The Last Rite (Danilov Quintet 5) Page 3

  I wondered whether they’d heard what had happened at Znamenskaya Square, of how their fellow Cossacks had fought to defend a similar crowd. Yelena and I had walked slowly up Nevsky and word could have got ahead of us. Even if the news had reached them, that didn’t mean they would imitate what their comrades had done.

  Suddenly the air was filled with silence. The hubbub of the crowd and the catcalling towards the mounted troops vanished. Those who were still speaking noticed it, and themselves fell quiet. All heads were turned towards the cathedral.

  I looked. A little girl, no older than twelve, had stepped out of the crowd. She was better dressed than most of those around her, wearing a fur hat and a cloak, but she wasn’t wealthy. I guessed her father had a cleaner job and a higher wage than many here, but he would still be a worker. The girl walked forward purposefully towards the Cossack captain, looking at her own feet as she placed one in front of the other, as though she were practising a ballet step. Perhaps she didn’t dare look up, in case it broke the spell that had been cast on the soldiers. If it had been a man, or even an adult woman, they might have opened fire. If it had been police, rather than Cossacks, they might still have fired, even on this girl. But no one so much as raised his rifle.

  At last she stood in front of the captain, close enough that she might stretch up and pat the horse’s nose. She smiled up at the officer and reached inside her heavy coat. I gasped silently as an awful vision entered my mind. Would the girl pull out her hand to reveal a grenade? There were fanatics around who were mad enough to send their own children to achieve what they could not, and what better way to blow up half a platoon of Cossacks than by using a girl whom no one would suspect.

  But she wasn’t carrying a bomb, nor a pistol, nor any weapon. It was a bouquet – a ring of bright red flowers. I guessed they were roses, though I couldn’t see clearly from where I was. The girl held them upwards, offering them to the captain. As a symbol, the flowers had a double meaning: an offer of peace, certainly, but the colour was the colour of revolution. It was too clever for the girl to have thought up for herself. And it couldn’t have been easy to get hold of roses in February. But there were still plenty of rich men in the city who had greenhouses for such things and wouldn’t miss a few blooms.

  It seemed to get quieter still as not a soul dared even to breathe. The Cossack captain glanced back over each shoulder, as if seeking advice from his men, or trying to judge their mood. Then he shifted himself in his saddle and leaned forward, reaching out with his hand and taking the flowers from the girl. He smiled broadly under his moustache.

  A huge cheer erupted from the crowd, to which my own voice made its contribution. At the same moment, the invisible boundary between horsemen and protestors vanished and they began to mingle. Arms reached out to shake the hands of the Cossacks, or pat them on the leg, or to stroke their horses. The girl was lifted up to sit in front of the captain, hugging his horse’s neck. The two of them paraded back and forth in front of the cathedral to further exultation from the masses.

  I stayed for a while, chatting. A bottle was passed round which I drank from without asking what was inside. It turned out to be whisky. Vodka would have been more appropriate, but it had been banned since the start of the war, for fear it would lessen the troops’ ability to fight and the workers’ to make shells for them. But the British ran Scotch into Arkhangelsk during the summer, and some of it got through to Petrograd.

  Generally the mood was that it was all over; the revolution was complete. With the Cossacks on the side of the people there was no one to stand between them and the tsar and he’d have to accede to their demands. But Cossacks weren’t the only forces in the city. As Yelena had said, their loyalty was to themselves. By far the greater number of troops were still loyal to the tsar – or their officers were, and however much the war might have knocked the discipline out of them, the men were still too scared of their superiors to go against them. At least that’s what I used to think. Now I wasn’t sure. And if the officers themselves switched their loyalty then the whole game would change. I’d been an officer once – still was, in name. But I’d given up on Tsar Nikolai long ago.

  It was getting on for seven o’clock when I left them. It was dark now, and turning cold. I headed down Malaya Konyushennaya Street and then cut through a courtyard that I knew would lead me back to the Yekaterininsky Canal. The wide thoroughfares that Peter the Great had designed for his city were impressive, but were not always the quickest way to get about the place, especially now when they were jammed with expectant crowds. But many of the buildings were constructed as four sides looking in on a courtyard, providing a convenient shortcut for those in the know.

