An immense strength surged through him and buoyed him with hope and elation. He had his answer. He could stay in Russia, share his life with Lisa, and be happy with her. Yes, he had the answer.
“I shall marry Lisa. Shamil can sell the princesses and kill them. I disavow all of his crimes and disown him for his barbarity. He is nothing to me.”
But the victory of love, the triumph of hope over fate, was ephemeral.
“But then, how will we ever find peace after that? How can we construct our own happiness—a family, children—upon the deaths of twenty-three people?
“Honor demands that I deny all that I feel, renounce all I desire, to save the captives. I have no alternative. The czar knows it. He knows that Lisa cannot love a man who has built his life upon an act of cowardice. He knows that I shall lose her either way. What would my wife think if I refused to return to my father and spare his victims? What would I think of myself?
“Yes, I will lose her. Les jeux sont faits, and were from the very beginning. I have no choice, though they let me believe that I did. It’s all been an illusion. No matter whether I stay or go, our life is over, and our happiness is dead. At the very least, we can save the princesses.”
“[…] Late this morning, Lieutenant Shamil entered my office. He brought me his response. I suppose he had done some difficult soul searching.
“At the conclusion of his reflections, the sentiment of filial love prevailed, and his immense respect for his father ultimately convinced him. He was serious and pensive when he announced to me that he was ready to join him. I asked him to confirm his decision in writing, immediately, on the sheet of paper I handed him. He deigned to write a single sentence: ‘I accept returning to my father, according to his wishes and with the permission of His Majesty.’
“He had nothing more to say once he had agreed, and that was sufficient. I hope that the Ministry will find these few words adequate. I have sent him back to the Vladimirsky Lancers until further notice. I beg Your Excellency to inform me of the Emperor’s wishes concerning him.
“Should I send him to Saint Petersburg?
“Please find enclosed with this letter the accord signed by Lieutenant Shamil. […]”
Just as he had fifteen years ago at Christmastime, Dmitri Milyutin escorted Jamal Eddin through the salons. The two men were the same height now. They wore similar uniforms and walked at the same pace.
Tomorrow Petersburg would rise before dawn to celebrate the first day of the new year with a visit to the Winter Palace, as was customary. The candles on the Christmas trees of the grand dukes’ apartments would be lit at midnight the night before, and garlands of tinsel would decorate the immense Christmas tree in the Throne Room. It was there already, glittering with shiny red apples and bonbons, pathetic and solitary in the twilight of the czar’s reign. The two officers detoured around it without so much as a pause or a glance.
With their spurs jangling and their sabers clicking and scraping the parquet, the men’s boot steps echoed down the corridors. The sounds broke the silence like a knell. The days when the police chief had sung of the future of Russia, comparing the new year to a fireworks display whose splendor illuminated the world, seemed long ago. The drawn curtains in the middle of the day, the veiled mirrors, the emptiness and shadows—everything here spoke of death and disaster.
The few courtiers who mingled in the White Hall voiced their thoughts out loud, and no chamberlain silenced them. They said that the czar was at the end of his tether, exhausted and worn out. He had been in power too long—just think, thirty years—and his judgment had suffered. How else could one explain this string of defeats, if not to attribute them to his own errors and indecision? How could one explain the thousands of wounded at Sebastopol and the siege that promised to worsen as the city became bogged down by winter?
Absorbed in his thoughts, Jamal Eddin did not even hear them. He lifted the end of his saber, conscious of the racket that their martial pace made in the stairway leading to the small study.
His Majesty had moved back to his office on the ground floor, which still contained its familiar objects, its camp bed, and its old English lap rug. This was the narrow study where they had first met.
Outside the snow was falling in big flakes, just as it had that first time.
And like the first time, Jamal Eddin was chilled to the bone, overcome with sadness, anxiety, and fear of the future.
Back to the beginning.
Milyutin stopped in the waiting room. Lieutenant Shamil would see the czar alone.
Jamal Eddin stared at the familiar figure, standing in the alcove at the window in his usual pose, but he scarcely recognized him. No one had taken the trouble to warn him. Stooped, much thinner, his complexion leaden, and tottering on his feet, the czar was a ghost of his former self. He did not bother with dramatic effect and paused only briefly in the backlight before approaching the young man with that robotic step Jamal Eddin had noticed when they had met last year. The czar hugged him briefly. He seemed distracted, his mind elsewhere. He nonetheless made an effort to summon his habitually warm paternal tone.
“I expected you. I’m glad to see you, my child, very glad. We have so much to talk about. Sit down. I’ve brought you here so we could talk about your future, face to face. I understand you want to go home. Are you very sure?”
The czar said what he had to say, and his voice was affectionate. But there was no light in his eyes, no warmth in his words. He did not appear to differentiate his separation from Jamal Eddin from any of the others; he had seen too much tragedy, and for too long. The grand emotional displays that he usually enjoyed, the tears and embraces and effusions, were absent.
“I haven’t answered Prince Orbeliani and Prince Chavchavadze. I was waiting for you to confirm your intentions to me. You can still change your mind.”
Why was he putting on this show? The czar had given his consent long ago. Jamal Eddin had received letters from the two families thanking him for his agreement and begging him to hurry. Even Shamil knew he was planning to return.
The czar’s disingenuousness was obvious and added to the young man’s confusion, destroying what was left of his composure.
He stiffened.
“Your father has asked for the authorization to send emissaries to speak with you on his behalf. Would you like to talk to them and reserve your decision until after you have heard what they have to say?”
“I have no need to meet my father’s emissaries to be convinced, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“You do not wish to see them?”