by Jasper Kent
He reached out to shake me by the hand, but both of mine were fully occupied holding the stake. I let go with my right and he grabbed it in both of his.
Instantly I was in a different place. A narrow stairway leading down to a cellar. It was night – the early hours. In my arms I was carrying a boy. He was thirteen years old, but small for his age, weak, ill. There was a queue of us on the stairs, but soon we were in the cellar. There wasn’t much room, not for eleven of us. I looked at the faces around me. My wife was there, and my four daughters. The four others were the only ones who had remained loyal to us: my physician, a footman, a maid and a cook. Around my ankles scampered my little spaniel, Joy. She had remained loyal too. I turned round, back towards the stairs. They’d said we were being evacuated. Evidently we would have to wait here some time.
‘Could you bring some chairs?’ I asked.
The man standing at the bottom of the stairs, our gaoler, shouted up. Moments later three hard wooden chairs were brought down. I placed my fragile son in one and offered the second to my wife. I took the third. Then the room began to fill, with more men coming down the stairs. Soon the little cellar was preposterously crowded. I had to stand up again, just to see what was going on. There were eleven of them, not counting our gaoler, the same number as there were of us. That in itself was suspicious. They tried to spread themselves through the room, each pairing off with a single member of my family or our entourage, as if fulfilling the promise made on some fantastical dance card. But in the cramped space it was impossible to move anywhere.
The gaoler cleared his throat. He had a piece of paper in his hand which he read from.
‘In view of the fact that your relatives are continuing their attack on Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you.’
I turned quickly to look at my family. ‘What?’ I whispered. ‘What?’
The gaoler repeated the sentence, reading it again, though it was short enough for him to remember by heart. I wondered where they would take us to perform the act, how much time we had, whether they would separate us – the men from the women, the adults from the children. I began to pray that in the coming hours we would have time properly to say goodbye.
But the gaoler had scarcely finished speaking when his hand emerged from his pocket holding a revolver. He was standing just two feet away from me. He fired and I felt a thump against my chest. My legs grew weak and I began to fall. The gaoler fired again, but not at me. I heard my little boy scream and then fall silent. Until then I had felt no pain, but now every agony shot through me. I could not move, I could not speak, I could only perceive, and I knew that that would not last more than a few moments.
The other assassins had rifles rather than pistols and they began to fire. Bullets ricocheted across the cellar. Bodies fell – I could not see who – and the monsters finished them off with bayonets. I tried to breathe, but could not. Nor did I want to. My heart had been still for seconds now, blown apart by the bullet. My eyes gazed out across the cellar floor, across the pools of blood to where the spaniel pawed at the dead face of my beloved son. I tried to reach out to him but I knew there was no point. My only consolation was that we had died in the same moment.
And then …
CHAPTER XXVI
I HAD NO doubt as to what it had been: a vision of the future – of Nikolai’s future, of his death. Whether it would be soon or distant I did not know. The children looked young, but I was too out of touch to know just how old they were now. Danilov would understand it better. I could not explain precisely why we had been privileged to behold such a foretelling. It must have been down to the common blood that ran in our two bodies and the proximity of Ascalon. Perhaps even my presence had played a part, putting our mind into a more fluid state, in which it was open to such prophecies. I could not even be sure if I had witnessed the scene myself, or whether Danilov had and I was merely privy to his thoughts. But the body in which the Romanov blood flowed was ours now, not his. I was as much Nikolai’s cousin as Danilov was.
But one thing that I could deduce was that Nikolai was not to die tonight, here in this room. Whatever plans Susanna might have for him, they did not involve his immediate death. Or if she did plan for him to die, then her plan would fail. But even of that I could not be sure. I did not know whether our vision was of what might be or what must be.
Nikolai was still clasping my hand. His eyes gazed straight into ours, wide with fear. Perhaps he had seen what we had seen. Beyond him Susanna still stood in the larger room. The whole experience had taken only seconds to pass through my mind. Nikolai let go of me and stepped back. Susanna came forward and stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She watched us silently.
‘What’s she told you?’ I asked.