  It was darker here, with the walls high around me and only the light from a few windows seeping downwards. Ahead I could see the silhouette of the archway that led to the canal. I walked briskly towards it, realizing I might have made a mistake coming this way. Not everyone in the city had the same sense of euphoria as the crowd I’d just left. Some just saw the breakdown of authority as an opportunity – not for the betterment of the many, but for the enrichment of themselves. I was carrying very little that might be worth stealing, but as an old man, alone and in the dark, I wouldn’t be putting up much of a fight.

  I heard a noise, somewhere in the darkness to my left – a yelp of pain or fear. It might have come from an animal rather than a human. A wiser man would have walked by on the other side, but I went over to see what was going on. In each corner of the courtyard stood a doorway leading to stairs up to the higher floors. The sound had come from the one to the north. In the dim glow of the electric light I could see moving shadows. As I approached I heard a voice – a man’s voice. I didn’t think it was he who had screamed.

  ‘I want more than that.’

  I carried on towards the sound, deliberately trying to make my presence known, but my footsteps were muffled by the soft, settled snow. As I got closer I could see the back of an army greatcoat. The soldier was looking away from me. In his hand I saw the glint of a knife. Beyond him – beneath him – was a girl lying on some sacks of coal. I was reminded of that other girl outside the Kazan Cathedral and how brave she had been. This one could only have been a year or two older – fifteen at most. She had no hat and her long hair hung over her shoulders. It was probably blonde, but so dirty that I could only guess.

  Her fingers scrabbled at the buttons of her clothes. Her coat was already undone, as was the top of her blouse, partially revealing her breasts. It was warmer here than out in the courtyard, but still cold, and her fingers were too numb to quickly do what she had evidently been commanded. The soldier ran the point of his blade across the pale, soft skin of her chest, not with enough pressure to draw blood, but hinting at what would happen if she did not give him what he desired. I’d been thinking only moments before how the breakdown of law and order was seen by some as a chance to take what they couldn’t otherwise have. There were men who were not solely interested in money.

  ‘Get off her,’ I said, attempting to hide both my age and my fear. It didn’t seem to impress.

  ‘Fuck off!’ The soldier turned his head only slightly as he spoke. He preferred to keep his eyes on his victim.

  I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to pull him round, speaking as I did so. ‘I said, get off her.’ I had no idea how I was going to force him to comply, but I knew that discipline still ran deep in every man of the army. Just the presence of an officer telling him what to do might suffice.

  This time he half-turned towards me, brushing my hand from his shoulder as he did. His tunic and shirt were already undone, revealing the sparse grey hairs of his chest. I took in the insignia on his uniform. This was no enlisted man; he was a lieutenant. ‘And I said, fuck off,’ he growled.

  ‘Just do what he said, granddad!’

  It was the girl who spoke this time. Apparently she didn’t want rescuing. A repellent understanding gripped me. This was not rape, and certainly no act of lov
e. It was a mere business transaction. Whether this new interpretation made the situation better or worse I couldn’t say, but it meant I could no longer regard her as a victim. And who was I to object? My mother had made her living in much the same way, though she had done it for her country rather than merely for money. I was just lucky that her clientele included men like my father. I stopped myself. There had been more between them than that. And she’d had her reasons. I was sure this girl did too. Even from the few words I had heard I could tell she was well spoken, although she attempted to hide it. Probably came from a respectable family. There were plenty who had fallen on hard times thanks to the war.

  I stood there, unsure of what to do, but the girl had no patience. ‘Get rid of him,’ she said.

  There was a moment’s pause and then the soldier turned swiftly, letting me see him clearly for the first time. The knife was still clutched in his hand and even though he didn’t raise it to attack I suddenly understood just how much danger I was in. I fled. As I did I realized that his was a face I knew, though I saw no hint that he recognized me. It was no time to renew old acquaintances.

