He knew the way. He had been received here several times when he was younger. It was here, in this modest room on the ground floor, that he had first met the “Great White Czar.” The camp bed, the portrait of the empress on the table, and the pastels painted by his seven children all remained engraved upon his memory, forever linked to the moment when His Majesty had returned his kinjal to him. Every time he found himself alone with the czar, he remembered that compassionate gesture. Though he only thought of it fleetingly, he had never forgotten it. And each time the memory evoked within him the same surge of admiration and gratitude for his kindness.
He thought of it today as he rushed toward the office, his confidence renewed as he recollected the incident.
The door was closed.
None of the attendants had bothered to inform him that the emperor no longer received visitors here, nor in his immense office on the second floor. He now met with his audiences in the former headquarters of his late brother, Grand Duke Mikhaïl, the gold and green salon with its Kashmir carpet and its earthenware stoves emblazoned with the battle-ax and the lictor’s fasces.
As he retraced his steps, he was struck this time by the strange atmosphere.
The embassy attachés, orderly officers, administrative personnel, and secretaries all seemed to be in a state of agitated turmoil that he hadn’t noticed on his way in.
They seemed unusually numerous and rushed, all headed in the same direction he was going. It was impossible to pass them, so he followed the flow.
“The outcome is certain,” said one of the courtiers, “since God is with us!”
He listened attentively now, catching snatches of conversation among the small groups walking alongside him, all of whom were saying the same thing.
“Russia is not fighting for any material gain.”
“She is embarking on a crusade.”
The word rang in his ears. It had never been used at Uhlan headquarters in reference to the previous six months’ preparations for a conflict with Turkey. At Torjok, they had said that the czar was arming for war, not that he was leaving on a crusade.
“We are waging a holy war,” a young girl insisted.
His blood turned to ice.
He was familiar enough with the ways of the Winter Palace to know that this was not an idea that any of them had come up with, but one dictated by the emperor. What was the czar thinking? He had better find out fast.
“We are fighting for the triumph of the eternal faith.”
“That’s why everyone is against us,” one of the maids of honor nodded. “Monumental and contradictory forces are pitted against each other, the East against the West, the Slavic world against the Latin one.”
He stopped to take stock. He must forget his own feelings, his passion, even forget about Lisa—and calm down. What on earth were they talking about?
The affair—the crusade—had begun a few years ago in Jerusalem, Turkish territory, with a quarrel between Christians. This he knew. He recalled that the czar had been livid to discover that the Muslims had allowed the Roman Catholics to be in charge of the holy places, when the honor had belonged to the Orthodox Church since time immemorial. And Russia was the protector of the Orthodox Church throughout the sultan’s territory. Catherine II had even signed a treaty to this effect with the Sublime Porte. It was an official pact. For the sultan to have broken his word, granting Napoleon III’s Catholics all the privileges that the Orthodox Church and Czar Nicholas were due, was an outright betrayal. Ambassadors and diplomats had hastened to make the Turks admit their duplicity. But the sultan, backed up by the French and encouraged by the schemes of the British, refused to budge.
That much Jamal Eddin knew. He also knew that the czar had suggested that Russia and Europe share the scraps of the Ottoman Empire, whose demise seemed imminent.
The only detail Jamal Eddin had not picked up on at Torjok was that the European powers were extremely wary of Russia’s expansion into the Balkans and the Black Sea. That proposition had been accepted on the condition that the czar (representing Russia) be excluded when it came time to divide up the remnants of the Ottoman Empire. The czar had protested the snub, insisting that he had never intended to seize Constantinople. But it was to no avail. Europe feared his appetite for conquest too much to believe him. The result would be war—war with Turkey, of course, but also with France, England, maybe Austria, and perhaps even Russia’s long faithful ally, Prussia. Now Jamal Eddin understood.
His timing could not have been worse. What did his destiny matter when the entire country was threatened? It was utterly mad! He wanted to turn back, but something pushed him inexorably toward the antechamber of the green salon with the rest of the supplicants.
The room was crawling with dignitaries, ministers, and members of the council, who had come to discuss current affairs, quite separate from military matters. Like Jamal, each had mentally practiced the speech he would present to the czar, backed up by a thousand arguments and reasons, all the way here. It was best to be prepared and to be brief; the czar never received anyone for more than ten minutes. As a result, he saw a regular parade of visitors.
The imperial schedule was further complicated by the czar’s imminent departure for Olmütz, where he planned to meet the emperor Franz-Joseph in a last-ditch effort to keep the peace.
Jamal Eddin stepped back. What good was his energy, his eloquence, his love for Lisa in such circumstances? It was mad. He should wait for a more opportune moment. Rapidly and a little awkwardly, he turned to press against the tide and make his exit. Too late.
The orderly officer opened one side of the double doors to the czar’s office and summoned him.
“If you will be so kind as to follow me, His Imperial Majesty will receive you now.”
From the back of the salon, the emperor’s resonant voice boomed jovially.
“Come in, my boy, come in! It’s always a pleasure to see you. Come protect me from all these sharks!”
The office was crowded too. A swarm of officers huddled around maps that were spread across several tables. The décor had changed, as well as the atmosphere. The looming figure of the czar across the room was the only thing that remained as it always had been. Clad in an impressive white uniform, he was standing erect, backlit by the sunlight from the window, absorbed in the files he was poring over. Jamal Eddin was familiar with his habits and knew he would maintain this pose until the last minute. An old tactic, it was a way of making his visitors slightly nervous before he surged forth out of the shadows in all his splendor. Or in all his wrath. Over time this act had become a ritual of the imperial audience.
Jamal Eddin could not see the czar’s features clearly, but he sensed his tension and fatigue. His self-control was usually evident. Today, however, he seemed to have difficulty concentrating. He handled the dossiers absently, opening this one or that without really reading them.
“Let me just finish what I was doing, my lad. It’s good to see you. You’ll tell me all about your life in Torjok. Frankly, I’d like to be in your place, with the path laid out before me. You at least know where you’re going. I,” he said to the room at large, “I seem to endure one betrayal after another. And to try to remain faithful to what I consider my duty.
“Russia shall remain faithful to her honor,” he continued, “faithful to all she is committed to.”