Nikolai turned away. He picked Ascalon up off the desk and clutched it to his chest. ‘She says this is the lance that Saint George used to slay the dragon. Is it true?’
‘It’s the lance that Peter the Great gave to the Armenians for safety; that much I know. The rest is legend.’
‘The legends are true,’ insisted Nikolai. ‘Pyotr ripped Ascalon from where it hung around Zmyeevich’s neck, after Zmyeevich had drunk his blood. He knew the power that it held.’
So many of them spoke of Ascalon’s power, but I could hear in their words only exaggeration. I had studied it when it was in my possession and found little of interest. And yet it was stained with blood and I knew the influence that blood could exert on men’s lives. I only existed because of the few drops of Danilov’s blood that I had once managed to sip. If Ascalon held any potency at all I was determined to discover how I could be its master and how I could use it to put me in sole charge of the body I now occupied – or allow me to take possession of another.
‘What power is that?’ I asked, trying not to appear too eager.
Nikolai turned to face me. His complexion was ashen. ‘It made Zmyeevich the monster that he was.’
‘You know that he’s dead then?’
‘I saw it with my own eyes.’
Just as Danilov had done – it made sense. ‘And how did Ascalon turn Zmyeevich into a voordalak?’
‘He … he found it. He saw the dragon’s blood on it and knew what it could do for him.’
‘Tell him the truth!’ Susanna snapped.
‘That is the truth,’ Nikolai insisted.
‘The truth – or your children die.’
Nikolai swallowed. He sat down at his desk and gestured that I should sit too. Susanna remained where she was. I clutched the stake that I had grabbed outside in both hands, pointing its tip towards her. It was my only weapon and I wanted her to see that I had not let down my guard.
‘Zmyeevich didn’t find it. It was given to him while he was imprisoned in Budapest, in the castle of Visegrád.’
‘When was this?’ I asked.
‘During the reign of my predecessor Ivan III. Zmyeevich – Vlad as he then called himself – was given it by Ivan’s ambassador, Fyodor Vasilievich Kuritsyn. Kuritsyn got it from Ivan himself, and Ivan got it from his wife, Sophia Palaiologina, who was the niece of—’
‘Of Constantine XI,’ I interrupted. ‘The last Byzantine Emperor.’
Nikolai nodded. ‘The last Roman Emperor. Constantinople had fallen to the Muslims in 1453. The heart of Christendom was destroyed. Ivan saw the chance of fulfilling Moscow’s destiny – of making it into a third Rome. He started calling himself tsar. He married Sophia. And he adopted the symbol of Byzantium – the double-headed eagle.
‘But as heir to the Byzantine throne – albeit self-appointed – Ivan knew that he must seek vengeance on those who had pillaged the city. He was fighting the Mohammedans on two fronts. In the east he was on the verge of defeating the Golden Horde, but he needed a way to hold back the Ottomans. And he found one.
‘Wallachia was ruled by Radu cel Frumos – Radu the Beautiful – though after his conversion to Islam he was called Radu Bey. He was born a Christian, but chose
a different path. He even fought alongside Sultan Mehmet II at Constantinople, helped him as he dragged his ships across the land and into the Golden Horn so that he could devastate that once beautiful city.’
Even now, Nikolai could not admit the truth of what had happened five centuries before. Constantinople had been on the brink of collapse. It was saved by the Turks, not destroyed. That, though, was not the point of his story.
‘But Radu was not the rightful Voivode of Wallachia. That honour fell to his older brother Vlad, whom Radu had usurped. If Vlad could be made strong again he could throw out his brother, and begin to take back the lands that belonged to Christendom. And Tsar Ivan had a way to make him strong – Ascalon. He had seers who understood the blood magic, and heralds who had unearthed a fascinating lineage. Vlad was descended from Saint George himself. In their battle, the dragon had bitten George – drunk his blood. If a descendant of George could consume the dragon’s blood then he might become … Well, no one knew. But he would be able to defeat his brother.
