The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  She began to twirl the feathered quill between her fingers. “When I see the reports, I understand why they call you emperor of the south.”

  Grisha’s pulse quickened. Did she still fear for her hold on power? Surely she did not think he would play the part of a usurper? And yet her new favorite, Zubov, might whisper such nonsense in her ear and then turn her chin so she gazed on his pretty face. Who knew what she might believe then.

  “I suppose you were always meant to be a ruler, not a mere prince,” she mused.

  “If you feel the title of emperor is unwarranted, even in jest,” he said carefully, “I will ensure it is not repeated.”

  She put her pen down, finally looking at him. “Rise to your feet, Prince. It has been too long. I am glad you have returned.”

  Grisha worked his way upright, pain shooting down the backs of his thighs.

  “You look handsome as ever. Hair still the envy of all Europe,” she said, smiling.

  Grisha touched his unruly mane. He’d powdered it but eschewed a wig, and instead had pulled his own hair back into a ponytail. “Best I could manage on short notice.”

  “And I understand you have a ward now. You are training him to be a valet.”

  “He is not my legal ward, but I keep him at my side. He’s a sharp boy.”

  “You know I always encourage the cultivation of young minds.” She tapped her finger on a weathered volume of Candide. “I should like him to have this.”

  “He will appreciate your kindness, matushka.”

  “I appreciate your sweet words, but what actually brings you here now, old friend?”

  They were old friends, of course, but once they had been so much more. The phrase made him ache, and he wondered if he had come to the point in life where he would rather live with his memories alone. Still, he didn’t mince words. Catherine never cared for that. “Platon Alexandrovich.”

  She sighed. He wished he could have detected annoyance, but it was more the sigh of a smitten schoolgirl feigning disinterest. “Is it his monkey? Did the creature steal one of your wigs? If so, how much do I owe you?”

  “You’ve given Zubov dominion over my new project.”

  “A man needs dominion over something. Otherwise he is no man.”

  “I’d rather his dominion stand apart from my interests.”

  Catherine placed her hands gently on Grisha’s shoulders. He no longer saw the light of lust in her eyes, only concern tinged with pity. He bristled.

  The corners of her mouth turned down and she backed away from him. She had misinterpreted his reaction. He closed the space between them once more.

  “Zubov is still a young man,” she said, voice cracking as Grisha drew nearer. “Allow him to find his path. Be patient. Guide him gently, like a father. For me.”

  He had tried to act as a father figure, as he had with all of her previous favorites. But Platon Alexandrovich wanted more than her favor. He desired influence.

  She couldn’t see Zubov clearly any more than he could think straight with some nubile lovely whispering in his ear. Men and women both needed to feel vibrant and alive, especially as they aged. The philosophes so treasured by Catherine, even her darling Voltaire, might insist the sexes were different in this respect, but Grisha had never found it so. And he had to remind her of his ability to make her feel thus.

  He leaned in to kiss her soft hand and allowed his lips to linger, sensing a shallow spasm in her fingers. Her body still responded to his, even if her heart had been carried elsewhere. “I’ve missed you, wife.”

  She pulled her hand away and returned to her desk. The cat on the mantel of the hearth stretched lazily and then opened her eyes, perturbed at the disruption.

  “I am grateful you have finally returned to the capital, little dove,” she said, gazing up at Grisha. “Only I expect you to be useful rather than creating trouble where none previously existed.” She tilted her head. “And much as I enjoyed your sweet words, I wonder if your love note wasn’t disingenuous. Who is this one girl I hear of? Praskovia, is it?” A hint of jealousy sullied her tone. “They say you promoted her husband in the field not based on his talents but so she might be closer to you.”

  Grisha remained silent. He saw little point in denying his pursuit. Praskovia was but the latest of many, and Catherine had always maintained a high tolerance for games of the heart.

  “Perhaps I could try again with Zubov,” he said. “I want only what is best for your glory and that of the empire. I will tolerate nothing that stands in the way.”

