The House of Special Purpose

The Winter Palace

I WAS STRUGGLING to stop myself from trembling too visibly.

The long, third-floor corridor of the Winter Palace, where the Tsar and his family made their home when they were in St Petersburg, stretched out coldly on either side of me, its golden walls fading into an intimidating darkness as the candles dimmed and flickered in the distance. And at its centre was a young boy from Kashin, who could hardly breathe for thinking of all those who had passed along these hallways in the past.

Of course, I had never witnessed such majesty before – I had scarcely believed that such places existed outside of my imagination – but glancing down, I could see the knuckles on both my hands turning white as they clutched the arms of my chair in a tight embrace. My stomach was alive with tension and every time I halted my right foot from tapping upon the marble floor in anxiety, it lay still for only a moment before beginning its nervous dance once again.

The chair itself was an object of the most extraordinary beauty. Its four legs were carved from red oak, with intricate detailing flowering along the ridges. Set into the wings were two thick layers of gold and they, in turn, were encrusted with three different types of jewel, only one of which I recognized, a dotted trail of blue sapphires that sparkled and changed colour as I examined them from different angles. The fabric was wrought tight against a cushion heavily stuffed with the softest feathers. Despite my anxiety, it was difficult not to emit a pleasurable sigh as I rested upon it, for the previous five days had offered no consolation, save the unforgiving leather of the saddle.

The journey from Kashin to the capital of the Russian empire had commenced less than a week after the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaievich had journeyed through our village and suffered the attempt on his life. In the days that followed, my sister Asya had changed the dressing on my shoulder twice daily, and when the discarded bindings were no longer spotted with blood, the soldiers who had been left behind to escort me to my new home announced that I was fit for travel. Had the bullet entered my body a little more to the right, my arm might have been paralysed, but I had been fortunate and it took only a day or two for harmony between the shoulder, elbow and wrist to be restored. From time to time, a stinging pain just above the healing wound offered a sharp rebuke as a reminder of my actions and I grimaced at such moments, not out of tenderness but in consideration for how my impetuous actions had cost the life of my oldest friend.

The body of Kolek Boryavich had remained where the soldiers had hanged him, swinging from the yew tree near our hut, for three days before the soldiers gave permission to his father, Boris Alexandrovich, to cut him down and allow him a decent burial. He did so with dignity, the ceremony taking place a mile or so from our village on the afternoon before I left.

‘Do you think we could attend the interment?’ I asked my mother the night before, the first mention I had made to her of my friend’s death, so guilty did I feel at what I had done. ‘I’d like to say goodbye to Kolek.’

‘Have you lost your reason, Georgy?’ she asked, her brow furrowing as she turned to look at me. She had been attentive towards me over the last few days, showing more consideration than she had over the previous sixteen years, and I wondered whether my brush with death had caused her to regret our virtual estrangement. ‘We would not be welcome there.’

‘But he was my closest friend,’ I insisted. ‘And you have known him since the day that he was born.’

‘From that day until the day he died,’ she agreed, biting her lip. ‘But Borys Alexandrovich… he has made his feelings clear.’

‘Perhaps if I spoke to him,’ I suggested. ‘I could visit him. My shoulder is healing. I could try to explain—’

‘Georgy,’ she said, sitting down on the floor beside me and placing her hand flat against the muscle of my uninjured arm, her tone softening to a point where I thought she might even be moved towards humanity. ‘He doesn’t want to talk to you, can’t you understand that? He isn’t even thinking about you. He has lost his son. That is all that matters to him now. He walks the streets with a haunted expression on his face, crying out for Kolek and cursing Nicholas Nicolaievich, denouncing the Tsar, blaming everyone for what has happened except himself. The two soldiers, they’ve warned him about his treasonous words but he doesn’t listen. He’ll go too far one of these days, Georgy, and end up with his head inside a noose too. Trust me, it’s best that you stay away from him.’

I was tortured with remorse and could hardly sleep for guilt. The truth was that I didn’t really believe it had been my intention to save the life of the Grand Duke at all, but rather I had hoped to prevent Kolek from committing an action which could only result in his own death. The irony that in doing so I had cost him his life was not lost on me.

To my shame, however, I was almost relieved by his father’s decision to refuse me an audience, for had I been allowed to speak I doubtless would have apologized for my actions, which might have resulted in the guards realizing that I was not quite the hero that everyone believed me to be and my proposed new life in St Petersburg might have come to an early end. I couldn’t allow this, for I wanted to leave. The possibility of a life outside of Kashin had been placed before me and as the week drew to a close and the moment of my departure loomed, I began to wonder whether it had even been my intention to save Kolek at all, or whether I had been hoping to save myself.

On the morning that I emerged from our hut to begin the long journey towards St Petersburg, I could see my fellow moujiks staring at me with a mixture of admiration and contempt. It was true that I had brought great honour on our village by saving the life of the Tsar’s cousin, but every man and woman who watched me gather my few belongings together and place them in the saddlebags of the horse which had been left behind for my journey had watched Kolek grow up on these very streets. The fact of his untimely death, not to mention my part in it, lingered in the air like a stale odour. They were loyal subjects of the Romanovs, this was true. They believed in the Imperial family and the right of autocracy. They credited God with putting the Tsar on the throne and believed his relatives to exist in a state of glory. But Kolek was from Kashin. He was one of us. In such a situation, it was impossible to decide where loyalties should lie.

