The Tsarina's Legacy (19 page)

“Enough!” Catherine barked. “Paul, stop nagging the prince and take a seat. And you…” She turned to Grisha, stared at his broad and heaving chest as he towered over the table. “Stop teasing him, little kitten. You don't look well. You don't need the agitation.”

The Thomassin greyhound snapped at Grisha's boots as he sat back down.

“And you're upsetting my dog,” Catherine added. “The last thing I need is a nipped finger tonight.” She peeked under the table. “I know he has turned into something of a grouch in his dotage, but honestly, I don't understand what is wrong with him sometimes.”

The Thomassin skulked into a corner, but his cloudy gaze remained fixed on the pasha. The old warrior had appeared on the opposite side of the room sitting straight-backed on the large Turkish divan, arms folded, turban carefully propped on his knee.

“I don't know.” Even as Grisha spoke, he was staring at the pasha's pet lion, seated faithfully at his master's feet. The lion's giant pink tongue shot out of his mouth and he licked his chops. Grisha caught a glimpse of the lion's pointed teeth set back in his wide jaws, the twitch of his ears. No wonder the dog and the monkey were so upset.

“Mother thinks you've lost your courage,” Paul said, “when it comes to taking on England and their Prussian allies over the jewels of New Russia.”

“Those were not my exact words. I only suggested the prince no longer seeks battles.”

“You have won,” the pasha told Grisha. “She wants to help you. And as she is so fond of repeating, delay is death.”

Grisha looked around the table. Paul was now grappling with the monkey, who had finally ripped the medal from his sash. He tried to extract it from the animal's greedy hands. Zubov smothered laughter, while Catherine stared even more intently at her cards. It was as though they were in another world entirely, which of course they were.

“Your powerful woman will build the mosque. It is the slightest token after what you did to our cities. You are a conqueror and you can have your conqueror's guilt assuaged. You should be celebrating. Why are you still upset?”

“I am not upset.” Grisha spoke harshly and out loud without meaning to do so. Catherine looked up from her cards. “So I don't know why the dog would be,” he added quickly.

“Thank her and return to the south,” the pasha said. “This is the will of Allah.”

The room around him seemed to dissolve, except for the pasha and his lion, still sitting, waiting patiently for his reply.

The heat of the southern summers could be unbearable. Grisha never spoke of it in front of his men, instead praising the blue skies and healthy atmosphere, particularly after the frozen horrors of winter campaigns. Secretly he longed for frigid nights and droplets of snow clinging to pine trees.

But when the winter came at last to Ochakov, the supplies for his men began to dwindle. If they were cut off entirely, the men would freeze to death. They would starve. The camp already stank of bowels loosened by dysentery. They could not withstand another winter. Grisha received new missives from St. Petersburg, from the other generals, even from Catherine herself. Why wouldn't he take action? Why wouldn't he begin the siege?
Delay is death.

Grisha grew careless. One day he marched onto the field in full uniform, daring their enemies to kill him and take his head as a prize. That's when the rumors began. He had a death wish, or so it had been whispered around the encampment when his junior officers thought he couldn't hear. But Grisha only assumed God would will his fate, as he always had.

Others under his command had not been so favored by providence. After Russian prisoners were taken, they all waited, knowing the faces of the prisoners would reappear. Hours later they did, bodies missing but eyes wide open, mouths twisted in agony. Heads strung along the walls outside the fortressed city.

Grisha remembered the men as they had been in life, laughing, wrestling with each other over tobacco, full of themselves. Proud men, foolish men, arrogant men, but valiant Russian men nonetheless. And to be reduced to this … He saw the heads when he closed his eyes, when he attempted to pray or to sleep. Images of those same men in life haunted him, tortured him: happy, drinking, slapping one another on the back, galloping on their horses. Honorable combatants in war. Precious souls in the eyes of God.

Men of his tribe, his people.

Tears pinched the corners of his eyes.

The pasha dipped his head and rubbed his brow as though he knew Grisha's thoughts. The lion placed its chin on the pasha's lap, much as the Thomassin had with Grisha.

