Empress of the Night (13 page)

She is not alone. Grigory and his brothers have sworn to guard her with their lives. The Orlovs are brilliant tacticians. They know the power of diversions; they know how to deceive.

“A fire the likes of which St. Petersburg has not yet seen,” Grigory chuckles. A conflagration that will bring throngs of gawkers. “You’ll see, Katinka.” She won’t, really, but Catherine doesn’t interrupt her lover’s ardor. The wooden building a few doors away has been emptied a few days before. “Volunteered by a faithful friend,” Grigory says. One torch will be enough to set it ablaze. “Then you can scream all you want,” he announces with such boyish pride that her heart tightens.

But by now Grigory has been shooed away. Giving birth is not done in men’s presence.

Hours pass before the midwife tells her to push. Long hours soothed with Varvara’s promises. The arrangements have been most careful. Varvara herself will smuggle the baby out of the palace. “I’ll make sure it is well cared for … I’ll visit … every day … myself.”

It is tempting to think of another life. A well-lit parlor, Grigory at her side, around them children whose minds and hearts she can form and shape. For children need light and freedom. They need to ask questions that will be answered. Read stories that teach that nothing should be judged before it is tried first. To learn that when the light of reason shines on darkness, everything is possible.

But why dwell on what can never be? Why not think of what is possible instead?

By the time the child who could have been her death or her disgrace tears out of her and is safe in the midwife’s arms, a bundle of hungry cries, Catherine feels nothing but relief.

Nine months she has waited for this chance. To lock away what cannot be and open to what is possible.

It is April of 1762. The Emperor of Russia will never know that he has just lost his only chance to defeat her. Through the bedroom window come the wafts of smoke from the fire, animal squeals, and the excited screams of the mob.

Outside she can hear Grigory’s steps, rushing through, impatient and bursting with energy. He is a father. He has a son.

Alexei Grigoryevich.

When evening comes, Grigory lifts her up and carries her to the open window. This is what she sees: a charred building from which flames still leap, a yard where half-crazed animals still run like demons, a figure carrying a bundle wrapped in a gray shawl, entering a carriage and speeding away.

After her love child is delivered and smuggled out of the palace, Catherine grows bolder. On Vasilevsky Island, buried in a printer’s cellar, lie copies of her proclamation, which—as soon as she declares herself Empress—will be pasted on doors and pillars. These printed pages are her vow, her sacred promise. She will uphold the vision bestowed on Russia by Peter the Great, that giant among Tsars. Russians will again be proud of their Motherland; the old Europe will have no choice but to heed her sister nation, glowing with energy and strength.

When new doubts or warnings emerge, she pays them heed.
Are they true or false?
she asks herself.
Certain or merely possible?

Has anything been neglected? Left to chance?

Can anything still be done?

Who should be ordered to do it?

She is not vain enough to believe herself omnipotent. Not all can be foreseen, or prevented. Not all kept secret. When the crucial moment arrives, she will still have to ask herself:
Shall I rule? Or will I perish?

A white June night of 1762 is when all is decided. In a simple mourning dress of black silk, Alexei Orlov at her side, Catherine rides from Peterhof to St. Petersburg, along the dusty bumpy road to the army barracks. Soldiers of the Guard regiments are there to hear her plea: “Bereaved by the loss of our beloved Empress, I entrust myself and my son to you.”

The Orlovs don’t break their promises. Or throw their words into the wind.

In her hand a Holy Icon. On her forehead a greasy spot where the regimental priest has rubbed the drop of holy oil. The words Catherine has prepared and rehearsed are smooth and polished.
The glory of our beloved Motherland … the end of tyranny …

The mourning dress cast aside, she puts on the Preobrazhensky greens. The uniform fits her like a glove.
I’m one of you
, it proclaims.

“We’ve done it, Katinka! Our gamble has paid off!”

Not a gamble
, she thinks. Dark, patient hours of toil when alliances are stitched together. When what cannot be changed is undermined.

The men who throng to see and touch her are crazy with joy.

She has already chosen the words she will use to announce the new rule of reason and order.

It won’t happen at once, she will warn. Russia is a vast country. Many diverse peoples will have to be united in one common goal. For where one twig snaps in no time, a tight bundle withstands a lot of pressure. But with hard work, prosperity will come. Soon the world will take note of the powerful Christian Empire of the East.

This will be her legacy.

Someone hands her a tumbler of water, tinted reddish with wine. She drinks in gulps, soothing her throat, raw from speaking in a loud voice.

“You’ve always been my Empress,” Katya Dashkova gasps. “Always.”

Paul, her firstborn son, is staring at her, blinking. When they brought him to her, he was murmuring something with great concentration, a poem, it turned out, for his papa’s name-day feast. “I don’t want to make
a mistake,” he insisted when Catherine told him he didn’t have to practice anymore.

The child has been brought in haste. His wig has been powdered without mercy. His jacket has not been brushed. On his upturned nose, under a dab of concealing cream, a wart. Someone should be taking care of such matters. Someone more capable. Where has Varvara been when she could be of use?

Grigory and Alexei are everywhere. They storm through the Winter Palace, directing the human waves. Courtiers who want to be noted, who wish to assure the new Empress of their undying support. Petitioners waiting for a chance to thrust their harebrained schemes into her hand. Some weep. Some cluster together and whisper. A squealing voice in the back of the room proclaims the victory of justice.