‘You will come back for me one day soon?’ Asya asked as I prepared to leave. She had been negotiating with the soldiers for several days to allow her to accompany me to St Petersburg, where she, of course, hoped to begin her own new life, but they would hear nothing of it and she was facing up to a lonely future in Kashin without her closest confidant at hand.

‘I will try,’ I promised her, although I didn’t know whether I meant this or not. I had no idea, after all, what lay in store for me. I could not commit to making plans for others.

‘Every day I will await a letter,’ she insisted, clutching my hands in hers and staring at me with imploring eyes that were ready to spring forth with tears. ‘And with one word, I will set off to find you. Don’t leave me here to rot, Georgy. Promise me that. Tell whoever you meet about me. Tell them what a worthy addition I would be to their society.’

I nodded and kissed her cheek, and those of my other sisters and mother, before walking over to shake my father’s hand. Daniil stared at me as if he did not know how to respond to such a gesture. He had made his money off me finally, but with his profit came my departure. To my surprise, he looked stricken by this fact, but it was too late for reparation now. I wished him well but said little more before mounting the fine grey stallion, offering a last goodbye and riding out of Kashin and away from my family for ever.

The journey itself passed with little incident; it was simply five days of riding, resting, with little or no conversation to relieve the tedium. Only on the second-to-last night did one of the soldiers, Ruskin, show me a little sympathy as I sat around our campfire, staring into the flames.

‘You look unhappy,’ he said, taking his place beside me and poking at the burning sticks with the toe of his boot. ‘You aren’t looking forward to seeing St Petersburg?’

‘Of course,’ I said with a shrug, although in truth I had given it little thought.

‘Then what? Your face tells me a different story. You’re scared, perhaps?’

‘I’m afraid of nothing,’ I snapped immediately, turning to stare at him, and the smile that crept across his face was enough to dilute my anger. He was a big man, strong and virile, and there was no question of dispute between us.

‘All right, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he said, raising the palms of his hands before him. ‘No need to be so angry. I thought you wanted to talk, that was all.’

‘Well I don’t,’ I said.

A silence lingered between us for some time and I wished that he would return to his friend and leave me alone, but finally he spoke again, quietly, as I knew he would.

‘You blame yourself for his death,’ he began, not looking at me now but staring into the flames. ‘No, don’t be so quick to deny it. I know you do. I’ve been watching you. And I was there on that day, remember, I saw what happened.’

‘He was my oldest friend,’ I said, feeling a great wave of remorse building up inside my body. ‘If I hadn’t ran across to him like that—’

‘Then he might have killed Nicholas Nicolaievich and he would have been executed for his crime just the same. Perhaps worse. If the Tsar’s cousin had been murdered, perhaps all of your friend’s family would have been killed too. He had sisters, did he not?’

‘Six of them,’ I said.

‘And they live because the General lives. You tried to stop Kolek Boryavich from committing a heinous act, that is all. A moment earlier and none of this might have happened. You cannot blame yourself. You acted for the best.’

I nodded my head, able to hear the sense in what he said, but little good it did. It was my fault, I was convinced of it. I had caused the death of my dearest friend and no one could tell me otherwise.

My first view of St Petersburg came the following night as we finally entered the capital. What I would soon recognize to be the glory of Peter the Great’s triumphant design was diminished somewhat by the darkness of the evening, although that did not prevent me from staring in amazement at the breadth of the streets and the number of people, horses and carriages that travelled past me in all directions. I had never seen such activity before. Along the side of the roads, men stood by caged wood fires, roasting chestnuts and selling them to the gentlemen and ladies who passed, each of whom was wrapped in hats and furs of the most exquisite quality. My guards appeared to be oblivious to these sights – I suppose they were so accustomed to them that they had lost their power to impress – but for a sixteen-year-old boy who had never before travelled more than a few miles outside the village of his birth, it was dazzling.

A crowd was gathered in front of one such fire and we stopped next to an elaborate carriage, pulling up our horses as the people parted to allow the guards through. I hadn’t eaten in almost a day and longed for a bag of chestnuts, my stomach rumbling in anticipation of a warm supper. Around us the people were laughing and joking; at their head was a middle-aged lady who bore a severe expression, and next to her stood four identically dressed girls – sisters, obviously – each one a little younger than the next. They were quite beautiful and despite the hunger that pressed upon my stomach, my eyes were drawn to their faces. They were entirely unaware of me until one, the last in line – a girl of about fifteen, I imagined – turned her head and caught my eye. Typically, I might have blushed at such a moment, or looked away, but I did neither of these things. Instead I held her gaze and we simply stared at each other, as if we were old friends, until she became suddenly aware of the warmth of the bag she was holding and she let out a cry as it fell from her grip, half a dozen chestnuts rolling along the ground towards me. I stooped to gather them up and she ran over to collect them, but a stern rebuke from her governess halted her in her tracks and she hesitated for only a moment before turning back to join her sisters.

‘Madam,’ I cried, beginning to walk towards her with my prize, but I managed to cover only a few feet before one of my escorts grabbed me roughly by my injured arm, causing me to cry out in pain and drop the chestnuts once again. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, turning furiously towards him, for, without knowing why exactly, I hated for her to see me weakened by something so simple as another man’s grip. ‘They belong to her.’

‘She can buy some more,’ he said, dragging me back to our horses, as hungry as I had been when we had stopped. ‘Know your station, boy, or you will be taught it quickly enough.’

