Tsarina

by Ellen Alpsten

  ‘Will they have real power? Isn’t that dangerous for you?’

  Peter laughed. ‘My clever, cunning Catherinushka! Of course they will have only just as much power as I think fit. But they are to draft the new laws that are needed and enforce them. Complaints about greedy and unjust courts have been flooding in lately – they can overhaul those too.’ He paused briefly, grinning at me. ‘And the Senate is going to find me money. Lots of it: for new recruits, for new alliances, for St Petersburg. Whoever brings in the most money is the best senator.’

  ‘Do we need more money?’ I thought of the sheer magnificence with which Peter had furnished our Winter Palace. He twisted my curls around his fingers.

  ‘The Tsar always needs money, though he is never short of it as long as he still has Russia and the Russians. What belongs to them, belongs to me, and I can use it as I see fit. But a Senate will be my eyes and ears.’

  ‘And if the Senate agrees on something you do not want?’ I asked.

  ‘No senator will ever trust another. Only hungry bellies and free spirits make for rebellious hearts.’ The muscles in his neck tensed again and he rubbed his head briefly on my shoulder. ‘I’d really like to stay here. But I must write the ukaz right now.’

  He was standing on the threshold of the concealed door in the wall, which allowed him to slip unseen to and from my apartments, when there was a soft knock. Peter raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you expect a secret visitor, Catherinushka?’ he teased me. I padded to the door and the rugs felt warm under my bare soles. Who could this be?

  When I opened it, the guard helped the exhausted messenger outside to stay upright. His breath was still erratic from his long, hard ride, his cloak covered with mud and ice crystals. Grimy slush from his boots melted onto the shimmering marble floor of the Winter Palace. He hit his chest with his fist. ‘My Tsar. An urgent message from the Golden Gate.’

  ‘Does Tolstoy want even more gold and sables? Well, tell him that he can’t search a naked man’s pockets,’ Peter barked.

  The man looked at us, his eyes burning. ‘It is too late for that. Charles of Sweden is at the High Porte. Tolstoy tried to win the Sultan’s favour, but in vain. He did not have the means to do it.’

  Peter pulled the messenger into the room, grabbing him by his collar. ‘That is impossible: if Tolstoy did not have the means, what means did Charles have after fleeing Poltava as poor as a church mouse?’

  The man almost cried. ‘That is what we thought! But the king saved his war-chest: he is swimming in gold, and furthermore the brothers Cook of the English–Levantine Society have lent him money.’

  ‘And?’ Peter asked, his eyes dark and beady with anger.

  ‘The Sultan fears the growing Russian influence in the Black Sea: you are much too close for his comfort in Azov. In the end, Tolstoy forced the Sultan to choose – Russia or Sweden.’

  I bit my lip. Nothing good ever came of forcing someone to choose, and sure enough the messenger carried on, ‘The Sultan replied to us with impossible conditions, such as handing back the Baltics and St Petersburg to the Swedes.’

  Peter simmered with anger. ‘This fat toad of Constantinople! I hope Tolstoy gave him the right answer?’

  ‘He did,’ the messenger confirmed.

  ‘And?’ Peter continued. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘The Sultan has locked him in the Castle of the Seven Towers.’

  Peter cursed under his breath.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I whispered, looking from one man to the other.

  Peter turned to me. ‘That, Catherinushka, means war on two fronts, exactly what any leader should always avoid,’ he groaned, then cheered up. ‘But Russia will not be crushed. Never! Come to Turkey with me. I’ll roast the Sultan over a low flame and give you the biggest emerald Constantinople has to offer.’

  On the same day on which Russia created its Senate, it was also at war with the Golden Gate of Constantinople.

  51

  ‘And, of course, his whore of a washerwoman is going with him . . . ’ The timing of the Tsarevna Jekaterina Ivanovna’s words was ill chosen: they fell like stones into a well in the momentary silence amongst the small circle of people meeting up in Praskovia’s house. The servants were just clearing the second course and the musicians returned to their instruments. The other guests, Peter’s closest friends and family, had been wiping their greasy fingers, leaning back against the soft cushions. The princess blushed to the roots of her hair when she realised that we had all heard her.

