After the first round of questioning by the Tsar, Alexey had to rest for three days, Alexandra Tolstoya told me. Only then was he strong enough to meet his father once more. Evil and cruelty lured Peter into their dark embrace, and he was intoxicated by his power and the stench of sweat, fire and blood in the torture chambers; the long hours in the Trubetzkoi bastion seemed to have fogged his brain. Whatever Alexey said, Peter used it against his son. He would stop only when there was nothing more to confess, or if nothing could be confessed anymore.
After another day and countless hours of agony for Alexey, Peter had convinced the tribunal of his son’s high treason: Alexey was to be publicly executed. Peter himself did not pass the death sentence; he left that to the court he had called upon to judge his son.
Prince Alexander Danilovich Menshikov was the first to sign the verdict with a cross beside his name. Peter’s own hands were clean. But what if there was something else to know? Perhaps Alexey had not bared his soul completely yet, despite all the tortures he had endured? Somewhere in Peter’s vast realm a group of conspirators might just be waiting for the right moment to free Alexey. The seagulls shrieked above the Trubetzkoi bastion before the breeze lifted them towards the Bay of Finland when Peter and his men took the barge from the Summer Palace’s jetty one last time, on the afternoon that the tribunal’s judgment had been delivered.
I knew them all. Peter Shafirov was already sitting in the boat, staring at the water, while Prince Trubetzkoi chatted to him. Tolstoy and Menshikov shared passage with the Tsar, who held his balance on the boat, wide-legged like a seaman. Why did they go and see Alexey again? What for? He had confessed. The verdict had already been passed.
When the darkness of the fortress’s star-shaped walls had swallowed Peter and his men, I knelt below a small icon of the Virgin. My fingers trembled as I folded them, searching for words in my memory while I prayed for Alexey’s soul. Alice blended me a potion of hot wine, St John’s Wort and laudanum. It brought me some hours of restless sleep, plagued by nightmares in which I gave birth to a monster, welcomed by Peter as his child without hesitation.
69
When a fist banged against my bedroom door towards midnight, I sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat. Was I still dreaming? Alice’s face was ghostly pale. ‘Who can that be, mistress?’ she whispered anxiously. ‘Are they coming to get us?’
I could not move for dread when there was another knock on the door, hard and demanding. My fear gave way to anger: if the Devil himself was at the door, I should offer him a glass of vodka before he took me. ‘We shall see,’ I said, padding across the floor to open the door to a familiar figure. I placed my hands on my hips and demanded, ‘Alexander Danilovich, what is the meaning of this?’
Menshikov leant heavily against the door frame, as if his legs would no longer carry him. A crippled guard stood awkwardly behind him, holding up a lantern. It cast an unsteady light, lengthening their shadows against the wall. I could not see the guard’s face because of his hooded coat, but that was probably for the best. Menshikov seized my wrists. ‘Catherine Alexeyevna, come with me, please. Right now. He’s going mad,’ he stammered. He reeked of sweat and blood, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets and his face and arms speckled with dark spots. I freed myself from his grip and ran a finger over his skin, sniffing at it.
‘This is blood. Have you been in a brawl? Has something happened to the Tsar?’ I asked. Instead of an answer, the cripple raised his lantern and I stifled a scream. Menshikov’s entire cloak was soaked with blood.
‘Come, I beg you,’ he whispered. ‘Come quickly.’
‘Not alone,’ I said, suspicious. ‘Alice, put on your cloak,’ I ordered the girl while I slipped into my boots.
We followed Menshikov and his guard down to the river. In the white hours of the night, mist veiled the Neva, thickening into fog on the far bank. Once we were on the flat-bottomed barge, dewy swathes swirled around my ankles and soaked the hem of my nightgown. The magic of these hours no longer touched me.
Alice squatted on the planks as the cripple drove the barge forward with steady pushes, the water giving way silently. Menshikov and I stood close together; he twisted his fingers to stop their trembling. Neither of us spoke. When we reached the Neva Gate, Shafirov stepped out of the shadows and helped me disembark, while Menshikov handed Alice onto the pier. We walked along narrow passageways into the darkness of the Trubetzkoi bastion; water dripped from the roughly hewn walls and pooled on the uneven stone floor. Tar dropped from the torches, hissing, and rats scurried into the shadows. The place reeked of blood and death. Alice’s fingers clung to mine like a drowning man’s to a plank until we halted before an oak door studded with iron nails. The small window in it was nailed shut. Was this a trap? What if I couldn’t even trust Menshikov anymore?
