tell? If Zmyeevich shot his bolt too soon, the young tsarevich might never live to be tsar, and the chance would be lost for another generation. Zmyeevich would wait until there was certainty.
And what would Yudin do? He and Zmyeevich were no longer allies – far from it – and Zmyeevich was not to be taken lightly as an enemy. For Yudin there seemed only two options: to win Zmyeevich’s favour, by helping him, or to defeat him for ever.
He had not yet decided. And in order to decide he needed knowledge. There was no rush to it. Nikolai was healthy and had many years of life before him. When he did die then his son’s blood would take on the highest importance, but for now it was merely a matter of interest. Yudin revelled in such matters.
The bell sounded for a second time. Now that the sound was not deflected by the walls of the Kremlin, Yudin could get a better idea of where it was coming from: almost straight ahead of him – the Assumption Belfry. It was the Assumption Bell itself that had been rung. A few passers-by stopped to look, surprised that the bell should be sounded at that time of day, but Yudin pressed on. He had his microscope and he had his blood sample and he was eager to make use of them. He was right in front of the belfry now, and his office was only a few minutes away.
At the back of his mind, a memory lurked – almost like the sun, prowling below the horizon, waiting. There was some tradition about that particular bell that he could not remember. It had to strike three times. It had happened once before in his lifetime, or at least since he had been in Russia, but he had not been in Moscow to hear it. It marked an event that happened rarely – an event that would change everything.
The bell was struck for a third time and memory rushed back to Yudin. He continued to walk, but only because he lacked the willpower to make himself stop. His mind focused solely on the awful realization, closing out the world around him and attempting to calculate the ramifications for Russia, for the Romanovs and most of all for himself. When the Assumption Bell tolled three times it conveyed a precise and unmistakable message – that the tsar was dead. The last time it happened had been in 1825 and Yudin had been far away in the south, in Taganrog, close – and it was no coincidence – to the deathbed of Tsar Aleksandr. He had been on a boat with Zmyeevich and seen the flag lowered to half-mast. He remembered his horror as Zmyeevich announced that he could sense no connection with Aleksandr, that the tsar would not be reborn as a
voordalak
and that he had died a normal death.
That moment had marked the parting of the ways for Yudin and Zmyeevich, and had almost cost him his life. For Zmyeevich the cost had been merely a postponement – a knowledge that the Romanov Betrayal could not be avenged for another generation, not before the day when Aleksandr II held sway as Tsar of All the Russias. That day had arrived – and Yudin was quite unprepared.
He broke into a run.
He was the spitting image of his father and had the same temperament. Tamara’s nephew burst into the Lavrovs’ drawing room without knocking, shouting the phrase, ‘Have you heard?’ and then stopping to catch his breath.
‘Vadim Rodionovich, how dare you!’ Valentin’s stern shout at his grandson reminded Tamara of her own youth, when Valentin would shout at her and Rodion, and with equally good reason. She was relieved, however, at Vadim’s arrival, which had broken the uncomfortable silence of her visit.
Vadim was too out of breath to speak and instead just stood there, panting. It had been four years since Tamara had seen him last. He reminded her of how her own sons, Stasik and Luka, might have grown up, and she was surprised to find such thoughts more of a pleasure than a cause for tears. Yet the tears still came often.
‘But have you heard?’ Vadim asked again.
‘Heard what, Vadya?’ she asked him, with a little
And what would Yudin do? He and Zmyeevich were no longer allies – far from it – and Zmyeevich was not to be taken lightly as an enemy. For Yudin there seemed only two options: to win Zmyeevich’s favour, by helping him, or to defeat him for ever.
He had not yet decided. And in order to decide he needed knowledge. There was no rush to it. Nikolai was healthy and had many years of life before him. When he did die then his son’s blood would take on the highest importance, but for now it was merely a matter of interest. Yudin revelled in such matters.
The bell sounded for a second time. Now that the sound was not deflected by the walls of the Kremlin, Yudin could get a better idea of where it was coming from: almost straight ahead of him – the Assumption Belfry. It was the Assumption Bell itself that had been rung. A few passers-by stopped to look, surprised that the bell should be sounded at that time of day, but Yudin pressed on. He had his microscope and he had his blood sample and he was eager to make use of them. He was right in front of the belfry now, and his office was only a few minutes away.
At the back of his mind, a memory lurked – almost like the sun, prowling below the horizon, waiting. There was some tradition about that particular bell that he could not remember. It had to strike three times. It had happened once before in his lifetime, or at least since he had been in Russia, but he had not been in Moscow to hear it. It marked an event that happened rarely – an event that would change everything.
The bell was struck for a third time and memory rushed back to Yudin. He continued to walk, but only because he lacked the willpower to make himself stop. His mind focused solely on the awful realization, closing out the world around him and attempting to calculate the ramifications for Russia, for the Romanovs and most of all for himself. When the Assumption Bell tolled three times it conveyed a precise and unmistakable message – that the tsar was dead. The last time it happened had been in 1825 and Yudin had been far away in the south, in Taganrog, close – and it was no coincidence – to the deathbed of Tsar Aleksandr. He had been on a boat with Zmyeevich and seen the flag lowered to half-mast. He remembered his horror as Zmyeevich announced that he could sense no connection with Aleksandr, that the tsar would not be reborn as a
voordalak
and that he had died a normal death.
That moment had marked the parting of the ways for Yudin and Zmyeevich, and had almost cost him his life. For Zmyeevich the cost had been merely a postponement – a knowledge that the Romanov Betrayal could not be avenged for another generation, not before the day when Aleksandr II held sway as Tsar of All the Russias. That day had arrived – and Yudin was quite unprepared.
He broke into a run.
He was the spitting image of his father and had the same temperament. Tamara’s nephew burst into the Lavrovs’ drawing room without knocking, shouting the phrase, ‘Have you heard?’ and then stopping to catch his breath.
‘Vadim Rodionovich, how dare you!’ Valentin’s stern shout at his grandson reminded Tamara of her own youth, when Valentin would shout at her and Rodion, and with equally good reason. She was relieved, however, at Vadim’s arrival, which had broken the uncomfortable silence of her visit.
Vadim was too out of breath to speak and instead just stood there, panting. It had been four years since Tamara had seen him last. He reminded her of how her own sons, Stasik and Luka, might have grown up, and she was surprised to find such thoughts more of a pleasure than a cause for tears. Yet the tears still came often.
‘But have you heard?’ Vadim asked again.
‘Heard what, Vadya?’ she asked him, with a little
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