‘Why should you care?’ he asked.
‘Because if people believe that Nikolai is usurping the throne, they’ll rise against him. It could mean the end of the Romanov monarchy.’
‘Zmyeevich may care about that, but why do you?’
Iuda smiled to himself. ‘I have more reason than ever to see that Zmyeevich gets what he desires,’ he said. ‘But for now, my goals concur with yours. You helped to kill one tsar in order to save his dynasty.’ Aleksei’s expression remained sceptical. Iuda pressed the point. ‘Look, Lyosha, I’ll be honest. The reason I came up here, apart from the desire to visit your lovely wife’ – he couldn’t resist, even when trying to cajole Aleksei – ‘was to try to ensure that the crown skipped through the generations as quickly as possible. It turns out that Konstantin has helped do that for me. I’m happy to settle at that – Aleksandr Nikolayevich would have a regent if he became tsar now; that wouldn’t help our cause.’
Aleksei considered. Iuda’s reasoning was sound. Nikolai becoming tsar would force him and Zmyeevich to pause for at least a decade, if not more, until young Aleksandr came of age. And even then, they would first have to kill Nikolai, which would be no easy thing given the protection he would enjoy as tsar. Unless, of course, the revolutionaries got their way. If they were to succeed in killing Nikolai, then there were two possible consequences: a republic, or a quick accession of Aleksandr II. Was Iuda instead choosing the safer option of letting Nikolai live, or was this just another bluff?
‘Think about it,’ Iuda said, and then vanished into the billowing snow.
Aleksei slept that night in a tiny, cramped room underneath the rafters of a run-down tavern. It was the first time in two decades he had spent a night in Petersburg other than in his own home. On waking, he had at first felt confused by his surroundings, but that had only lasted a moment. Then he had been aware that there was some problem in his life that he had to resolve – a serious problem, but one he could not quite discern; perhaps that implied it was not significant. Then he remembered Marfa.
There was little else in his whole life – since the death of his parents – that had so unnerved him. It seemed a ridiculous thought, given that he had in his time fought battles against men, stalked voordalaki by night, and conspired to convince the whole world that the leader of a nation was dead. And yet in all those things, he had known that it was he who must take charge of things, organize them, survive. Even in the thankfully occasional tribulations in his relationship with Domnikiia, he had always felt in charge of his own destiny. And why? Because throughout all that, he had been aware of Marfa Mihailovna sitting in Petersburg, always waiting for him, always loving him. She was his foundation, and now she was gone. And yet there was still hope. Iuda had to die for that hope to flourish, but that very thought gave him the energy to face the day.
But there was another matter to occupy him today, of higher precedence: the crown of Russia. He suspected that what Iuda had told him about Konstantin and Nikolai was true, but it had to be verified, and he could think of only one man in Petersburg whose word he would trust on the subject – and that man would be difficult to reach. He headed over to the Winter Palace.
Yevgeniy Styepanovich was surprisingly easy to get hold of. The Lieutenant General emerged from the Winter Palace almost as soon as Aleksei asked after him. His mood was curt.
‘What is it, Danilov? This is not a good time.’
‘I need an audience with the grand duke,’ said Aleksei.
Yevgeniy seemed flustered, and Aleksei could well guess the reason. To the outside world, there were two grand dukes in the palace – Nikolai and Mihail. To the cognoscenti, there was only one, the other having been recently promoted to the rank of tsar. Aleksei allowed Yevgeniy a few moments of confusion before providing a clarification.
‘I mean Grand Duke Mihail,’ he added.
‘Some hope! He’s gone back to Warsaw.’
Aleksei looked over at the Lieutenant General. He was a big man, but Aleksei knew him to be weak. ‘No, he never made it to Warsaw. He got as far as Neenal and then was told to turn back.’ The information had been simple enough for Aleksei to pick up. ‘He arrived here earlier today.’
Yevgeniy considered for a moment. ‘Wait here,’ he said at last, and marched off back towards the palace. Aleksei leaned out over the Neva. The bridges that spanned it were almost meaningless at this time of year. A thick crust of ice covered the river, though the water beneath flowed as quickly as ever. Most who needed to cross to the northern islands of the city could walk straight over. Only those on horseback or with heavy cargos that risked cracking the ice stuck to the bridges. At this time of the morning, when the sun was as hot as it would get, a mist rose off the river. The sun’s heat probably did little to weaken the strength of the ice-sheet, but if Aleksei had needed to go across, he would still rather use a bridge.
He was on the English Quay, between the Admiralty and the Winter Palace, a little further east than where he had last met Yevgeniy Styepanovich. He did not have to stand there for very long.
‘Three o’clock,’ said the Lieutenant General on his return. ‘His Highness will allow you five minutes.’ With that, he was gone once again. Aleksei had four hours to wait.
Aleksei ate, and then drank, and then drank some more. It was still only one o’clock. It would not do to appear in front of Grand Duke Mihail in any but the most alert state of mind, so he decided a walk through the cold winter streets would refresh him. He’d gone to his barracks and changed into his full dress uniform. It would impress the grand duke and, moreover, it was well made – it kept him warm. He glanced at his gloved hands. On the left, the two redundant fingers had been folded over and sewn neatly into the palm. It was the same with all his gloves – Marfa had done that for him.
In total, he walked past the front of his own house seven times. He glanced up occasionally, but saw no sign of her. His own servants might have seen him, but they would be discreet – they had been discreet enough over the years about what their mistress had been doing. Twice he almost went in, but never quite made it. The previous evening he had told her they would find a way of working things out, and he was convinced that she accepted it. To go to her now would not change that – what it might change was precisely where the advantage lay in their relationship once they had sorted things out. It would make him seem weak, and even she would not be happy for him to have that status in the long run.
The sun was already setting when he arrived back at the Winter Palace. Yevgeniy Styepanovich took him through corridors and hallways, until they eventually arrived at a first-floor room that overlooked the river. Mihail Pavlovich was in conversation with two other men when Aleksei arrived, so he stood quietly in the shadows and waited. When the others had left, the grand duke beckoned him over.
‘Colonel Danilov,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘May I offer my condolences on your brother’s death, Your Highness,’ replied Aleksei. He looked at the grand duke. It had been a few years since their first and only brief meeting. Mihail was now twenty-seven. Between his fingers, as always, he clutched a foul-smelling cigar. He did not look like any of his brothers. Aleksei wondered if he really was the son of Tsar Pavel, though he had never heard even the slightest rumour to the contrary.
‘Aleksandr Pavlovich set great store by your abilities,’ said Mihail, ‘and therefore so do I. What is it that brings you here?’ He sat down and offered the seat opposite to Aleksei, who took it.