‘No, sir, but you have an army at your disposal.’
His head snapped up and he stared at me in surprise, his eyes opening wide at my impertinence, and even I felt utterly shocked that I had said such words.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said after what seemed like an eternity had passed.
‘Sir,’ I said, scrambling to correct myself, ‘I misspoke. I only meant that Kolek was in thrall to his father, that’s all. He was trying to please him.’
‘So it was his father who wanted my cousin murdered? I should send soldiers to arrest him, should I?’
‘Only if a man can be arrested for the thoughts that are in his head and not the actions that he commits,’ I said, for if I was responsible for the death of my oldest friend, I was damned if I was going to have his father’s blood on my hands too.
‘Indeed,’ he said, considering this. ‘And no, my young friend, we do not arrest men for such things. Unless their thoughts lead to plans, that is. Assassination is a terrible thing. It is a most cowardly form of protest.’
I said nothing to this; I could think of nothing to say.
‘I was only thirteen years old when my own grandfather was assassinated, you know. Alexander II. The Tsar-Liberator, he was called at one time. The man who freed the serfs, and then they murdered him for his generosity. A coward threw a bomb at his carriage while he travelled through streets not far from here and he escaped unhurt. When he stepped outside, another ran at him and exploded a second. He was brought here, to this very palace. Our family gathered while the Tsar died. I watched as the life seeped out of him. I recall it as if it was yesterday. One of his legs had been blown off. The other was mostly missing. His stomach was exposed and he was gasping for breath. It was obvious that he had only a few minutes left to live. And yet he made sure to speak to each of us in turn, to offer us his final benediction, such was his strength even at a time like that. He consecrated my father. He held my hand. And then he died. Such agony he must have felt. So you see, I know the consequences of this kind of violence and am determined that no member of my family will ever suffer assassination again.’
I nodded and felt moved by his story. My eyes drifted to the rows of books which lined the wall to my right and I glanced at them, narrowing my eyes to make out the titles.
‘You do not turn your head away from me,’ said the Tsar, although his voice contained more curiosity than anger. ‘It is I who turn away from you.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, looking at him again. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘More apologies,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘I can see that it will take some time for you to learn our ways here. They may seem… curious to you, I imagine. You are interested in books?’ he asked then, nodding towards the shelves.
‘No, sir,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I mean yes, Your Majesty.’ I groaned inwardly, trying to make myself sound less ignorant. ‘I mean… I’m interested in what they say.’
The Tsar smiled for a moment, seemed almost about to laugh, but then his face clouded over and he leaned forward.
‘My cousin is very important to me, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he announced. ‘But more than that, he is of extreme importance to the war effort. The measure of his loss would have been incalculable. You have the gratitude of the Tsar and all the Russian people for your actions.’
I felt it would be unworthy of me to protest any further and simply bowed my head in appreciation, holding it there for a moment before looking back up.
‘You must be tired, boy,’ he said then. ‘Take a seat, why don’t you?’
I looked around and a chair similar to the one in the outside corridor, but not quite as ornate as the one in which he sat himself, was standing behind me, so I sat down and immediately felt a little more relaxed. As I did so, I stole a quick glance around the room, not looking at the books now but observing the paintings on the walls, the tapestries, the objets d’art which sat on every available surface. I had never seen such opulence before. It was quite breathtaking. Behind the Tsar, just over his left shoulder, I saw the most extraordinary piece of ornamental sculpture and, despite my rudeness in staring, my eyes could not help but focus on it. The Tsar, taking note of my interest, turned around to see what had captured my attention.
‘Ah,’ he said, turning back and smiling at me. ‘And now you have noticed one of my treasures.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, trying my best not to shrug. ‘It’s just… I’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful.’
‘Yes, it is rather fine, isn’t it?’ he said, reaching across with both hands for the egg-shaped statue and placing it on the desk between us. ‘Come a little closer, Georgy. You may examine it in more detail if you wish.’
I pulled my seat forward and leaned in. The piece was no more than seven or eight inches in height, and perhaps half that distance in breadth, a gold and white enamelled egg, patterned with tiny portraits, supported by a three-sided eagle standing upon a red, bejewelled base.
‘It is what is known as a Fabergé egg,’ the Tsar told me. ‘The artist has traditionally presented one every Easter to my family, a new design every year with a surprise at its heart. It’s striking, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ I said, desperate to reach out and touch the exterior but terrified to do so in case I damaged it in some way.
‘This one was given to the Tsaritsa and me two years ago, to celebrate the tercentenary of the Romanov reign. You see, the portraits are of the previous Tsars.’ He spun the egg around a little and began to point out some of his ancestors. ‘Mikhail Fyodorovich, the first of the Romanovs,’ he said, indicating a small, unimposing, wizened man with a peaked hat. ‘And here is Peter the Great, from a century later. And Catherine the Great, another fifty years hence. My grandfather, who I spoke of, Alexander II. And my father,’ he added, indicating a man almost exactly like the one who sat opposite me. ‘Alexander III.’
‘And you, sir,’ I remarked, pointing to the central portrait. ‘Tsar Nicholas II.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, apparently pleased that I had noticed him. ‘My only regret is that he did not add a final portrait to the egg.’
‘Of who, sir?’
‘My son, of course. The Tsarevich Alexei. I think it would have been quite fitting to see his face there. A testament to our hopes for the future.’ He considered this for a moment before speaking again. ‘And if I do this…’ He placed his hand on the top of the egg and carefully lifted the hinged lid, ‘you see the surprise which is contained within.’
I leaned forward again so that I was practically stretched across his desk and gasped when I saw the globe contained inside, the continents encased in gold, the oceans described by molten blue steel.
‘The globe is composed of two northern hemispheres,’ he told me and I could tell by his tone that he was delighted to have an interested audience. ‘Here we have the territories of the Russias in 1613, when my ancestor Mikhail Fyodorovich acceded to the throne. And here,’ he continued, turning the globe over, ‘are our territories three hundred years later, under my own rule. Somewhat different, as you can see.’
I shook my head, lost for words. The egg was composed of such fine detailing, such exquisite design, that I could have sat before it all day and night and not have grown tired of its beauty. That was not to be, however, for after staring at the lands over which he reigned for a few moments longer, he replaced the lid on the egg and returned it to where it had stood on the table behind him.
‘So there we are,’ he said, bringing his hands together and glancing across at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s getting late. Perhaps I should tell you the other reason why I wanted to talk to you.’