I pulled my cloak tighter around my neck while the cripple turned a key in the lock and retreated into the shadows. The door shrieked on its hinges, but I raised my chin and took a step forward. In a corner of the dingy, windowless cell a man lay on a bunk. He was asleep, a blanket drawn up to his chin. My eyes were still adjusting to the dim light cast by two candle flames when a figure threw itself at me from the darkness, clasping my knees. I staggered, but Menshikov caught me.
‘Menshikov, help!’ I cried, before I recognised Peter’s dark head. He buried his face in my cloak, sobbing, soaking my already damp nightshirt with his tears, his sweat – and blood.
‘Catherinushka,’ he moaned. ‘Thank God! I did not do anything, do you hear me? It wasn’t me, whatever they say. Help me. It is not my fault,’ he cried, his pleas resounding from the cell’s bare walls. ‘Help me, help me, help me –’ He bent forward, rocking and howling like an animal.
‘Give me a hand, Menshikov,’ I said, and we dragged Peter to a stool. He embraced my waist and I felt his hot breath through my dress. ‘Now you’re here, everything will be fine. I did not do anything. It was not my fault,’ he stammered again. Alice knelt, taking Peter’s hands in hers, and I went over to the bunk. Only then did I spot the man sitting next to it, with his head buried in his hands. I touched his shoulder. It was Tolstoy, his face empty. The blood in my veins thickened with fear and I had a presentiment that made me want to turn on my heels and flee. Instead, I leant over the bunk and looked closely at the sleeping man. It was Alexey, and yet it wasn’t him. His skin was blackened and the eyes bulged from their sockets; the mouth was open, jaw hanging slack and broken, the teeth cracked or missing. The swollen tongue had been torn and hung to one side. The nose was thick and twisted, the ears half ripped off his head. He did not sleep: no, he was dead.
‘Alexey,’ I whispered in shock, struggling against my rising nausea and trying to stroke his eyelids shut. But they would not close and stared out at me, charging us all with his death. When I tried to pull the blanket from his body, Tolstoy held me back. ‘For the love of God, don’t, my Tsaritsa,’ he begged. ‘You’re pregnant.’
I shrugged him off, but Alexey’s state made me recoil in horror, despite Peter Andreyevich’s warning. Menshikov held me tight until my head stopped spinning and my nausea dwindled. Alexey’s flesh had been torn from his limbs with burning tongs and all his bones broken. Their ragged, sharp ends pierced his skin, which was blackened from burn marks and streaked with whiplashes, at his knees, hips and chest. On no battlefield had I ever seen such a sight; no wild animal treated his prey this way.
‘Good God!’ I panted.
Peter raised his head from Alice’s lap. ‘I’ve done nothing, believe me!’ She held him and he sobbed like a child at her breast.
I overcame my disgust and dread and stroked Alexey’s thin, straggly hair. ‘Now you have peace,’ I murmured. Tolstoy sucked his teeth when Alexey’s head came loose from his body and rolled to one side, like a ball. He had been beheaded! I pressed my hands against my mouth, aghast, but Menshikov stopped me from running away.
‘It was the Tsar who did it,’ he whispered. ‘Peter was beside himself when Al
exey died during the second torture. It was a miracle the boy had lived so long, with God or the Devil’s help. Peter was so furious that he grabbed my sword and beheaded Alexey’s dead body. Now he’s going mad.’ I heard Menshikov’s words but did not understand them. My teeth were chattering and I felt searing pain in my lower belly. Was I going into labour, here, in the midst of this horror?
‘Catherine, what should we do?’ urged Menshikov. ‘Alexey must be laid out in state, otherwise there will be rumours that the Tsar killed him.’
‘Rumours? What other cause could there be?’ I said, choked,
Menshikov ruffled his bloodstained hair and considered this. ‘A stroke, maybe. Or else his weak chest? Everyone knows that he was in poor health . . .’ His voice trailed off. If he himself was not convinced, how could Russia hope to deceive the whole of Europe?
