The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) (4 page)

Government buildings surrounded the courtyard. Russia’s tallest church was opposite its newest mint, God and Mammon eyeing each other like duelists. Atop the cathedral’s golden spire was an angel that pivoted with the wind. Ethan had told me when we first toured St. Petersburg that the holy sculpture hadn’t prevented the tower from being struck by lightning. Any failure of divine protection always amuses him; maybe because it confirms that our family’s bizarre luck is as natural as storms.

“I understand this cathedral burned,” I said to Elizabeth.

“Yes, and was rebuilt by Catherine. Providence, perhaps, sent a thundercloud to encourage improvements. The new steeple incorporates a lightning rod to prevent another fire.”

“Ethan admires Mikhail Lomonosov, the Russian Franklin. Lomonosov experimented with lightning and had a colleague killed by it, we’ve been told, and independently came up with the idea of the rod like Franklin did. He also managed to put lightning in a bottle, or rather he bottled its charge.”

“Every disaster has odd benefit,” the tsarina said. “Lomonosov was encouraged to invent. Catherine built a better church and fortified her chance at heaven. The monks got a new carillon from Holland.”

The result soars like a hymn, a rich yellow at the base and gold leaf on the spire, like a bridge between sky and earth. The top of the steeple certainly seemed to be poking heaven this day, its angel lost in the flurries. I felt it a conduit for sacred power, grace running down like lightning to cross the snowy plaza and dash against the evil of the prison walls.

“I want to show you the Goddess-mother,” Elizabeth said. “This way.”

On one side of the rectangular church, sheltered by an alcove, was a picture of Virgin and Child in the flat Byzantine style. In this portrait Jesus was more childlike than the midget man often depicted by Orthodox artists. The baby clutched its mother, cheeks pressed. Mary’s face was a serene oval, her pursed mouth much like Elizabeth’s, her elegantly long nose ruler-straight, and her eyes deep and farseeing. She looked from this world to the next.

“One of my favorite icons,” Elizabeth said. “The word comes from the Greek
eikon,
meaning ‘likeness,’ and indeed the common Russian regards the tsar as the living icon of God and the Orthodox Church as the icon of heaven.” Her voice betrayed a German wife’s skepticism. “I show you this to help you understand where you are, priestess. The style of the Russian icon, inspired by Constantinople, is not realism but dematerialization, a window from the physical world into the divine. It’s very different from paintings I grew up with on the Rhine, and at first I didn’t understand its appeal. But Russia always has one boot in this world and one boot in the next, which makes its soldiers obstinately brave. Russian misery makes Russians pious; the saying is that the less successful God is for you, the more you have to pray to Him. The Orthodox candles are like the flames that came down on the apostles. An icon can have supernatural power.”

“They’re building a cathedral to the Icon of Kazan near our apartment.”

“Yes. A dream led a young girl to that holy painting and it won a war. Russia isn’t about the brain, like Germany, or the heart, like France. It’s about the soul. Symbols have power here. Faith and superstition are more potent than reason. I’m telling you this because of the other thing I brought you to see.”

“I’m mystical too. My husband looks to the future, I to the past. We balance.”

“I hope your husband’s interests can be applied to the peculiar problem that Minister Czartoryski and I have. Let me show you why we’ve come.” She led me behind the cathedral to a plain brick building with a peculiar roof. The top was a line of squat, sturdy domes, presumably built to resist cannonballs. All were covered with snow. The building’s windows had been bricked up so that the entire structure looked like a squat loaf of lumpy bread. Two bundled soldiers miserably filled sentry boxes that flanked the stout door. Two cannon also stood guard, snow frosting each bronze barrel.

“The Royal Treasury,” Catherine told me. “A vault surrounded by a fortress with a thousand men.”

“It certainly looks impregnable.”

“My husband never visits, but I do. As a woman I pretend to be enchanted with the Treasury’s jewelry. What really draw me are the stories the objects tell. History is a record of unchecked passion and desire. So I’m no stranger here, but today you must help discourage obnoxious escort. Come.”

Our approach from the side startled the nearest sentry.

“Colonel Karlinsky,” Elizabeth demanded in the crisp royal voice of habitual command.

“Tsarina!” Eyes like saucers, he bolted to announce us. The second sentry fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the snow, an act of obeisance that of course made him useless. The first soldier pounded on the thick door, the second trembled as if we might cast him into stone, and the tsarina waited like an impatient Madonna.

