The People's Will (60 page)

It was a hollow victory. Aleksandr had not cheated death because he had not wanted to – quite the contrary, he had sought it, knowing that in death he would defeat Zmyeevich, at least for a while. It was too small to see at this distance, but on the flag, on the double-headed eagle’s chest, was a shield that bore the emblem of Saint George slaying the dragon – Ascalon held in both hands as he thrust it into the beast’s heart. Even in death the Romanovs gloated and flew the emblem of their victory above the city.

Many of the crowd began to turn away, singly and in pairs – even families with children. There were tears on the faces of all the women and some of the men. One man – a naval captain – fell to his knees and sobbed loudly. Zmyeevich could only despise them, but he felt envious too. Even when a man, he had never been loved by his people like Aleksandr was. Perhaps that was why Zmyeevich craved to have power over Russia – so that he might be loved by the Russian people. It was preposterous, but the very idea of it frightened him.

Now Aleksandr III would take his father’s place and take his people’s love. Zmyeevich could wield no power over him, much as Aleksandr had seemed willing to give it. Danilov had seen to that; a new Danilov this time, but as troublesome as the first. Zmyeevich cursed the day he had met Aleksei Ivanovich, in that tavern in Moscow, so many years before.

But as to power in Russia, Zmyeevich would have to wait another generation. The new tsar had been at his father’s side when death came and so, Zmyeevich guessed, had been the new tsarevich, Nikolai Aleksandrovich, a boy of just twelve. One day his father too would die, and he would become Tsar Nikolai II. But even of that, Zmyeevich could not be sure – that was always the problem. Zmyeevich could not act until Nikolai was tsar. He might die and leave the throne to a brother or son. Worse could happen. Perhaps the dreams of the People’s Will would be fulfilled and the masses would take this opportunity to rise up and cast off their shackles.

Zmyeevich laughed. A few of those around him scowled, but he did not care. The idea was ridiculous. Who could imagine these tsar-loving peasants ever rising up to overthrow their masters? Zmyeevich did not need to worry. When he returned the Russian empire would still be there, still ruled by a Romanov – whoever it might be – and therefore still ripe for the plucking.

But what of the meantime? For over a hundred and sixty years Zmyeevich had seen in Russia two prizes combined: the Romanov throne and the return of Ascalon. Now those were separate. Dmitry might have chosen his own path, but not before Zmyeevich had read his mind and learned everything that Iuda had told him. Ascalon was no longer in Petersburg. It was in the country of Iuda’s birth. Iuda had even given more precise clues, but it could well be bluff. It did not matter – Zmyeevich would go there and somehow he would reclaim Ascalon.

He smiled to himself. Iuda had quoted Shakespeare, and so would he. He spoke the words out loud.

‘“To England will I steal, and there I’ll steal.”’

He walked on down the snowy street.

The boat rocked from side to side; waves splashed against its hull. Outside it was still daylight – outside the coffin, outside the hold, above the deck. Dmitry knew that it was a time for sleep, but he did not feel like it. He was not yet far enough from Zmyeevich to trust his dreams – not that vampires had dreams. He still wasn’t far from Petersburg – somewhere out in the Baltic. He could sense Zmyeevich back there in the city. He still craved his blood. Dmitry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to dispel the idea. It was repellent – and he had done so much in his life that seemed to him repellent. Was it so strange that he should be the same in death?

At least now he was free. The ship might travel slowly with only the wind to propel it, but it would travel far. There would be stops along the way – Stockholm and London for sure – but Dmitry’s coffin, disguised as a simple crate, would remain undisturbed. He had paid well to ensure that. After London there was only open sea to cover, the Atlantic, and then finally a great new city. Dmitry was going to a new life in a new world.

He was going to America.

It was a familiar moment. It was twenty to four in the afternoon of 1 March. Mihail was not the only one gazing at the Winter Palace and at the flag bearing the double-headed eagle of the Romanov crest on the pole above it as it was lowered to half-mast.

In fact, Mihail was not gazing at the Winter Palace at all. He was on the other side of the city. He knew that it was Zmyeevich’s eyes through which he saw, but he pushed the vampire’s presence from his mind.

Tamara had told him of the death of Aleksandr I, just as she had heard it from Aleksei. It had not been a true death, that had come later. It had been Aleksandr II, Mihail’s uncle, who had told him precisely when. Tamara had told him too of Tsar Nikolai’s death, how she had been with her family when they heard of it and how even she had been affected. That was the better death, since Zmyeevich had played no part in it. Nikolai had been protected by his brother, just as Aleksandr III was now protected by his cousin, Mihail.

Mihail did not know how long it would take for Zmyeevich’s blood to fully leave him. Iuda’s journals suggested weeks. If Mihail
were to die in that time then he would save the whole Romanov dynasty, but he had done enough for them already. Aleksandr had repaid the favour by making sure that Iuda would be down in that cellar, whatever his motivation had been for it. Their debts had been cancelled, even though Aleksandr was now dead.

Iuda was dead too.

