Thirteen Years Later (53 page)

‘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.

‘Pyotr stood back up on his feet, his eyes fixed on the bloody wound in front of him. He felt weak from his own loss of blood, and he knew that to consume a single drop of Zmyeevich’s would make him strong again, make him strong for ever, make him immortal. All he had to do was to bend forward and suckle.

‘But he did not. Instead, he looked Zmyeevich in the eye. “You imagine that I would want to become a thing like you?” he hissed. Then at a signal from him, Pyotr’s personal guard revealed themselves. They grabbed Zmyeevich. He was strong, but there were a dozen of them, and they wrestled him to the ground. Pyotr stepped forward and, with what little strength he had, placed his foot on the monster’s chest.

‘“I have beaten you, Zmyeevich. Russia has beaten you. We have taken everything we could from you, and given you nothing in return.”

‘“You have betrayed me,” replied Zmyeevich, with a snarl. “I helped to build your city. I gave you knowledge. Without me you would be nothing.”

‘“You took as much as you gave,” said Tsar Pyotr. “Do you think I didn’t know what you are – you and all those you brought with you? Do you think that I didn’t observe that as your kind grew fat, good Russians would vanish in the night? You came to feed, not to help. Don’t forget; I know your mind. You would not have shared Russia. You have tried to rule me and thereby rule my country. You would probably have succeeded. But instead you will die.”

‘Pyotr raised his hand to his brow. He felt faint. He knew he must end it quickly. He held out his hand to the commander of
the troop – a Colonel Brodsky – who placed in it a stake made of hawthorn. He raised it, preparing to strike, but did not have the strength. He handed it back to Brodsky. “You do it,” he said.

‘It was a momentary distraction, but enough for Zmyeevich to exert his huge strength and throw off his captors. Blows from his bare hands were enough to kill two of them, snapping their necks like dry sticks. He ran towards the Neva and then turned back to Pyotr.

‘“It was your choice, Romanov,” he shouted. “To live or to die. You are dead now – dead since I took the blood from you. To live, you only had to drink my blood in exchange, but you refused. You feel unwell. Your heart beats weakly – it has little to pump, too little even to sustain itself. Soon you will die and you will die knowing this: I have your blood – Romanov blood. That cannot be undone. You have completed the first part of the transaction, but rejected the second, but it is not only you who can accept. I shall ask them all, in each generation, and one day, one of them will accept, and then, Romanov, Russia shall be mine.”

‘“Kill him!” shouted Pyotr, though he had barely the strength to make a sound. The soldiers ran across to Zmyeevich, but he was ready for them. He leapt into the Neva. The moment he jumped was the moment Pyotr lost consciousness. Zmyeevich must have been a strong swimmer. No trace of him was ever found.’

‘But Pyotr lived!’ said Aleksei. ‘For another thirteen years.’

‘He certainly did,’ said Aleksandr. ‘Pyotr was far more cunning than anyone gave him credit for. Do you know what he’d been doing in those three days he had asked Zmyeevich to wait? He had been eating: rare beef, venison, liver –
kishka
especially. Anything to build up the blood. He’d known he was taking a risk, that Zmyeevich might still take enough blood to kill him, but Pyotr was always a gambler. They took him straight to his bed, and he was there for almost three weeks. They fed him on the same sorts of things. He had no appetite, but he knew he must do it to live. Before long, he was as healthy as he had ever been.’

‘But why go to all that risk?’ asked Wylie.

‘For the enlightenment that Zmyeevich had promised him. He claimed that in those few moments, as the monster fed on him, he could see the whole world. He saw the future of Russia – an illustrious future. The knowledge faded quickly, but he remembered a little of it, enough to make his country a great one. Perhaps if he had completed the process it would have stayed for ever – but at what cost? Later in his life, he occasionally saw images in his mind that he knew must come from Zmyeevich – as do I. I saw you through his eyes, Aleksei Ivanovich, briefly, when he met you in 1812. Though why you were with him, I still do not know. Perhaps one day you will tell me.’

‘And did he call on the other generations of Romanovs?’ asked Wylie.

Aleksandr shook his head. ‘Not all. Or perhaps he did, but they kept it to themselves if so. He certainly visited my grandfather, Pyotr III. Convinced him too.’

‘To become a vampire?’ asked Wylie, astounded.

‘That’s what Yekaterina told me – and that’s why she overthrew him, though she had plenty of other reasons. But she wasn’t a Romanov, you see, so she was . . . immune. When Zmyeevich came back to take his prize, he learned that the tsar was dead. Yekaterina was waiting to confront him. He knew he wouldn’t get anywhere while
she
was alive, but he had time to wait. He was not confined to a single generation.’

‘But hang on,’ interrupted Tarasov. ‘You – and your grandfather – are descended from Pyotr by his daughter Anna Pyetrovna.’ The tsar nodded. ‘But she was born in 1708, before any of this happened. How could this . . . infection be carried to you by her?’

‘It’s not an infection,’ explained Aleksandr. ‘Zmyeevich took Pyotr’s blood, not the other way round. Pyotr’s blood was Romanov blood, as was Anna Pyetrovna’s – as is mine. It doesn’t matter if it was taken before or after she was conceived.’

‘Contagious magic,’ muttered Tarasov.

The tsar nodded. ‘That would seem to be the term for it.’

‘Yekaterina told you all this?’ asked Aleksei.

‘Some of it. Cain told me more. He was quite keen that I understood what was to happen to me. He claims to understand much more of it than Zmyeevich.’