloth against my face, covering my eyes and sucking into my mouth as I breathed.
Finally I felt Ilya’s hand squeezing my throat, just as he had done the night before, cutting off the blood that my brain could not survive without. But this time there was no one to come to the rescue. I slipped into oblivion.
CHAPTER XII
IT WAS NOT an unfamiliar situation. When I came to it was dark, but I could make out some illumination. The sack was still over my head, tied around my neck, but not so tightly that I couldn’t breathe. It had been the People’s Will who had done this to me before, years before. They’d kidnapped me and interrogated me, leaving my head covered so that I could not see who I was dealing with, not until the very end, when they had accepted me as one of their own. That had made some sense; this did not. If Ilya had simply ripped out my throat and sucked my life from me, that would have been reasonable. Evidently he wanted more from me than simply my blood – and that could only be worse for me.
My hands were tied behind my back, but my feet were free. There was no point in trying to escape, though. I was not alone. Around me I could hear voices, in several directions, but I could not make out what they were saying. It told me something about where I was: a large indoor space – echoing. My guess was a church.
‘What are you going to do with us?’
As when I’d been a captive of the People’s Will, the first voice I heard was a familiar one. Indeed it was the exact same voice: Dmitry’s. Then, though, he had been in charge. I doubted that was the case now.
‘With you? Nothing. It’s him we want.’ Again it was as before. This second voice was female, and familiar, but it was not the voice of the assassin Sofia Lvovna. It was Anastasia.
‘And what do you want with him?’ Dmitry asked.
‘You’ll see, soon enough. In fact, why not now? Wake him.’
A booted foot kicked me in the side.
‘I’m awake!’ I shouted. ‘I’m awake.’
‘Stand him up.’
I felt a hand under my armpit, pulling me, and soon I was on my feet. I was prodded in the back and walked forwards a few steps until another hand restrained me.
‘Let him see.’
Fingers fumbled at the back of my neck, and then the sack was pulled off. I twisted my head from side to side, partly to take in my surroundings, partly to stretch the muscles in my neck. I knew immediately where I was. I was standing just feet from the point where the fatal bomb had been thrown at my uncle, Aleksandr II, in 1881. His legs had been blown to tatters and he’d bled to death. He had died at the Winter Palace – with the future Nikolai II, then just twelve years old, watching on – but this location had taken on a greater significance as the site of the brutal act. They erected a memorial to him here, a shrine – the Shrine of the Blessing of the Lord, officially. I could see it from where I stood: dark jasper columns topped with a canopy of serpentine, embellished with topaz and gold. Within were the paving stones on which Aleksandr had fallen and a section of the railing that edged the canal. I’d heard that bloodstains could still be seen on those stones, but I’d never had the desire to look. Before long they had built a church to house the shrine. Where once there had been a vast crater – caused more by the first bomb, which had failed to kill the tsar, than the second – now stood the Cathedral of the Resurrection of Christ; the Church on Spilled Blood.
I’d been inside before, m
ore than once. In my opinion it was a building better viewed from within than without. While the exterior tried to mimic the far more ancient Saint Vasiliy’s in Red Square, the interior had none of its labyrinthine complexity. It was a single, open chamber. Every inch of the walls was decorated with mosaic – saints with their golden halos glittering, even in the dim candlelight. Four great columns stretched up to a ceiling that seemed unnecessarily high for so small a nave, but which in the middle reached even higher, into the central cupola. I could not see from where I stood, but I knew that on the inside of that dome the mosaic of Christ Pantocrator looked down, blessing all who prayed beneath him. If he had the choice, he would not have blessed today’s congregation.
Dmitry was seated on the floor, leaning against one of the pillars. There were manacles on his wrists, connected to each other by a chain which stretched around the column. A circlet of iron was fastened around his neck. It too was attached to a chain. If he had been held by mere ropes he might have stood a chance, but clearly those who had bound him understood the horrendous strength of the voordalak. And why not? – they were voordalaki themselves.
There were six of them altogether. Four were sitting idly around the nave, one on the steps leading up to the Beautiful Gate, which they had opened – a sacrilege in itself. I recognized three of the faces from earlier. Another was at my side; it was he who had removed my mask. The sixth, Ilya, stood in the centre of the church, directly beneath the dome and the mosaic of Christ. Beside him was his mistress.
Anastasia looked older than when I had known her before, but it was an illusion. It was partly down to her posture – she was the only source of authority in the building – to her clothes and also because she was wearing make-up. But beneath it I knew she could not have aged a day since I had first seen her, seeming to all the world a frightened child. But that too was an illusion – in truth she might be decades old – or centuries. One small, almost irrelevant matter was cleared up. The bump of her pregnancy was no larger than it had been before. Just like its mother, her unborn child was frozen in time.