That was certain. It should have been clear enough from what had happened to him in the light of the Yablochkov Candle, but there was better proof still. Once back in the tunnel that led from the cheese shop, in the dim lamplight that could do it no harm, Mihail had again opened up the handkerchief and examined Iuda’s severed ear. The folds of silk contained nothing but dust. It had not been directly exposed to the miraculous rays of the arc light, but when Iuda’s body had died, so every part of it had died, the ear included. The same would have happened if the two had been separated by a thousand versts, but even so close, the fact of Iuda’s death was irrefutable. Mihail had also taken another look at the hairs in his locket, but they survived, a remnant not of Iuda as a vampire but of his human self. He had thought to lay them with the dusty remains of Iuda’s body, but it would have implied some hint of respect where none existed. Mihail used a little of Kibalchich’s dynamite to cave in those old passageways, built by Armenian priests a century before, burying the evidence of what had happened. Iuda had left no obvious earthly remains, but it would be better if no one uncovered Dusya’s corpse, at least not for a little while.

He’d found the key in her pocket and so been able to make an easy exit from the shop. He also searched Iuda’s clothes, limp and empty, but spewing dust whenever he lifted them. There he found only one item of interest: a ring in the form of a dragon, with a body of gold, emerald eyes and red, forked tongue. Mihail had not noticed it when he had been in Zmyeevich’s presence, but Aleksei had remembered it vividly and told Tamara. How it had got into Iuda’s possession Mihail could only guess, but now it was his.

Mihail should have felt joy, but he did not. To destroy Iuda had been his life’s one aim. Now there was nothing. He could chase off in pursuit of Zmyeevich, but that wasn’t his quarrel
– let the Romanovs deal with their own foe for once, and leave the Danilovs in peace. That was why he didn’t go to his father and ask for some nice country estate and a sinecure in one of the ministries. They would always see him as on hand, just in case Zmyeevich returned. He wouldn’t have enjoyed the life anyway.

It was something he’d talked about with his mother on idle evenings when instead of planning how they would deal with Iuda, they imagined a world without him. He’d always said he’d return to Saratov to be with her, and she’d told him not to be silly, but he’d known she hoped he would. Now that was not an option. Wherever she was now, be it heaven or hell, then surely in a just universe she would be allowed the luxury of knowing that Iuda was dead, and that her son had lived. Without that, had any of it been worthwhile?

Tamara had told him how once when younger she had been in a similar position. For half her life she had been obsessed by a single goal – to find her real parents. It was a nobler goal than the one she had bequeathed to Mihail. She had wondered what she would do when she found them, what would drive her then. She had never needed to answer the question. She had been reunited with her parents and within hours they were both dead. She blamed Iuda, and the rest of her life gained a purpose: his death. Mihail had inherited that purpose too.

But now the task was complete; begun by the mother and completed by the son. Iuda was gone and Mihail’s future was a blank page, still to be written. And yet he could not even fill out the first line; the first word. He had no family, no friends, no home and no desires. Worst of all, he had no dreams. All that remained was the same question that had so plagued his mother years in the past and to which he, like her, had no answer. What was he for?

And yet for all that the question troubled him, there was a greater puzzle on his mind. From the moment he left the shop and began to walk through the streets of Petersburg, Mihail had felt uneasy – even before he heard the news of Aleksandr’s death. He had shared his mind, however briefly, with Iuda. He had done the same with Zmyeevich, but this had been far more unnerving. Iuda’s icy calm, even in death, had been terrifying, but worse had been his apparent determination to get one piece of information
across to Mihail. He had failed as his mind had collapsed along with his body and his thoughts had been cut off, mid-sentence, as Mihail pushed him away. Mihail had heard only the beginning, and it made no sense to him. Yet it was clearly worth more than death to Iuda. Just a few simple words which Iuda would never have the chance to explain, but which would haunt Mihail for ever:

‘Tell Lyosha. It was …’

Of the members of the People’s Will featured in this story, all are genuine historical characters with the obvious exceptions of Luka and Dusya. On 3 April 1881 five members of the organization were hanged in Semyonovskiy Square for the murder of Tsar Aleksandr II, the same number as had been executed as ringleaders of the failed Decembrist Uprising fifty-five years earlier. They were Nikolai Ivanovich Kibalchich, Timofei Mihailovich Mihailov, Sofia Lvovna Perovskaya, Andrei Ivanovich Zhelyabov and Nikolai Ivanovich Rysakov.

As with the Decembrists, the executions did not go smoothly. On the first attempt Mihailov’s rope broke; on the second the noose itself unravelled. The crowd shouted that this was a sign from God that Mihailov should be pardoned, but their cries went unheeded. On the third attempt the rope held, but the knot was not tight enough and Mihailov thrashed in the air for several minutes. Eventually the hangman, Frolov, put a second noose around his neck without removing the first. Drawings of the execution show his body hanging strangely from two diagonal ropes instead of a single vertical.

Rysakov, who had betrayed his comrades under questioning, lost his nerve when his turn came, and clung to the scaffold, wrapping his legs around its wooden beam. Soldiers had to prise him loose before he could have the rope placed around his neck.

Kibalchich, the first to die, went calmly, having shown little interest in presenting a defence to the court. While in prison he spent most of his time developing his ideas for rocket-powered travel. He insisted that his lawyer present the work to the
authorities in the hope that his invention could be used for the public good, but the papers were filed away and not seen again until 1918. While he had not devised a viable flying machine, many of his ideas foreshadowed those later used in rocket design.

A crater on the moon is named in his honour.