  Catherine smiled. “No doubt, old friend.” She returned to her letters. “I’ve never questioned your interests. They have always been with Russia. But much as I trust your wisdom when it comes to negotiating terms with our blood enemies, I’m not convinced encouraging the Muslim faith is the best use of our limited means. Not when we have more important matters at hand.”

  “You have constructed mosques before.”

  “Never on such a scale.”

  “This project will soothe bruised egos, matushka.”

  “You have been away for nearly two years. I fear you may not understand Platon’s objections to the project because you do not grasp our current affairs.”

  “I do not understand because it makes no sense,” he said, pushing down a bubble of anger in his chest. “You have always extended goodwill to all subjects, regardless of their faith.”

  Her voice rose to meet his. “We need to turn our attention outward. The Prussians and the English want us away from the Black Sea region all together. Ochakov back in Turkish hands? How can you of all people bear to give up such a prize?”

  A prize. Zubov’s words. How could Catherine ever refer to Ochakov in such a callous way? “Mollify Prussia. Let me talk to the English ambassador. You know I’ve always had a fondness for the people of that little island. I’m sure they’re simply in a sour mood over losing their American colonies to a team of crafty republicans.”

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  “The English are like vain children, only interested in this ‘prize’ because it belongs to someone else. Children are to be flattered and outmaneuvered. You don’t go to war with them.”

  Her cheeks flared. “Don’t lecture me like a pompous old schoolmaster. I have entrusted you with the care of our new world. Is that not enough for you? You must return to tell me how to run my affairs with the European powers as well? That is my dominion.”

  “Your dominion or that of your new toy, Platon Alexandrovich?”

  “You’re acting like a jealous old fool.”

  Grisha’s hands balled into fists. He remembered what Anton had told him of Zubov’s connections: his old enemy Saltykov and Catherine’s insipid son Paul. He could have sent her running to her boudoir in tears with that choice tidbit. But he could not bear the thought of hurting her. “Zubov and his ilk are trying to goad you into a needless war.”

  “Do not condescend to me like I’m one of your silly waifs. Remember what the founder of this city, Peter the Great, used to say: delay is death.”

  “In this case, to delay is simply good common sense. Zubov has gotten to you. That or your damn pride.”

  “Voltaire says women are the more jealous gender, but I never believed him. You’re envious of a younger man. It’s not like you. You refuse to acknowledge Platon’s talents, and now you seek to degrade my authority.”

  “I’m trying to stop madness. Our military forces are spread thin. What if the Prussians take a notion to march on St. Petersburg? Do you want an old Germanic toad on your throne?”

  “Stop yelling, Prince.”

  “Damn it, woman, I’ll yell as loud as I please until you listen to common sense!”

  She rose to her feet. “Prince Potemkin, stop shouting and turn around.”

  The command in her voice cut through his anger, and he turned. Anton stood at the door, hat in hand, the guardsman with the Hapsburg chin sulking behind him.

  “Thank you,” Catherine said cur
tly to the guard. “If the prince’s boy is here, it must be time for him to leave. We only need a few more minutes.”

  As they left, she added, “You talk of this mosque as a legacy project. You have many good years before you, Prince. You might serve me best by negotiating the new terms of peace with the Turks. You are the only man with the talent to do so.”

  The elderly greyhound, the Thomassin, shifted his weight, ears alert, and growled.

  “Tom!” Catherine scolded. “What has gotten into you? The prince is an old friend. You recognized him only a few minutes ago.” She looked at Grisha. “Some of the philosophes believe animals are far more perceptive than we understand. Perhaps your words troubled him.”

  Grisha knew better. They were no longer alone. Catherine’s dog had detected an otherworldly presence, the faint change of temperature and electricity in the air. “It’s nothing,” Grisha muttered. “He’s old and grouchy. Aren’t we all? I’ve taken too much of your time.”