Alexei Orlov has news of Peter. The deposed Emperor who fancies himself a great warrior sends messengers to St. Petersburg, one after another, surprised when they do not return. It is the messengers’ stories that Alexei gleefully repeats. Peter, annoyed at his wife’s absence, searching for her under the bed at Monplaisir Palace, as if she cared to play hide-and-seek. Peter flapping his frantic hands like a seal on an ice floe.
Das Fräulein
urging him to gather his Holsteiners and charge the capital. “Catherine is a usurper! You are the Tsar! You are a true Romanov! As soon as you show yourself to the people, they’ll abandon her!” Peter stewed in cowardly sweat, stammering, “Y-y-y-y-yes!” Stumbling over his own tongue.

Usurper … a true Romanov
. Alexei Orlov bares his upper lip as he spits these words. The white, jagged scar across his cheek is a reminder of an old fight he didn’t back away from. There is no need to spell out the dangers any further. A coward can be used by others to instigate a revolt. The new Empress is not safe yet.

“Come,
matushka
, you have to show yourself,” Alexei insists. “The people think this monster has kidnapped you! Sold you to the Prussians, in chains. Step onto the balcony. Calm the people’s fears.”

Everyone wants to touch her. Someone catches her hand and covers it with kisses. How many kisses should be allowed before she withdraws it? Two? Three? A hundred? Among unfamiliar faces that throng and
melt around her, those of her friends and supporters stand out. They are here, dressed in their best, bursting with joy and expectations. They are all her creatures, but they are not one another’s friends. Their eyes lock on hers, demanding proof of their own importance. Surely she cannot take Katya Dashkova’s silly enthusiasm seriously? Or trust Varvara Nikolayevna, a bookbinder’s daughter who pushes her nose into other people’s business? Or even think for one moment that the Orlovs deserve more than they already have?

“Come,
matushka!
Show yourself to the people! They must know you and the Tsarevich are safe.”

Alexei Orlov is beside her. Cursing under his breath that they should never have let all of these good-for-nothings inside the palace. “Now everyone is important,” he seethes. “Where were they when we needed them?”

Paul is staring at the tips of his shoes. “Is it true that Lieutenant Orlov is not afraid of anything?” her son has asked Varvara. “Not even the Devil?”

“Take your son’s hand,
matushka
,” Alexei commands. “Follow me.”

A small, slender hand stiffens in Catherine’s. She can feel the narrow bones of the rigid fingers. Paul’s steps are awkward, each movement punctuated by a waft of urine. Her son and heir has wet his pants.

Outside the palace windows, screams erupt again and again. The future is still in flux. In Oranienbaum, Peter has his Holsteiners at the ready. He has been Tsar for six months. Outside St. Petersburg he is still
batushka
, the Father of his people. Even if he is not ready to fight for his throne, others will be. The Shuvalovs are no quitters.

Catherine has no time to think it all through. Not yet. Not now, not in these first feverish hours, when everything is happening at once.

She steps out to the balcony. Down below, people are shoving forward for a better look, stamping their feet, roaring their approval. Soldiers, guards, priests, beggars. Joy mixes with impatience and unease, a heady brew. A young man has climbed a lamppost and is waving his hat. Kerchiefed women are holding Holy Icons, bunches of field flowers. Children crane their necks. An old man has knelt in the road, making the Sign of the Cross.

Catherine raises her hand.

They all stare at her, their new Empress, still in the Preobrazhensky greens. Her very presence on this balcony is a sign that all is well. That her enemies have failed, that Russia is safe.

Do they believe in her?

Suddenly, all noises stop, and then she hears someone shout, a cry that is picked up and repeated until everyone is chanting:
Long live Empress Catherine Alekseyevna! Long live Tsarevich Paul Petrovich!

She doesn’t see her son’s face, but she feels Paul straighten. His left hand is still in hers, stiff and sweaty, and she lifts both up into the air, sparking another explosion of joy from the crowd.

This is what she remembers. The two of them standing together, mother and son holding hands, as the people of Russia rejoice below. And then she hears her son’s wavering voice, asking: “Am I Emperor now?”

“There is no emperor,” the guards announce. “We take our orders from Empress Catherine II.”

Peter is my prisoner
.

Peter has abdicated
.

Peter has sworn allegiance to my rule
.

All Peter wants is his flute, his mistress, and his Blackamoor
.

Peter wants a quiet life, away from court. “Let me go back to Holstein,” her husband asks. “This is all I’ve ever wanted.”

Mercy can still take many shapes.

“He’ll turn against you, Katinka,” Grigory Orlov snarls. “A mad dog will bite the hand that feeds it.”

Listen to those who have risked their lives for you!

The Holsteiners will stand by him. Prussia will use Peter against you
.

There is already one mad Tsar in Schlüsselburg. You cannot afford another!

In the game of bloodlines there are those who have more rights to the Russian throne than a princess from Zerbst. Peter is a Romanov. Catherine is not. This is what they are saying in Moscow already. Why let another woman rule?

Peter is a man.

Peter, who stinks of tobacco and sour wine. Whose fingernails are black with dirt. Whose pockmarks flare red when he is excited or scared. Who for eighteen years has trailed her with the shifty looks of a coward.

“He called you a fool in front of the whole court, Katinka. He must be rendered harmless.”

Catherine’s head is swimming with all those voices, grunts, innuendos. Their urgent pushing, their dismay. A flash of light warns of an approaching headache.

“I have no time to think of him now,” she says.

She has to think of Peter, though. Foreign dispatches arrive addressed to him. The orders he signed are still on her desk. Proposals he drafted. Letters he has left half written. Or letters he is still writing from Ropsha, where Alexei Orlov is guarding him. Letters he signs as her
very humble, devoted servant
. Peter wants to leave for Germany with
Das Fräulein
. Her husband begs his wife and Empress not to treat him as a criminal, as he has never offended her. He appeals to her magnanimity.

I beg Your Majesty to order that no officers should remain in the same room with me, since I must relieve myself and I cannot possibly do that in front of them …