The Tsarina's Legacy (15 page)

Would these rumors never pass? One of his old foes had commissioned tracts to circulate behind the empress's back, illustrated with caricatures. Grisha, bloated and covered in furs, the preening Cyclops with devil's horns on his head, rested his hand on Catherine's back while she squinted desperately at two-dimensional structures, doors with nothing behind. Someone must have told Zubov this was a particularly sour point. “All lies.”

Zubov tossed his hair, black powdered with silver. A few strands fell into his eyes, making him seem even prettier and more useless. Grisha wouldn't have thought it possible.

“This mosque of yours will be the same. All smoke and mirrors. Nothing of substance.”

Grisha tried not to shiver. He wished he had not left his cloak with Anton, for the room still held a strong chill. The pasha hid in the room somewhere, he was sure, frowning and disapproving of this conversation. Silently, Grisha implored the pasha to be patient. “It is still the empress's decision to make. You overstepped your boundaries.”

“I am not the one who styles myself emperor of the south.”

“Your style”—Grisha looked the boy's outfit up and down and waved the radish in his direction—“leaves much to be desired.”

“I don't expect a man of your age to know the latest fashion,” Zubov said. “I've heard it said a man prefers the style of the era in which he felt most vibrant. Perhaps fifteen years ago in your case?”

“I've never heard the empress complain about my manner of dress.”

“She never complains about much when it comes to you, does she? Her anger flashes and then disappears. Is it true she pays your debts? Such a strain on the treasury. But then the old dear clearly has a soft spot in her heart for a friend. Still, I believe I will speak to her of it.”

The smugness of the boy's tone aggravated him and Grisha hated to hear even the suggestion he might have to concern himself with the pedestrian matter of his own bills. But Zubov's lower lip trembled. He wasn't as confident of his position as he wanted everyone to think. This could be useful. Grisha stepped forward, ready to finish this once and for all.

“Listen to me,” Grisha said. “And listen well.”

Zubov made a snorting sound but didn't budge.

“I know you warm the empress's bed.” Grisha remained alert to the slightest creak at the door, the possibility of a servant on the other side. He waited until the silence in the room was absolute. “And I know she can't see straight as long as you excel at that particular task.”

“Once Catherine knows you've spread filthy rumors—”

“Please, boy. Do you really think your talents in the boudoir are a state secret? Your whimpering will accomplish nothing, only lower your manhood in her eyes. And that is something you can ill afford.”

Zubov's tongue moved flaccidly under his lips. This reaction pleased Grisha, and yet he began to feel light-headed, the room wobbling around him.

“I'm sure you do a fine job on that front,” Grisha continued. “I also know the empress is a jealous woman nearly forty years your senior.”

“The empress is ageless,” Zubov declared.

Anton may not have heard anything about another woman in Zubov's life, but Grisha felt the time had come to make a gamble. “I find it hard, appealing as the great woman is, to believe you don't have … shall we say, another affair of the heart to occupy your time?”

Zubov gave a stiff laugh, so Grisha knew he was onto something. He continued to play his hunch. “I doubt any young woman loves you so much she would turn down the money I could offer her to talk in detail about how you seduced her behind the empress's back.”

“No woman would be so foolish. Catherine would send her to Siberia.”

“The empress is not the sort to turn on her own sex over a man.”

Zubov fished an enameled ruble out of a crystal dish of coins on the desk and began flipping it in his hand. The sight made Grisha dizzier. “Catherine might have my head, but she would have the other woman's as well. Who would risk that only to help a deviant like you?”

“The empress would be furious at the man who caused such a travesty, no matter how nimble his performance in the bedroom. Particularly if she were given to believe his heart hadn't carried him to her, but rather his lust for power.”

Zubov caught the ruble in his hand. “You are one to talk!” he snapped. “All you have ever desired is power.”

“From the beginning of my relationship with the empress, I was clear as a summer day about my ambition. You have not been so forthright.”

“You're bluffing. She no longer trusts your word.”