  Peter, who had just been arguing with Shafirov and Sheremetev about how to raise funds for the Turkish campaign, looked up. His mood had not been the best in the past few days, as of all his allies only Prince Dmitri Kantemir of Moldavia had agreed to follow him south. Jekaterina must have felt his gaze as heavily as a galley slave feels the whip; no one in the room dared to breathe; the air crackled with fear.

  Peter looked at me. I did nothing to hide the tears such a public humiliation had caused me to shed. He gently took my hand. Our daughters Anna and Elizabeth, too, were trying to comfort me with hugs, praise and kisses.

  Peter rose to his feet. ‘Praskovia, widowed Tsaritsa of Russia,’ he said, and she knelt with difficulty on her cushion, adjusting her abundant folds of flesh. ‘My Tsar,’ she murmured, her forehead touching the artfully laid honey-coloured parquet.

  ‘Yes. On your knees, all the Tsarevny Ivanovna including the Duchess of Courland,’ Peter ordered. The three younger women obeyed, pale with fright.

  Peter led me over to them. ‘Tsaritsa Praskovia, my sister-in-law. Tsarevny of Russia, my nieces. You are the highest damy in my country. I have honoured you all my life. But the time has come . . .’ He paused. The princesses were scared witless, not knowing what to expect. What would Peter do next: shave their heads and commit them to a nunnery, or banish them to Siberia? The youngest Tsarevna Ivanovna, who was of a simple mind with a flat, pancake-like face, sobbed with fear.

  Peter gave me a tender glance. ‘The time has come to declare my beloved companion, Catherine Alexeyevna, mother of my daughters Anna and Elizabeth, the highest lady at court. Everyone – you, my family, as well as my people – should recognise her as such.’ He raised his voice, so it echoed off the walls. ‘Should I not find the time to marry her before the Turkish campaign, or should I fall there, know this: Catherine Alexeyevna is henceforward Tsaritsa of Russia. To insult her is to insult me. Makarov, write that down,’ he ordered the scribe, who had already chased one of his men away for paper and pen.

  I could hardly breathe when Peter blessed me. Before he could prevent it, I fell to my knees before him. ‘By God,’ I whispered, holding his gaze and his fingers, ‘I will do justice to this honour.’

  ‘You’d better.’ Peter grinned before he pulled me to my feet. ‘Music!’ he commanded. ‘Is this a betrothal or a funeral? Lazy buggers. Bring the sparkling wine from France. And woe to the one who tries to leave the room before he is allowed to.’

  The musicians played a merry tune and Peter bowed. ‘May I have this dance?’ he asked, unusually gallantly, before dabbing my cheeks with a not-so-clean lace handkerchief. ‘Please stop crying, matka. You should be nothing but happy when the Tsar declares you his companion and the highest lady in Russia.’

  That, though, only made me cry more, and I would not calm down all evening.

  When I had my chests for the Turkish campaign packed, Anna and Elizabeth were playing hide and seek in my rooms. Both girls were tall and strong for their ages, but the younger Elizabeth always bullied Anna in one way or the other and I heard her maid of honour cry: ‘Lizenka! Stop pulling Anoushka by the hair, will you?’

  The choice between being with them or with their father was, as always, terrible to me. Despite the honours Peter had heaped on me, life with him was forever like a walk on the first brittle ice of the Neva in the early winter. It might carry me on to shining joy and glory; it might also break, and the black, icy water swallow me forever.

  Rus
sian troops had to reach the Danube before the Turks invaded Moldavia and Poland. Peter urged Sheremetev and his troops on. When we left St Petersburg in March, a banner decorated with the sign of the Holy Cross and the words of St Constantine blazed above our heads: In this sign you shall conquer. Alongside us rode Prince Dmitri Kantemir of Moldavia and his five thousand men, who were battle-hardened by the challenging conditions in their mountains.

  Next to the prince, a little girl sat on her pony: I had never seen such a beautiful child, with hair like honeycomb and skin like hewn gold. Her eyes were of a curious amber colour, as bright as those of a sledge dog, and she held herself as upright as a princess. Peter, too, stared at her, who might have been eight or nine years old.

  ‘Who is that, Prince Dmitri? War is no place for children. Even grown women have a hard time convincing me of the necessity of their presence in the field.’ He winked at me.

