come in 1812, but on that occasion had only made it as far as Moscow and had not seen the tsar. He’d been in Taganrog, or as close as he’d dared, in 1825, when prospects had seemed at their best, but every time he had failed.
He had not failed; his emissary had failed – his unprofitable servant. On those two occasions it had been the same man, now no longer a man, now Zmyeevich’s captive: Cain, or Iuda, or whatever name he chose to go by. Zmyeevich had been a fool to trust him, both to trust his abilities and to trust his fealty. Zmyeevich had, for a while, regarded himself as minor European royalty; his rank of count did not come so far down the scale. But royalty was decadent, and he had tried to emulate it, sending subordinates to do work he would have done better himself – work that he would relish. That would change.
True, he still had servants. Dmitry Alekseevich was one. Might he not, like Iuda, prove to be unworthy of the tasks assigned to him? It was possible, but unlikely. There were stronger bonds that tied him to Zmyeevich than there had been with Iuda. The two had sought each other out after Dmitry had become a vampire. Dmitry knew of Zmyeevich by reputation; Zmyeevich knew Dmitry through his father, a worthy adversary. His son might make a worthy ally. And so it had proved.
Zmyeevich turned his head and saw the two figures standing in the shadows, Saint Isaac’s dwarfing them in the background, so much more imposing than the tiny church on the site when Zmyeevich had last been here, no more than a consecrated barn. Iuda was manacled and the wire rope meant he could not run far from Dmitry. It was not the safest arrangement for such a creature, but they had to bring him, otherwise they would never find their way in. And Dmitry was a stronger vampire by far. If anyone cared to question the strange arrangement, Dmitry’s rank and uniform were enough to see them off.
Zmyeevich took one last look at the statue of Pyotr. Truly, they had been friends, as far as Zmyeevich could have one – as far as Pyotr could. It was back then that he had first taken on the Russian form of his name. Pyotr had told him that if he were to become a great boyar, then his name would have to be Russian. Zmyeevich was a simple translation of the original. They had debated whether ‘Son of the Dragon’ fitted better, but had gone with Zmyeevich – ‘Son of the Serpent’. And besides, there already was a Zmyeevich in Russian folklore – Tugarin Zmyeevich – though there was no connection between them. Zmyeevich used the Russian form in Russia, but everywhere else he preferred the original Romanian.
He strode across the square to where Dmitry and Iuda waited, circling round to look the prisoner in the face.
‘So now we are here,’ he said. ‘Will you show us the way?’
Iuda nodded sullenly, and they began to ascend the steps to the cathedral doors.
It had made no sense to Dmitry, but he wasn’t surprised that Zmyeevich had quickly recognized the floor plans to be those of Saint Isaac’s, and noticed the scribbled modification in the north-eastern corner. It was hard to conceive that Iuda might have been able to influence the construction of the building to such a degree, but at the time he’d had a powerful position in the Third Section. He could have made any excuse about its purpose: a hiding place for spies; a secret dungeon. The church elders did not see the world so very differently from the tsar – not back then – and would have happily acceded. Even today they showed respect. When the three men entered, the only occupant was a priest, going about whatever his duties may have been. He frowned at the intrusion, but then saw Dmitry’s uniform. Dmitry jerked his head and the priest scampered away, leaving them in peace.
Iuda led them towards the Nevsky Chapel, to the left of the Beautiful Gate at the centre of the main iconostasis. Beside the side chapel entrance, in the north-eastern corner of the nave, was a tall mosaic of a saint, framed by columns of green malachite. It was unmistakably Saint Paul, with his long sword and open Bible, to which he pointed. Iuda turned his head to look at his captors, his grin showing a