“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 luminous 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, narrow-shouldered 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 Grerman most of the time, Pugachev spoke his native tongue perfectly. His voice was deep and rich, a voice that could be very persuasive.
“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 of Orlov’s subsequent treatment of you.”
I was astonished, and, seeing it in my eyes, he allowed himself a brief, deprecatory smile. 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 revenge 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 weeks—waiting.”
“For—for the other men to join you,” I said. “You don’t have nearly enough men here for a successful march on St. Petersburg.”
“You’re quite perceptive, Miss Danver. Within the next ten days three separate groups will be joining us from different 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. “You are 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 knew 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.
“Not tonight. Tonight we will burn Mirovich and let her watch. Perhaps she will change her mind. If not, she will provide the entertainment tomorrow evening.”
Pulaski nodded and, taking hold of my wrist, dragged me roughly from the tent and across the clearing. The nightmare maelstrom of noise was worse than ever. Several vicious fights had broken out, onlookers shouting and hooting as eyes were gouged’ and noses bloodied. The whores cavorted lewdly, displaying their wares with raucous glee, and vodka flowed like water. Everyone in the camp was roaring drunk, it seemed, staggering, lurching in front of blazing campfires. Nikki and three or four others followed after us, cheering as Pulaski dragged me past the towering stake and over to the empty wooden cage beyond.
The cage was crudely constructed of thick wooden sticks lashed together with strips of rawhide, forming widely spaced bars on all four sides and on top. The sticks forming the floor were lashed closely together, like a raft. Pulaski unfastened the door and shoved me inside. I stumbled, falling painfully to my knees. Pulaski fastened the door, knotting the rawhide tightly, and then he stood back, gloating as I kneeled on the rough floor.
“She burns?” one of the peasants asked.
“Tomorrow night,” Pulaski retorted.
“Such a waste!” Nikki declared. “Me, I could think of better things to do with her.”
“So could I!” another cried.
“The bitch burns!” Pulaski growled.
They moved away and I climbed to my feet and caught hold of the bars and stared out at the brawling chaos of drunken humanity. Bathed by the flickering dark orange light of the campfires that sent demonic shadows leaping over the ground, it was like hell itself and Satan sat enthroned inside his silken tent, plotting yet more horror and bloodshed in order to achieve his goal. I was trapped in the middle of hell and there was no hope, of escape and I realized it was all going to end here, for never, never would I agree to go along with Pugachev’s proposal, not even to save my own life. I could only pray it would end quickly and that my courage would not entirely desert me before the final horror.
The man in the next cage still hung listlessly on to the bars. He hadn’t once looked in my direction, just gazed vacantly out at the huge stake in the middle of the camp, as though he knew what it was for, as though he were waiting. Beyond it, I saw Tamara speaking to her two cronies. They nodded, looking at me, then laughed gleefully as Tamara picked up a long stick and started purposefully toward my cage. The stick had a very sharp point. As she neared the stake, Nikki stumbled drunkenly toward her and grabbed her in a passionate embrace. She struggled viciously, pulling away, and Nikki grinned wickedly as he knocked the stick out of her hand and seized her again, kissing her with exuberant gusto. Tamara kicked and clawed and Nikki finally let her go and gave her a disgusted look and then cracked her across the jaw, slung her across his shoulder and carried her away as his friends cheered.
“Nikki knows how to treat them!” one cried. “Tamara’s going to get it tonight! Several times if I know my man!”
Apparently the jaunty peasant in black sheepskin coat and cap hadn’t nearly the stamina his friend believed him to have, for I saw him crossing the camp not too long afterward with a bulky bundle in his arms. Nikki disappeared into the darkness beyond the campfires, and shortly thereafter Pugachev came out of his tent and spoke to the guards. They summoned Pulaski and several others, and there was a brief conference in front of the tent. The noisy mob abandoned their other pursuits to watch with drunken expectancy as Pulaski and the others marched toward the cages, one of them carrying a great coil of very thick rope. I watched in horror as they came nearer, nearer.