“If I had tried this with every man who made his way to her bedchamber it wouldn't work, or at least it would no longer work,” Grisha said. “But I choose my battles wisely.”

“I assume there's an ‘unless' in this tiresome monologue?”

“The mosque,” Grisha said, “as first requested. Stop blocking its path.”

Zubov gave another sputtering laugh, only now it sounded more like a girlish giggle. “That can't be all you want. They say you are an Asiatic now, what with your robes and jewels and harems in your ungodly palaces in the south. Still, I doubt you converted to the religion of our cohabitants. Why is this project of such importance to you?”

The temperature changed abruptly, and the room grew suddenly warm. Grisha felt beads of perspiration gather behind his ears and the oppressive heavy fabric of his European uniform pulled tightly over his flesh. “It is a symbol of our new Russia: an orthodox power, a Christian empire, but a land of tolerance as well.”

“Drivel,” Zubov muttered.

“In addition, you will cease to meddle in my future plans and projects,” Grisha said. “Those affairs are between myself and the empress only. You have no place in them.”

“Well,” Zubov said, exhaling slowly. “This is quite the passionate soliloquy, Prince. I shall have to consider all you have said.”

“You will consider it this moment. And you will give me your answer now.”

“Such a rush! Off to gamble? Bed a woman of low confidence?”

Grisha managed a smile. “As you are so quick to point out, I am but a fading old man. Time is not on my side.”

Zubov may have been a pompous ass, but his instinct for self-preservation was well honed. He twisted his lips and again regarded Grisha's face. “I still disagree with you on the endeavor's merit, but I suppose there is more than one way to look at such a project. I might suffer a concession to our Mohammedan cohabitants in the interest of a stronger peace.”

Zubov looked far too pleased with himself. Grisha nibbled on the radish once more to soothe his troubled stomach, unable to fully savor the moment. “I'm glad you see it my way at last.”

“Can you at least put that damned vegetable away? I feel as though I've been bested by a rabbit.”

Grisha shrugged, snapped off one last bite, and wiped his hands. “I'm finished anyway.”

“You know, Prince,” Zubov added slyly, “you have been through so much in your life. Your mind is quite impressive. Everyone said this was so. I confess I had anticipated your advanced age would have dulled you somewhat.”

Grisha thrust his hands behind his back, rocking unsteadily on his feet. He had to keep his hands entrapped or he would end up throttling the boy.

“Take your dead eye.” Zubov stood and began to stroll the perimeter of the room as though taking a constitutional through the empress's gardens. “The Orlovs are responsible for the injury?”

Grisha squeezed his hands so tightly he thought the pressure might make them burst. In truth, the Orlov brothers had nothing to do with the damage to his eye. It was an inflammation that would have resolved on its own, only he had been young and impatient and trusted a surgeon with a faulty knowledge of herbs and folk remedies. But Grisha far preferred the tale of the Orlov brothers beating him to a pulp to try to keep him away from the empress. He relished the image of himself, young and handsome, emerging from the ordeal damaged and bloody but triumphant, for it was he who would eventually win Catherine's love.

“You go through life, thrive even, with this affliction. And I see your wits are about you, sharp as ever.” Zubov's voice altered slightly. The mockery was gone, although Grisha wouldn't have gone so far as to describe the boy's tone as sincere. “We should consider some sort of alliance.”

“You and I?” Grisha asked innocently.

“My God, man, were we to work together … think of the possibilities. Surely we can find some project on which we both agree. Something far more lucrative than a heathen shrine. Why, I understand your New Russia has untold riches in silk and vineyards.”

Grisha remembered what Anton had told him of Zubov's involvement with Paul. He decided to play a hunch once more. “You and I and Grand Duke Paul? Would we three work together?”

Zubov fingered a delicate gemstone vase. Grisha imagined the look of fright in Catherine's eyes had she been there, her motherly fussing and her small hand steering Zubov away from the vase. “Paul? Oh, you mean the empress's son?”

