A year shall come of Russia’s blackest dread;
Then will the crown fall from the royal head,
The throne of tsars will perish in the mud,
The food of many will be death and blood.

—M
IKHAIL
L
ERMONTOV
(
1830
)

Russia: mysterious dark continent, “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma” in Winston Churchill’s phrase, remote, inaccessible to foreigners, inexplicable even to natives. That is the myth, encouraged by Russians themselves, who would prefer that no one discover who they really are and how they really live.

—R
OBER
t K
AISER
,
Russia: The People and the Power
(
1984
)

For all its trials, for all its mistakes, the story of Russia at the end of the [twentieth] century must be counted as a kind of revival, a resurrection.

—D
AVID
R
EMNICK
,
Resurrection: The Struggle for a New Russia
(
1997
)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Again, some thanks. First, Pam Ahearn, my agent and friend. She’s taught me much, including what was the right title for this book. Next, to all the folks at Random House: Gina Centrello, an extraordinary publisher who gave me a chance; Mark Tavani, whose wise editorial advice is everywhere in this manuscript; Kim Hovey, who runs a top-notch publicity team, which includes Cindy Murray; Beck Stvan, the artist responsible for the gorgeous cover image; Laura Jorstad, an eagle-eyed copyeditor; Carole Lowenstein, who made the pages shine; and finally all those in Marketing, Promotions, and Sales—nothing could have been achieved without their dedicated efforts. Also, many thanks to Dan Brown, who offered nothing but kindness to a rookie writer and proved that success does not spoil generosity. As with
The Amber Room,
I cannot forget Fran Downing, Nancy Pridgen, and Daiva Woodworth. Every writer should be blessed with such a wonderful group of critics. And finally, above all, my wife, Amy, and daughter, Elizabeth. Together, they make life both interesting and wonderful.

TIMELINE OF RELEVANT EVENTS OF RUSSIAN HISTORY

F EBRUARY 21, 1613	Mikhail Feodorovich proclaimed Tsar

O CTOBER 20, 1894	Nicholas II ascends the throne

A PRIL 5, 1898	Nicholas II presents Lilies-of-the-Valley egg, created by Carl Fabergé, to his mother

D ECEMBER 16, 1916	Rasputin murdered by Felix Youssoupov

M ARCH 15, 1917	Nicholas II abdicates his throne; he and his family are arrested and held

O CTOBER 1917	Bolshevik Revolution; Lenin takes power

1918	Russian civil war begins; Whites fight Reds

J ULY 17, 1918	Nicholas II, his wife, Alexandra, and their five children are murdered in Yekaterinburg

A PRIL 1919	Felix Youssoupov flees Russia

1921	Russian civil war ends; Reds, led by Lenin, triumph

S EPTEMBER 27, 1967	Felix Youssoupov dies

M AY 1979	Grave site of Nicholas II and his family is located outside Yekaterinburg

D ECEMBER 1991	Soviet Union dissolves

J ULY 1991	The remains of Nicholas II and his family are exhumed; two of the imperial children are not found in the mass grave

1994	The remains are positively identified, but no evidence of the two missing children is ever found

PROLOGUE

ALEXANDER PALACE
TSARSKOE SELO, RUSSIA
OCTOBER 28, 1916

Alexandra, Empress of all Russia, turned from her bedside vigil as the door swung open, the first time in hours her gaze had been diverted from the pitiful child lying prone beneath the sheets.

Her Friend rushed into the bedroom, and she burst into tears. “Finally, Father Gregorii. Thanks to precious God. Alexie needs you terribly.”

Rasputin swept close to the bed and made the sign of the cross. His blue silk blouse and velvet trousers reeked of alcohol, which tempered his usual stench, one her court ladies had said reminded them of a goat. But Alexandra had never cared about any odor. Not from Father Gregorii.

She’d sent the guards to look for him hours before, mindful of the stories of how he loved the Gypsies on the outskirts of the capital. Many times he would exhaust the night there with drink, in the company of prostitutes. One of the guardsmen even reported that the dear father had paraded across tabletops with his trousers down, proclaiming the delight his ample organ bestowed on the ladies of the Imperial Court. Alexandra refused to believe such talk about her Friend and promptly had the guard reassigned far from the capital.