I bit my lip until I tasted blood, thinking hard. I glanced at Alice. Peter was still crying in her lap, dampening her skirt.
‘Menshikov, fetch the garrison’s doctor. Tell him to bring his medical supplies and instruments,’ I ordered. Minutes later he returned with the man who had obviously been chased out of bed, for he still wore his nightcap and under his cloak I spotted his bare legs and feet. He bowed, peering at the corpse on the bunk. ‘Give us everything we need to tend to wounds,’ I said, taking his doctor’s satchel. ‘We also need alcohol. Lots of it. You are free to leave, but forget what you have seen, if your life is dear to you.’
Menshikov pushed him back out and I unscrewed the bottle of vodka and passed a coarse thread through a needle’s wide eye. Then I went to Alice and took her hands in mine. I felt her fingers tremble.
‘Alice, I must ask you to do something for me. It is monstrous, but both the Tsar and I will never forget it if you help us tonight.’
‘What is it, mistress?’
My heart pounded with dread and revulsion as I requested, ‘Please wash Alexey’s body with the vodka; clean him and settle his bones back into place. He must look like a man again.’ She wanted to rise and step over to the corpse, but I held her back. ‘Alice, you will also have to sew his head on again.’ I spoke very softly, as if I myself hoped not to hear those horrid words. In the cell’s dull twilight, Alice nodded mutely. I held out the needle and thread to her. She went to Alexey’s bunk, nightdress rustling, shoulders hunched, clutching the vodka, a rag and the needle. Tolstoy silently rose to leave her his place next to the corpse.
‘Help me, men,’ she whispered as she sat down. Tolstoy and Menshikov turned Alexey, so that his shoulders rested on her knees, his head rolling loose in her lap. Her gaze met his wide stare. She gagged, but made the first stitch through his blackened skin, sewing the throat to the trunk, placing a knot after each stitch and cutting the thread with the sharp small knife from the doctor’s satchel. With each stitch her fingers became steadier and she worked in silence while we looked on. Silent tears ran down her cheeks, dripping hotly on to Alexey’s dead face. In the candlelight Alice looked so mild and mournful that the men around her cast down their eyes in shame.
The day’s first colours filled the white night sky when Peter and I took the barge back to the Summer Palace. The water swallowed the rudder with a hollow splash. Peter clenched my hands in silence, numbing my fingers. Only when we reached the palace’s footbridge did he raise his head. ‘Tell me I’m not an animal, Catherinushka. Tell me,’ he whispered, as the morning light reached his red, exhausted eyes. ‘Tell me you will stay with me always,’ he pleaded, clutching the hem of my skirt, as the waves splashed against the bow of the boat. While I cast about for words, he peered up into the sallow sky.
‘Do you know what the executioners back in the bastion swore? That Alexey’s soul had fled his body in the form of a crow.’ He sank his face into his hands. When I wanted to console him, he leapt to his feet. The small vessel swayed as he threatened the skies with his fist: ‘I will get you! Just you wait! All of you . . .’
His heavy, pained breathing filled the silence around us. The Neva streamed towards the Bay of Finland. A pale night drifted away, blending into bright day. The first rays of sunshine warmed me after the horror I had witnessed. I helped Peter towards the two footmen waiting for us at the bridge and in his bedroom handed him a heavy sleeping-potion.
The following evening, Peter celebrated the ninth anniversary of the victory of Poltava. He laughed and cheered as never before and forced more people than ever to keep sleep, and his demons, at bay by their sheer presence. I felt hot as I sat covered in heavy robes, jewels and the pasty make-up I had applied on his orders. Peter drank like a horse, downing one eagle cup after another, but I secretly poured every second glass of my Tokay away. The feast of Poltava blended with the celebrations for Peter’s name-day, and in the days that followed I endured long Masses, suppers, fireworks, parades and drinking games. Envoys from all over Europe were forbidden to mention Alexey: he had died a traitor and nobody was to mourn him. I saw the French Ambassador, Campredon, eagerly recording everything in his little book.
Alexey’s enbalmed corpse was laid in state underneath a white canopy in the Trinity Church. His coffin was guarded by a tall, bulky soldier whose real task was to hinder anyone from coming too close. A magnificent Persian silk scarf had been wrapped around Alexey’s neck: no one should ever see Alice’s stitches. The people passed by the former Tsarevich in dull, dumb adoration, praying silently and wiping their eyes. The court itself was still stupefied from the recent days’ feasts.
