“Here you are, the prodigal son, young Blumer! I welcome you with open arms! By all accounts you fought well in that foolish rebellion you called a war. I can see that you have your father’s talent for a fight! I have sent him word, he knows that you are safe.”
Before I could reply, a lackey brought in a letter on a silver platter. Felix read it, grimaced, and threw it on the fire. We watched it burn.
“That damn fool Poniatowski has challenged me to a duel,” Felix said, at last. “Can you imagine? How tiresome!” Clearly he meant Pepi, and not the Bullock. Now if Pepi were to kill Felix in a duel, then honour would be satisfied.
“Will you accept the challenge, My Lord?” I asked.
“Duelling? Barbaric! Out of the question,” Felix said dismissively. At Felix’s side hung a sabre with a solid gold handle, dripping with diamonds. For all the gold and jewels it displayed, it was naught but a dress sword, and I reckoned he could barely have opened that letter with it. He was not a fighting man – he was a man born for giving orders that others might do the dying.
“Then you do not hold with duelling, my Lord?” I said. There was no question of Felix fighting a duel with the likes of me, he was far too grand to even contemplate it. I was worth less to him than the horse dung beneath the feet of his grooms. Still, if it was beneath his dignity to duel with me, well, then I would provoke him as far as I dared, and have a little sport with him.
“No,” Felix replied, offhandedly, as if swatting away a fly. “Of course not. The Empress has forbidden her subjects to duel – it lacks discipline.”
“The Empress! Pah! A mere German whore!” I said with contempt, for Felix’s mistress was the daughter of a Prussian soldier. “My father taught me only a coward would run from a duel,” I said, mockingly.
“Your father!” Felix said, ignoring the slight on his mistress. Why, this devil was even smiling now. “What a great servant your father was. One of the old school! A great rent collector.” He waved a hand at his enormous palace. “I need my rents. This place doesn’t pay for itself, you know, boy.”
My father was an extortionist, a slave driver, and a thief, and the peasants hated him more than they hated the Jewish moneylenders – which was a great deal. Still, I was not going to defame my own kin in front of this creature. A servant charged Felix’s glass, then my glass. Felix called for his opium pipe, to which he was greatly devoted, and waited impatiently while another servant lit it. He smoked, breathing in deep, and great clouds of smoke billowed around the room. He did not offer me a puff, I noted, but kept all for himself. The smell was sickly sweet. I had another tilt at him as he smoked.
“I trust my father is well, my Lord,” I said, “for his health has suffered from all of the wounds he has obtained in your service. My father never turned down a duel in his life. Most of them were fought on your account. If any man should call you a thief, a poltroon, a traitor, a Russian stooge, or a wife-murderer, why, my father would instantly leap to defend your honour! He took many cuts in that way – the damn fool.”
Felix failed to stir. He merely raised an eyebrow and smoothed his sable cloak. Diamonds, emeralds and sapphires glittered among the folds. Felix – who naturally wished to change the subject away from his abject cowardice in refusing to fight Pepi – let out a great puff of smoke.
“Do not try my patience, boy – for I know what you are about,” he said, and he smiled again. Still smiling, he went on to say, “you are trying to provoke me, my fine young lad. Well, if you continue with your feeble schoolboy taunts, I shall have you flogged around the courtyard with the knout – how’s that?”
The hell with these rich cowards! I ground my teeth and held my tongue. He would not fight me, then, that was clear enough. Yet I might simply kill him – the thought took root in my mind. He stood before me, armed with only his dandified penknife, and I had my sabre, sharp as a razor, that had opened several heads in the war. But if I were to kill him out of hand, then it would have to be common murder. I had no stomach for that. I am no assassin – I am but a soldier.
Felix, having shown his teeth, spoke again. “Now keep a civil tongue in your head, and pray you silence, and listen to your Lord, young Blumer. I have never had such a good steward and rent-collector as your father, but he grows old, and tired. Why, he has not even the consolation of your mother’s company in his old age. Such a fine lady!” This last he said through gritted teeth, for Felix and my mother loathed each other. “How many years has it been since your mother died?”