‘And so Ivan sent Kuritsyn with Ascalon to visit Vlad in his prison in Budapest and to present Ivan’s offer to him. If he would take the lance and plunge it into his heart and let the blood that stained its wood mingle with his own, even as he died, then he would become powerful – as powerful as the dragon itself, and he would have Russia’s eternal gratitude.’
‘And did Vlad do it?’
Nikolai shrugged. ‘Presumably. But it didn’t have the effect Ivan was expecting, not immediately. Radu died soon after. Vlad was freed, and he marched back to Wallachia, only to be killed on the way. His body was buried in the monastery of Comona. For a while anyway.’
It was all news to me. My mind raced to make sense of it – to exploit it.
‘And what happened to Ascalon?’ asked Susanna.
‘Kuritsyn brought it back to Moscow. It remained in the Kremlin. Its story was passed down, even when the Romanov dynasty replaced the Rurik dynasty of Ivan. It was only when Pyotr needed help to defeat the Swedes and to build his new capital that he thought he could make use of Ascalon. Pyotr had his own seers, who knew magic, and together they used Ascalon to summon Vlad, or Ţepeş, or Dracula, or Zmyeevich as he came to be known in Russia. Some say Zmyeevich was already reborn when it happened and had been for centuries, others that Pyotr’s magic dragged him from his grave. Either way he came, and brought an army with him, and helped Pyotr to build his city. Pyotr gave him Ascalon, and he wore it around his neck, close to his heart – the heart which it had pierced to make him what he was.’
‘And then?’ I asked.
Nikolai lowered his head and said nothing. It was Susanna who answered my question. ‘After that, you know the story. Pyotr betrayed Zmyeevich. He let Zmyeevich drink his blood, but did not drink in return. He took back Ascalon. And he tried to have Zmyeevich killed. But Zmyeevich escaped, and swore one day to return to Russia and take vengeance on the dynasty – on the nation – that had so cruelly betrayed him. You can understand his feelings.’
‘The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children,’ Nikolai murmured.
‘So what are you going to do about it now?’ I asked Susanna.
She smiled, but it turned into a wince. She moved her hand as if to clutch her stomach, but then the pain abated. ‘I’m going to try again.’
‘Try what?’ I asked.
‘Try what we attempted with you in the Church on Spilled Blood. Try to bring him back.’
‘Zmyeevich? You need his blood for that, don’t you? Where are you going to get that from?’
She walked over to the desk and picked up Ascalon, caressing it in a way that was unpleasantly sexual. Zmyeevich’s dragon ring was still on her finger, making a scraping sound as it ran over the wood. ‘His blood … or that of the one who created him.’
‘The dragon’s blood? On there? Will that work?’
‘Who knows? It’ll be fun to find out, won’t it?’
‘But it won’t bring back Zmyeevich. It’ll just turn Nikolai into a voordalak – make him another offspring of the dragon.’
‘Don’t you understand? Zmyeevich was the dragon. When Vlad Ţepeş stabbed himself in that gaol in Hungary it entered him. It threw out his soul and replaced it with its own. The same will happen with Nikolai.’
‘So why didn’t you try that in the first place, on me?’ I asked.
‘Because I didn’t know, not then. We’ve uncovered a lot since. Even so, I can’t be certain what will happen. It would be much safer to use his blood, if I had any.’
‘But if it works,’ said the former tsar, ‘I’ll live for ever?’
We both looked at him. I was appalled. Susanna merely laughed. ‘After a fashion, yes,’ she said.
‘Zmyeevich died,’ I said. ‘You would too, one day.’
‘But not for a very long time.’
A look of joy began to spread across his face. I’d never held him in any great esteem, but now any vestige of admiration I’d had for him was lost.
‘It would disgrace your family,’ I said. ‘Aleksandr Pavlovich gave up his throne rather than accept that fate.’
‘You forget,’ replied Nikolai, ‘I no longer have a throne to give up.’
Suddenly he was moving towards the door, but Susanna was quicker. She grabbed his arm. He looked at her. ‘I’m coming back,’ he said. ‘I’ve nowhere to run.’
She considered for a moment, then let him go. He disappeared out of the room, the little spaniel at his heel. Susanna looked at me. After a few seconds’ silence she spoke.