There hadn't been a choice. No other way. He had to storm Ochakov. He'd kept telling himself that over and over. If he had waited any longer more of his men would have died: from cold, from exposure, from lack of nourishment. The raiding bands continued to swipe soldiers in the middle of the night and display their heads on pikes the next morning, vibrant young men now refashioned into the macabre.

“I had no choice,” Grisha said.

The room came back into focus. Catherine, Zubov, and Paul all stared at him.

He quickly chose a card and tossed it to the center of the table. “No choice at all.” He managed a smile. The pasha and his lion had disappeared.

Catherine's features tightened. There had been a time when he craved her matronly concern nearly as much as he craved their time alone in the bedroom. He let her fawn over him.

“Are you not well?”

Grisha wiped away the perspiration and returned his handkerchief to his pocket. “Only fatigued,
matushka
.”

“Speak the truth. What is wrong?” Catherine's gentle hand shook his shoulder, soft as rose petals. “It is the return of malarial fever? You must see a doctor.”

Grand Duke Paul drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Really, Mother, such a fuss over this man. Call a nursemaid to care for your husband, if you must.”

Paul had spoken rapidly; the last part came under his breath. But as soon as the grand duke said “husband,” Zubov's features grew dour and his skin pale as snow. Only a moment before, Zubov had seemed so smug, but that confidence had been as false as people claimed Grisha's villages in the south had been. He gave the impression now of a death mask.

Still, Grisha didn't care to talk about the marriage in front of Zubov. “I do not need a doctor,” Grisha told Catherine. “Only a good night's sleep.”

The room started to roll beneath him, as they said the earth had moved in Lisbon so many years ago. Grisha prayed he could make it to his feet. He wondered how far Anton had wandered from this room and how quickly he could get inside a carriage. He longed to scream Anton's name, to summon him to his side.

“Perhaps I should save this discussion for another time,” Grisha said wearily. He stumbled to his feet and gave the Thomassin one last reassuring pat on the head.

“I've never known you to abandon whist,” Catherine said, frowning. “I hope it is nothing worse than what you say. I still need you, as ever. We still have peace terms to negotiate with our old foes the Turks. I trust you will handle them.”

“Either way, it seems rest would be just the ticket,” Zubov said, shaking off the death mask and returning to his former tone of merriment. Sensing the change in Zubov's mood, the monkey clapped his tiny hands together and emitted a whooping sound of delight. “Now that your plans for the Mohammedans are in order, you can lie abed.”

Grisha forced sharp words for Zubov back down his throat. He bowed and reached for Catherine's hand. He would kiss it. He would declare his love for her, just as he had when he was still a boy and she newly crowned. Their bodies as one body and their minds as one mind. But his vision failed him. Where there should have been one hand for him to grasp, he saw several. It was no use. He could not manage it.

He needed to show her he was still the man she loved, the man who could take her side as she led, support her as she needed. “I am pleased with your decision regarding the mosque,
matushka
. A celebration is in order! I plan to honor your triumphs with a ball.”

Zubov withdrew a peanut from the pocket of his jacket and waved it in the direction of his monkey, who had returned to cowering in a corner. “That sounds like so much work for a man of your age.”

Grisha expected Catherine to defend him. Instead she added, “And your condition.”

Zubov curled his large hand around Catherine's, looking pleased with himself.

Grisha stared at their hands. He had been fooling himself after all. Zubov was the man she loved now. He had a higher mountain to climb than he had anticipated. He wasn't sure he had the strength. He wanted out of this place now.

“Please take quinine,
giaour
,” Catherine said. “And see a doctor.”

“Yes, yes, take care.” Paul checked his gold pocket watch.

Grisha nodded and headed for the door. Catherine's gaze followed him, her eyes brimming with concern.

As Grisha left, he heard Zubov say, “Malaria? Is that what ails him? Poor man, having to deal with such an affliction at his age. He should be encouraged to rest more often.”

“Don't worry about Prince Potemkin. He's like a clever cat. He always lands on his feet.” But Catherine didn't sound as confident in her words as Grisha might have hoped.

*   *   *

“A ball?” Anton exclaimed. “That sounds like so much work.”