“I have been searching for you since twilight,” she said, trying to get his attention.

But Rasputin’s focus was on the boy. He fell to his knees. Alexie was unconscious and had been for nearly an hour. Late in the afternoon, the boy had been playing in the garden when he fell. Within two hours the cycle of pain had started.

Alexandra watched as Rasputin peeled back the blanket and studied the right leg, blue and swollen to the point of grotesqueness. Blood was pulsating out of control beneath the skin, the hematoma now the size of a small melon, the leg drawn up against the chest. Her son’s gaunt face was devoid of color, except for dark smears beneath both eyes.

She gently brushed the child’s light brown hair.

Thank God the screaming had stopped. The spasms had been coming every quarter of an hour with morbid regularity. A high fever had already made him delirious, but he’d continued to sound a constant wail that ripped her heart.

Once he became lucid and pleaded, “Oh Lord, have mercy on me,” and asked, “Mama, won’t you help me?” Then he wanted to know if the pain would stop if he died. She could not bring herself to tell him the truth.

What had she done? This was all her fault. It was well known that women passed on the trait for hemophilia, but were never affected. Her uncle, brother, and nephews had all died from the disease. But she never considered herself a carrier. Four daughters had taught her nothing. Only when the blessed son finally arrived twelve years ago had she learned the painful reality. Beforehand, not one doctor had cautioned her of the possibility. But did she ever ask? No one seemed willing to volunteer anything. Even direct questions were many times avoided with nonsensical answers. That was why Father Gregorii was so special. The
starets
never held back.

Rasputin closed his eyes and nestled close to the stricken boy. Flecks of dried food littered his wiry beard. The gold cross she’d given him hung around his neck. He grasped it tight. The room was lit only by candles. She could hear him muttering, but could not make out the words. And she dare not say anything. Though she was Empress of All Russia, the tsarina, she never challenged Father Gregorii.

Only he could stop the bleeding. Through him God protected her precious Alexie. The tsarevich. Sole heir to the throne. Next tsar of Russia.

But only if he lived.

The boy opened his eyes.

“Don’t be afraid, Alexie, everything is all right,” Rasputin whispered. The voice was calm and melodious, but firm in its conclusion. He stroked Alexie’s sweaty body from head to toe. “I have driven away your horrid pains. Nothing will hurt you anymore. Tomorrow you will be well, and we will play our jolly games again.”

Rasputin continued to caress the boy.

“Remember what I told you about Siberia. It is full of huge forests and endless steppes, so large no one has seen the end of it. And it all belongs to your mama and papa and, one day, when you are healthy, strong, and big, it will be yours.” He clutched the boy’s hand in his. “One day I will take you to Siberia and show it all to you. The people there are so different from here. The majesty of it all, Alexie. You must see it.” The voice stayed calm.

The boy’s eyes brightened. Life returned, as quick as it had left hours ago. He started to raise himself from the pillow.

Alexandra became concerned, afraid he would inflict a fresh injury. “Take care, Alexie. You must be careful.”

“Leave me alone, Mama. I must listen.” Her son turned to Rasputin. “Tell me another story, Father.”

Rasputin smiled and told him about humpbacked horses, the legless soldier and eyeless rider, and an unfaithful tsarina who was turned into a white duck. He spoke of the wildflowers on the vast Siberian steppes, where plants have souls and speak to one another, how the animals, too, could speak and how he, as a child, had learned to understand what horses whispered in the stable.

“See, Mama. I’ve always told you horses could speak.”

Tears welled in her eyes at the miracle before her. “You are so right. So right.”

“And you will tell me everything you heard from the horses, won’t you?” Alexie asked.

Rasputin smiled approvingly. “Tomorrow. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Now you must rest.” He stroked the boy until the tsarevich dozed back to sleep.

Rasputin stood. “The Little One will survive.”

“How can you be sure?”

“How can you not?”

His tone was indignant and she instantly regretted her doubting. She’d many times thought her own lack of faith was the cause of Alexie’s pain. God was perhaps testing her through the curse of hemophilia to see the strength of her beliefs.