  I only made it a few paces before tripping over something hidden in the snow. I landed on my side. I felt a pain in my hip and hoped it wasn’t broken. The lieutenant walked towards me slowly, still not raising the knife. I tried to stand, but my heels merely slid over the frozen ground. At last I managed to get my feet under me and was upright again. I turned and ran, this time keeping a better eye on where I was going. I heard his feet behind me and knew I wouldn’t be fast enough to escape him. My only hope was to make it out of the courtyard and on to the canal, where I’d be back among people and be safe, but there was still ground to cover.

  ‘Leave him. Come back here.’ The tone of lascivious allure that the girl forced into her voice revolted me, but it was of no concern now. I had no idea whether he obeyed her – I just continued to run, desperate to escape. I erupted from the archway and on to the embankment like a bullet from a gun, only then realizing how little space I had to stop or turn. I tried to dig my heels into the pavement, but they cut through the snow to find solid ice beneath. Only the railing saved me from falling into the canal.

  ‘Oi!’

  I didn’t look to see who’d shouted; I’d barged more than one person aside. The embankment was brightly lit and busy, but I continued to run. Only when I was level with the Church on Spilled Blood on the opposite side of the canal did I slow down, and then because my body forced me to. I looked behind me, but the lieutenant hadn’t followed. He had better things to do. I paused for a moment, trying to catch my breath. I felt a familiar tightness in my chest, like a weight pressing down on it, even though I was standing up. My instinct was to rest and let the pain go away, but I knew that wasn’t the right thing to do. I had to get home.

  It didn’t take me long, though my discomfort had in no way diminished by the time I got there. It was a four-storey building on Panteleimonovskaya Street, just a little way in from the Fontanka. It was a matter of pure chance that it was in the same block of buildings as the notorious Fontanka 16, headquarters of the Third Section and after that the Ohrana. The tsar’s secret police liked to change its name on a regular basis. My mother had worked there for a time. She’d been as capable as any of the male officials who staffed the building, but her role had been one deemed more suited to her sex: seducing men who were thought to be enemies of the state and reporting back what secrets they whispered to her between the bed sheets. Iuda had worked there too – under the alias of Vasiliy Innokyentievich Yudin – though his path and Mama’s had not crossed until later, in Moscow. Back then she hadn’t the smallest inkling that Iuda was her father’s darkest enemy – she hadn’t even known who her father was.

  But perhaps I should have held some affection for Fontanka 16. It was here too, in one of the cells on the top floor, that I’d first met my father, Grand Duke Konstantin. I’d been arrested for trying to assault him, but in truth my aim was only to pass him a letter revealing that I was his son. It had proved unnecessary; he had known who I was simply by looking into my face. He had come to the cell to speak to me, and to free me.

  I shook the ancient memories from my mind. The Ohrana weren’t based here any more – they’d moved to a much more central address on Gorohovaya Street. They must have been busy over the past few days, and they’d be busier still if the revolution failed – vengeance against those who opposed the tsar was meat and drink to them. I could only pray that it would not come to pass. I turned to my own front door.

  We didn’t use many of the rooms in our house any more. We only had one servant left, Syeva, and we rarely entertained. As I went inside I looked at the stairs that led up to where we lived on the top floor. They seemed forbidding, but they had to be climbed.

  ‘Everything all right, colonel?’

  I didn’t see where Syeva had come from, but it was rare for him not to be at the door when I came in. I looked at him, trying to catch enough breath to be able to speak. He was only a couple of years older than the girl I’d seen in the courtyard. In a civilized nation both would still be at school, but I knew if we hadn’t given him a job whatever else he found would be far worse.

  ‘My pills,’ I said. My voice was almost a whisper.

  Without another word he was off up the stairs, faster than I could have managed it even if I’d been able to breathe properly. Even so, he couldn’t climb them like the rest of us would. He’d put his right foot on one step, then lift his left on to the same one rather than on to the next. That was as high as he could raise it, but it didn’t slow him down. He’d been like that since birth, so he told us. He coped with the deformity, but hated it because it kept him out of the army. I never told him what a blessing that was.