I frowned and looked over to my left, where the woman and her charges were entering the carriage once again and driving away, the eyes of all the crowd upon them, as well they might have been, for each girl was more beautiful than the last, except the youngest one, who outshone them all.

A few moments later and we were riding along the banks of the Neva River, my eyes fixed upon the granite embankments and the cheerful young couples who were strolling along the paths engaged in conversation. The people seemed happy here, a fact which surprised me, for I had expected a city torn apart by the war. It appeared, however, as if none of that unpleasantness had come to St Petersburg, and instead the streets and squares were filled with laughter, joy and prosperity. It was all that I could do to control my mounting excitement.

Finally, we turned into a magnificent square, where stretched out before me stood the Winter Palace. Despite the darkness of the evening, the full moon overhead allowed me to observe the green-and-white-fronted citadel with widened eyes. How anyone had constructed such an extraordinary edifice was beyond my comprehension, and still I seemed to be the only one of our number to be taken aback by its splendour.

‘This is it?’ I asked one of the guards. ‘This is where the Tsar lives?’

‘Of course,’ he said gruffly, shrugging his shoulders and displaying the same lack of interest in talking to me that he and his partner had shown throughout our journey. I suspected that they had taken it as a great indignity to be left with such a mundane task as escorting a boy to the capital, while their fellows continued on in the retinue of the Grand Duke.

‘And am I to live here too?’ I asked, trying not to laugh at such an outrageous idea.

‘Who knows?’ he replied. ‘Our orders are to deliver you to Count Charnetsky and after that, you can make your own way.’

We passed by the red granite of the Alexander Column, which stood almost twice as tall as the palace itself, and I stared up at the angel who presided at its summit, clutching a cross. Her head was bowed, as if in defeat, but her pose was one of triumph, a cry to her enemies to make themselves known, for the power of her faith would ensure her safety. Following the guards, I stepped below an archway which led directly into the body of the palace itself, whereupon my horse was taken from me. I was met by a portly gentleman who looked me up and down as I straightened myself from the long journey and seemed entirely unimpressed by what he saw.

‘You are Georgy Daniilovich Jachmenev?’ he asked as I approached him.

‘I am, sir,’ I replied politely.

‘My name is Count Vladimir Vladyavich Charnetsky,’ he announced, clearly enjoying the sound of the words as they tripped off his tongue. ‘I have the honour of being in charge of His Imperial Majesty’s Leib Guard. I am told that you performed a heroic gesture in your home village and have been rewarded with a place in the Tsar’s household, is that correct?’

‘It is what they say,’ I admitted. ‘In truth, the events of that afternoon all went by so quickly that I—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he interrupted, turning around and indicating that I should follow him through another door into the warmth of the interior palace. ‘You should know that such heroics are part of the everyday responsibilities for those who guard the Tsar and his family. You will be working alongside men who have put their lives at risk on any number of occasions, so do not think that you are anything special. You are simply a pebble on a beach, nothing more.’

‘Of course, sir,’ I said, surprised by his hostility. ‘I never thought that I was anything more than that. And I do assure you that—’

‘As a rule, I don’t like having new guards imposed on me,’ he announced, huffing and puffing as he led me up a series of wide, purple-carpeted staircases, maintaining such a pace that I was forced to run a little to keep up with him, an unexpected fact considering the great difference in both our ages and weights. ‘I grow particularly concerned when I am forced to oversee young men who have no training whatsoever and know nothing of our ways here.’

‘Of course, sir,’ I repeated, running along after him and doing my best to appear suitably deferential and subordinate.

Climbing the staircases in the palace, I stared in awe at the thick, gold frames that surrounded the mirrors and window-panes. White alabaster statues emerged from the walls and stood triumphantly on plinths, their faces turned away from the enormous grey colonnades which stretched from floor to ceiling. Magnificent tapestries and paintings could be glimpsed through open doors leading to a series of ante-rooms, most of which depicted great men on horseback leading their men into battle, and the marble floor beneath our feet sounded out as we marched along. It surprised me that a man of Count Charnetsky’s girth – and his was quite an extraordinary girth – could move through the hallways with such dexterity. Years of practice, I decided.

‘But the Grand Duke takes these fancies into his head from time to time,’ he continued, ‘and when he does, we must all fall in line with him. Regardless of the consequences.’

‘Sir,’ I said, stopping for a moment now, determined to avow my manhood, an aspiration which was rather spoiled by the length of time it took me to gather my breath, for I was doubled over with my hands on my hips, gasping for air. ‘I must let you know that while I never expected to find myself in this most exalted of positions, I shall do everything in my power to act with fortitude and propriety, in the best traditions of your forces. And I am eager to learn whatever a guardsman is obliged to know. You will find me a quick study too, I promise you that.’

He stopped a few feet ahead of me and turned around, staring at me with such surprise for a moment that I did not know whether he intended to step forward and slap my face or simply throw me through one of the tall, stained windows that lined the walls. In the end, he did neither, merely shook his head and continued on, shouting after him that I should follow and be quick about it.

A few minutes later, I found myself in a long corridor and was told to sit down in that most exquisite of seats, and I was grateful for the rest. He nodded, satisfied with the completion of his task, and turned around to march away, but before he could vanish out of sight altogether I found the courage within myself to call after him.

‘Sir,’ I cried. ‘Count Charnetsky!’

‘What is it?’ he asked, turning around and glaring at me as if he could not believe the audacity that I displayed to address him at all.