Rasputin stepped around the bed. He knelt before her chair and grasped her hand. “Mama, you must not forsake our Lord. Do not doubt His power.”

Only the
starets
was allowed to address her with such informality. She was the
Matushka,
Little Mother; her husband, Nicholas II, the
Batiushka,
Little Father. It was how the peasantry viewed them—as stern parents. Everyone around her said Rasputin was a mere peasant himself. Perhaps so. But he alone could relieve Alexie’s suffering. This peasant from Siberia with his tangled beard, stinking body, and long greasy hair was heaven’s emissary.

“God has refused to listen to my prayers, Father. He has forsaken me.”

Rasputin sprang to his feet. “Why do you speak this way?” He grasped her face and twisted her toward the bed. “Look at the Little One. He suffers horribly because you do not believe.”

No one other than her husband would dare touch her without permission. But she did not resist. In fact, she welcomed it. He whipped her head back and bore a gaze deep into her eyes. The full expression of his personality seemed concentrated in those pale blue irises. They were unavoidable, like phosphorescent flames at once piercing and caressing, far off, yet intent. They could see directly into her soul, and she’d never been able to resist them.

“
Matushka,
you must not speak of our Lord this way. The Little One needs you to believe. He needs you to put your faith in God.”

“My faith is in you.”

He released her. “I am nothing. Merely the instrument through which God acts. I do nothing.” He pointed skyward. “He does it all.”

Tears sprang in her eyes and she slumped from the chair in shame. Her hair was unkempt, the once beautiful face sallow and wizened from years of worry. Her eyes ached from crying. She hoped no one entered the room. Only with the
starets
could she openly express herself as a woman and mother. She started to cry and wrapped her arms around his legs, her cheeks pressed tight to clothes that stank of horses and mud.

“You are the only one who can help him,” she said.

Rasputin stood rigid. Like a tree trunk, she thought. Trees were able to withstand the harshest Russian winter, then bloom anew every spring. This holy man, whom God had certainly sent, was her tree.

“Mama, this solves nothing. God wants your devotion, not your tears. He is not impressed with emotion. He demands faith. The kind of faith that never doubts—”

She felt Rasputin tremble. She released her hold and stared up. His face had gone blank, his eyes rolled to the top of his head. A shiver quaked through him. His legs went limp and he crumpled to the floor.

“What is it?” she asked.

He did not reply.

She grabbed him by his shirt and shook him. “Speak to me,
starets.
”

Slowly he opened his eyes. “I see heaps, masses of corpses, several grand dukes and hundreds of counts. The Neva will be all red with blood.”

“What do you mean, Father?”

“A vision, Mama. It has come again. Do you realize before long I shall die in terrible agony?”

What was he saying?

He grabbed her arms and pulled her close. Fear filled his face, but he wasn’t really looking at her. He was focused far off, beyond her.

“I shall leave this life before the new year. Remember, Mama, if I be killed by common assassins the tsar has nothing to fear. He will remain on his throne with nothing to fear for your children. They will reign for hundreds of years. But, Mama, if I am murdered by boyars, their hands will remain soiled by my blood for twenty-five years. They will leave Russia. Brother will rise against brother, and they will kill each other in hate. Then there will be no nobles in the country.”

She was frightened. “Father, why are you speaking like this?”

His eyes came back from beyond and focused on her. “If one of the tsar’s relatives carries out my murder, none of your family will live more than two years. They will all be killed by the Russian people. Be concerned for your salvation and tell your relatives I paid for them with my life.”

“Father, this is nonsense.”

“It is a vision, and I have had it more than once. The night is dark with the suffering that is before us. I shall not see it. My hour is near, but though it is bitter, I do not fear it.”

He started to tremble again.

“Oh, Lord. The evil is so great that the Earth will tremble with famine and sickness. Mother Russia will be lost.”

She shook him again. “Father, you must not talk like this. Alexie needs you.”

A calm overtook him.

“Fear not, Mama. There is another vision. Salvation. This is the first time it has come to me. Oh, what a prophecy. I see it clearly.”

BOOK: the Romanov Prophecy (2004)

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