“The same,” Grisha replied. “The tsarevich. The one who hates his mother. The one who blames her for his father's death. The one who thinks she tried to have him killed by having glass smashed in his pudding. Are you proposing some new triple alliance?”

“Paul is not the cleverest, nor the most stable fellow, but he
is
heir to the throne. I can't say I think the grand duke's talents particularly profound. Still, he has his partisans.” Zubov made a show of examining his fingernails. “What do you think of him?”

“I give no second thought to Grand Duke Paul,” Grisha lied. He had in fact given quite a deal of thought to Paul over the years, wondering how he might convince Catherine to pass over the sap and instead name her young grandson Alexander the heir.

“You must wonder how our worlds will change with Paul as tsar.”

Grisha reached for his lavender-scented handkerchief. “Someday he will be tsar. Until then, my attention is focused on my Catherine.”

“Your Catherine.” Zubov made a little snort. “Priceless! How easily you fool yourself into thinking your relationship is what it once was. You are not my father, Prince Potemkin, no matter how much poor Catherine would like to see you behave in such a role. If you wish to believe I have some sort of special connection with the tsarevich I doubt anything I say could change your mind anyway.”

Grisha was impressed with the boy's adroit answer. He had an eye for merit, even in enemies. He wondered now if this wasn't more a fault than a strength.

“You never know about the grand duke, though,” Zubov continued. “Perhaps with the proper mentorship he might fill his mother's shoes.”

He had been wrong to give Zubov any credit for having a brain, but surely the boy could not be this stupid. “I assume you mean once the empress has passed.”

“Of course!” Zubov exclaimed. “Good God, man, what else could I have meant? Even so, are you sure you have no desire to meet with Paul yourself? Who knows, perhaps he might surprise the both of us and show a singular flair for leadership.”

Grisha attempted a smile, but the thought of Russia under Tsar Paul left his stomach feeling weighted with stones. “I have no desire to work with you and even less desire to meet with Paul.”

“I shouldn't have imagined it should be of interest, but then we never know, do we? I had to be sure of your loyalties. Some in court prize the grand duke's favor. Perhaps you are among their number.”

Zubov's reflections swirled all around Grisha's in the room's mirrors, taunting him. Did the boy really think he could be played this easily? Would this day not end? “Glad to have saved you the trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Prince,” Zubov said. “Only take care with your words as you make your way around this palace.”

“And why should I? To avoid your spies?”

Zubov inclined forward, a languid smile plastered on his face. “You may act the pasha with your harem at your encampments. But here you are merely a subject of your great sovereign, as are we all.”

“I am well aware of my relationship to the empress.”

“I meant don't overstep your boundaries.”

“Between the empress and myself few boundaries exist.”

“So you say. Nonetheless, I would watch my back were I you.”

“I have always done so among the empress's courtiers,” Grisha said.

“Yes, but now the empress herself might turn on you if she feels her power threatened. I only tell you this as a newfound ally.”

“Of course,” Grisha muttered.

“Now that we are in agreement, I believe we should see the empress together and united on this point only, for now at any rate.” Zubov extended a hand. “Your shrine in the south, Prince Potemkin. So be it. We will work together as one happy family.”

Eight

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

 

Once her claim has been confirmed the honorary tsarina will be available for public appearances for a reasonable fee, which can be arranged through the number listed below.

 

ST. PETERSBURG
PRESENT DAY

Veronica ducked into a corner alcove. Someone had left a business card on a cheap plastic flower stand, under a vase filled with synthetic daisies. Residue from stolen cigarette breaks clung to the cheap silk petals. A brown tabby perched on the windowsill, tail twitching, watching a pair of doves on a balcony opposite the hotel. Cars backed up on the flat length of the street below, and the gold cupola of a nearby cathedral peeped through the morning mist of rain and gloomy storm clouds. St. Petersburg was not a city of skyscrapers and industry. It was a city of low rooftops and church domes and ornate architectural flourishes, of history and operas and palaces and ballets.