The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) Read online

  “Everyone here is dependent on the tsar and jealous as children.”

  “Czartoryski thinks that with your help I could get my own title.” My wife wins invitations with her beauty and mystic reputation as a seer. Russians are as superstitious as sailors, their Christianity painted onto Slavic paganism.

  “Certainly your wife’s charm is your only chance, Ethan Gage.” We turned. A uniformed Prince Peter Petrovich Dolgoruki bowed to Astiza with flirtatious flourish, his white glove fluttering this way and that like a moth. He surfaced to smirk at me. “I’m astonished you married so well.”

  “Ethan saved me,” Astiza said.

  “I cannot think of another explanation. Now: Does this reception not eclipse the court of Bonaparte?”

  Dolgoruki demanded flattery even when he disdained me. The prince had reluctantly escorted us to this capital under the tsar’s order, despite a mutual contempt forged shortly before Austerlitz. He was a dashing warrior of twenty-nine; I was a skeptical forty and still striving for the kind of fortune Dolgoruki was born to. The nobleman stood like a rooster, chest out, head high, his waist bearing a golden sword of the Order of St. George that had been awarded by Tsar Alexander to his losing officers to obscure defeat. While I thought Dolgoruki the epitome of highborn arrogance, he thought me the nadir of lowborn irreverence, a man who confused cynicism with intelligence.

  Fate had kept us in orbit around each other.

  “Well, both courts speak French,” I replied. Seeking reassurance of Russian superiority was absurd since every noble in St. Petersburg dressed in French fashion, danced the polonaise, and did their best—which was not very good—to copy French manners. Russian men clumsily bobbed and weaved as they tried to master kissing both cheeks. Their women were worse, first evaluating each other’s dresses, then bussing four to six times, next promising eternal friendship, and finally speculating on the preening males. I recognized the ritual, but you have to be born to that peculiar mix of grace and wit that the French bring to their palaces. I just play the sharpshooting American and neutral diplomat.

  “I’m impressed by all the gold,” I went on. “For a nation sustained by millions of serfs, imperial Russia has accumulated more than its share of precious metal.” The country must have a mine somewhere, though it would be crass to ask for directions. “Best paint job since the Sistine Chapel. Not as holy, but damned inspiring in its own way. But it’s not the court you have to equal, Prince Dolgoruki, it’s the French army. Isn’t it?”

  He scowled. “Which you claim to know how to beat.”

  “I’ve absorbed the precepts of Napoleon.”

  “And when is this secret to be shared with our tsar?”

  “I’m awaiting Alexander’s invitation. Foreign minister Czartoryski suggested I might catch his eye here.” I dropped the name of Dolgoruki’s rival to remind the prince I was fortified with my own powerful allies. “I anticipate the tsar will want my perspective on America, too. Jefferson is my old friend, and the two leaders have written each other.” As often as I can, I mention the President and Franklin, in hope their luster will rub off. Talleyrand, Fouché, Nelson, Pitt. I’m shameless.

  “Stay away from Czartoryski. He cares more about Poland than Russia.”

  “Well, the tsar’s wife seems to like him.” It was common knowledge that Elizabeth and Adam had been lovers with Alexander’s permission, since the tsar was besotted with beautiful Polish mistress Maria Narayshkina. One needed a chart to keep track of who was sleeping with whom in St. Petersburg.

  “And the empress consort has gone on to another lover, at that fool’s peril.” Dolgoruki meant dashing Captain Alexis Okhotnikov, who strutted while the nobility quietly made bets on how long he’d live before an accident ended his unsanctioned romance with the tsar’s wife. “Make no mistake, Gage. Be useful or find yourself out in the snow. Or in Siberia, should you really displease him.”

  I smiled brightly. “I’m sure the same admonition applies to you.”

  “I was born to this. You, like Bonaparte, are a scrambler.”

  “I’m honored by the comparison. He’s an able fellow.”

  “We’ll have our revenge on him someday. Perhaps I’ll bring your wife his famous hat.”

