‘The food is disgusting. I would not expect my sows to eat that,’ cried the French landscape designer.
‘My delivery of marble and tools is still blocked by customs in the port: how shall I work without chisels and stone?’ asked the Italian sculptor.
‘My workers are nothing but clumsy fools. They can’t tell their arses from their elbows,’ sneered the Dutchman, who was to build the bridges over the Fontanka and Moika canals.
In the coming years, Trezzini dreamt and built restlessly, beginning with St Isaac’s Church, the palaces for the ministers, the fortifications of Kronstadt, the St Alexander Nevsky monastery, the Senate, as well as simpler things such as plans for quays and a number of wooden bridges across the canals. When his tenure ended, other masters stepped in: the proud Alexander Le Blond of France, the quarrelsome German Schädel and Harebel from a town called Basel, who hated caviar with a vengeance – ‘Such slippery, glibbery stuff!’ he said – and instead wanted to dunk bread in molten cheese whenever things got festive! Well, each to their own.
When Peter ordered the first few hundred Moscow noble families to move to St Petersburg, any excuse was futile, and neither age nor serious illness was allowed to delay the move: old Prince Cherkassy, the richest man in Russia, begged for some leeway as his legs were swollen with gout. Peter’s guards dragged the venerable man by his hair out of his palace near the Kremlin and placed him stark naked on the ice of the Moskva, mocking him and laughing. His staff started packing up with utmost haste. When a fire destroyed a large part of Moscow, Peter was overjoyed: the burnt houses were to stay rubble and ashes; if the homeless needed a place to stay, they were welcome in St Petersburg.
During a festive dinner I overheard Sheremetev say to Peter Shafirov, ‘Do you know what Neva means in Finnish?’
He shook his head, and Sheremetev answered, ‘It means dirt.’
44
On a clear morning in early November the guards declared the Neva’s ice safe to bear the weight of sleighs and skaters. The sky was palest blue, the outline of the Peter and Paul Fortress looking sharp and almost unreal against it. Trees on the riverbanks were heavy with silvery rime. Every freezing breath was an assault on lungs and brain.
Eight steeds were tethered to the sleigh in which I sat together with Alexandra Tolstoya and Daria, who was pregnant once more. It was adorned with flags, bunting and silk banners in all the colours of the rainbow. The animals’ breath steamed from their nostrils as they chewed on their bridles. Peter stood straight on a small, simple sled, his legs set wide to maintain his balance, holding the reins tight in his restless hands. Behind him, the whole court awaited his orders, their own colourful vehicles pulled by horses, deer, pigs, dogs, dwarves or souls.
‘Are you ready?’ the Tsar yelled.
‘Yes!’ a whole excited chorus of voices echoed across the ice and my pulse quickened. Peter raised his arm, face beaming with excitement, and we held our breath and strained our ears until a cannon shot from the Peter and Paul Fortress tore through the crisp air. Peter’s arm fell and he lashed his horses. ‘Come on, then. The Neva is open to traffic,’ he cried, and the wind swept the words from his mouth, making away with them.
‘Come on!’ I drove my horses on with a short crop; Daria and Alexandra cheered and waved colourful handkerchiefs while our sleigh shot after Peter, and all the others followed us onto the virgin ice.
I slowed down and held my breath as Peter approached the other bank. What would he say when he saw what I’d had made for him? He stopped his sled with a sudden jerk and stared in silence at the glittering building, rising like a dream before his eyes: walls, towers and battlements glistened, all made of ice and sparkling like a fairy-tale castle. It had taken workmen an entire night to chisel the pavilion from giant ice blocks: its roofs, domes and spires sparkled like shards of blue glass in the sun, and to right and left of the entrance to the snow palace stood Peter’s Moors. The oiled black skin of their bare chests was a splendid sight against the purity of the palace, as were their silk pantaloons and boots cut from blue and red leather. I caught up with Peter and he turned to face me, slowly, his eyes moist and full of wonder and disbelief. It touched me deeply: he looked like a child at its first Easter. I smiled at him tenderly when he whispered, ‘Did you do this?’
I blew him a kiss. ‘Yes. It’s a palace fit for the King of Snow and Ice, my Tsar. A gift from your most faithful, loving servant.’