‘What happened to Dmitry?’
‘He’ll be here soon.’
‘I imagined he’d be coming with you.’
‘We’ll manage without him if we have to.’
‘“We”? Oh, you mean you and Richard. Two heads are better than one, I suppose?’
I hadn’t meant anything – it had been a slip of the tongue, of the sort I’d been making too frequently of late. But I played along. ‘Cain’s outwitted you and Zmyeevich more than once.’
‘It must be you that’s letting the side down then.’
Something in the room beyond disturbed her. She turned to look. For a moment I was filled with the hope that it might be Dmitry arriving at last, but it was only Nikolai returning. Susanna stepped away from the door to let him through. He was not alone. In front of him stood a young boy. I recognized him as the child I’d carried down to the cellar in my vision. It was the tsarevich, Aleksei Nikolayevich Romanov. It was said he was named after his ancestor, Tsar Aleksei, but I’d always wondered whether there was also some acknowledgement of the debt the Romanovs owed my grandfather. The boy stopped and looked nervously around his father’s study, standing almost beside Susanna. They could have been brother and sister.
‘My son is ill,’ Nikolai announced. ‘Gravely ill.’
That much was rumoured across Russia, but I did not know the details. Susanna’s face indicated that she was a little surprised.
‘He has a disease of the blood: haemophilia. If he cuts himself, he does not form a scab. If he bruises himself, he can bleed internally for hours. It’s an inherited disease.’
‘Inherited from Zmyeevich?’ I asked. It was more than a casual interest. If the disorder were connected with the blood curse of the Romanovs, then I too might be affected.
But Nikolai shook his head. ‘It comes from his mother’s side of the family. My wife received it from her grandmother, Queen Victoria of England. She spread a scourge through the royal households of Europe worse than anything Zmyeevich ever managed. Her own son Leopold was the first to die of it. It only ever seems to afflict men.’
‘Delightful story,’ said Susanna. ‘But what of it?’
‘He is a Romanov,’ said Nikolai, as if that explained everything. He laid his hands on his son’s shoulders, with a gentleness that reflected his fear for the boy’s fragility. ‘He carries Romanov blood in his veins.’
‘So?’
‘Use Ascalon on him. M
ake him immortal. Let him live.’ Nikolai was pleading now. This was the man who had passed his son over as tsar because he could not bear to be parted from him.
Susanna looked from father to son and back again. Then she snorted. ‘I don’t think Ţepeş would be happy to be confined by a body like that. And besides, yours is the body the people will follow – the Whites, that is.’
‘Sir, what are you talking about?’ the boy asked his father.
‘We’re discussing how to make you better.’
‘How?’
‘With this.’ He leaned across his son to where Susanna still held Ascalon and took it from her. It seemed such an innocent action that she let him take it. I myself didn’t notice anything untoward. But as soon as he had the lance in his hand, Nikolai ran out of the room, dragging the boy by the collar behind him. Susanna reacted faster than I, but in seconds we’d both followed them out into the larger room.
The tsarevich was on his back in the centre of the floor. He was trembling. I could see tears in his eyes. But he did nothing to resist his father’s will. Nikolai had one hand resting on the boy’s chest, but had no need to hold him down, such was his son’s deference to him. In his other hand Nikolai held Ascalon high in the air, ready to plunge it into Aleksei’s heart. It was a recreation of Abraham binding Isaac to the altar.
The pointed blade remained where it was in the air. Nikolai looked at me, then at Susanna, then back to me. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘I swear.’ He seemed to be trying to threaten us with the prospect, though it was an act he wanted to perform for its own sake.
‘You’d better get on with it, then, hadn’t you?’ I told him.
He stared at me, scarcely able to believe that a Danilov, one of the guardians of his family, could be so callous. But it was what he wanted – I was only offering encouragement.
It had the desired effect. Nikolai looked back down at his son and raised the lance a little higher. The tsarevich uttered a single word: ‘Papa?’ Ascalon had begun to move, but at the sound of his son’s voice Nikolai hesitated. It was enough for Susanna.