  “I’d suggest trying peace. He’s a difficult friend, but a terrible enemy.” And I steered Astiza away, confident that Dolgoruki was simply jealous of my influence. St. Petersburg was stuffed with foreign military officers, architects, artists, gunners, chemists, diplomats, and explorers. Even the tsar’s doctor was an Englishman named Sir Alexander Crichton, which was prudent given the Russian tradition of poison and quackery.

  “You shouldn’t antagonize the noble who brought us here,” Astiza murmured. “Never humiliate a prince.”

  “The title is an honorific, like a knighthood in England.” The Dolgorukis were an old and noble family, but heredity guarantees little in Russia. A good chunk of the aristocracy is chronically bankrupt from poor soil, worse weather, absentee management, and tsarist disfavor. “Word is that Dolgoruki will be promoted to save face and sent south to fight the Turks. Good riddance.”

  “You have a dangerous flair for insult, husband.”

  “I’ve had much practice.”

  Dire circumstance has made me a periodic spy for both the French and British, with and against the French army in war, and tangled up with Red Indians, pirates, slave revolutionaries, gypsies, savants, secret societies, and seductresses. None of this has proven very profitable, but it has taught me a great deal about human nature. People will go on scheming and shooting no matter which nation hires me.

  “I understand you’re willing to betray all sides, Monsieur Gage,” said someone with a Prussian accent, as if reading my mind.

  A ruddy German as sturdy as a stump barred our way, his boots planted apart. He had blond hair, a crimson eye patch, a Teutonic cross at his throat, and enough other medals to bedeck the coin belt of a belly dancer. “You’ve served France, America, and Britain in turn.”

  “Which simply means I’m a diplomat. And you are?”

  “Count Lothar Von Bonin. I’m here to foster friendship between Berlin and St. Petersburg. I couldn’t help noticing you conversing with Minister Czartoryski.”

  “I’m his advisor. A confidant of President Jefferson. And did you hear that I’m a Franklin man?”

  “I’m a Freemason myself, and understand Franklin was a member. You as well?”

  “Missed a few meetings.” It was disquieting that odd strangers felt enough familiarity to strike up unwanted conversations. I don’t recommend having a reputation; you never know whom it will attract. “I’d have assumed Prussians too hard-headed for Masonry.”

  “Not at all. The Illuminati and Rosicrucians have their roots in Germany. Our King Frederick-Wilhelm is one of the latter. The Russians are enthusiastic Masons too, ever since the Scot James Keith introduced it. All of us mad for the occult, I suppose, to balance the tyranny of rationalism. Remarkable adventures you’ve had.”

  I tried self-deprecation. “Misadventure.”

  “And now both of us are in a place that combines science and mysticism. St. Petersburg is the head and Moscow the heart, the saying goes. The Enlightenment and Old Russia. Savants and saints.”

  “The marriage of our times,” said Astiza, who’d make a far better Mason than me. Don’t know why the fraternity won’t permit women since her gender improves any gathering. I’d add them to an infantry regiment if it were up to me. They’d lend some sense, temper the language, and clean up the camp.

  “Indeed, Madame, indeed!” His smile, however, was tightly sewn. “Something Czartoryski doesn’t entirely understand; he urges the tsar to modernize too quickly. But Slavs are different than the West. Russia is moralistic without morals, and powerful without purpose. Alexander employs liberal advisors and yet recently imposed press censorship and a secret police. So
I take lesson, and adjust my advice.” He extended his arm. “I actually admire the flexibility of your allegiances. It means we might be friends.”

  I reluctantly reached to take his hand, and was startled when I was met with an upraised ivory stump. I paused in confusion.

  There was a click, a snap, and a wicked blade a foot in length popped from the prosthesis, the candlelight catching the blade’s edge. I started. The stump had a muzzle hole as well.

  Von Bonin laughed. “Or enemies. It is your choice.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I was saved from this display of bad taste by a blare of trumpets that announced the royal family. This custom is not as pompous as Americans might assume, since a buzzing crowd needs to know to quiet down, brush off crumbs, and turn the right direction. The French had told me that elaborate etiquette was invented to avoid embarrassment, not be the cause of it.

