‘I would know,’ said Zmyeevich firmly. He strode across the hold towards the door, passing within inches of the beam of light that entered through the open porthole, but not touching it. ‘I felt, for example, as if it was my own skin that was burning.’

  Iuda flicked his eyes around the room, searching for any route of escape, but he saw none. Zmyeevich stood between him and the door. The porthole was far too small. ‘Burning?’ he asked, trying to give himself time to think. ‘When?’

  ‘I felt before as you tattooed me; as you flayed the skin from me,’ continued Zmyeevich.

  ‘I see,’ said Iuda, now understanding. He slipped his hand inside his coat.

  ‘I saw, as well as felt,’ said Zmyeevich. ‘Saw through the eyes of a vampire which I created; a vampire which you enslaved, which you abused. He was my offspring.’

  ‘You’ve benefited from what I’ve learned.’

  Zmyeevich nodded, his face thoughtful. ‘True enough,’ he said. ‘Though what you learned from him, I cannot guess. I also learned your tricks.’

  Zmyeevich took two long, brisk strides across the room. Iuda moved at the same moment, towards the light of the porthole. The mirror he had taken from his pocket was now in his hand. But Zmyeevich was quicker. This time he made no diversion, walking directly through the sun’s rays, his cheek burning briefly as it passed through, but he did not flinch. He stood between Iuda and the porthole.

  ‘For example,’ he said, ‘I have learned that a mirror is of no use without a source of light.’

  Iuda could see he had been outmanoeuvred. If he could have reflected the sunlight into Zmyeevich’s face, he might have fended him off, but he had no chance of getting near the porthole. He cast the mirror aside and heard it smash against the wall.

  ‘I can still be of help to you,’ he said. He was surprised how calm his voice sounded.

  ‘Why did our plans for Aleksandr fail?’ asked Zmyeevich. Iuda was strangely reminded of his father, his patronizing voice asking some question of mathematics or history that his young son should easily have been able to answer, but failed to.

  ‘Because of Danilov.’ The word ‘sir’ almost tumbled from his lips in pursuit.

  ‘I saw Danilov too,’ said Zmyeevich, ‘through my offspring’s eyes, when he returned to Chufut Kalye. We were on the verge of tasting his blood. And then nothing. The child of my blood died. The last image his eyes saw’ – Zmyeevich’s own eyes blazed as he spoke – ‘was you.’

  ‘That was necessary,’ said Iuda.

  ‘Perhaps, but you let Danilov live. That was unforgivable.’

  Iuda opened his mouth, but had no words to speak. Zmyeevich stepped forward. His foetid breath invaded Iuda’s nostrils, and only fear prevented him from throwing up. Zmyeevich placed a hand on his shoulder and the other under his chin.

  ‘I would not sully my lips with your blood,’ he said.

  Iuda felt the grip around his chin tighten. A click somewhere in his neck told him that his vertebrae were moving apart. His skull was filled with a squeaking sound, like a cork being removed from a bottle. He knew that Zmyeevich had sufficient strength to rip his head from his shoulders in an instant, but to kill him quickly would have been unnecessarily merciful. It was an error, though. Zmyeevich had not learned all Iuda’s tricks.

  Iuda’s hand searched for the side pocket of his coat. He had no weapon, and even if he had had, Zmyeevich was too close for him to strike. But then his hand closed around cold glass. He had found what he was looking for. Still, he would have to be lucky. He raised his hand and then flung it forward.

  The vial flew through the air across the ship’s hold, spinning top over tail, but the stopper did not come out. The dark liquid within remained constrained by its glass walls. Iuda’s aim had been true. The porthole was not large, but large enough. The vial disappeared through it and into the open air beyond.

  From deep within his chest, Zmyeevich’s scream filled the room, and his grip instantly relaxed. Iuda did not wait. He raced to the door, only glimpsing what he left behind. Zmyeevich stood still, his eyes shot with blood, his whole body shaking as if under the strain of some tremendous weight as he tried to resist the agony that surged through his veins.