Menshikov leant towards me and whispered, ‘In my head, drinking songs are mixed up with the hymns, so I had better shut up.’
During the service, Peter was in floods of tears, his hands clasped in prayer. When Feofan Prokopovich read out the story of the son Absalom, a traitor to his father, the Tsar listened intently. Once the service ended, he stepped up to Alexey’s coffin: he swayed and held onto its edge until he’d regained his balance enough to kiss Alexey’s cold lips, which would never again doubt his father’s work in Russia. Then the Tsar straightened up, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright and focused. He looked ahead, over the crowd’s heads, far ahead into the future.
70
Tolstoy was made a Count as his reward for hunting down Alexey, and the only person I would have wished flogged and tortured got away unscathed: Afrosinja married an officer and led a life of peace and prosperity. In Hell, I hoped, she would receive just punishment for her heartlessness. Two months after Alexey’s death, I gave birth to a daughter. ‘Next time it’s a son, Catherinushka,’ Peter said lightly, as the little Tsarevna Natalya clenched his finger. ‘She is strong as a bear.’
I made Alice Natalya’s first lady-in-waiting. Icy strands had appeared prematurely in Alice’s ash-blonde hair. She was not yet thirty. Yet the night of Alexey’s death had stolen her youth.
The first flakes tumbled from the sky throughout the night as we celebrated St Andrew’s Day in Menshikov’s palace on Vassilyev Island, which was his sole property. Dishes were just being laid down as the double doors of the gilded hall opened and a messenger slid in. He was caked with mud and could barely fight his fatigue enough to speak.
Menshikov got up to go to him while Peter toyed with the colourful talking birds that the Moorish slave Abraham Petrovich Hannibal was showing him: Peter treated this man like family and had even sent him to Paris for his studies. ‘Give me a drink. Give me to drink, scoundrel, miser!’ cried one bird. ‘Shut up, shit head!’ the other replied. Peter roared with laughter and filled the birds’ trough with vodka. ‘That should make them even more talkative.’
Menshikov reached the messenger, listened, and placed his hand over his mouth in amazement. His eyes searched out Peter, who was tugging at a bird’s red and blue tail-feathers. ‘What a beautiful present! Thank you. I’ll keep them in Mon Plaisir,’ he said. Abraham bowed to him and muscles played under his dark, velvety skin; the watching ladies sighed softly.
The messenger drank thirstily from a glass of beer and chewed on a pork bone
as Menshikov made his way through the crowd to Peter, who looked up at him. ‘Why the sour face, Alekasha?’ he asked with a grin. ‘Are you jealous of my birds?’
Alexander Danilovich bowed, ‘My Tsar. Your enemy, Charles the Twelfth, King of Sweden, is dead.’
Peter went on stroking the colourful feathers of the bird perched on his shoulder. ‘Dead? Charles of Sweden? That’s not possible.’
‘He was laying siege to a fortress in Norway when a bullet hit him. His soldiers carried him with them for days, but the wound festered.’
Peter handed the bird to Abraham, turned to the hall and slowly clapped his hands: once, twice and then three times. The music stopped and the voices hushed.
‘My cousin, the King of the Swedes, has passed away,’ he cried, before triumphantly thrusting his fists into the air. ‘Charles the Twelfth is dead. Russia’s enemy is no more.’ His words fell like stones into a lake and cast circles of astonished silence. Charles had been part of our lives for so long, a world without him seemed unthinkable. Peter grabbed his eagle cup in both hands. ‘The dark clouds have drifted; long live the light,’ he cried, ready to drink deeply.
But before the guests could join his toast and his merriment, somebody gave a desperate sob. Peter spun around, his face dark, and I caught my breath. On a table near us sat the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She wept, but her tears did not dull the lustre of her almond-shaped, amber- and gold-speckled eyes; her heavy honey-blonde tresses had come undone and her full breasts rose and fell with anguish.
‘Why are you crying, girl, when the greatest enemy of your fatherland has died? Do you mourn the dog?’ Peter thundered, but she bore his look of blazing anger with no sign of fear.
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