  Prince Dmitri Kantemir smiled. ‘This is my daughter, Princess Maria Kantemir. There is no one in Moldavia I could trust enough with her care.’

  ‘How beautiful she is.’ Peter stared at the girl and his expression was that of a man appreciating a woman. Maria Kantemir spurred her pony and left the Tsar of All the Russias to swallow her dust. His gaze followed her until she had disappeared from view.

  The early-spring sun was burning up the meagre seeds on the otherwise fertile fields, which worsened the famine after the failed harvests of the previous year. Furthermore, the Ukraine had still not recovered from a plague of locusts and the wars. The anger of the people, from whom we took what little they had left, followed us like a curse, but we had to save Russia, even if that meant feeding thousands of men and horses in a famished country. When we reached the Dniester, our wagons were stuck in the torrents or washed away; many horses drowned, and whole charges of gunpowder were soaked and rendered useless. On the other side, the landscape changed to a sea of blistering ​​hot sand. Its utter ​​desolation confounded us: our soldiers suffered from sunstroke; hunger and thirst caused hallucinations and nosebleeds. Our troops were beaten by the terrain before they had even seen the enemy.

  We placed all our hopes on the fertile valley of the River Pruth, which we reached in early summer. Here we could recover from the arduous march, we thought, and the evening on which we celebrated the memory of Poltava on the banks of the Pruth was one of the rare happy moments of the Turkish campaign. Peter and I emptied a barrel of sweet Tokay and rolled in the dunes, laughing and gasping in the sun and sand. My skin was tanned; my dark hair streaked with lighter strands. I was as lean and supple as before my pregnancies. In spite of the hardships of the journey, I still took the trouble to dress, groom and adorn myself carefully for Peter: as always, I had taken all my jewellery along.

  We tried in vain to locate the Turkish army. Had those cowards even left Constantinople? Our spies and messengers did not return and we grew giddy and light-hearted. Ha! The cowardly Turk had crawled back into the hole in which he belonged.

  ‘A pity about the emerald I wanted to cut off the fat Sultan’s neck for you,’ Peter sighed.

  ‘Oh? And who says you can’t still give it to me?’ I teased him.

  We fell asleep at the table that night, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead of us.

  Instead of the first rays of sunlight, the shrill sound of trumpets, the hooting of war horns and Sheremetev’s voice in our tent woke us: ‘The Turks! We are surrounded. There are thousands and thousands of them, strong and well-armed,’ he cried.

  Peter tucked his dirty shirt into his breeches, stumbling out of the tent, while I blinked in disbelief at the blinding brightness of the morning and the turmoil in our camp. Everywhere men were running and screaming. I held my breath: was the sight terrible or glorious? We were not so much surrounded as overwhelmed. Our forty thousand men, who had seemed so mighty in St Petersburg, faced almost three times as many Turks and Tatars: a sea of ​​soldiers foaming with hostility. The crescent moon blazed on thousands of red flags, dancing like devils in the hot wind. As far as the horizon I saw nothing but enemy soldiers, who looked terrifying, brandishing their heavy cutlasses. I could make out the shining metal of their breastplates and the rough animal skins tied around their shoulders and calves. In their midst, on an elevated litter strewn with pillows and carpets, an incredibly fat man sat under a canopy, as still as an idol. He was covered with jewels, sparkling like a statue in the sun. This must be the Grand Vizier.

  ‘Holy Mother. What shall we do?’ Peter breathed.

  Sheremetev shrugged helplessly. Peter gathered himself. ‘To arms,’ he shouted, and shoved Sheremetev. ‘Take position! Go, go, go! Do you think we have all the time in the world? The Tsar is not a sitting duck. I am the Russian bear who fights and strikes back, until defeat and death.’ He ran into the tent, calling for his sword, for his armour, for Finette to be saddled.

  I embraced Sheremetev, whose lean body was shaking with dry sobs. In the past two years he had known neither rest nor respite. ‘Be brave, Boris Petrovich,’ I whispered. ‘Fight! Russia depends on it.’ I owed him my life at Peter’s side. If I saw him today for the very last time, I had to give him strength. ‘Thank you for everything,’ I said. ‘May God protect you.’ My heart ached: how very small and helpless the Field Marshal looked before that wall of Ottomans, running off for his horse and sword.