Most Russian soldiers, I knew, could neither read nor write.

Karlinsky popped out in seconds to usher us inside, no doubt having been warned to wait in the anteroom until our stroll came his way. He apologized profusely for the moment of delay. “No footmen, your highness?”

“A quiet visit. No fuss.”

“We’re once again honored by your presence.” He looked puzzled by me. “I’m afraid you’ve taken us by surprise.”

“I’m here to get advice from my new companion. This is Astiza of Alexandria, a priestess and savant from Egypt. She’s an expert on the artifacts of the East.”

“A woman … scholar.” He hesitantly bowed. “It’s my honor … priestess.” Like most men his eyes paused to appreciate my features, his mouth frowned at the idea I might be capable of thought, and he then turned back to the tsarina. “Rarities of the Byzantine church?”

“Of the Turks and Persians, but our business is not yours, colonel. Astiza can establish the provenance of many fabulous things, but which treasures, and why, is my concern alone.” She looked as if this were my cue.

“I’m Greek as well as Egyptian,” I said. “Of Isis and Thoth, Athena and Odin, Enoch and Buddha. I’ve studied all creeds and all cultures.”

He looked wary. “But you’re satisfied, I trust, by the revelations of the One True God?”

“All spiritual paths lead to the same destination, colonel. At least according to Napoleon Bonaparte.”

His expression narrowed. “I’ve lost comrades to the fight against the French usurper. I wouldn’t heed anything he says.”

“This is a holy woman,” the tsarina injected impatiently. “We didn’t ask for your views.”

He bowed stiffly. “I’m honored to escort you both.”

“We’ll tour the repository alone.”

Now Karlinsky blanched. “That is against procedure.”

“It is
my
procedure, colonel. With
my
expert.”

“I annoy people with my unorthodox views, and find it simpler to consult with clients alone,” I justified. “My scholarship would bore you.”

“Apologies at my presumption.” He looked unhappy.

“As I’ve explained before, discretion and privacy remain a necessity,” Elizabeth said. “This visit, like my others, will go unrecorded.”

“Yes, tsarina.”

We passed by an office and then guardroom where the door had been shut on the soldiers inside to keep them from gawking. Next was a massive wooden door leading to the treasury. The colonel unlocked this, handed Elizabeth a ring of heavy keys, gave me a lantern, and hesitated. “May I again offer assistance?”

“Shut the door behind us.”

Its boom made us jump.

We were in a barren cell, looking ahead at a succession of grilled iron gates. Each marked a treasure room roofed by one of the brick domes, reminding me of the succession of chambers in Catherine’s palace. The storehouses were dark, their windows bricked. I lifted the lantern. The building felt like a tomb.

Elizabeth smiled like a conspirator. “Thanks for helping shed him. It’s quite enchanting to see these treasures and much more fun without Karlinsky hovering like a bat. He regards the repository as his.” She unlocked the first gate. “It’s even more enchanting to be, for one moment, alone.”

“I don’t count as a companion, tsarina?”

“You don’t count because you’re tolerable. Despite my commands Karlinsky spies, makes mental notes, and acts as impatient as a man in an embroidery shop. Besides, you were never here. Understood?”

I nodded.

The chambers beyond were like Ali Baba’s cave.

Weighty crowns. Jeweled scepters. Ermine robes. Sparkling tiaras. Ornate clocks. Golden swords. Inlaid boxes. Gem-encrusted rings. A mechanical peacock. Any single item would set an ordinary person for life. They gleamed like toys at Christmas, or the sacred candles in the Orthodox cathedrals. Many had been gifts from other monarchs or ambassadors. Some were spoils of war. Precious treasures are captured light, drops of the sun, and these shone with soulful fire. They were usually shut away in the dark unless brought out for a coronation or funeral. I felt privileged, but uncertain why I was here.

We passed through five rooms, unlocking each gate and then relocking it behind us. “The colonel will not come upon us unawares,” Elizabeth said.

The sixth room held Persian and Turkish items. I paused to admire their intricate Islamic designs in onyx and alabaster. Fabulous carpets were rolled and stacked like logs. Ancient gold jewelry from long-lost empires, crudely heavy, dated to gods as old as Egypt’s. The accumulated wealth throbbed with time. And there the treasury ended, except for a final solid door. I wondered which Zoroastrian prize Elizabeth wanted me to examine.

