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What is Mother Russia coming to? This I cannot believe!"

The others hooted loudly, and Nikki lost his balance and fell on his backside, his black sheepskin coat flying open to reveal the white lawn shirt beneath. He thrashed about, the brim of his sheepskin hat slipping down over his twisted nose. Every group has a clown, and Nikki played his role to the hilt. I paid no attention to his antics, looking across the clearing to the two wooden cages. The prisoner in velvet was kneeling on the floor of his cage, still clinging listlessly to the wooden bars. Two mangy-looking dogs snarled at him, and a woman with a long stick was poking him through the bars. He didn't even seem to notice the vicious jabs.

The man was clearly an aristocrat, probably captured on one of the raids. I wondered how long he had been here and what they planned to do with him. It wasn't going to be anything pleasant, of that I was certain. What was the purpose of that horrible stake that towered so high, the wooden arm extending at the top? In the bright orange glare of the blazing campfires it was like some giant, malevolent symbol of doom. I lowered my eyes, trying to hold back the panic that threatened to overcome me. I could put on a proud, brave front, I could show spirit and defend myself against the loathsome Tamara, but inside I was stricken with terror. How long before it overcame me completely?

Throughout the camp there were drunken cries and raucous laughter and the sounds of brawling and fornication.

It was like some gigantic, open-air institution for madmen, like Bedlam in London, only here they weren't kept in chains. Here they ran free, hooting and hollering, fighting and fornicating in the open, onlookers cheering and shouting lewd comments as a man mounted a whore on the ground in front of a fire. I had great sympathy for the peasants I had seen on my journey through Russia and

ardently believed something should be done to alleviate the suffering and starvation, but . . . but these crazed, drunken creatures were like animals.

Nikki had recovered himself and stood quietly nearby, his head lowered, a drunken grin on his wide lips. The other men were impatient with their duties and eager to join the obscene festivity all around. Tamara had recovered, and she stood in front of a filthy hut, staring at me with murderous emerald eyes, muttering curses under her breath. Pulaski came out of the tent, spoke to one of the guards and then, taking my arm roughly, dragged me to the silken flap and lifted it and shoved me inside, following close behind. .

Candles blazed brightly in half a dozen pure gold candelabra, shedding a rich golden glow over the cluttered but dazzlingly sumptuous interior. Exquisite rugs, piled two or three deep, covered every inch of the floor, and wonderful tapestries agleam with gold and silver thread hung on the walls, some overlapping. Fires burned in ornate silver braziers, filling the tent with warmth, and a heady, sickeningly sweet perfume wafted through the air. Priceless pieces of furniture were jumbled together, every available.

-surface piled high with glittering art objects of every description,

each a treasure. Still more were stacked carelessly on the floor in tottering heaps.

Two guards in uniforms like those worn by the men outside stood at attention, one on either side of an immense throne so covered with gilt it appeared to be carved of solid gold. The man sitting on the throne was solidly built, with massive chest and shoulders, the fingers of his right hand curling around the shaft of a bejeweled scepter crowned by a ruby the size of an egg. He had broad, peasant features, a neatly trimmed black beard and the most remarkable brown eyes I had ever seen. Large and luminous, they.

glowed with a fervor not known by normal men, beautiful eyes, hypnotic. The eyes of a saint, I thought, or of a completely demented religious fanatic. The "Little Father"

wore a gold-embroidered caftan and a high-peaked gold cap with a wide brim of golden mink. The peak of the cap was encrusted with precious gems, and more gems flashed on his thick fingers and on the heavy pendant dangling from his neck.

"Kneel before your Czar!" Pulaski ordered, giving me a brutal shove.

I stumbled forward on the thick rugs, but I didn't fall, nor did I drop to my knees. Pulaski made a threatening noise and started to shove me again, but Pugachev lifted the scepter and shook his head, and then he motioned for Pulaski to leave the tent. Emelyan Pugachev stared at me, the Iuminous brown eyes full of speculation that was anything but saintly. Although I knew full well he was a rank impostor, a shrewd, conniving charlatan who played upon the ignorance and superstition of the masses, I had to admit that there was a certain majesty about the man, an authority that, if not regal, was still extremely powerful.