  The Turks blew a call to arms from their long trumpets made of shiny metal and soldiers struck large drums: the rolling sound made my skin prickle with fear even before a concerted ferocious war cry rose to the sky.

  In the tent, Peter dictated his last words while being clad in his armour.

  ‘Write, Makarov! “We, Peter Alexeyevich, by the grace of God Tsar of All the Russias, decide the following. Should I be taken prisoner by the Turks, I am no longer the Tsar. No rouble shall be paid and no drop of blood shall be shed to save me. If I should fall, give the throne to the most worthy of my descendants.” ’ He shook his head, considering his words. ‘Even if that’s just a damned useless sod like Alexey . . .’

  ‘Batjuschka! Starik! Don’t even think of that!’ I cried, and he cupped my face before kissing me, hard and passionately.

  He looked at me with burning eyes: ‘At least I have proved myself to you just before our departure. Thank you for all the strength you gave me, matka. Thank you, always.’

  He left: the tent flap knocked against the posts and I was alone, kneeling, crumbling under my burden of fear and digging my hands into the hot desert beneath the rugs that covered the floor of our tent. Were the sands of the Pruth to fall upon our graves instead of good Russian earth?

  The sounds of battle reached me but faintly in the following hours, for I had had a solid dose of laudanum dissolved in wine, but despite my dazed stupor, I clasped a dagger in readiness. If I had to, I would defend myself against any marauding Turk or go out and fight for Peter’s life.

  52

  I woke in darkness. It was a cloudy night and the moon was new, so I needed to touch the pillow next to me to find out if Peter had returned. It was empty. Outside stretched a silence more threatening than any noise that had gone before. My heartbeat was still slow from sleep while my thoughts somersaulted. With unsteady fingers, I reached for the dagger on the rug beside my bed and sat up, still feeling dizzy from the laudanum: I had overdone it. How should I have fought in this state? I stumbled to my feet and heard murmurs coming from outside the tent. Was that Russian or Turkish? Had we lost or won?

  I wrapped a warm scarf around my shoulders, stepped out into the frosty desert night and almost choked on the stench of despair, death and blood. My foot struck something that could only be a corpse. I cried out, but all of a sudden a hand was pressed over my mouth, almost suffocating me. I caught Peter’s scent and dropped the dagger, feeling relieved. His grip loosened and I wanted to embrace him.

  ‘Peter,’ I whispered.

  But he seized my wrists, telling me, ‘We must flee, Catherinushka. Russia has been defeated. Our horses ar
e ready and we have a local guide to help us cross the riverbed. Put on your boots and take your jewels with you. We’ll need them to secure our way back,’ he said hoarsely, just as the breeze stirred and carried the stench of the battlefield closer, thicker and even more sickening than before. It was as unbearable to me as the words Peter had just spoken. I squinted at him through the darkness: he was still in his dirty, torn uniform, booted and ready to mount. The Tsar of All the Russias wanted to flee like a boy who had lost a bet at a bear-baiting? What had happened to the brave words he had dictated to Makarov? This was a nightmare. Even Charles of Sweden, our fierce, deadly enemy, would always choose death above a shameful peace.

  I glanced at our so-called guide, a small, wiry man who chewed on a betel nut. In the moonlight his Cossack eyes gleamed like the fires with which wreckers lured ships aground. I would not trust that man with a round of mouldy cheese, let alone my life, I decided, and crossed my arms.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Peter was stunned. ‘What? Come on! We need the cover of darkness. Lucky that it is so cloudy. No one will see us!’

  ‘Have we surrendered to the Grand Vizier?’

  Peter nodded sullenly. ‘We had no other choice.’

  ‘So what?’ I insisted. ‘The Turks probably don’t even understand what they did. What do they know about our supply route? General Ronne is already in Braila with his men. From there he’ll easily cut off their retreat.’

  ‘Woman,’ hissed Peter, ‘you have no idea.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do.’ I gave one of his guards a sign. He thumped one fist between the guide’s chest and belly, making the man double over with pain and groan. ‘Good. Make sure nobody ever learns why he was here,’ I ordered, handing the soldier my dagger. The man dragged the guide away, gagging him with one sooty hand.