‘Well…’ I began, looking around and shrugging my shoulders. ‘What am I to do now?’

‘What are you to do, boy?’ he asked, taking a few steps closer to me again and laughing a little, but out of bitterness, I thought, not amusement. ‘What are you to do? You will wait. Until you are summoned. And then you will be instructed.’

‘And after that?’

‘After that,’ he said, turning away from me again and disappearing into the darkness of the corridor, ‘you will do what we are all here to do, Georgy Daniilovich. You will obey.’

The minutes that I sat there stretched out endlessly and I began to wonder whether I had been forgotten about. There was no movement on the corridor and, except for the sense that an entire community of dutiful servants was hovering on the other side of every door, little sign of life. Whoever was supposed to be instructing me on my duties showed no sign of appearing and I experienced a growing sense of unease, wondering what I should do or where I should go if no one arrived to take charge of me. I had hoped for a hot meal, a bed, somewhere to wash the dust of the journey off my body, but it seemed unlikely that such luxuries would be mine.

Count Charnetsky, unhappy with my presence at all, had vanished back into the heart of the labyrinth. I wondered whether the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaievich was waiting to interview me, but somehow I imagined that he would have returned to Stavka, the Army Headquarters, by now. My stomach began to grumble – it had been almost twenty-four hours since I had last had anything to eat – and I looked down at it, frowning, as if a stern rebuke would encourage it to remain silent. Its low growl, like the sound of an unoiled door being opened slowly, echoed along the corridor, bouncing off the walls and windows, growing louder and more embarrassing by the second. Coughing a little to mask the groan, I stood up to stretch my legs and felt a great ache pass from ankle to thigh, occasioned by the long ride from Kashin.

The passageway where I was standing did not look down over Palace Square, but was situated instead on the opposite side of the citadel with a view over the Neva River, which was lit up along its banks by a series of electric lights. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were still some pleasure boats sailing along, which surprised me, for it was a cold evening and I could only imagine how brisk the temperature would be upon the water. The people clearly belonged to the wealthier classes, however, for even from this distance I could see how swathed they were in expensive furs, hats and gloves. I imagined the decks of the boats to be lined with food and drink, a generation of princes and duchesses laughing and gossiping, as if they had not a care in the world.

No one watching such a scene could have imagined that our country had been engaged in a war for more than eighteen months and that thousands of young Russian men were dying by the hour on the battlefields of Europe. It was not quite Versailles before the arrival of the tumbrils, but there was evasion in the atmosphere, as if the landed classes of St Petersburg could not quite believe that unhappiness and discontent were breeding in the towns and villages outside the city limits.

I watched as one such vessel docked directly in front of the palace, perhaps the most lavish of all the boats, and two Imperial guards leaped the short distance from the deck to the promenade as the craft slipped gently into its mooring, then took a wide drawbridge from its resting place to provide safe transport across for its occupants. A heavy-set woman stepped off first and stood to the side as four young girls, all dressed identically in long grey dresses, overcoats and hats, followed her, talking among themselves. I craned my neck for a better look and was astonished to see that it was the same party from the roasted-chestnut stand. Their carriage must have taken them to the boat for a short journey to end a pleasurable evening, but standing where I was, on the third floor of the palace, I was too high to observe them for more than a few short moments. I wondered whether they had the sense that they were being watched, however, for just before they disappeared out of sight, one of them – the youngest one, the girl whose chestnuts had fallen on the ground and whose gaze had entranced me – hesitated, then turned her head upwards and caught my eye, a look of recognition on her face, as if she had expected me to be there all along. I saw her smile for only a moment before she vanished and I swallowed nervously and frowned, confused by the unfamiliar emotion that swept over me.

I had laid eyes on this girl for only the briefest of moments, and we had barely spoken at the chestnut stand, but there was a warmth, a kindness in those eyes that made me wish I could run down to find her again, to talk to her and discover who she was. I almost laughed at the absurdity of my emotions. You are being ridiculous, Georgy! I told myself, shaking my head quickly to rid myself of the images, and with still no sign of anyone to tell me any better, I started to walk along the corridor, away from those dangerous windows and the solitude of my exquisite chair.

And it was at that moment that I began to hear voices in the distance.

Every closed door was as ornate as the last and stood perhaps fifteen feet in height, with a semi-circular frieze placed above the intricate gold mouldings that ornamented each surface. I wondered how many hours of craftsmanship had gone into their elaborate detailing. How many doors like these were there in this palace? A thousand? Two thousand? The idea was too much for my brain to consider and I became dizzy at the thought of how many people must have struggled to complete work on such finery, which existed to serve the pleasures of only one family. Did they even notice how beautiful it was, I wondered, or did the delicate splendour just pass them by entirely?

Hesitating for only a moment, I turned a corner to where a much shorter corridor awaited me. There were no lights running to my left and its increasing darkness reminded me of some of the more terrifying stories that Asya had told me as an infant to induce nightmares, and I shuddered slightly and turned away. To my right, however, a number of candles were lit along the windowsills and I started to walk along in a spirit of exploration, carefully, quietly, so that my boots would not sound too loudly on the floor beneath my feet.

Again, each door was closed, but it wasn’t long before I tracked the voices to a room a little further ahead. Intrigued, I continued along, pressing an ear to each door, but there was only silence behind them. What happened in each one, I wondered? Who lived there, worked there, issued orders from there? The sounds grew louder and at the end of the corridor there was one door slightly ajar, but I hesitated before approaching it. The voices were more distinct now, although the people from whom they emanated were speaking quietly, and as I looked around I observed a simple room before me, with a prie-dieu placed directly at its centre.