Long years had gone by, but I grieved her as keenly as if she had died that very morning.
“Three years,” I said. “She would have wept to see what our nation has been reduced to.”
Felix shot me an angry glance, and thumped the plump cushions on the arm of his velvet chair. “Yes! That is so! Reduced to a state of chaos! Our ancient laws tossed aside and trampled upon! The rights of the nobility stolen! A Constitution drawn up that was a pact with the Devil himself! The nation was beggared by Jews and Jacobins – and I have saved it!” he snarled. Then he calmed himself. With the young, Felix knew, you must try flattery.
“Enough of politics,” he said smoothly, “the war is over. Since you mother died, you are all your father has left, my dear Ignatius. Your father has been in despair, with you riding out with rebels and traitors – an outlaw, no less. You have led us all a merry dance, and defied the Empress!”
“It was my duty to Poland,” I retorted. My blood was up.
“Duty, indeed!” Felix snorted. “There is a list of names in Moscow,” he said slyly, “and your name was on it. That is where your foolery has got you.”
“Death warrants,” I said, thinking of Pepi’s letter, that I and my comrades had signed. Despite my anger at Felix, my blood ran cold. I began to sweat, and thirst for another vodka.
Felix shook his head. “Legal process, dear boy! All enemies of Russia will be lawfully punished. But fear not! For I have interceded upon your behalf, as I have on behalf of many others, who have also allowed themselves to be led astray. The Empress is persuaded that your actions were misguided – youthful high spirits, shall we say.”
The devil! The snake! Smoke rolled from his jaws like the mouth of Hades. My very flesh crawled.
“I am grateful for your act of selfless kindness,” I said sarcastically, “and my men and I will be on our way! I know you are too honest a Lord to expect anything in return.”
I made to turn, but Felix clicked his fingers, as he would to an unruly dog.
“Not so fast! You have been granted amnesty by the Empress,” he smiled, and stroked the arm of his chair, “but I would have you serve me, as your father did. You won yourself a fine reputation as a fighting man in that foolish rebellion.”
He was eyeing me up like horsemeat. My old man was past his prime, and Felix wanted a new stallion – or rather a new gelding.
“I am flattered, Lord. I thank you.” Although he had saved my life, all I could think of was taking his. Felix was a sword's length away. His damned servants were constantly in and out, but these were effete dandies in powdered wigs, armed with nothing more than hatpins, and I feared them not. It had not occurred to any of them that any person would dare to lift a finger against Felix, or touch a hair of his head. I pondered my predicament. To assassinate Potocki would guarantee my own awful death, as well as that of all of my men. It would make the Constitutionalists appear like brigands. My mother, I knew, would have told me to stay my hand. She would not have countenanced such a dishonourable act as murder.
Then I remembered the two dead girls, and instantly flew into a rage. I determined to kill Felix, and damn the consequences. He was wearing a sword, after all, and he could take his chances like the rest of us. If he would not fight like a man, why, he could die like a dog.
As my fingers closed around the hilt of my sabre, the door swung open. Two men walked in, and interrupted the murder before it had even begun!
The first newcomer was a great fat
man in a full-length sable coat and a bearskin hat. He seemed familiar. The second was a tall, blonde man with a killer’s eyes, in Russian uniform. Both were fully armed.
“Ah, excellent!” said Felix, turning to greet them, his eyes addled with opium and vodka, “there you are, Severyn!”
“My Lord,” said Severyn Rzewuski, for it was he and none other. Rzewuski bowed to his master Felix, and swept off his hat. There was still a lump on his forehead the size of a quail's egg, that I had put there. He saw the murder in my eyes, for he had a murder of his own in mind – mine!
“Good day, young master Blumer, we meet again. All roads lead to Rome, as the proverb goes," he said. Then Rzewuski grinned evilly, and rested his hands on his pistols. The man next to him, dressed in Russian uniform, did the same. Four pistols between them. Armed with only my sword, I had no choice but to stay my hand. We stood and glared at each other. It was a stalemate. The air was thick with hate. In the grip of the opium, Felix was quite oblivious to the animosity between us.