  He was down again in seconds, handing me the silver box which held the little white discs that could keep me alive. I took one out and placed it under my tongue. The bitter flavour began to infuse into my saliva and wash across my taste buds. It was a pleasant sensation, not in itself, but in the anticipation of the relief it would bring. Already the tightness in my chest seemed to have lessened, although I doubted whether there had been time for any real effect.

  And I enjoyed the taste too for the memories it brought back – distant memories of my youth. It was something to marvel at that one chemical compound could be put to two such different uses. When I was a soldier, I’d used nitroglycerin as a weapon – to undermine cities and to destroy armies. It had been inevitable that some would get on my hands and that I would taste it, but I knew it was best avoided; too much would make me nauseous. And now that same nitroglycerin acted as a cure for my angina – or as a palliative. It certainly wasn’t a preventative, or I would long ago have been immune to the disease.

  Syeva returned – I hadn’t noticed him leave – with a glass of water. I took it from him with a half-whispered ‘Thank you, sergeant.’ He always – quite correctly – addressed me as ‘colonel’ and somewhere along the way I’d started calling him ‘sergeant’, almost to try to rebuff his formality. But I could see how much he enjoyed having the term applied to him – it was the closest he would ever get to the army – and so I stuck with it.

  I let the tablet dissolve completely before drinking the water, swilling it around my mouth to take the taste away.

  ‘Feeling better, colonel?’

  I nodded, but didn’t reply.

  ‘Shall I get supper started?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He disappeared. I remained seated on the steps. The pain in my chest had almost gone, but I knew if I stood I’d feel dizzy as a side-effect of the drug. I waited a few minutes, listening to the sound of Syeva preparing the meal in the kitchen. For over a year now food had been in short supply in the shops and markets, but he never failed to find something, and to make it palatable.

  Eventually I stood and hung up my coat and hat before ascending the stairs to the top floor. The door of the living room was ajar. I stood at it for a
few moments looking in. Nadya was sitting with her back to me, reading. Polkan lay faithfully beside her, a heap of white fur.

  ‘Darling,’ I said softly as I went in.

  She looked up and I bent forward to kiss her lips. At the same time I reached out to stroke the dog’s head. He rubbed his muzzle against my hand and then rested it on the floor between his paws, glancing from Nadya to me and back again. He was almost eight now, but didn’t show his age. He was a large specimen of his breed – a Samoyed – the same breed that Amundsen had taken to the South Pole. Or was it the other way round?

  I fell into an armchair. Nadya knew me well enough to tell that I’d had an attack, but she understood that there was no benefit to be drawn from talking about it.

  ‘What’s it like out there?’ she asked.

  I sighed, and then answered a different question – the one she’d really been asking. ‘I’d give him days, weeks at most.’ I didn’t need to explain that I was talking about His Majesty.

  ‘Good riddance to him.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘He should be hanged for what he’s done to us. All of them should.’

  I looked at her, hoping she didn’t mean it. For a moment she seemed ugly to me, but it was only the anger in her face. I couldn’t share it. I wanted change, but I saw no need for vengeance. Sometimes I tried to make her see, but she would tease me about how I pretended to be wise in my old age – and I hated it when she reminded me of the gap between us. And perhaps her youth was another reason we saw things differently. She was born in 1882, a year after Aleksandr II was murdered. He was the tsar I’d grown up with – a reformer, as much as a tsar could be, but for me he was the image of what a tsar should be, what a tsar might achieve. If his successors did not live up to that, it was down to their inadequacies; it did not deny the possibility of a good tsar. But for Nadya a tsar could mean only one thing: an idiot – first a thickset, boorish idiot and then a weak, reactionary one. I’d kept hoping for something better, but now I realized it could never be. Still, though, I didn’t hate them, not least because of the blood we shared.