A Game of Soldiers. Stephen Miller

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      Evdaev smiled as he gazed at little Pippa, only nineteen, and as a bride she had never been more beautiful. Blessed with porcelain skin, meaning that you could see the blue blood beneath the glaze; blessed, too, with masses of chestnut hair that in the summer was suffused with red, a strong brow and clear amber-coloured eyes that gave her a dreamy, seductive look. She was a little taller than Miki, her betrothed – Michael Pavlovich Evdaev, his late brother’s youngest. Only his boots raised him to her height. Nestor, as guardian, had watched over the boy’s youth, eased his rise through the ranks with some satisfaction.

      Standing a pace behind the nervous pair were four young officer friends of Miki’s, also members of the venerable Preobrazhensky Guards. Each pair took turns holding the heavy crowns above the heads of the couple while the priest droned on. No young man wanted to show how much effort it took to hold the crowns, but it was equally gauche to display your strength until your arm began to tremble. Evdaev was pleased to see that, if only as a mark of respect for him, the young officers did not hesitate to trade the crowns smoothly, seamlessly.

      They were gathered, of course, in the great Transfiguration Cathedral, a mass of candle-lit scarlet and gold, a little chilly owing to the sudden cold spell that had descended upon the city. The building had been suitably designed in the Russian style, and was the dedicated cathedral of the guards, of which Prince Evdaev was an honorary member. He had celebrated his betrothal in this same chamber, and out of respect he was dressed in the regimental colours, scarlet with all the gold trimmings.

      Little Pippa had been one of those girls on the horizon, a lovely creature that any man would like to snap up. And had it not been for the strict and morally severe education that her mother, Countess Gorchakova, had forced on the girl it would be all too easy to imagine her being betrothed to a much less worthy mate than Michael, but the arrangements had been made, dowry agreed upon, and now two great houses had come together again – for both could trace their lineage to the ancient Rurik dynasty, two great families intertwined like vines as they flourished in the sunlight of history.

      The blessed ones drank from the cup three times, their wrists were bound together by a silken handkerchief, they followed the priest around the altar three times to illustrate that they would be bound together for the long journey through life. Behind Pippa the pages scurried along untangling her train, causing the couple to proceed along the journey of life in fits and starts. Everyone knew what a trial it was, there were little sighs, titters of understanding. Even the priest could forgive, pausing with a benign smile while the boys crawled about.

      And then, finally the union was solemnized and there was the disorganized rush to the great doors of the cathedral, a buzz of congratulations, the wiping away of tears of joy, a hundred different conversations, greetings exchanged between relations, friends, and strangers, the push, shove, and relinquishing of places by the stairs. Among the various guests who leaned through the crowd to congratulate him was the stunning figure of Anya Serepova, a relation of the Gorchakovs. The delightful Anya brushed her lips against his cheek, murmured in his ear that they were ‘cousins’ now and shouldn’t they take the opportunity to become closer friends? He squeezed her hand as she backed away. One little look, a promise? A fine-looking woman, not yet forty.

      He realized that when…the Plan…was finally complete he would have to reign with Liliana, his wife. It was an absurd picture. Lily as Tsarina?

      Of course, he had confided nothing to her. They rarely talked. Lily was a dutiful, barren creature who preferred to spend her time in Soroki on their Bessarabian estate. It was warm there and she fancied herself an agriculturalist, continually pottering in her experimental greenhouses and forcing beds. And Soroki on the Driester was a healthful place, much better than the fetid air of Piter in summer. He would have to tell her sometime, he supposed, for when he was Tsar they would be required to spend a significant amount of time in the city. There would be a constant round of ceremonial functions, particularly in the beginning of their reign.

      He and Sergei had discussed this transitional strategy and after each session he was more impressed with the immensity of their task. It was not just a matter of bribing guards and sneaking down palace hallways. In some fundamental way they were striking a blow at the very soul of Russia, for the Romanov name was sacred, СКАЧАТЬ