“I see you already know each other?” Felix said cheerfully. “Excellent! For young Blumer will be joining our army. The Russian Army.” Felix drew a packet from his armoire. It was bound in red ribbon and a wax seal bearing a double-headed eagle. He tossed it onto the card table, which was an elaborately inlaid and gilt-bronze mounted affair. The packet sat on it like a wager.
“This is for you, Blumer. A commission in the Russian Army. A captaincy, and in my regiment of cavalry, no less. I am going to St Petersburg shortly, to petition Her Majesty the Tsarina on various matters, for she has been tardy of late in fulfilling her promises to us. An oversight no doubt.”
His face clouded over, and I guessed that all was not well between him and his dread patron, the Empress.
“Come with me to Russia,” Felix said. “There are many opportunities for advancement in St Petersburg.”
Rzewuski glared at me, his piggy eyes glowing like coals, full of hell and jealousy. Like a dog, he could not abide any rival for his master’s affection. I guessed that this young man with him was his protégé, and that I was stealing his thunder. By God! I had walked into a fine crossfire, enfiladed from all sides!
I stared at the paper, which I dared not even touch. In front of me was the dotted line. I had only to sign, like Pan Twardowski, and the world was mine. I should be lying if I said that I was not tempted. I looked down. On my finger I saw the ring with the cross of rubies – my mother’s ring. I shook my head. Felix’s jaw fell in amazement.
“The Devil take your Targowica commission,” I said. “I am a Pole, and I’ll be damned if I’ll be a Russian lackey.”
“Fool!” Felix Potocki snorted with contempt. “You have tried my patience once too often. My Lord Rzewuski! Take this young upstart away out of my sight, at once!”
“As you command, my Lord Felix,” Rzewuski grinned.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE ABYSS OF DESPAIR
At midnight I was arrested and cast into the abyss of despair. A dozen armed men dressed in flowing black robes seized me and dragged me from my bed. We had been in Tulczyn for about one month, confined to barracks.
A black silk hood was thrust over my head and my hands bound behind my back. My tunic was torn open. The point of a dagger was held to my chest. A noose was looped around my neck. A gun’s muzzle was prodded into the small of my back. Through my hood I heard the hammers of pistols cocked. Not one word was spoken throughout.
Then I was led, like a sacrificial lamb, into the courtyard of Tulczyn palace – the Abyss of Despair, as the Jews styled it. I assumed I was to meet the same fate as those who had perished there at the hands of rebel Cossacks, in the massacres of so many years ago. How awful to be hung like a dog, not shot like a gentleman! For the first time, fear gripped my soul. The wind was howling in the courtyard. I wondered at the strangeness of the hour, for it was customary to hold executions at dawn. Through my black silk mask I could dimly perceive the luminous glow of the moon. On either side I heard the heavy tread of armed men in hobnailed boots. Under my bare foot the slabs were cold as gravestones.
Dark rumours had spread across the land that the Targowicans were holding secret military trials. At the behest of their Russian masters, they were purging the army of patriots. There were dungeons at Tulczyn that never saw the light of day. There were gibbets and scaffolds. There were walls against which men were stood up and shot to rags.
Ahead of me, I heard shouts. Three resounding knocks sounded on a wooden door, and echoed in the cavernous chambers beyond. Three ominous knocks within sounded in answering echo. I heard the sound of another door yawning open and stumbled as I was led down stone steps.
“Welcome, brother,” said a sardonic voice, which I imagined to be the gaoler, torturer, or executioner.
“What the Devil is the meaning of this? Unhand me, you bastards!” I shouted through the hood. “Give me a proper trial before I hang!” I had begun to panic, and was quite unmanned, and thoroughly terrified.
“Quiet, fool!” someone hissed under his breath. “Calm yourself! This is no execution! You have been proposed by Felix as a member of his Lodge.”
