He kissed us.
“Bring me a woman, Samson. It is not well for a monarch to sleep alone.”
Kotikokura made a movement to go.
“Where are you going, Samson?” I asked. “Do you forget the fate of monarchs in the hands of strange women?”
“Splendid, Daniel! Splendid, Samson!”
Peter rose, stretched, and yawned.
“I no longer doubt you. I needed three signs of your wisdom and fidelity and I obtained them. We cannot remain here overnight. My royal guard is in revolt at Moscow. They have allied themselves with the nobles and churchmen who are horrified at my new ideas. They call them German ideas.”
“They are your ideas, Sire. Ideas have no validity unless they take root in a strong man’s soul.”
“Splendid, Daniel! Those traitors hate me because I wished to civilize them; they hate me because I ordered their beards shaved,—their beards full of lice and vermin. They hate me because I introduced tobacco, good manners, and sensible clothing. They call me Anti-Christ!”
“Anti-Christ!” I laughed.
“We go back at once! And oh, the revenge!” He stretched himself. “The sweet revenge! Samson, you will be busy.”
Kotikokura grinned and danced.
“But you must not let me forget myself entirely, Daniel, even if I get so exasperated at your words of prudence that I order Samson to chop your head off.”
The arrival of Peter at Moscow occasioned a universal panic. The conspirators so vociferous, so arrogant, during his absence, scurried off like frightened mice. This dismay was largely due to a rumor that I had caused to be spread from town to town as we were reaching the Capital, that the Emperor was returning with a vast army of German, Dutch, and English mercenaries whose new guns and cannons were capable of bombarding places from a distance of many miles.
The Kremlin was empty, save for some old serfs who, uncertain of what was transpiring, and unconcerned, continued to tend the gardens and to scrape slowly, drearily, the mud which the boots of the noblemen had left behind.
The Emperor seated himself upon the throne, Kotikokura in the garb of a general, heavily medaled on his left, and myself at his right. At the various entrances, officers stood at attention, their swords drawn.
“There must be no mercy, Prince,” Peter thundered. “We are in Russia now. My people understand only the knout and the sword.”
“We shall respect the customs of the land.”
“Samson, I have given you your medals in advance of your deeds. See that I am not compelled to tear them off your chest, skin and all.”
Kotikokura stiffened up and stamped his enormous sword.
I almost regretted having accompanied this strange and terrible Monarch. The affair, however, promised to be a huge comedy, and I could not refrain from taking a part in it. Kotikokura was superb in his new attire. Did he take his new position seriously? Would he deny Ca-ta-pha, preferring the mastership of a mortal monarch? Could he serve two masters? Sooner or later, there would be a crisis, I was certain. Despots weary of their favorites. I must warn Kotikokura. He was but a child.
The Patriarch, the chief of the Strelitzes and several Boyars, appeared. They formed a semicircle about the throne.
Peter glared at them in silence for a long while, then stood up and pointing his forefinger at them, exclaimed, “Traitors to your God, your Emperor, and your Country!”
They fell upon their faces, grumbling words of mercy.
“Grunting hogs, bearded and dirty! You thought you could outwit and outpower Peter Romanoff. In his absence, you turned his palace and his country into puddles of mud in which you wallowed, planning the while to rid yourself of your lawful master, divinely appointed!”
“Mercy, Little Father,” several grumbled.
“How dare you ask for mercy?”
The Patriarch raised his head. “Be unto us like Jesus, Master of all of us, Little Father!”
“Judas!” the Emperor shouted, and unsheathing his sword, severed the priest’s head with one blow. The blood jutted out of his neck like some fantastic fountain.
“Duke!” he commanded Kotikokura, “let this scoundrel’s head be placed upon a spike over the roof of the palace as a warning to others whose hearts may harbor treachery. Do the same to the rest of these wretches! Throw their carcasses to my dogs!”
“Little Father! Mercy! Mercy! We are not guilty! We were misled! Little Father!”
“Take them out! They stink like a litter of hogs.”