Kneeling upon it, her head buried in its cushion, was a woman. And she was crying.

I watched her for a moment, intrigued by her sorrow, before my eyes drifted to the room’s other occupant, a man whose back was turned to me as he faced the wall, where a large icon was positioned upon a luminescent tapestry. He had the most extraordinary long dark hair and it hung down his back, thick and ragged, as if it was quite unclean, and he was dressed in simple peasant clothes, the type of tunic and trousers that would not have been out of place in Kashin. I wondered what on earth he could possibly be doing here in such simple apparel. Had he broken in? Was he a thief of some sort? But no, that was impossible, for the lady kneeling before him was dressed in the finest gown I had ever laid eyes on and clearly had reason to be here in the palace; had he been an intruder he would not have been commanding her attention quite so intently.

‘You must pray, Matushka,’ the man said suddenly, his voice deep and low, as if it came from the very depths of hell. He stretched his arms wide in a pose that recalled the crucified Christ upon on the cross at Calvary. ‘You must put your faith in a greater power than princes and palaces. You are nothing, Matushka. And I am nothing but a channel through which the voice of God may be heard. Before His grace you must supplicate yourself. You must give yourself to God in whatever disguise he presents himself. You must do whatever he asks of you. For the boy’s sake.’

The woman said nothing, but buried her head deeper into the cushion at the front of the prie-dieu. I felt a chill enter my body and grew nervous as I watched the scene play out before me. However, I was hypnotized by the moment and found that I could not turn away. I held my breath, expecting the man to speak again, but in an instant he spun around, aware of my presence, and our eyes met.

Those eyes. To recall them even now… They were like circles of coal, mined from the centre of a diseased pit.

My own eyes grew wide as we stared at each other and my body became numb with fear. Run, I cried out in my mind. Run away! But my legs would not obey and we continued to stare at each other until finally the man cocked his head a little to the side, as if curious about me, and smiled widely, a horrible smile, a set of yellow teeth displayed in a cavernous darkness, and the dreadfulness of his expression was enough to break my spell and I turned and ran back the way I had come, finding myself at the junction once again and hesitating, already confused as to which direction would lead me back to where Count Charnetsky had instructed me to wait.

Running, convinced that he was giving chase to murder me, I twisted and turned, running along the wrong corridors and in opposite directions, lost in the palace now, scared, my breath gasping, my heart racing, unsure how on earth I could ever explain my disappearance, whether I should just descend as many staircases as possible until I found myself outside the palace again, at which time I could run away, home to Kashin, pretending that this entire experience had never taken place.

And then, as if by some curious magic, I found myself back on the corridor where I had started. I stopped and doubled over, catching my breath, and when I looked up I realized that I was not alone there any more.

A man was standing at the end of the hallway, just outside an open door, from where a great light shone, illuminating him almost as a god. I stared at him, wondering what other terrors this evening was to bring. Who was this man, bathed in white glory? Why had he been sent for me?

‘Are you Jachmenev?’ he asked quietly, his voice low and peaceful but making its way down to me without difficulty.

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.

‘Please,’ he said, turning around and indicating the room behind him. ‘I thought perhaps you had disappeared on me.’

I hesitated for only a moment before following him. I had never met this man before, of course, had never laid eyes on him. But I knew immediately who he was.

His Imperial Majesty, Tsar Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias, Grand Duke of Finland, King of Poland.

My employer.

‘I apologize if I kept you waiting,’ he said as I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me. ‘As you can imagine, there are many matters of state to be taken care of. And this has been a very, very long day. I had hoped—’ He stopped short as he turned around and stared at me in amazement. ‘What on earth are you doing, boy?’

He was standing to the left of his desk, no doubt surprised to see me kneeling about ten feet away from him, supplicating myself on the floor with my hands outstretched on the rich carpet before me and my forehead touching the ground.

‘Your most Imperial of Majesties,’ I began, my words getting muffled in the purple and red weave in which my nose was buried. ‘May I offer my sincere appreciation for the honour of—’

‘All the saints in heaven, would you stand up, boy, so that I can see and hear you!’

I looked up and there was the hint of a smile flickering across his lips; I must have been an extraordinary sight.

‘I apologize, Your Majesty,’ I said. ‘I was saying that—’

‘And stand up,’ he insisted. ‘You look like some sort of whipped cur stretched out on my carpet like that.’

I stood and adjusted my clothing, attempting to discover some sort of dignity in my pose. I could feel the blood which had run to my head when I was on the ground causing my face to grow red and was aware that I must have seemed embarrassed to be in his presence. ‘I apologize,’ I said once again.

‘You can stop apologizing, for a start,’ he said, stepping behind his desk now and sitting down. ‘All we’ve both done over the last two minutes is apologize to each other. There must be an end to it.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ I said, nodding my head. I dared to look directly at him as he examined me and found myself a little surprised by his appearance. He was not a tall man, no more than five feet and seven or eight inches in height, which meant that I would have stood a good head above him had we been standing side by side. He was quite handsome, though, compact in his frame, trim and apparently athletic, with piercing blue eyes and a finely trimmed beard and moustache, the ends of which were waxed but drooping slightly, perhaps because of the lateness of the evening. I imagined that he tended to it once a day, in the mornings, or if there was a reception at night, then once again in preparation for his guests. It was not so important when receiving a lowly visitor such as I.