  Iuda had little time. The vial of Zmyeevich’s blood would have burst into flame as soon as it was hit by the sun’s rays. It would soon burn to nothing, and then the searing pain in the blood in Zmyeevich’s own body would recede. Iuda threw himself through the door and up the stairs to the deck, rejoicing in the sensation of the sun on his back. The ship’s crew stood in bemused horror at the sound of their master’s screams, but they did not go to his aid. Neither did they attempt to hinder Iuda’s escape.

  He climbed down into the dinghy and rowed away, parallel to the coast, not towards it. He had no plans to come ashore anywhere near Taganrog.

  It was dark now. It had been almost twelve hours since Wylie had announced the death of Tsar Aleksandr I. Almost twelve hours that Tsar Konstantin I had reigned, though he did not know it. It would take a week for news to reach him in Warsaw; about the same to reach Petersburg. Taganrog knew already. The flag above the palace would have told them, and gossip spread rapidly.

  The palace had died its own death since that morning. Yelizaveta had composed herself and quietly retired to her rooms. The guards had been stood down; there was no one to guard. Wylie and Tarasov had no one to make well. The staff sat idly in their quarters. There was only one less soul to tend to in the house than there had been when all awoke that morning, and yet the reason for anyone to be there had gone.

  Aleksei noticed it now as he returned more than when he had left. It had not been a long trip, but a necessary one – just to Orekhov and back. He had to go by carriage, which slowed him down, but he had driven himself, so there had been no questions.

  When he got back to Taganrog, he had called immediately at Wylie’s lodgings. Both doctors were there. The three went together to the imperial palace. Tarasov uneasily eyed the heavy burden that Wylie and Aleksei carried between them.

  Volkonsky let them in through a side door. His face was grim. He knew what they had to do, but he had chosen not to participate. It was to the good – someone had to wait outside Aleksandr’s bedroom. They arrived at the door. Aleksei felt the urge to knock, and almost laughed at himself.

  ‘This is going to be the worst part,’ he said to Wylie.

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ came the reply, ‘a field surgeon. I’ve operated on men who’ve screamed in agony as I worked. I don’t think I’m going to have any qualms over whatever must be done to a dead body.’

  ‘The worst part is the pain we’re causing the tsaritsa,’ said Tarasov. Wylie nodded.

  Aleksei opened the door. It was dark inside. Only the moonlight, leaking through the closed shutters, cast any light, picking out on the bed Aleksandr’s familiar, still profile.

  The three men went inside, closing the door behind them.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  TAGANROG WAS JUST VISIBLE, A FEW VERSTS AWAY TO THE SOUTH-west, its lights shining through the early twilight. In the other direction the road led to . . . who knew where? It was an adventure – the first ever adventure in the life of a man who, since the instant of his birth, almost forty-eight years before, had spent each moment of his existence under the minutest scrutiny. Freedom was terrifying to him, but so, so exciting. To make his own way in life, to plan his day, merely to be ignored as he walked down a street – all those were joys too familiar for others to appreciate.

  He looked down from his horse at the four men who had made it possible: Volkonsky, Wylie, Tarasov and Danilov – two soldiers and two doctors. They had killed him, and they had resurrected him. And it had taken them less than a day. It was terrible to say goodbye, not because of who they were or what they had done – though there was that too – but because this was the final goodbye, the final cut that separated him from the life he had known.

  ‘I so wish we could have told Yelizaveta Alekseevna,’ said Aleksandr.

  ‘She would have wished to come with you,’ replied Volkonsky.

  ‘I would have dearly loved that,’ Aleksandr answered, ‘but in the end, she would not have. Even if her mind had grown accustomed to the privations of our new life, her body never would have.’

  ‘She is a frail woman, Your Majesty,’ said Tarasov.

  Aleksandr nodded, then frowned. ‘I’m not “Your Majesty” any more,’ he pointed out. ‘That burden has passed on.’

  ‘So what should we call you – Aleksandr Pavlovich?’

  Aleksandr smiled. ‘For the next few minutes, yes,’ he said, ‘though it’s not the name I will be keeping.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ asked Aleksei.