  “Take the book at least,” she said gently.

  He nodded, snatched Candide from her desk, and backed away from the room, determined to bribe the guard outside so he might gain quicker access to the empress next time.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” he told her. “I only needed to voice my opinion.”

  “Thank you, husband.” She returned to her desk and shuffled a few papers, still not looking up. “But in this case I’d best keep my own counsel. You look tired. Go home and rest.”

  Her words were like daggers. If he was no longer of use to her, he was no longer of use to this world. “You need me here more than ever. Your legacy in this world is threatened. Your affair with this boy has addled your brain. You need the guidance of a real man.”

  She rose slowly to her feet, the open sleeves of her gown drooping, her cheeks blazing red. Grisha’s heart soared. Perhaps passion lingered between them yet.

  “Peter the Great’s blood may not run in my veins,” she said coldly. “But make no mistake. I am his heir. And you are my subject to do as I command.”

  She was still the sovereign. She could have ordered him to Siberia had she so wished. For a frightful moment he thought she might. “My apologies, matushka,” he said quickly. “I suffer from ill digestion and a headache. It sets my nerves on edge.”

  “See that you get a good night’s sleep then.”

  “Always as you say, matushka.” He bowed low once more.

  “In the meantime, I have work to do.” She pointed to the door. “Get out.”

  * * *

  Anton scuttled to keep pace with Grisha as they headed down the drafty corridor outside Catherine’s study. Grisha gnawed frantically on his thumbnail and nearly tripped on a yowling palace tomcat stalking a mouse.

  They were being followed. He knew it. He had known as soon as Catherine’s dog started growling, but he would not let Anton notice anything amiss. No need to frighten the boy. Grisha began to hum to himself, a little tune by Herr Mozart that pleased him. He stopped abruptly, reached into his greatcoat, and withdrew Catherine’s copy of Candide. “A gift from the empress,” he said, pushing the book to Anton’s chest.

  The boy’s countenance remained solemn, but his hand shook. “It is too much.”

  “Nonsense,” Grisha said. “A monarch has a divine obligation to educate young minds.”

  Anton opened the cover and squinted at Voltaire’s scrawny signature. “My skills in the French language are too weak for this complicated work.”

  Grisha glanced at the inscription scribbled in French but couldn’t make out the words either. Voltaire had always been too bold by half with Catherine and had no doubt made some lewd comment veiled as wit. Such a reference might shock Anton, but then he was of the age now where he could use a shock or two to ready his path to manhood. “We’ll find a French dictionary. Now run and make sure our horses are ready.”

  Anton nodded and scurried ahead. Grisha waited until the clacking of the boy’s shoes against the tile faded. A pair of bonneted laundresses carrying a basket of linen passed. Grisha smiled and bowed, looking up while he did so to wink. The girls giggled, dipped their heads, and shuffled past him.

  “When will you speak to me, crusader?” The pasha spoke in the quiet, clever way he did whenever he visited Grisha.

  “I will not speak to you here,” Grisha said in a low voice. He knew the pasha was merely a figment, conjured from addled memories and imagination, and yet he responded to the apparition as he would to any earthbound man. Grisha feared a random servant might hear and pass word of his lunacy to Catherine. “I require privacy.”

  “The construction of a mosque in Old Russia was to be a part of your legacy.”

  Grisha remembered the first time he was briefed on the once-great leader of the Ottomans: Ghazi Hassan-Pasha … the so-called Turkish “crocodile” of the sea. He looked much the same now as he did when his earthly life ended, only the sharp lines of his features seemed vague and softer around the edges. Silken robes were draped over his wiry, muscular shoulders and he wore blue pantaloons and a jacket with white sashes crossing his chest, in the mode of the Ottoman court. His high white turban stood proudly atop his head. The pasha’s face was still fierce, even though Grisha’s campaigns had destroyed him. A tamed lion had followed the man faithfully throughout his life. Grisha hoped the beast rested peacefully now.