Contrary to my expectations, the Tsar was not attired in some outlandish Imperial costume, but in the simple garb of a fellow moujik: a plain, vanilla-coloured shirt, a pair of loose fitting trousers and dark leather boots. Of course, there was no question that these simple items of clothing were produced from the very finest fabrics, but they seemed comfortable and simple and I began to feel a little more at ease in his presence.

‘So you are Jachmenev,’ he said finally, his clear voice betraying neither boredom nor interest; it was as if I was simply another task in his day.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your full name?’

‘Georgy Daniilovich Jachmenev,’ I replied. ‘Of the village of Kashin.’

‘And your father?’ he asked. ‘Who is he?’

‘Daniil Vladyavich Jachmenev,’ I said. ‘Also of Kashin.’

‘I see. And he is still with us?’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘He didn’t accompany me, sir,’ I said. ‘No one said that he should.’

‘He is still alive, Jachmenev,’ he explained with a sigh.

‘Oh. Yes. Yes, he is.’

‘And what is his position in society?’

‘He is a farmer, sir.’

‘He has his own land?’

‘No, sir. He is a labourer.’

‘You said a farmer.’

‘I misspoke, sir. I mean that he farms land. But it is not his land.’

‘Whose is it then?’

‘Yours, Your Majesty.’

He smiled at this and raised an eyebrow for a moment as he considered my reply. ‘It is indeed,’ he said. ‘Although there are those who think that all the land in Russia should be distributed equally between the peasants. My former prime minister, Stolypin, he introduced that particular reform,’ he added, his tone implying that it was not something he had been in favour of. ‘You are familiar with Mr Stolypin?’

‘No, sir,’ I replied, honestly.

‘You have never heard of him?’ he asked in surprise.

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

‘Well that doesn’t matter, I suppose,’ he said, rubbing carefully at a spot of dirt on his tunic. ‘He’s dead now. He was shot at the Kiev Opera House, while I sat in the Imperial box looking down at him. That’s how close these murderers can get. He was a good man, Stolypin. I treated him unkindly.’ He became silent for a few moments, his tongue pressing into his cheek as he lost himself in memories of the past; I had only been with the Tsar for a few minutes but I already suspected that the past weighed heavily on him. And that the present was hardly any more comforting.

‘Your father,’ he said eventually, looking up at me again. ‘Do you think he should be granted his own land?’

I thought about it, but the concept, my very words, became confused and I shrugged my shoulders to indicate my ignorance. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about such matters, sir,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure that whatever you decide will be for the right, though.’

‘You have confidence in me, then?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But why? You have never met me before.’

‘Because you are the Tsar, sir.’

‘And what does that matter?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Yes, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he said calmly. ‘What does it matter that I am the Tsar? Simply being the Tsar inspires confidence in you?’

‘Well… yes,’ I said, shrugging again, and he sighed and shook his head.

‘One does not shrug one’s shoulders in the presence of God’s anointed,’ he said firmly. ‘It is impolite.’

‘I apologize, sir,’ I said, feeling my face grow red once again. ‘I meant no disrespect.’

‘You’re apologizing again.’

‘That’s because I’m nervous, sir.’

‘Nervous?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why?’

‘Because you are the Tsar.’

He burst out laughing at this, a long, lingering laugh that went on for almost a minute, leaving me in a state of utter bewilderment. Truthfully, I had not expected to encounter the Emperor that night – if at all – and our meeting had come about with such little preparation or formality that I was still confused by the fact of it. It appeared that he wanted to question me thoroughly for a position I did not yet understand, but he was being deliberate and cautious in his queries, listening to my every answer and following up on it, trying to trap me in a mistake. And now he was laughing as if I had said something amusing, only for the life of me I could not think what that might have been.

‘You look confused, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he said finally, offering me a pleasant smile as his laughter came to an end.

‘I am, a little,’ I said. ‘Was I rude in what I just said?’

‘No, no,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘It’s just the consistency of your answers that amuses me, that’s all. Because I am the Tsar. I am the Tsar, am I not?’

‘Why, yes, sir.’

‘And a curious position it is too,’ he said, picking up a steel diamond-encrusted letter-opener from his desk and balancing it on its tip before him. ‘Perhaps one day I shall explain it to you. For now, I believe I owe you my gratitude.’

‘Your gratitude, sir?’ I asked, surprised that he could possibly owe me anything.

‘My cousin, the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaievich. He recommended you to me. He told me how you came to save him after an assassination attempt.’

‘I’m not sure it was as serious as all that, sir,’ I said, for the very words seemed astonishingly treasonous, even coming from the mouth of the Tsar.

‘Oh no? What would you call it then?’

I considered the matter. ‘The boy in question. Kolek Boryavich. I knew him since we were children. He was… it was a stupid mistake on his part, you see. His father was a man of strong opinions and Kolek liked to impress him.’

‘My father was a man of strong opinions too, Georgy Daniilovich. I don’t try to murder people because of it.’

‘No, sir, but you have an army at your disposal.’

His head snapped up and he stared at me in surprise, his eyes opening wide at my impertinence, and even I felt utterly shocked that I had said such words.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said after what seemed like an eternity had passed.

‘Sir,’ I said, scrambling to correct myself, ‘I misspoke. I only meant that Kolek was in thrall to his father, that’s all. He was trying to please him.’