  ‘I don’t know. And if I did, I would – as with my new name – keep it to myself. Only Volkonsky will know these things; it’s much safer for all that way.’ He looked down at the four mournful faces in front of him. ‘This is worse than when I was dying!’ he exclaimed.

  There was laughter all round.

  ‘You would have made a fine actor, Your . . . Aleksandr,’ said Wylie.

  ‘There was no acting involved. Whatever it was that Tarasov gave me had me halfway to death already.’

  ‘It was laudanum,’ explained Tarasov. ‘I’m not even sure its effects will have worn off sufficiently for you to be riding yet.’

  ‘He has to leave today,’ said Aleksei. ‘Someone might see him.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s going to recognize him looking like that,’ said Volkonsky.

  Aleksandr put his hand to his face. There was stubble on his chin that would soon grow into the full beard that would be essential if he was going to pull this off. The sides of his cheeks felt the cold of the wind where his sideboards had been shaved. For now, that – plus the application of a little grime – was all that could be done to change his facial appearance. It was his clothing that would fool most people. He wasn’t exactly dressed like a peasant, but he no longer looked like a city dweller. His clothes were practical – comfortable, even. There was no sash across his chest, no epaulettes on his shoulders or cockade on his hat, and these were the things by which he was recognized as tsar, not by his face, which few outside Petersburg or Moscow would know. At least, that was what he had been assured.

  ‘I hope you’re as much a master of disguise as you claim to be, Aleksei Ivanovich,’ he said.

  ‘And what was the one vital thing I did say?’ Aleksei asked with a laugh, his Russian countering Aleksandr’s instinctive French.

  Aleksandr repeated his question, switching to his people’s language. It felt a little uncomfortable on his tongue, as it always had done, but he would get used to it.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘Will Major Maskov’s body really pass for mine?’ asked Aleksandr. He looked at Wylie as he spoke. It was a strange repetition that the doctor should be involved in falsifying the deaths of two successive tsars. Not that Pavel’s death had been a falsehood, merely the declaration of its cause. They had never spoken of it, and Aleksandr would not change that now.

  ‘His body was remarkably well preserved, thanks to the nature of the soil,’ said Wylie, his eyes seeming to guess Aleksandr’s thoughts. ‘The fact that his death occurred earlier than yours will scarcely be noticed – and the embalming process distorts the features. By the time the body gets to Petersburg, I doubt anyone will want to examine it too closely.’

  Aleksandr swallowed hard at the thought. ‘You must ensure that his family is well cared for, Volkonsky.’

  The prince nodded.

  ‘And what of Cain and Zmyeevich?’

  ‘I think we’ve convinced them,’ said Aleksei. ‘No one saw Cain return after he rowed out to that yacht – and the yacht itself left within hours of your “death”.’

  ‘But if they should become suspicious . . .’

  ‘In a few years, you’ll be of no use to them,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Once the new tsar has established himself, you’ll be . . . forgotten.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘I mean,’ explained the prince, ‘that few would believe a man who returned to the capital and claimed to be the late tsar; fewer still would let him retake the reins of power.’

  ‘What about those False Dmitrys?’

  ‘That was in a different time,’ said Volkonsky.

  ‘Zmyeevich wouldn’t run the risk,’ added Aleksei.

  ‘So the Romanovs are safe,’ said Aleksandr, ‘until the next generation; then what of my poor nephew?’

  ‘I’ll see that he remains safe,’ said Volkonsky.

  ‘You’ll tell him?’

  ‘If it proves necessary. And if Zmyeevich or his emissary returns I can call on Colonel Danilov’s experience.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said the colonel.

  ‘You must go,’ said Volkonsky.

  Aleksandr turned and looked to the east. A thin orange line was just appearing on the horizon where the sun rose. He had never felt so alone. The whole thing felt like madness to him now, and yet was this not the moment he had yearned for since – when? – his father’s death? Regardless of Cain and Zmyeevich, he had always dreamed, sometimes planned, how he would one day be free. It was far, far too late to turn back.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I must.’