Grisha rubbed his head. Hadn't Zubov just plagued him with those very words? “If you tell me it is a task beyond my years, I might rethink your place in my household.”

The boy didn't even flinch. “It is only that you don't seem yourself.”

They had returned to his newest palace, on the outskirts of the capital, built in the neoclassical style that had so enraptured Catherine, after the ruins uncovered in the ancient city of Pompeii. He had only recently taken up residence and the massive structure still felt unfamiliar. Anton held a candelabra aloft to lead Grisha through the central hall. It was lined with towering pillars that diminished their forms, calling to mind the grandeur of the ancient world. Their boots echoed in the ghostly emptiness. Grisha tried to imagine the palace made golden with reflected candlelight from scores of chandeliers, halls filled with courtiers and commoners alike, long tables heaped with delicacies and main courses from across the empire and beyond. He had heard maize from the Americas could be a colorful addition to a festivity but he didn't think it was the right time of year for it. And the winter garden needed work. Hopefully, diplomatic difficulties with England wouldn't hinder finding a fellow from that land to help him.

Grisha stopped short, dizzy, and grasped one of the pillars for support, the marble cold underneath the thick flesh of his palm. From where he stood, he could see into one of the side rooms, a library from the looks of it, with no door to hinder his view. A boy of about the same age as Anton sprawled across a fine silken chaise longue, muddy boots propped on an embroidered pillow. He chewed on a loaf of black bread, smacking his lips as he perused one of the volumes Grisha thought he had hidden, a folio of illustrations based on a short work by a prisoner locked up in France. The marquis had managed to smuggle copies of the work to a privileged few outside of France, something about a young woman named Justine. Grisha had spent an enjoyable night with the folio himself.

The boy turned the folio, appraising the pictures from different angles.

“Ho there!” Anton thrust the candelabra forward. “What do you think you're doing?”

The servant snapped to attention, kicking his feet out from the pillow, tossing the book to the side and then gathering it back onto the chaise so it didn't hit the floor. He managed a bow in Grisha's direction.

Grisha looked at Anton. “Impressive.”

“I'm sorry, that was your prerogative, Your Highness. Only he shouldn't take advantage when you're away.” Anton caught a glimpse of one the drawings that accompanied the story and his cheeks turned beet red.

“What is your name?” Grisha asked.

The boy had lanky yellow hair that fell to his shoulders. He gave Grisha a sheepish shrug. “Oleg Ivanovich, Your Highness.”

“Oleg Ivanovich, I don't mind if you borrow volumes from my collection, only please mind your shoes stay away from a spot where I might want to rest my head. Understand?”

“I do.”

Grisha turned to Anton. “I believe that settles the matter.”

Anton scowled but led Grisha out of the library. Catching the boy with the folio had raised Grisha's mood somewhat, but he knew this evening was hopeless. Usually when his mind felt lost, he would call for his carriage and go out to play faro. None of that tonight. He'd had enough cards for one evening, watching Zubov's smug face as he tossed another card on the table and his monkey chattered like an idiot. Grisha planned only to bathe, change into his ermine robe, and sleep until he felt himself again.

His body was vulnerable to both melancholy and malarial fever. He wasn't sure which attacked him now. Perhaps both. Either way, he'd found the best defense: a combination of rest and sensual pleasure. He would try to focus on a picture on the wall or a particularly lovely piece of music he'd commissioned from his orchestra. And then he would steer his mind to a peaceful place, perhaps accompanied by a religious chant his friend Jacob Zeitlin had taught him, in the manner of the devout Orthodox Jews.

He would have his cook prepare hot chocolate with amaretto or some other such delight. And then he would lie on his back and relax and put Platon Alexandrovich Zubov as far from his mind as possible. He refused to think of the besotted look on Catherine's face when she gazed at the boy. It made him sick inside.

He gave instructions to Anton to relay to the chef. Once Anton had gone, he entered his bedroom. It felt overly warm. He had expected the chill of the pasha in the master bedroom, tormenting him with further memories of Ochakov. Grisha did not think he could tolerate any more visions.