As he stared at me, the guards on either side of the throne as immobile as statues, I thought of all I had heard about him during my months in Russia. A simple soldier who had served in the Seven Years' War and in the war with Turkey, he had deserted, been caught, escaped, posing as an Old Believer monk and later claiming he was Peter III, miraculously reappearing to right the wrongs done to his subjects by the German woman. In need of a savior, the people had chosen to overlook the fact that, during his lifetime, Peter had been a drooling idiot celebrated for his brutality and callously indifferent to the plight of the masses. In death he had become a legendary hero, the martyred champion of the plebeian cause, struck down because of his devotion to the poor, and although Pugachev bore not the least resemblance to the tall, narrowshouldered Czar, thousands were prepared to believe his

outlandish claims.

He had quickly gathered a nondescript army around him, escaped serfs, disgruntled cossacks, rebellious factory workers, peasants by the hundreds who believed he had come to save them. A gifted orator, he had fanned their grievances into a blazing fury, and the army had laid waste to the Volga region, burning and killing, committing atrocities that boggled the mind. In the beginning, Catherine's government had paid little attention to the rebellion-the Volga was so remote, and peasants were always revolting. A few regiments had been sent to deal with them, but it seemed nothing could stop the advance of the insurgents. With their "Little Father" in the lead, they hacked a bloody path across the country, moving ever nearer St. Petersburg, and what had at first been a distant nuisance had become a serious threat. Pugachev had vowed to occupy St. Petersburg by the end of the year, and he was now only a few days' march from the city.

"It is a pleasure to meet you at last," he said.

Unlike Peter III, who had barely comprehended the basics of the Russian language and spoke German most of the time, Pugachev spoke his native tongue perfectly. His voice was deep and rich, a voice that could be verypersuasive.

"I have been looking forward to this for some time," he continued. "I must say, you are even more beautiful than I was led to believe."

"I am a British citizen. I demand to be released at once and permitted to return to St. Petersburg."

Pugachev ignored my words. "I have always been fond of red hair," he said. "I have never seen any as fine as yours.

You have a noble air as well. Yes, you would sit nicely on a throne."

"I demand-"

"You are hardly in a position to make demands, Miss Danver. At any rate, I am not interested in them. I have spared your life for a special reason, and that is why you are here."

I made no reply, and Pugachev continued to caress the gleaming red ruby, a thoughtful smile on his lips. Although his words were firm, his manner was neither harsh nor threatening. It was, instead, almost conciliatory, as

,though he hoped to win me over through polite consideration.

"I have received many reports about you," he said, "and my interest was piqued from the beginning."

"Indeed?"

"I wanted you. At first, my motives were admittedly base. I wanted merely to revenge myself against Count Orlov, who was responsible for my murder in my previous incarnation." He spoke this last without the slightest change of inflection. "Later, when I learned that you were'

in disfavor with the German usurper and that Orlov had brought you to his estate against your will, I began to think along different lines."

"How could you possibly know->"

"I have men everywhere, Miss Danver, as every great leader must. I know of your unfortunate encounter with Potemkin in the celebrated red room, and I know ofOrlov's subsequent treatment of you."

I was astonished, and, seeing it in my eyes, he allowed himself a brief, deprecatory smil~. Like everyone else, I had assumed that the man was insane, but I was beginning to change my opinion. 'Emelyn Pugachev was formidably intelligent and remarkably articulate, and I

suspected he was well organized as well, the chaos outside notwithstanding. He had skillfully manipulated thousands of men-not for any mystical or political reasons, I would bet, but for personal gain-and so far he had been phenomenally successful. Oh yes, Pugachev knew exactly what he was doing. His luminous, saintlike eyes, his persuasive voice, his remarkable acting ability had all been used most effectively.

"To continue," he said, "it would have been sweet reo venge to steal Orlov's woman and degrade her, make her my whore, but how much sweeter, now, to honor her. What delicious irony to make the woman the German has banished my Czarina and place her on a throne beside me in .

the Winter Palace."