The man in the cage next to mine finally came to life. He screamed in terror. He screamed as they gathered around his cage and lifted it up and carried it across the clearing and set it under the stake, as they tied one end of the rope to the top of the cage and hurled the other up over the projecting arm high above. They caught the free end of the rope and pulled and the cage rose slowly into the air, higher, higher, the man inside it still screaming and thrashing about, causing it to sway precariously. When the cage was some twenty feet in the air they tied the rope securely and began to pile wood directly beneath the cage.
Dear God. No. No. I clung to the bars so tightly my knuckles were bone white. The mob was cheering now as more and more wood was heaped onto the pile, but the shrieks of the man inside the cage rose sharply over the tumult. Pugachev was still standing in front of his tent, splendid in the gold caftan, the gems on the crown of his mink-brimmed hat glittering in the light. He gave a signal. A torch was lighted and applied to the pile of wood. Flames began to crackle, slowly at first, tiny yellow-blue tongues that licked at the logs, growing stronger, larger, turning bright orange, devouring the logs, leaping high into the air, higher still, blazing brightly, almost touching the bottom of the cage, and I sobbed and desperately wanted to look away but I seemed to be paralyzed and couldn’t turn my head, couldn’t even shut my eyes to shut out the horror.
He was being roasted alive. He flailed and thrashed and finally grabbed the top of the cage and hoisted himself up and clung there with his hands and knees as the flames licked the bottom of the cage and the wood caught and began to burn. Thin orange flames slithered up the sides of the cage like lascivious orange tongues and the bottom burned briskly, charred pieces dropping down. The man screamed and clung to the top of the cage as a huge flame shot up and touched him and his clothes caught and then his hair. He shrieked one last time and released his hold and went plummeting down into the blazing inferno, sparks shooting in every direction as he landed on the crackling fire. The mob yelled in a frenzy of delight as his body flopped in the fire, grew still, began to char.
Pugachev nodded and looked very pleased with himself and stepped back inside his gorgeous silken tent. The crowd began to disperse now that the entertainment was over, and my hands seemed to be frozen to the bars of the cage. I pried them loose and closed my eyes at last and sank to the floor of the cage, overcome with shock and horror. Huge black wings seemed to flutt
er around the edges of my mind, obliterating all thought, all feeling. I must have swooned, must have been unconscious for quite some time, for when, moaning, I opened my eyes, the campfires were smoldering heaps, some black, some glowing pale pink, and the camp was quiet, flooded now with silvery moonlight. A peasant with a rifle marched back and forth in front of my cage, shivering with cold, for it was freezing now and snow had begun to fall from the ashy gray-black sky.
I climbed slowly to my feet and folded my arms around my waist, shivering myself despite the heavy cloak, the layers of clothing. Perhaps … perhaps I would freeze to death. Perhaps I would simply grow numb from the cold, then fall asleep, then freeze. What a blessing that would be. What a blessing. I didn’t have the courage to face the stake. I knew that. I would scream. Please God, I prayed, let me freeze to death out here in the open. Perhaps if I took off the cloak it would happen sooner. I wanted to take it off, my hands even reached up to unfasten it, but I couldn’t do it. I moved around in the narrow confines of the cage as snowflakes swirled, coming down faster now, and my peasant guard cursed the cold under his breath and continued to pace, never once so much as glancing at me.
I stopped, peering across the clearing. The ground was coated with silver, spread with shadows, and the huts and tents were inky black shapes looming all around. There was movement in the shadows beyond the stake. Someone was stealthily approaching, cautiously darting from shadow to shadow. I could make out a tall figure with … yes, with a bulky sheepskin coat and a wide-brimmed sheepskin cap. The peasant Nikki scooted across a patch of moonlight, ducked into the shadows again. I watched, fascinated, knowing full well what he had in mind. A nice rousing rape, and then he would put me back inside the cage and no one would be the wiser. What did he intend to do about the guard? Bribe him? Overpower him? He came closer, closer, and then he slipped on the icy ground, his boots crunching loudly as he clumsily regained his balance.
When Love Commands Page 50