But she was fitting a key in the last lock. “The treasury stores both items of antiquity and those used for ceremonial occasions,” Elizabeth explained. “It has bullion to ballast our currency, valuables to trade for weapons, and jewels to dazzle queens. This is the fruit of conquest, gifts, and taxation from a million estates and businesses.”

“A Prussian told us your country is an ocean of soil.”

“Von Bonin?”

“Yes.”

“Then these are the shells upon that ocean’s beach. But that’s not what I want to show you. This last room is where objects are taken preparatory for use, so that they can be removed without organizers snooping on the rest of the treasures. Come see what that Prussian, a dog sent to fetch by his masters, most covets.” She unlocked the final door, its thick wood banded by iron. The entry squealed as if rarely opened.

The chamber beyond was almost bare.

The exception was an oval stone table that occupied the room’s center like an altar. It looked like a mummification slab from Egypt, or a tabernacle for the Grail. On top lay two medieval broad swords, dark and plain except for gilded hilts. There was no cloth, no case, and no decoration. The brick dome was blank overhead. The only light was from my lantern.

“Go ahead, take a look.”

I examined the weapons. Their steel was pitted and their edges nicked. They were clearly antique, but not particularly decorative. The swords seemed of little value compared to the hoard we’d just passed through. I glanced around. The gloomy brick walls were plain and impenetrable. The temperature was frigid.

“These look like prisoners in a cell,” I said. “Or quarantined, as if diseased. Why are they alone?”

“To await removal,” Elizabeth said. “If icons are the window into the soul of Russia, these represent Poland. My friend Adam Czartoryski calls them the most precious relics of his nation. Yet he dare not go near, lest he confirm his sympathies and give ammunition to his enemies. For the same reason I didn’t bring your husband here, and instead made up a story about silly women studying ancient jewelry. There’s an advantage to being female; Karlinsky has promised to be quiet about my visits because he believes them frivolous. I told him the tsar fears me a profligate spender constantly searching for new inspirations, which merely confirmed prejudices the colonel already had. Such secrecy might last just long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” The cell was very oppressive, making me think of the prison nearby.

“For your husband to liberate these.”

When you accept charity such as an apartment and servant, payment must always come due. My heart began to thump. “Tsarina?”

“You may call me Elizabeth, Astiza, because we must be the closest of friends. Partners. Sisters. What you see here are the Grunwald Swords, the soul of Poland. In 1410, at Grunwald Field, the grand master of Germany’s Teutonic Knights sent these swords as a challenge to King Vladislaus II of Poland. The Poles won the ensuring battle, helped by early artillery serviced by Chinese monks. The Poles kept the swords as spoils of victory, using them in coronation ceremonies ever since. The Germans have smarted from the defeat for the same four centuries. When Poland was partitioned in 1794, Catherine the Great took the swords to Russia. And now Russia, seeking an ally that happens to loathe Poland, has promised the swords to Prussia in return for partnership against Napoleon. Von Bonin is here to collect them.”

“He has only one hand and one eye.”

“He’s deadly with that prosthesis. I’ve heard that when he duels—which is often—he proposes that his opponent fight with one arm tied and one eye blindfolded, to make it fair. They foolishly agree. But if he begins to lose the battle with his left hand he raises the stump of his right, and shoots and slashes. It’s little more than murder.”

“The Prussian showed us the blade during the reception at Catherine Palace. It juts out like a snake’s tongue.”

“Lothar is a boastful lout. I tried to persuade the tsar against granting him these swords, but I’ve no influence. Alexander is desperate to drag Prussia into war in order to prolong the fight against Napoleon. But Adam thinks that if the swords were to disappear first, the Germans might suspect Russia of going back on its word. The pact might be broken. Czartoryski favors peace with France and so do I. Too many brave Russians were cut down at Austerlitz. And war will be a disaster for my own German homeland, which I predict will be colonized by France. It’s women who have the sense to bring peace, Astiza. Peace for your child Horus. Peace for my coming baby. A theft of these swords is best for Russia, best for Germany, and best for us. With peace, Bonaparte might persuade Alexander into reconstituting Poland as a buffer state.”