I breathed a great sigh of relief, in spite of myself. I was glad of the hood, for my face had turned as red as a beetroot with embarrassed shame. For I was quite convinced that my time had come. This, I presumed, was Felix Potocki’s idea of a jest. Now, if a man has not had quite his fill of foolery in life, then he can always become a Freemason. Through the hoodwink and cable-tow I perceived that I was in a great chamber filled with men. They were observing a silence, but now and then I heard coughs, whispers, the shuffling of feet, and the clink of scabbards and medals.
A stentorian voice demanded, “If you wish to enter, give me the password of the masters!” Abruptly, rough hands pulled the hood away. I screwed up my eyes against the light. A human shape stepped out from behind a pillar. We stood in the great hall of the temple, at the western end of the room. It was lit with oil lamps and candles. There were red columns around the walls of the hall. Three huge doors faced towards the north, the west, and the east. The Masons conducted me to the centre of the lodge, where, after first invoking the aid of the Deity, I was made to kneel and attend prayer, while the brethren stood, and repeated various incantations.
“Vouchsafe thine aid, Almighty Father of the Universe...” it began, and I was suffered to listen to the master, the chaplain, the deacons, the wizards and warlocks, and so forth, droning on in this vein for many hours. Often their memories would fail, and they would be obliged to begin a particular passage again from scratch, or, worse, to consult their great tomes, and thence bicker about the proper procedure like pettifogging clerks.
All around me were the brethren of Felix Potocki's Grand Lodge of Podolia. The Temple was hidden and set aside from the profane world, buried within the vault of a huge underground chamber with oak-panelled walls. Great banners, bearing occult designs, hung from the walls – the circle and the square, the sun and the moon, the star in flames, and the All-Seeing Eye.
The scene was illuminated by the eerie glow of guttering candles. A towering gilded throne was flanked by pillars of lignum and surmounted by a golden canopy. The Worshipful Grand Master, Felix Potocki, sat upon this throne, at the eastern end of the temple, under a great canopy, as if he were the Pope! Beneath his regalia he wore the black uniform of a Russian General. He was flanked by the turncoat priest Bishop Massalski, and my old enemy Hetman Rzewuski. The latter had at his side the same tall, blond man, with piercing blue eyes. From his insignia of rank and fine attire he was a nobleman and a Freemason of a high degree.
This man, I had come to learn, was Szymon Korczak, a serviceable villain, and Rzewuski’s assassin. With hardly a thought, Felix had tossed him the captaincy that I had refused. It was well known that this blackguard Szymon Korczak had ordered the killing of the two girls, the redhead and the raven, for he boasted of it, openly, in the officers’ mess. I had sworn that I would kill him for
it.
The other brothers, according to their degrees, were arrayed along the stone columns, to the north and south. They were adorned with aprons, medals, and jewels. Swords and pistols hung from their gilded crossbelts.
Hours passed in that infernal vault. Cold and draughty hours indeed, for they had neglected to furnish me with my trousers, and I was obliged to stand in my nightshirt, wearing but a single boot on my left foot. The marble floor was as cold as the dark side of the moon. With a lambskin apron around my waist, a chisel in one hand, and a set of compasses in the other, I stood in the centre of the Lodge, feeling entirely ridiculous.
Potocki’s brethren made the appropriate symbols and gestures before the Sacred Altar, and thus I was initiated into the Freemasons. I can tell you nothing of the ceremony itself, for at the conclusion of it, I swore not to reveal the Freemason’s secrets under no less a penalty than that of having my throat cut across, my tongue torn out by the root, with my body buried in the sands of the sea at low-water mark, so help me God.
Suffice it to say, it was a great deal of foolery and flummery, and uncomfortable in the extreme. There I stood, half-naked and trussed up like a Paris whore, while those lecherous old buffoons and traitors leered at me. The Bishop, in particular, was giving me the glad eye. I shivered, aye, and not only with the cold. It was better than being hanged or shot. But only just.
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