‘So it was his father who wanted my cousin murdered? I should send soldiers to arrest him, should I?’

‘Only if a man can be arrested for the thoughts that are in his head and not the actions that he commits,’ I said, for if I was responsible for the death of my oldest friend, I was damned if I was going to have his father’s blood on my hands too.

‘Indeed,’ he said, considering this. ‘And no, my young friend, we do not arrest men for such things. Unless their thoughts lead to plans, that is. Assassination is a terrible thing. It is a most cowardly form of protest.’

I said nothing to this; I could think of nothing to say.

‘I was only thirteen years old when my own grandfather was assassinated, you know. Alexander II. The Tsar-Liberator, he was called at one time. The man who freed the serfs, and then they murdered him for his generosity. A coward threw a bomb at his carriage while he travelled through streets not far from here and he escaped unhurt. When he stepped outside, another ran at him and exploded a second. He was brought here, to this very palace. Our family gathered while the Tsar died. I watched as the life seeped out of him. I recall it as if it was yesterday. One of his legs had been blown off. The other was mostly missing. His stomach was exposed and he was gasping for breath. It was obvious that he had only a few minutes left to live. And yet he made sure to speak to each of us in turn, to offer us his final benediction, such was his strength even at a time like that. He consecrated my father. He held my hand. And then he died. Such agony he must have felt. So you see, I know the consequences of this kind of violence and am determined that no member of my family will ever suffer assassination again.’

I nodded and felt moved by his story. My eyes drifted to the rows of books which lined the wall to my right and I glanced at them, narrowing my eyes to make out the titles.

‘You do not turn your head away from me,’ said the Tsar, although his voice contained more curiosity than anger. ‘It is I who turn away from you.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, looking at him again. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘More apologies,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘I can see that it will take some time for you to learn our ways here. They may seem… curious to you, I imagine. You are interested in books?’ he asked then, nodding towards the shelves.

‘No, sir,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I mean yes, Your Majesty.’ I groaned inwardly, trying to make myself sound less ignorant. ‘I mean… I’m interested in what they say.’

The Tsar smiled for a moment, seemed almost about to laugh, but then his face clouded over and he leaned forward.

‘My cousin is very important to me, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he announced. ‘But more than that, he is of extreme importance to the war effort. The measure of his loss would have been incalculable. You have the gratitude of the Tsar and all the Russian people for your actions.’

I felt it would be unworthy of me to protest any further and simply bowed my head in appreciation, holding it there for a moment before looking back up.

‘You must be tired, boy,’ he said then. ‘Take a seat, why don’t you?’

I looked around and a chair similar to the one in the outside corridor, but not quite as ornate as the one in which he sat himself, was standing behind me, so I sat down and immediately felt a little more relaxed. As I did so, I stole a quick glance around the room, not looking at the books now but observing the paintings on the walls, the tapestries, the objets d’art which sat on every available surface. I had never seen such opulence before. It was quite breathtaking. Behind the Tsar, just over his left shoulder, I saw the most extraordinary piece of ornamental sculpture and, despite my rudeness in staring, my eyes could not help but focus on it. The Tsar, taking note of my interest, turned around to see what had captured my attention.

‘Ah,’ he said, turning back and smiling at me. ‘And now you have noticed one of my treasures.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, trying my best not to shrug. ‘It’s just… I’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful.’

‘Yes, it is rather fine, isn’t it?’ he said, reaching across with both hands for the egg-shaped statue and placing it on the desk between us. ‘Come a little closer, Georgy. You may examine it in more detail if you wish.’

I pulled my seat forward and leaned in. The piece was no more than seven or eight inches in height, and perhaps half that distance in breadth, a gold and white enamelled egg, patterned with tiny portraits, supported by a three-sided eagle standing upon a red, bejewelled base.

‘It is what is known as a Fabergé egg,’ the Tsar told me. ‘The artist has traditionally presented one every Easter to my family, a new design every year with a surprise at its heart. It’s striking, don’t you think?’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ I said, desperate to reach out and touch the exterior but terrified to do so in case I damaged it in some way.

‘This one was given to the Tsaritsa and me two years ago, to celebrate the tercentenary of the Romanov reign. You see, the portraits are of the previous Tsars.’ He spun the egg around a little and began to point out some of his ancestors. ‘Mikhail Fyodorovich, the first of the Romanovs,’ he said, indicating a small, unimposing, wizened man with a peaked hat. ‘And here is Peter the Great, from a century later. And Catherine the Great, another fifty years hence. My grandfather, who I spoke of, Alexander II. And my father,’ he added, indicating a man almost exactly like the one who sat opposite me. ‘Alexander III.’

‘And you, sir,’ I remarked, pointing to the central portrait. ‘Tsar Nicholas II.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, apparently pleased that I had noticed him. ‘My only regret is that he did not add a final portrait to the egg.’

‘Of who, sir?’

‘My son, of course. The Tsarevich Alexei. I think it would have been quite fitting to see his face there. A testament to our hopes for the future.’ He considered this for a moment before speaking again. ‘And if I do this…’ He placed his hand on the top of the egg and carefully lifted the hinged lid, ‘you see the surprise which is contained within.’

I leaned forward again so that I was practically stretched across his desk and gasped when I saw the globe contained inside, the continents encased in gold, the oceans described by molten blue steel.

