The tsar smiled, lost in similar memories to those that had washed over Aleksei moments before, but he stepped out of them more quickly.
‘She raised me to be tsar,’ he continued. ‘She knew my father would succeed her, but she could see he wasn’t right for it. Even so, they didn’t need to… I could have stopped them. Perhaps Papa was lucky; babushka never told him of the Romanov Betrayal.’
Aleksei glanced at Wylie and Tarasov. They were both staring intently at the tsar. There were tears in Wylie’s eyes. It was hard to comprehend that such depth of affection could come from a foreigner, but perhaps the affection itself proved that the once Scottish doctor was now no such thing.
‘I bet your grandmother told you stories, Danilov.’
Aleksei nodded and squeezed the tsar’s hand. Wylie’s emotion was infectious, and Aleksei doubted he would be able to speak.
‘And I bet you didn’t believe them, did you?’
A shake of the head this time.
‘Well, that’s where we differ.’ The tsar spoke with a little more gusto now. ‘Or, I suspect, where our grandmothers differed. No one with any sense would disbelieve what Yekaterina told them. Do you know what she told me?’
‘No,’ whispered Aleksei, though the tsar had already told him some of it – but it was obvious there was more.
‘She wasn’t a Romanov, you see,’ explained Aleksandr. ‘Not by blood. But in her belly she was. That’s why they told her everything – all the family did. Someone had to know, and she was the strongest any of them had ever met. So she learned the story of Pyotr, her husband’s grandfather, my great-great-grandfather. Pyotr the Great they called him. Pyotr the Sly was what she said.
‘He travelled all over the place did Pyotr. And on his travels he met the strangest of men. One of them became a close friend – travelled with him up north, to the swamplands on the Gulf of Finland. This friend told Pyotr he should found a city there, but Pyotr said it was impossible. The friend brought in engineers from his own country, and somehow – through sheer, brute force, they managed to drain part of the swamp. And that’s where Pyotr built his fortress. He named it after two saints, one of whom shared his own name – the Peter and Paul Fortress. It’s still there, more than a hundred years on – right at the centre of Petersburg.
‘After that, the rest of the city was easy to build – easier. Pyotr’s own men began to take on a greater share of the work, following the techniques that had been begun for them. I say men, but Pyotr may not have thought of them as such. They were serfs, but they were still freer than the workers they took over from.
‘And as you know, within nine years, the city was built, or built enough for Pyotr to declare it as the new capital. And Pyotr asked his friend what he could give him in exchange for his help.
‘“Half the city,” came the reply.
‘Pyotr laughed. Such audacity was unusual. “The city is the new capital,” he said. “The city is Russia. I cannot give you half Russia.”
‘“For what would you give me half of Russia?” asked the friend. Pyotr didn’t reply, and so was presented with another question. “What is it that you most desire?”
‘When my grandmother first told me this story,’ said Aleksandr, breaking from his narrative, she asked me to guess what Pyotr’s answer was. Of course, I got it wrong, but every subsequent time she told it, she asked me again, and I’d still get it wrong, deliberately. I’d answer “Power!” or “Wealth!” or “Victory!”, but babushka would smile and shake her head.’
‘And what did Pyotr answer?’ asked Tarasov. Aleksei scowled at him for breaking into the tsar’s recollections, but Aleksandr did not notice, and was happy to answer the question.
‘Pyotr replied, “Enlightenment.” It was all he had ever wanted – to know.
‘“That I can give you,” said the man. “But it is worth more than half of Russia.”
‘“I will not give all of Russia,” Pyotr said.
‘“No, but you can give me your soul.”
‘Pyotr did not blink at the concept. His response was far more practical. “How?” he asked.
‘His friend explained. He was what we would call a voordalak. An undead creature. He told Pyotr of how, when he, centuries before, had become a voordalak, he had briefly known the mind of every other such creature on the planet. This was not a blessing that was shared by them all, but one which he would endow on Pyotr – in exchange for half his nation.’
‘What was the name of this voordalak?’ asked Aleksei, though the answer was already forming itself on his lips. Aleksandr looked at Aleksei perceptively, detecting the foreknowledge that the question implied.
‘He told Pyotr the name in his own language, then translated it into French, and then Russian. Its meaning was “the Son of the Dragon”.’
‘Drakonovich?’ whispered Tarasov.
‘So you might think,’ explained the tsar, ‘but the creature chose to formulate his Russian name in a slightly different manner. He chose…’
‘Zmyeevich,’ interrupted Aleksei. His voice was full of hatred.
‘Zmyeevich – that’s right,’ said Aleksandr, without surprise at Aleksei’s knowledge.
‘How did you know?’ asked Wylie.
‘We met,’ answered Aleksei.
‘When?’ said Wylie.
The tsar interrupted them before a reply could come.
‘1812,’ he said.
Aleksei was astonished. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because I saw you,’ said the tsar, simply. ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself. We are speaking of 1712, not 1812. According to my grandmother, Pyotr expressed no doubts as to the existence of such a creature as the voordalak. He asked merely how he could become one.
‘Zmyeevich explained that the process was simple. First, he would drink Pyotr’s blood. He would drink deeply. It would be enough to kill Pyotr, but not immediately. Then, Pyotr need only drink a little of the blood of the voordalak, but it would be enough to ensure that he did not die, but lived for ever as another such creature. Then they two could rule Russia together – and for ever.’
‘It’s just like in Cain’s book,’ hissed Wylie. ‘You knew all along.’
Aleksandr laid his head back on his pillow for a few moments. Telling the story was a strain for him, and he needed the strength to continue.
‘Pyotr asked for three days to prepare himself,’ he continued.
‘He agreed?’ asked Aleksei, aghast.
‘He asked for three days to prepare himself,’ the tsar repeated. ‘Then he met Zmyeevich where they had arranged, just before midnight, in the place we now know as Senate Square. Zmyeevich was there, waiting. Pyotr knelt down in front of him, by the very bank of the Neva, which they together had tamed, and ripped open his shirt, exposing his flesh to the voordalak. The fangs descended and Pyotr felt Zmyeevich’s lips close around his throat as his teeth penetrated his skin. It was, he later told, an ecstatic sensation, to feel the very blood being drained from one’s body, but Zmyeevich did not go too far. What he drank would kill a man, but the man would still have the chance of – in a quite perverted sense – salvation.
‘“Now, give me your sword,” Zmyeevich said. Pyotr unsheathed it and handed it, hilt first, to the voordalak. Zmyeevich took it, and with its tip inscribed a cut across his own breast, from which blood began to ooze.’
Aleksei hung his head and shut his eyes tightly. The image was far, far too familiar; not a memory of Zmyeevich and Pyotr but one much more recent and, for Aleksei, indescribably more poignant – an image of Iuda and… God knew whom. But even by closing his eyes, Aleksei could not shut out the tsar’s story.
‘“Drink!” instructed Zmyeevich. Pyotr looked up at the voordalak, and his mind became filled with understanding. He knew all that Zmyeevich knew – and Zmyeevich was centuries old. He gazed at the blood which ran in a thin line down the creature’s chest. He desired to taste it, though he knew that that desire came not from himself, but from whatever had passed into him when the vampire had drunk his blood. He might share Zmyeevich’s knowledge, but he had also to share his tastes.