He helped me from my sleigh. I carefully set down my feet on the slippery surface as Peter led me inside the Ice Palace, his face shining with joy. ‘It is wondrous!’ he said, his eyes taking it all in, his mouth open wide. Between pillars of ice stood two thrones made of packed snow, which were covered with leopard skins. Behind them, a red velvet flag embroidered with a golden Russian double-headed eagle was draped from the ceiling to the floor, several metres in all. Flames danced in a fireplace made of ice, so that our backs were warm and cosy, though the rest of the guests froze their buttocks firmly to their seats. Peter and I giggled so much, we almost fell from our thrones; but whoever got up without permission was ordered to drink a potent mix of champagne and brandy as punishment. The musicians had to move their hands all the time, otherwise their fingertips would have frozen to the instruments. Peter made them play a minuet to which our dwarves danced, slithering on the ice with their short, bulky limbs, and tumbling over each other.
I laughed so much that the inside of my stomach turned sour and I had to be brought to bed with a colic.
45
Despite the merry Yuletide, the difficult time for Russia was not yet over, even if the Swedes were starving and scorched earth killed them like flies. When I visited Sheremetev in his new St Petersburg house, he did not hold back any of his fears and reservations.
‘For the New Year I wish you health and all the happiness in the world,’ I said, and tried to kiss his hand, but he hastily withdrew his fingers.
‘You should not do that anymore. I certainly do not wish to be seen having my hand kissed by you – Your Grace.’
It was the first time he had called me that, but I hid my surprise and linked elbows with him before settling in front of his fireplace. As always, I enjoyed being close to this man. I felt I had so much to thank him for. If he had ever hoped that we might be more than friends and comrades-in-arms, he never let on. The palatial house was still almost empty, bar a few well-chosen pieces of furniture. In the reception room, the walls were bare except for a life-sized portrait of the Tsar hanging above the mantelpiece. The servants had probably just got the fire going as I felt the chill and wrapped myself tighter in my cloak of dark red velvet and blond mink furs. A servant brought us steaming mulled wine and a tray full of crisp, freshly baked blinchiki stuffed with fat salmon and sour cream.
‘Mmm, they’re delicious,’ I said, nibbling on a pastry and eyeing the next. ‘Better than the food in your house usually is,’ I teased him. ‘Did you get a new cook?’
Sheremetev blushed. ‘No, nothing of that sort,’ he said. Why did my question embarrass him? I wondered, but changed the subject.
‘How long will you stay in the city? Has the Tsar issued a new marching order?’ I had not seen Peter for several nights. He consulted his generals and advisers ceaselessly, and afterwards his men still had to drink and make merry with him, to make him forget his troubles. Come the early-morning hours he’d be carried to his frigate that lay frozen in the water, where he’d sleep, cloaked in loneliness, in a narrow bunk.
Sheremetev weighed his answer. ‘How long can we keep the Swedes at arm’s length? The last open battle was several years ago now and Charles has itchy feet. Do you know how close he is to Moscow, despite scorched earth? Only twelve hundred versty. Never before has an enemy been so close to the city walls. There must be a battle this summer. A big, decisive battle, which will force either country to its knees for all eternity.’ He looked warily into the flames. ‘Who knows? By next year, we might all be Swedes.’
‘Don’t say that, Boris P
etrovich. That is high treason,’ I said, and took one of his rough, callused hands in mine. ‘Promise me that you will not leave the Tsar, but will stay by his side, whatever happens. He always plunges himself into the thick of things, you know that.’
Sheremetev pressed my fingers. ‘That’s true. Yet if he didn’t do that, he would not be our batjuschka Tsar. But you know that I’d gladly take any bullet that is aimed at him.’
Just then a door flew open and a small dog, covered with snow, scampered into the room, somersaulted towards Sheremetev and snapped at the general’s ankles. A young girl chased after the lapdog, picked it up, kissed its head and then buried her pretty, glowing face in its fur. ‘He’s so naughty, Bobushka,’ she said in German-sounding Russian. ‘In town he went for the ladies’ heels and the men’s boots. Please make sure that your next gift to me is better behaved.’ She spotted me and fell silent, while Sheremetev blushed deeply: who else in the world called this successful, hardy soldier Bobushka? I was happy to see his little secret, though, whoever this girl was.