‘The globe is composed of two northern hemispheres,’ he told me and I could tell by his tone that he was delighted to have an interested audience. ‘Here we have the territories of the Russias in 1613, when my ancestor Mikhail Fyodorovich acceded to the throne. And here,’ he continued, turning the globe over, ‘are our territories three hundred years later, under my own rule. Somewhat different, as you can see.’

I shook my head, lost for words. The egg was composed of such fine detailing, such exquisite design, that I could have sat before it all day and night and not have grown tired of its beauty. That was not to be, however, for after staring at the lands over which he reigned for a few moments longer, he replaced the lid on the egg and returned it to where it had stood on the table behind him.

‘So there we are,’ he said, bringing his hands together and glancing across at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s getting late. Perhaps I should tell you the other reason why I wanted to talk to you.’

‘Of course, sir,’ I said.

He looked at me for a moment as if he was determining on the correct form of words. His stare pierced me so deeply that I was forced to look away and my eye caught a framed photograph on his desk. He followed my glance there.

‘Ah,’ he said, nodding. ‘I suppose that is as good a place to start as any.’ He lifted the photograph and handed it to me. ‘You are familiar, I would assume, with the Imperial Family?’

‘I am aware of them, of course, sir,’ I said. ‘I have not had the honour—’

‘The four young ladies in that picture,’ he continued, ignoring me, ‘they are my daughters, the Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Marie and Anastasia. They are growing into very fine young women, I might add. I am supremely proud of them. The eldest, Olga, is twenty years of age now. Perhaps we shall marry her soon, that is a possibility. There are many eligible young men among the royal families of Europe. It’s not possible at the moment, of course. Not with this blasted war. But soon, I think. When it is over. The youngest you see here is my own sweetheart, the Grand Duchess Anastasia, who is shortly to turn fifteen.’

I stared at her face in the portrait. She was young, of course, but then I was less than two years her senior. I recognized her immediately. She was the girl I had met at the chestnut stand earlier in the evening; the young lady who had looked up at me and smiled when she stepped from her boat an hour before. The one who had made me turn around in such a state of confusion, bewildered by my sudden rush of passion.

‘There were moments – I think I can confide this in you, Georgy – when I thought I was never to be blessed with a son,’ he continued, taking the frame off me and handing me a different one, in which a single portrait of a striking young boy had been placed. ‘When I thought Russia was never to be blessed with an heir. But happily, my Alexei was born to the Tsaritsa and me some eleven years ago. He’s a fine boy. He will be a great Tsar one day.’

I noted the cheerful countenance of the boy in the picture but was a little surprised by how thin he looked, how dark around the eyes. ‘I have no doubt of that, sir,’ I replied.

‘Naturally, there are many members of the Leib Guard who protect him on a daily basis,’ he said then, and to my mind he seemed to be struggling with his words a little, as if he was unsure how much he wanted to say. ‘And they take good care of him, of course. But I thought… perhaps someone a little closer to his age as a companion. Someone old enough and brave enough to protect him too, should the need arise. How old are you, Georgy?’

‘Sixteen, sir.’

‘Sixteen, that’s good. A boy of eleven will always look up to a lad your age. I think perhaps you might be a good role model for him.’

I exhaled nervously. The Grand Duke had mentioned something of this to me when he had visited my sick bed in Kashin, but I had doubted that such a task could possibly be entrusted to a moujik. It seemed so far beyond my expectations of the world that I was sure that at any moment I might wake up and discover that this had all been a dream, and that the Tsar, the Winter Palace and all the glories contained therein, down to the beautiful Fabergé egg, would dissolve before my eyes and I would find myself on the floor in our Kashin hut once again, being kicked into consciousness by Daniil, demanding his breakfast.

‘I would be honoured, sir,’ I said finally. ‘If you think me worthy of the position.’

‘The Grand Duke certainly thinks you are,’ he said, standing up now, and of course I followed his example and stood too. ‘And I think you seem like a very respectable young man. I think you might perform well in the role.’ We walked towards the door and as we did so, he placed the Imperial hand upon my shoulder, sending a jolt of electricity through my body. The Tsar, the Lord’s own appointed, was touching me. It was the greatest blessing that I had ever received. He gripped the bone tightly and I felt so overawed and honoured that I did not mind the searing pain he was sending through my arm from the bullet wound which he was so casually pressing upon.

‘Now, can I trust you, Georgy Daniilovich?’ he asked, looking me deep in the eyes.

‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ I replied.

‘I hope so,’ he said, and there was a hint of utter desperation and misery in his voice. ‘If you are to undertake this responsibility, there is something… Georgy, what I say to you now must never leave this room.’

‘Sir, whatever it is I will take it to the grave.’

He swallowed and hesitated. The silence between us lasted for more than a minute but I did not feel embarrassed now; I felt instead that I was at the centre of a great secret, something which the Lord of our land was about to entrust unto me. But to my disappointment, he seemed to change his mind for instead of confiding in me, he simply shook his head and looked away, releasing my shoulder and opening the door to the corridor.

‘Perhaps this is not the time,’ he said. ‘Let us see how you develop at your task first. All I ask is that you take the utmost care of our son. He is our great hope, you see. He is the hope of all loyal Russians.’

‘I will do everything in my power to keep him safe,’ I assured him. ‘My life is his in a moment.’

‘Then that is all I need to know,’ he replied, smiling again for a moment before closing the door in my face and leaving me alone once again in the cold and empty corridor, wondering whether anyone was going to collect me and where on earth I should go next.