But his reasoning seemed utterly sound. When he had first told all to Wylie, Tarasov and Danilov, he had told them of his terror of death; not the terror most men have – that fear of the unknown that latches on to every tiny doubt they might have about the goodness of God and the cleanliness of their own record – but a concrete, confident fear that his death would mean his rebirth as a creature that had spewed forth from Hell. If he had died then, his fate would have been inescapable. It had seemed inescapable for all time. He had prayed. ‘Let this cup pass from me,’ had almost been his words to the Lord, but he understood that they would be blasphemous. At the same time he knew that even to have thought them was for God to have heard them. The blasphemy could not be undone.

  And yet, it seemed, God had indeed answered his prayers. The cup, or at least the fever, had passed from him. Wylie and Tarasov might feign ignorance, but Aleksandr had known in his very bones that he had recovered. That the vigour of his blood – Romanov blood – had been powerful enough to defeat that which had invaded him. It had taken both time and torment, but in the end he had won.

  But the Lord had only taken one cup from his lips so that He might offer him another chalice – one that contained a venom far less appetizing, and yet far less foul. Aleksandr might have lived to fight another day, but if he did fight another day, there was every chance he would lose. He was forty-seven years old. His babushka had survived to sixty-seven. He might well do better. And yet every day of that life he would run the risk of dying – dying with the blood of Zmyeevich, freshly introduced, inside his body. There was only one solution – to die when he was certain that his blood was pure. And that time could only be now.

  Colonel Danilov entered first, then Dr Tarasov, and finally Dr Wylie. Each looked upon the tsar with his own brand of affection and his own veneer of pity. But, to a man, their faces were grave. They were clever men; the tsar knew that. It was flattering to have his conclusion endorsed by such minds as theirs.

  * * *

  Aleksei breathed deeply as he left the tsar’s bedchamber. Prince Volkonsky had been hovering outside. He looked at Aleksei enquiringly. Aleksei shook his head briefly and the prince’s face fell. Baron Diebich looked from Volkonsky to Aleksei and back. There could be no mistaking the news.

  Wylie and Tarasov came out of the room a moment later. Their faces showed the same gloom as Aleksei’s.

  ‘Is there no hope?’ asked Volkonsky.

  ‘There is only hope,’ replied Wylie.

  ‘He seemed so much better,’ said Diebich, as if the assertion would change things.

  ‘A flicker of life,’ Wylie told him. ‘I have witnessed it in more than one case. The will of the patient can be strong enough to overcome all symptoms, but only briefly.’

  ‘How long does he have?’ asked Volkonsky.

  ‘Days – perhaps hours.’

  ‘The poor tsaritsa,’ muttered Diebich.

  ‘He has asked to speak with you,’ said Tarasov, addressing Volkonsky. Diebich half rose to his feet, but Tarasov raised a hand to him. ‘Only the prince, I’m afraid, Baron – for the time being.’

  Diebich nodded and pressed his lips together hard. Volkonsky went into the tsar’s room. Aleksei took another deep breath. There were still matters to be discussed with the doctors. Diebich was slumped mournfully in a chair beside his master’s door. Aleksei glanced at first Tarasov and then Wylie, nodding towards the door that led out to the garden, before heading through it.

  Neither of the doctors was cut out to be a spy. They appreciated the fundamentals – that if three men intended to meet for a private conversation, then it was wise for them not all to head off to it at the same time – but the execution of their seemingly casual departures from the house was excessively theatrical, and the timing of the separation between their exits too precise. It did not matter. No one would be concerned that three of the tsar’s staff were talking at this time – however much they might be curious about the role of an interloper such as Aleksei. In their grief, no one in the house would be up to observing anything much.

  ‘You think His Majesty will be able to convince Volkonsky?’ asked Aleksei.

  ‘He has to,’ said Tarasov. ‘The prince is far too sharp not to spot what’s going on – and to stop it. He has to know that what we are planning is, ultimately, in the tsar’s best interests.’

  ‘And His Majesty is the only person who can convince Volkonsky of that,’ added Wylie.