‘You should be better behaved, Alice. Curtsey, please. This is Marta, the faithful, generous and warm-hearted companion of our Tsar,’ Sheremetev scolded her, but winked at the same time.
She curtseyed gracefully to me, the wide skirt of her simple blue wool dress opening like a flower’s petals, and eyed me from beneath her very long, very dense lashes. Her ash-blonde hair was loosely braided in a crown across her head and freckles sprinkled her tiny nose. In stunning contrast to her fairness, the eyebrows and eyelashes framing her amazingly bright, blue eyes were almost black.
‘I am Alice Kramer, Your Grace,’ she muttered. How old was she? Fourteen or fifteen years old perhaps, certainly no older, I thought with a pang of jealousy. Her body seemed as slim and supple as the branch of a strong, young beech.
‘I found Alice, lost and hungry and hiding in the smouldering ruins of a burnt-out city in the Baltics. Back then she was still a little girl, but now she’s always with me. Have you not seen her before?’ Sheremetev asked me.
Now it was Alice’s turn to blush. I knew the terror she must have felt: hiding in burnt-out ruins, fearing discovery at any minute. And finally, most probably, changing hands between men as a gift. How alike our destinies were, yet how different. No, I had not seen her before, ever, and glanced at Sheremetev curiously: how well do we really know our friends?
‘Does the Tsar know her?’ I asked casually toying with my glass.
‘Of course.’ Boris Petrovich looked into the flames, his face expressionless.
‘Of course,’ I said gently. Peter knew every pretty face in town. I tried to imagine this slight girl in the Tsar’s arms, but felt no anger. How could she, or anyone, refuse him?
Alice curtseyed again. ‘Your Grace, allow me to retreat,’ she said, and I held out my hand for her to kiss. When she had left and we had settled once more, Sheremetev held my hand without looking at me. He said almost inaudibly, ‘We are on the verge of a great battle. But for the first time in my life, I am afraid to die. For the first time in my life, I really want to live.’
‘My friend,’ I whispered, tears welling in my eyes, ‘take heart. Love is a reason to live. Actually, there is none better.’
Before it came to an open battle, Peter’s old friend and devoted subject, the Russian winter, weakened the Swedes further. As predicted, Charles fled with his troops into a little-cultivated area, where his men either collapsed dead from their exertions or else dragged themselves on, famished and frozen. They had eaten their horses long since and carried the saddles on their shoulders, sucking and chewing the leather straps. Their hands were covered in chilblains and poorly wrapped in rags. There was no means of numbing the pain of the sick and wounded, if they received any treatment at all; frost-bitten limbs were amputated from fully conscious men. At night Cossacks crept out of the thickets from which they had watched the enemy, harrying them under cover of darkness, just as wild animals might. They tiptoed through the deserted villages, knowing every corner, and sliced the sleeping Swedes’ throats. The wolves grew fat that winter.
An Ambassador from the Cossack Ataman laughed during a meal we shared in St Petersburg and told us, ‘The Swedes hope for only three things: brandy, garlic or death.’ He gargled and spat vodka to warm his throat for further feasting.
‘What does Charles want to do?’ Peter asked
‘The Swede will go to Poltava. He is foolish or desperate enough to think that if he seizes that, he might well seize Moscow. As if there was a training ground for the prize of prizes.’ The wiry little Cossack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smacked his lips for more. Peter grabbed the fattest chicken he could find on the table, sniffed at it, tore a thigh off and plunked the rest on the Cossack’s plate. ‘Eat, brother. The best food my table has to offer, just for you. Open another barrel of vodka! Are we celebrating, or are we celebrating? Poltava, eh? Well, then, it will be in Poltava that we meet. Charles shall eat gravel, earth and horse-shit, take my word for it.’
The Cossack shrieked with contentment, shrill and piercing like a war cry. The sound gave me goose-bumps. He tore apart the chicken, which was dripping with grease and sauce, and buried his face in it.
I raised my glass to him, inwardly full of fear: Poltava it was.