  Certainly one needs skill for a palace soiree. The trick is to be seen, to meet useful people, and to avoid unpleasant ones like this one-handed, one-eyed Prussian. A dash of cleverness doesn’t hurt, but flippancy is frowned upon. One must never arrive too early or too late, never laugh too much or not enough, never refuse a toast, and never drink past one’s capacity.

  The source of all favor stepped into the room with his imperious mother on one arm, his unhappy wife two steps behind, and his saucy mistress right behind her. Tsar Alexander is not just a king but god on earth, his empire stretching from the Baltic to Alaska. Its mongrel-mix of more than forty million is Europe’s largest, twice that of France and eight times that of my own United States. The tsar owns everything and a system of chin, or rank, has kept the aristocracy in harness since 1649. ‘The tsar will give’ is recited with hope and resignation.

  Von Bonin watched me watching Russia’s ruler. “Alexander could lose a hundred battles and still be the planet’s most powerful counterweight to Bonaparte,” he whispered as we straightened, his blade snicking back into concealment like a naughty trick. “Limitless manpower. Just as England rules the seas, soil is the Russian ocean. And St. Petersburg is a European outpost in what is really an Asian nation. The Mongols dominated Russia for two hundred and forty years.”

  “And Prussia is squeezed between Russia and France.” I put my arm around Astiza’s waist. “A sausage in a vise.”

  “I would call us a walnut, because of our discipline.”

  “Nuts crack.”

  “Forgive my joke with my arm, Ethan Gage. I lost my hand to the French revolutionary armies at Hohenlinden and have experimented with utensils ever since. Some men are tempted to bully a cripple so I give sting to my stump. It makes a statement, does it not?”

  “Was I bullying you, sir?”

  “I merely sought your attention. I’d hate for an American innocent to be caught on the wrong side.”

  “You mean the French and Polish party of Czartoryski, as opposed to the Prussian and English party of Dolgoruki.”

  “The dowager empress favors Prussia,” Von Bonin noted.

  “And the tsarina favors France.”

  “And which, mother or wife, influences Alexander more? It’s only in friendship that I warn you not to get over your head in this Russian ocean.”

  “Unless the tsar looks my way, and not yours.” And I gently pulled Astiza to stand where she’d catch the royal eye.

  “Ethan,” my wife protested quietly.

  “Hush and smile, my brilliant beauty.”

  Alexander was as I remembered him from Austerlitz, a handsome autocrat as stiff as a wedding groom. He wore a snow-white military uniform, boots as glossy as a Chinese lacquer box, his sash blood red, his epaulettes golden, and his collar stiff. Muttonchop whiskers balanced his receding hair. He was by instinct an intellectual who’d translated Smith’s Wealth of Nations and founded five universities. Alexander’s head was usually cocked because he was partially deaf in one ear, and he moved diffidently, looking to the throng for redemption after his defeat at Austerlitz.

  Which he got. After the lunacies of his father Paul, this tsar seemed normal. The nobility genuflected and rose as he advanced like the rolling swells of a sea.

  Far grimmer and more forbidding was Alexander’s mother Maria Feodorovna, the dowager empress. She was not so much plump as hard as a ham, mother of nine, her own hair a jeweled tower, her necklace twice the weight of Alexander’s medals, her sash sky blue and her train bigger than a blanket. She steered her son by using his arm as a tiller, and peered shortsightedly but sternly to ensure we displayed respect.

  The habit of putting the tsar’s mother ahead of Tsarina Elizabeth had shocked the court at first, but was the result of brutal political bargain. After Alexander guiltily acceded to the military murder of his balmy father Paul, his mother had tried to claim succession for herself. She agreed to her son’s coronation only if she was retained as the highest-ranking female in Russia.

  Nor would Mama forgive. As a reproach for the assassination she granted her son rare audiences with a coffin placed between them, the box containing her husband’s bloody shirt. She referred to her son’s friend Czartoryski as, “That Pole.”

  So Tsarina Elizabeth not only followed mother and son, but also was sandwiched behind by Princess Maria Naryshkina of Poland, Alexander’s beautiful mistress. This minx leaned on the arm of her openly cuckolded husband, Prince Dmitri, as if he was a convenient mantelpiece. He looked hollowed by humiliation. Maria meanwhile was all smoky eyes and swaying gait, her gown displaying as much of her shoulders and breasts as physically possible without the assemblage plunging to the floor. Male heads pivoted toward her like weathervanes. I confess I took a good long gander myself.