  ‘The prince will think he’s delirious,’ said Aleksei. ‘We should have stayed to add the weight of our voices.’

  ‘If Volkonsky wants our opinions, he will seek them,’ insisted Tarasov. ‘Those two have known each other a long time – in the end, Volkonsky will obey. And the tsar is not going to tell him everything.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ conceded Aleksei. ‘But we do need Volkonsky. Security is vital.’

  ‘You’re sure Cain will come?’ asked Wylie.

  ‘He must. There’s nothing he can do once His Majesty is dead, and so he will try to find a way to administer a further dose of Zmyeevich’s blood. Then – if I were him – I’d also make sure of the tsar’s death. It would be foolish to leave anything to chance.’

  ‘We should be grateful you’re not him,’ said Wylie.

  ‘Are we really certain that the effects of the first taste of the blood have passed?’ asked Tarasov.

  ‘We can’t know for sure,’ said Aleksei, ‘but I’m convinced Cain thinks they are. That is why he will come.’

  ‘And we’ll be ready for him,’ said Tarasov.

  ‘You two will be attending the tsar,’ replied Aleksei. ‘Volkonsky will arrange a guard around the palace. I’ll make sure he puts me in charge of them.’

  ‘From all we’ve seen, Cain’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘That’s why they’ll have orders to kill,’ said Aleksei. That, and other, more personal reasons.

  ‘If only we could do more,’ said Wylie.

  ‘You can do the most important thing of all,’ insisted Aleksei. ‘You must both make sure that His Majesty eats and drinks nothing in the hours leading up to his death – otherwise everything else we do will be a waste of time.’

  Aleksei walked away from them briskly and strode back towards the house. He had seen that Volkonsky was beckoning to him.

  The tsaritsa was more desperate than the starets had ever seen her. She had heard from Father Fyodotov – and other gossips in the royal household – how grave her husband’s condition was. Fyodotov seemed to know more, but his lips were closed by the seal of confession. The starets wondered how much Aleksandr had told him.

  She had come to the monastery again to speak to him – at his summons, though he felt certain she would have sought him out anyway.

  ‘He is dying, Father,’ she said after they had recited the Prayer of the Heart.

  ‘Has he made his confession?’ It was better for the starets not to reveal the conversations he had had with Fyodotov.

  ‘Yes. And then it seemed he had got better, but it was only a passing rally. He might die within hours, the doctors say.’

  The starets leaned forward. This was surprising news. ‘As soon as that?’ he asked.

  ‘I should be with him, Father. But you are my only hope.’

  ‘Jesus Christ is the hope of the world,’ said the starets. ‘I am merely His representative on Earth.’

  ‘Please, Father – there is so little time. Do you have the remedy you promised me?’

  The starets might have taken time to lecture the tsaritsa on the virtue of patience, but from what she had said, he knew that time was now pressing. For the tsar to die now would be intolerable. He slipped his hand into his robe and brought out a small vial. He handed it to the tsaritsa. She took it from him and grasped it to her chest. A flood of hope ran across her face, and yet still she doubted.

  ‘So little?’ she said.

  ‘So little your faith?’ he replied. ‘That is all that is needed.’

  She nodded and looked down at the thick, dark liquid that clung to the glass sides of the bottle.

  ‘Should I mix it with his food?’ she asked.

  ‘With food, or with drink – but only after the food has been cooked. Or it can be given to him directly, if he will take it.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’

  ‘His doctors will try to prevent you giving it to him, and in his state, he may be swayed by them. You must be determined.’

  ‘I will be.’

  She remained kneeling, staring at the floor of the stone cell in the monastery, awaiting her dismissal. He did not delay her.

  ‘Go now, my child,’ he said. ‘I will pray for you both.’

  The tsaritsa thanked him, then rose to her feet and left quickly. The starets stood and went to the doorless archway that formed the entrance to his cell. He watched her as she left, clearly battling against her own ill health simply to make it to this appointment, which she believed would save her husband.