46
In April, when the first flowers blossomed on the dewy green of the meadows, the surviving Swedes camped outside Poltava’s city walls. A stray bullet winged King Charles in the foot during the siege. Nevertheless, he continued forcing his men on in insane anger, rendering impossible their hopes of any return to normal life. Peter’s regiments intercepted a bag of letters sent by Swedes: ‘We are desperate and the king closes his ears to even the best advice. He thinks only of one thing: war, war and war once more.’ ‘Nothing matters to him, not even victory.’ Peter waited for the right moment, knowing the power of patience. With Russia at his back, he was stronger than ever.
‘No. Do you think I’ll sit and embroider clothes in front of the fireplace in Kiev when you are out in the field? Of course I’ll come with you.’ I placed my hands on my hips. ‘No one will stop me from doing my duty; and my duty is to follow you, wherever you go. Especially now – just look at yourself!’
Peter glowered at me: it was shortly after Easter and we had travelled to Azov on the shores of the Black Sea, to oversee the building of his new fleet. While the air was filled with the scalding heat of the tar that sealed the timber, the shrill singing of the saws and the steady, dull beating of hammers on countless anvils, Peter was bedridden once more after a first walk on the docks: all the strength had simply seeped out of him, his eyes were bloodshot and his face ashen. The cure Blumentrost still gave him did not help; the illness returned when least expected. Peter sweated acid, peed pus and faltered in my arms. He suffered, but so did I. I found myself battling a faceless enemy. Would my worst fears be confirmed? What did the illness mean for the child carried? I was pregnant once more. Peter reeked of putrefaction and sweat, although every day I washed his whole body with tepid water. Still, Blumentrost refused to discuss the disease with me.
Now Peter closed his eyes, tired of our discussion. ‘Damn stubborn woman! Can’t you ever let go? And what if I order you to stay away from the battlefield?’
I gently pushed him back onto his bedstead. ‘I will not be on the battlefield, silly. I shall pray for you back in the camp. And I shall be the first to congratulate you upon your victory. Please, don’t make me stay in Kiev. You need me. I am your lucky charm.’
His waxy fingers searched for mine. ‘All right, for God’s sake. But I do not want to hear any complaints.’ He sighed.
‘Have you ever heard me complain?’ I asked, kissing his fingers. When he smiled, his lips pulled back from the gums, like a corpse’s. I forced the dread I felt back into a dark corner of my heart, like a wild animal that needed taming. Surely this was a terrible omen for the all-decisive battle?
‘No,’ Peter murmured, and I hel
d his hand until he fell into a light slumber. The air in the room was stifling: despite the sticky weather he would insist that the fortress be heated, as he always felt cold. But just when I rose to open the window, I heard a sound behind me and spun around: Peter’s principal physician Blumentrost rose from the sofa next to the fireplace. Had he been sleeping there? He looked like a ragged old bird, his frizzy hair pointing in all directions and his silk neckerchief and waistcoat awry.
‘Your Grace,’ he said, straightening his round glasses and bowing.
‘Blumentrost – when will the Tsar be well enough to get back on his horse? Poltava is waiting,’ I said cheerfully while remaining inwardly determined not to let this man depart without telling me what was going on.
He ever so slightly shook his head. My smile froze and I cleared my throat. ‘What’s happening? Share the bad news, Blumentrost. It makes it easier to bear.’
The doctor chewed on the long ends of his moustache. ‘I don’t know what to say to you. Please.’ He pointed to the chair next to the sofa, as if I were the guest here and not him. Still, I sat down. The heat from the flames made my skin tingle. Gamely I folded my hands and waited.
‘His Majesty is very, very ill. He suffers from –’ Blumentrost seemed to search for words.
‘From what?’ I held my breath: finally, an answer! And surely not the one I feared most. No, the Tsar was to be spared, as he always had been so far. He was no ordinary man. Soon enough, he would be healthy and so would our child. I’d give Peter what he wanted most in this world: many, many more sons.
‘He is suffering from a venereal disease.’ Blumentrost nervously flexed his fingers; I heard the bones crack.
‘A venereal disease?’ I repeated the words, lengthening them. ‘Blumentrost, I am a peasant girl and speak neither Latin nor Greek,’ I snapped, feeling fear rise in me nevertheless. I had known all along, but had refused to acknowledge the truth. By not naming the monster, I’d hoped to prevent it from raising its ugly head.
Tsarina Page 27