I was too dumbfounded to reply. I merely stared at him, and as the moments passed his glowing brown eyes began to show signs of impatience. Pugachev frowned, his mouth tightening.

"You do not care for the idea, Miss Danver?"

"Do-do you actually believe you're going to reach St.

Petersburg, remove Catherine from the throne? Half the Imperial Army is scouting the area for you at this very moment-"

"With a notable lack of success, you will have observed.

Over the past weeks I've launched random attacks in this area, primarily to throw them off guard, striking first here, then there, fifty or a hundred miles away. They have galloped all over the country in confusion, as I planned, never coming anywhere near this camp."

"They'll find it eventually," I said.

"Eventually will be too late," Pugachev informed me.

"We have marched a long way, hundreds and hundreds of miles, gathering recruits in every village and town, and my lieutenants have been busily recruiting even more men. From all over Russia they cry for justice and take up arms. After our succesful march from the Volga, I established the camp here and have remained for many weekswaiting."

"For-for the other men to join you," I said. "You don't have nearly enough men here for a successful marchon St.

Petersburg."

"You're quite perceptive, Miss Danver. Within the next fen days three separate groups will be joining us from dif- .

ferent areas of the country. We will number in the thousands, a mighty army, and St. Petersburg will be mine before the month is over."

The deep, beautifully modulated voice was totally without emotion. He was merely stating fact, and it was with horror that I realized he was very likely to succeed with his plan. Catherine did indeed have almost half the Imperial Army here in the north, looking for Pugachev, but

. they were broken up into regiments scattered all over the area, galloping about in confusion as he had pointed out.

Once Pugachev began his march with his thousands of men, he could make a clean sweep to St. Petersburg before Catherine's men could regroup and organize. The man enthroned before me in such barbaric splendor might well be the next Czar of Russia ... and he wanted me to be his Czarina.

It was absolutely incredible. I could only stare at him with a combination of repulsion and dismay. Gems flashing in the candlelight, his gold caftan gleaming, Pugachev fondled the scepter and looked at me, the saintly brown eyes full of calm speculation.

"It would, of course, be better, more appropriate, to chose a woman of the people to reign beside me, but the peasant mentality is a curious thing. The Russian peasant has an unshakable belief in his own inferiority, and he demands exceptional qualities in those before whom he grovels."

"He would not grovel before Emelyn Pugachev," I said,

"but if he believed the man was Czar Peter III, miraculously restored to life-"

He allowed the faintest of smiles to flicker briefly on his lips. "Youare a very intelligent woman, Miss Danver, and beautiful. You are clearly a superior individual, and you are also a foreigner, a definite asset. Were I to select as my Czarina one of the hated Russian aristocrats, I would encounter as much resistance as I would were I to present them with a woman of the people, humble and therefore unworthy of their worship."

"I see."

"I am offering you a crown," he said.

"Just like that."

"On the contrary," he replied. "I've given it a great deal of consideration, ever since I first began to hear about the lovely Englishwoman who, though living with Orlov, had a curious sympathy for the people and who, on more than

. one occasion, spoke up in their defense."

I didn't bother to ask how he kuew that.

"We will be married in St. Petersburg," he said, "with all the attendant pomp. The people will love it."

I shook my head. He frowned.

"You do not wish to be my Czarina?"

"That's putting it mildly indeed."

His frown deepened. The saintly brown eyes hardened, filling with anger, but when he spoke his voice was perfectly controlled.

"The alternative, I assure you, will be most unpleasant."

"I'd rather die," I said.

Pugachev hesitated for a moment, and then he nodded curtly. "Very well. Fetch Pulaski," he told one of the guards who had remained immobile all this time.

The guard left, soon returning with Pulaski. Pulaski bowed low. Pugachev made an impatient gesture, in no mood for obeisance.

"Your prize has decided she would rather die than be honored," he said. "Take her to the cage."

"We burn her?" Pulaski asked hopefully.