  He reached out his hand, and each of the four men kissed it in turn.

  ‘I will forget none of you,’ he said, and turned his horse into the sun.

  He did not look back; he would have seen nothing through the tears in his eyes. They were the tears of a newborn, thrust into a world he did not understand and would have to learn. For his entire life he had been a virtual god – destined first to rule and then, by betraying his own father, becoming ruler of this beautiful country. Then that life had ended, and he had spent a day in death. Now he was reborn.

  First a god, and then a corpse, but as of today he was all he had ever wanted to be. Today he was a man.

  All four of them got very drunk that evening, sitting in Volkonsky’s rooms. They started on vodka, but then Wylie brought out a bottle of whisky, which was something Aleksei had never tried. He liked it.

  ‘I don’t think I can bring myself to let them bury Maskov amongst the tsars,’ said Volkonsky. ‘It’s not right for either family.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll work something out,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘We have a lot to work out,’ said Wylie. ‘There will be many in Petersburg who ask questions.’

  ‘Make sure our stories hang together, you mean?’ asked Tarasov.

  Wylie nodded.

  ‘You keep a journal, don’t you?’ said Volkonsky, addressing Wylie.

  ‘Of sorts.’

  ‘I do too,’ said Tarasov.

  ‘We’ll go through those,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Make sure there’s nothing in them that doesn’t fit our version of the story.’

  ‘What about other people’s recollections?’ asked Wylie.

  ‘It’s only you three that know about any of this, really,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Until His Majesty spoke to me, I suspected nothing – beyond his illness.’ He breathed deeply. ‘It’s been a long two days.’

  ‘I’d rather you kept me out of this,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘You refuse to help?’ Volkonsky was astounded, as well he might be.

  ‘Not at all. I mean, keep my name out of your journals.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Tarasov.

  ‘Because I have no good reason to be here. If people see my name – particularly people who know what I do for a living – they’ll start to wonder. What was a spy doing hovering around the tsar’s deathbed?’

  ‘The others here will remember you,’ said Wylie.

  ‘Maybe, but just as another soldier. I doubt there’s many here can even remember my name.’

  ‘I’d be prepared to bet the tsaritsa remembers it was you who knocked that bottle out of her hand,’ said Volkonsky. All of them joined in his laughter. ‘But I see your point,’ he continued, when it had subsided.

  ‘I’ll leave tomorrow,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘So soon?’ said Wylie, refilling Aleksei’s glass.

  ‘Makes me easier to forget.’

  ‘None of us here will forget you, Colonel,’ said Volkonsky, raising his glass to him. ‘Nor will His Majesty,’ he added more quietly.

  ‘I think you mean Aleksandr Pavlovich,’ said Wylie.

  There was another round of laughter, which faded into silence. Aleksei was suddenly reminded of another occasion when he had sat drinking with three friends – many occasions. When had been the last? In Moscow, in 1812, just before they had set out west with the Oprichniki. Everything had changed after that – after Dmitry, Vadim and Maks had died. It was odd, but from somewhere Aleksei had the sense of having been in the presence of Maks very recently – or of someone like him. It was not one of these three, but then who? It did not take him long to work through the list of people in whose company he had been of late. For an awful moment, he thought it might be Kyesha, but it was not.

  It was Aleksandr Pavlovich. Yes, he was old, spoilt and jaded, but just that morning he had rode away from all he had with more of a sense of curiosity than dread – or at least a reasonable balance of the two. That was the sort of thing Maks would have done, had he lived.

  ‘You’ll remain in contact with him?’ Wylie asked. ‘In his new life?’

  ‘He’ll send me word under his new name of where he is,’ said Volkonsky. ‘I’ll send him money, and whatever else he needs.’

  ‘He had quite enough gold packed into those saddlebags,’ observed Tarasov.

  ‘He may need it,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Could any of us learn to live like he plans to?’

  ‘So what is his name going to be?’ asked Wylie.

  ‘I’m sworn not to tell,’ said Volkonsky. ‘Suffice it to say that Aleksandr I is no more.’