Kotikokura waved his sword. A bugle sounded. A company of soldiers appeared. They dragged the corpse and the bodies of the rest who were too limp to move. Kotikokura followed gravely, his sword and medals dazzling in the sun, which shone calmly through the stained glass.
I summoned an officer.
“Perfume!” I commanded.
He brought a large bottle of perfume.
“Your Majesty,” I said, “Pilate who could not endure the smell of the rabble, washed his hands with perfume at the trial of Jesus; and Nero—the lover of the beautiful—maligned and misunderstood by vulgar historians, found the essence of flowers invigorating and delightful.”
Peter cupped his hands, which I filled to the brim. He washed his face, and breathed deeply through his mouth.
“Daniel Petrovich! You will civilize us! Ah! Ah!”
He smelt the tips of his fingers for a long while.
“I am pleased to hear you say that Nero was not a monster, but a man who loved the beautiful. Great emperors are always misunderstood.”
“The shriveled blade of grass complains against the splendor of the sun. The descendants of the men whom you have ordered beheaded, may proclaim their great Emperor a monster.”
Peter smiled. “The descendants of these men will not gossip about me. They will not live long enough for that.
“My people do not respect me, Daniel Petrovich, if I do not chop their heads off.”
Kotikokura entered, followed by two officers, immensely tall. They remained at attention.
“Duke, have you carried out my instructions?”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Are the heads of the scoundrels upon the roof of my palace?”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Let us go and see them, Prince.”
Kotikokura and the officers preceded. His Majesty took my arm.
The coagulated blood of the setting sun mingled with the slowly dripping blood of the severed heads which garlanded the roof of the Kremlin, like a grotesque and horrible wreath. There was something alive in the glaring eyes which had not yet closed and in the heavy beards, shivering like ferns gray, red, and black, in the breeze.
The Tsar slapped his thighs and laughed uproariously. “Look at the Patriarch, Daniel Petrovich! There he is in the center, his mouth is wide open as if he wanted to swallow a sheep. He was always greedy. Look at the chief Strelitz! Ha, ha, ha! His left eye seems to wink—the panderer! Look at that fellow,—who is he? Let me see—yes, he is Gabriel Gabrilovich, stupid and obstinate as a jackass. Doesn’t he seem to bray! He-haw! He-haw! Ha, ha, ha! Look at the red-bearded fellow. Re is positively laughing, Prince. Watch! Laugh on, you damned wretch,—and may the devils tickle your soles forever!”
The two officers laughed. Kotikokura grinned. I tried in vain to feel the horror of the situation. It seemed so theatrical and unreal.
“Are you amused, Daniel Petrovich?”
“A little.”
“You are squeamish. The West has an effeminate sense of humor. We Russians can laugh at anything which is really funny. And aren’t they funny? Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
I smiled drearily.
“Do you pity them, Daniel Petrovich?”
“It is ridiculous to pity the dead, Your Majesty.”
“I pity the dead, Daniel Petrovich. They cannot eat, they cannot drink, they cannot laugh, they cannot kiss women.”
“Life—death—there is no difference, Sire. All things are within the Great Substance, all things partake of it.”
“I do not understand.”
I was treading on dangerous ground.
“What I meant, Your Majesty, is that after all, you have not robbed them of so much. Tomorrow, in one year, or ten, they would have died without Your Majesty’s gracious assistance. Decapitation may be a boon, a deed of mercy.”
“How?”
“You have relieved them, perhaps, of some terrible malady—a canker, leprosy,—who knows what fate had in store for them?”
“That is right and you speak most wisely, Daniel Petrovich. From now on, decapitation shall be reserved for those whose crime is excusable. Real traitors shall suffer deaths infinitely more lingering. I do not wish to be charitable. I do not mean to relieve them from greater pain. Peter Romanoff is not a doctor or a saint. He is the Tsar of Russia!”
His voice was so imperious and so final in its intonation that I dared not object to his interpretation of my words. I bowed, my right hand upon my chest.