  She was mistaken; Iuda knew that full well as he pulled the starets’ robe off over his head. He had more work to do that night, and beneath the habit he was almost dressed for his next task. The other monks might remark on his disappearance, but they had always seen him as a nomad – a starets who occasionally used their home as a place of quiet contemplation. There were many like him.

  The military were by nature far more suspicious. To have passed himself off as a soldier for any length of time would have required forged papers and – to get close to the tsar – at least one personal recommendation. But the acquisition of the lieutenant’s uniform whose tunic he was now buttoning up had been a much simpler affair – taken from a drunken soldier whose half-hearted resistance had provided little entertainment. The others might miss him, but they would not find his body for another few days, at the very least.

  Iuda straightened his new collar and noticed that his fingers felt wet. He looked at them and saw blood still damp on the uniform. It did not matter – his plans would be carried out before anyone had the chance to inspect him.

  He took one final glance around the cell. Stone walls, of one kind or another, had become quite familiar to him over the last few years, but no more. He hurried out into the night.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT. WEDNESDAY WOULD SOON BE THURSDAY, and Thursday, 19 November 1825 was the day that Tsar Aleksandr I would die. Aleksei had not discussed with Wylie or Tarasov the exact hour, but all agreed it would be before noon. Aleksei felt happier not to know.

  Volkonsky had been content to place the guard under Aleksei’s orders – a mixture of regular troops close to the palace and Colonel Nikolayev’s Cossacks covering a wider perimeter. Volkonsky himself wanted to stay by Aleksandr’s side, along with the tsaritsa, Wylie, Tarasov, Diebich and several others. Aleksei would spend most of the night at the tsar’s door, much as he would have loved to ride once again with the Kazaki. But that was where Iuda would be heading, whatever direction he might come from, and so Aleksei would be in the best place to intercept him. He considered standing guard inside the bedchamber itself, but it would be an insult to the tsaritsa – and all those who loved Aleksandr – to see Iuda exterminated over the very bed upon which the object of their love lay dying. More than that, Aleksei felt uncharacteristically disinclined to be present at the death of a man whom he held in such esteem.

  He had made one tour of the palace grounds already. He wished he had known the men better – he did not recognize many of their faces, let alone know their names. But Volkonsky vouched for them, and they vouched for each other. There was one concern; a Lieutenant Morev had not reported for duty. The view of most of his comrades was that he was a drunk and they were better off without him, but it was still a cause for apprehension. He asked to be informed the moment the man was seen.

  It was distasteful even to attempt to think in the way that Iuda did, but Aleksei knew that his foe rarely did anything without forethought, and so it was a necessary unpleasantness. Though they might remark on the absence of a lieutenant, there would be less note taken of his return. Who was to say that in the meantime he might not have been recruited to Iuda’s cause? Recruited by induction, to use Iuda’s own word. He would have to be willing, but a young drunken soldier might easily be persuaded. Iuda would also need the assistance of a voordalak to carry out such a plan. But – who knew? – Zmyeevich himself might be nearby, awaiting his henchman’s success. And then there was always the beautiful Raisa Styepanovna. If she were assisting Iuda, then the processes of persuading the young lieutenant to accept his rebirth as a vampire might have been very simple indeed. But if the soldier did return, Aleksei would be waiting, and if he was no longer human, Aleksei would know.

  He leaned against the wall, beside the door to the tsar’s room, and listened. He heard no sound from within. He tried to picture the scene inside, but he remained glad that he was not a part of it. It would be a long night for him, standing guard outside, but for those who sat in tears beside Aleksandr’s bed, it would be an eternity.

  Aleksandr looked at the figures around him and smiled. So many of those he loved were here. Most important of all was Yelizaveta. She would be devastated by his death – but how much more would she suffer to learn of the alternative? He knew that if Cain and Zmyeevich succeeded in their plan to make him a voordalak, then he would have no vestige of the affection he had once held for his wife. She would not know it, but she would be happier for him to die.