  “The mosque is the only way Allah will be satisfied when he reviews your crimes.” A footman headed toward Catherine’s study with a fresh plate of scones on a silver tray. The pasha eyed them with distaste. “Recall what happened to the Roman Empire when shallow luxuries and games took over palaces.”

  “A weakness for pastries hardly heralds the fall of an empire.”

  “Your strong woman is softening.”

  Grisha took care to make sure the footman had disappeared. “She is not my woman. Not anymore.”

  “And yet she calls you husband,” the pasha said. “If the marriage is true, you are as powerful as the sovereign, or at least it should be so.”

  “You have never understood our ways.”

  “Do not forget I take as much interest in other religions as you. My own father was of the Orthodox faith. You people refer to your ancient Moscow as the third Rome and yet you run your empire from this swamp? With a woman at the head? And surely you understand my disinclination to support your way of life when you had me poisoned.”

  “It was your own people. That is the way of your sultans. The barbarous behavior of your empire led to your demise.”

  “I was poisoned because you would not listen to sense and our peace negotiations were abandoned. After all of the blood you shed.”

  The shame bore down. “Your men should have seen sense and surrendered those battles.”

  “Battles? The invasions, you mean. The occupations.”

  “The Ottoman Empire never acquired a thirst for blood?”

  The pasha touched his turban lightly. “Make your woman see sense. Show her the foolishness of that boy she’s taken for a lover.”

  “I have attempted to do so.”

  “Only in the privacy of a chamber where she can dismiss you too easily. This boy she adores wants to block you? Unveil his presumption and weaknesses publicly.”

  “It is more complex when trying to woo a woman of such power.”

  “Because you might offend her? This God of yours is strange. He loved the world so much that he gave his only son? And yet he seems to require no sacrifice from you.”

  “I do not fear sacrifice,” Grisha said, voice rising.

  “You make excuses and delay. Have you grown weak in your old age, white demon?”

  The pasha was his enemy, had always been his enemy even beyond the bounds of earthly life. He made a roar and lunged at the man, but the pasha dodged and Grisha ran into a thick Grecian pillar in the hallway. A heavy medallion on his chest fell with a clatter to the floor, followed by Grisha.

  “Your Highness?”

  Anton stared do
wn at him, eyes wide. Grisha’s expansive stomach was already sore. A bruise would blossom by morning.

  “What happened? You were talking to someone. I heard you.”

  “It was no one,” Grisha muttered, bending to retrieve the medallion and wincing.

  “The empress wants you home abed. I need to follow her instructions.” His gaze returned to Grisha’s form. “Did you fall?”

  Grisha started to laugh. His back ached. He looked up at the friezes on the ceiling, doves sailing against a pure blue sky and apostles kneeling to Christ as he exited his tomb.

  “A trifling misstep,” he told Anton. “I shall take care to make no more of those.”

  Four

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  The Monarchist Society has interviewed Romanov heirs in the past, including Dr. Herrera’s father, Laurent Marchand, but Dr. Herrera’s name is the first to have been made public in over twenty years.

  EN ROUTE TO RUSSIA

  PRESENT DAY

  They were rising above the desert, still in California airspace, when Michael started to grill Dmitry for details. “First of all, I thought no announcements would be made about Veronica’s connection to the Romanov family until after she arrived in St. Petersburg. Why is she featured in a Russian newspaper?”

  “This was mistake,” Dmitry said, speaking in English, which he claimed to prefer when in conversation with Americans.

  “I suppose you all have decided Veronica should stay in the best hotel in St. Petersburg, where she’ll be an easy target to find for anyone with a grudge against the Romanovs.”

  “Actually, no.” Dmitry withdrew an electronic tablet from the seat pocket where he’d stowed it and then shifted in his seat so he could retrieve something. He moved so gracefully he didn’t even touch her. “Irina Yusupova has arranged modest accommodation. She thought it best not to draw attention. Not at first.”