  The tsar’s wife was as pretty as his mistress but in a very different, doll-like way, with pursed mouth, delicate chin, and downcast eyes. She had a fine figure but a more modest gown, and her pose was demure. The mother commanded attention, the mistress compelled it, while Elizabeth wished to escape it. I felt sympathy, but then her former lover Adam was my friend.

  I was waiting to tell Alexander that the weakness of the Russian army was not its generals but its lack of sergeants. Russian soldiers are brave, but without initiative. Their noble officers are eager, but remote. Lacking is a bridge between. So I stood tall, heels lifting, hoping for a glance, but mother and son passed by without acknowledgement. A royal reception has something in common with The Last Judgment.

  Alexander’s pretty wife, however, let her shy eyes find Astiza. I beamed as the tsarina fell out of line to address my curtseying partner. “You’re the Egyptian seer, Madame?”

  Astiza’s knees went almost to the floor, and she jerked at me so I bent like a marionette.

  “A student of the Tarot, tsarina, but far from an oracle.”

  “Yet you’ve studied the ancient arts of Egypt and did alchemy in Bohemia, I’ve heard.”

  “You are well informed.” Astiza slowly straightened.

  “St. Petersburg is a very small village.” She looked at me. “I’ve heard of your ingenious husband as well. An electrician and an explorer, no?”

  I stood as close to attention as I ever get. “You flatter me, tsarina. I hope to be a friend and consultant to your husband.”

  “The tsar has more advice than is good for him. And more friends.” Her eye strayed a moment to his mistress, and then turned back to Astiza. “I sometimes wonder if Bonaparte discovered secrets in Egypt that would explain the Corsican’s rapid rise.”

  “He—we—did find a book of ancient wisdom, but Napoleon is more a creature of action than learning.”

  Now Alexander’s eye did find us, as he looked back for his wife like a straying dog. It was too late to wait for her, however, because a herd of courtiers swarmed between, Dolgoruki and Von Bonin among them. Czartoryski, meanwhile, hung back to watch Astiza converse with his former lover.

  Elizabeth kept her eyes on my wife. “I’d
be curious to learn more about what you think of Napoleon and the great events of our time.” She gave me a cool glance. “Your husband’s views too, of course. But first we ladies, together.”

  “I’m flattered,” Astiza said uncertainly.

  “It would amuse me to have you tell my fortune.”

  “If it‘s truly for amusement, tsarina. I don’t want to exaggerate my ability. I was recently held prisoner for it by criminals, and barely escaped with my life. Men sometimes use knowledge for evil.”

  “So true! Which proves you have wisdom. I won’t hold you prisoner, priestess, but if you cast my fortune I’ll show you a key to your own future.” And now her gaze did swing to her old lover Czartoryski, who still looked smitten as a schoolboy. What torture is love! She aggravated his longing with a glance, and then looked once more at us. “I saw you talking to the Prussian,” Elizabeth went on. “There’s something you should know about his mission here. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “With a wicked arm,” my wife said.

  “Your husband’s resourcefulness might be just the counterweight we need.” She turned to me. “Should Monsieur Gage dare?”

  “I’m but an amateur savant.” Modesty doesn’t come naturally, but it’s something of a requirement around royals.

  The tsarina lowered her voice. “I believe Ethan must commit a daring deed to save Mother Russia. A noble crime.”

  “Must I?” Blazes, what now? I was just becoming respectable. By thunder, had the girl even winked?

  “First let us spend time as spies together,” she said brightly to my wife. “Shall we say tomorrow at ten? I’ll have an officer call at your apartment. We’ll make it a picnic.”

  “Certainly, tsarina,” said Astiza, who was not certain at all.

  “Elizabeth!” boomed the cello-deep voice of Alexander’s mother. “We’re neglecting our other guests!” The royal party pushed deeper into the crowd. Elizabeth’s silken gown swirled as she moved to rejoin them, her husband’s mistress now closer to the tsar than she was. Nobles parted to let the tsarina through and then closed around her like water.