  His greatest regret was that he would never see his brothers again – his sisters too, though none of those living had remained in Russia still. But he would have dearly loved to say goodbye to Konstantin, Nikolai and Mihail. He and Konstantin had grown up side by side – there was only two years between them – but he still sometimes looked upon Nikolai and Mihail as children. He had been eighteen when Nikolai was born. All three of them were fine men. He might have preferred to have had children of his own, but Aleksandr had no qualms about the succession passing to his brother.

  It would not, however, be his brother Konstantin. Few in Russia knew it, but Konstantin did not want to become tsar. It was the wisest opinion he had ever expressed, and one which Aleksandr shared. Konstantin was too much like their father. Aleksandr had begun his reign by removing an unsuitable tsar from power; he was not going to end it by bequeathing his throne to another. Nikolai would make a far better ruler – better not just than Konstantin would be, but better than Aleksandr had been. The reason, at least in part, was obvious. Nikolai had been less than six months old when Yekaterina died. He had never been touched by her influence. Aleksandr loved his babushka, but he knew that she had ruined him.

  It was already morning, as far as he could guess. The shutters were closed, but light was just beginning to seep through. He had drifted between sleep and wakefulness throughout the night. These, he knew, were precious hours, the last he would spend with Yelizaveta Alekseevna.

  The door opened. Aleksandr started, wondering who it might be, but it was only one of the maids. She carried a tray. On it was a bowl of broth, and beside it some bread. She placed it on the table next to the bed.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Yelizaveta, reaching over for the bowl. She held it under Aleksandr’s nose.

  ‘Drink, my darling,’ she said.

  Aleksandr would have dearly loved to accept. It was not out of hunger – though he was hungry – but simply to allow his wife the feeling of having done something to help. But Danilov, Wylie and Tarasov had drilled him thoroughly. Their concern was his – the prospect of his eternal damnation. A small slip now could ruin everything. He glanced over at Wylie, but it was only for confirmation of what he already knew. The side-to-side movement of the doctor’s head was minimal, but Aleksandr understood it. He feigned a violent coughing fit and pushed his wife’s hand away.

  She returned the soup to the tray. ‘Perhaps later,’ she said, and Aleksandr nodded through his seizure.

  ‘You may go,’ said Diebich to the maid. The girl hurried out, frightened by what she had seen in the tsar. Aleksandr lay back on his pillow and tried to rest. As his eyelids lowered, he noticed Volkonsky leaving the room, almost as if in pursuit of the maid.

  ‘You were instructed to bring no food or drink.’

  Aleksei immediately recognized the voice as Volkonsky’s. It came through the window. Aleksei had been taking another tour of the grounds. It was light now, and he was satisfied no voordalak would attempt to gain admission to the tsar, but there was still the possibility of human attack – and Iuda was most definitely human.

  Aleksei looked inside. The prince was talking to a girl – one of the maids; Aleksei couldn’t remember her name. They were just outside the kitchen. He went in through the kitchen door, and was with them in seconds.

  ‘He told me you had asked for it, sir, for His Majesty.’ The girl was almost in tears. All in the palace – the staff as much as anyone else – were living on the ragged edge of their emotions, but to be interrogated by Volkonsky, however benevolent his motivation, must have been an ordeal.

  ‘I?’ thundered Volkonsky.

  ‘Asked for what?’ said Aleksei. His tone was lighter than the prince’s, though it had the same sense of urgency.

  ‘She brought His Majesty soup,’ Volkonsky explained. ‘Says some officer gave her the instruction.’

  ‘A lieutenant,’ said the maid.

  ‘Lieutenant Morev?’ asked Aleksei.

  ‘No, sir. I know Lieutenant Morev,’ she said. ‘We all do. I didn’t recognize this one.’

  ‘And he told you to fetch soup for His Majesty.’

  ‘That’s right – well, no. He had the soup; he’d brought it from the kitchen. He gave it to me and told me to take it in.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Tall, sir. About your age. Blond hair – needed cutting.’

  Aleksei rubbed his hand across his mouth.

  ‘Cain?’ asked Volkonsky.