The Witches of St. Petersburg

¹⁵ 11 February 1903, St Petersburg

That night was the first of many that Militza spent sleeping on the divan in the Tsarina’s bedroom. It took a few weeks before she stopped waking and rocking the doll in the middle of the night and a few more for her to stop weeping. Brana’s opium cocktails were steadily increased in strength to help dull the pain. But it was only when the Tsarina found it difficult to rouse herself in the morning that it was decided to reduce the amount of poppy heads in her nightly drink. The Tsar himself suggested she should try some of Dr Badmaev’s excellent cocaine as a bit of a pick-me-up; he himself was using it to help him with his persistent toothache as well as to get through the torpor of his day.

Fortunately, during this period the rest of the court had little time to dwell on yet another of Tsarina’s failed pregnancies. They had come to expect little more than disappointment from this sour-faced Frau and had other things on their minds – the preparations for the impending Medieval Costume Ball. The invitations had gone out almost a year prior to the event and the intricacies of one’s costume was enough to occupy even the most active of minds. For this was no ordinary fancy dress party, this was the ball to end all balls. It had been Alix’s idea to evoke the past glories of the Muscovite Court under the first Romanovs, and costumes were to be taken extremely seriously indeed. Alix’s dress, which had taken over seven months to make, was a copy of the robes once worn by Tsar Alexei’s first wife, Maria, in the 1660s. Embroidered with diamonds, sequins and pearls and using golden and silver thread, it was rumoured to have cost over one million roubles.

But it wasn’t the costumes Militza remembered that night, when 390 of the city’s most illustrious guests danced at the Winter Palace as if in a ‘living dream’, although they were extraordinary. Designers and theatrical costume houses had been hard at work for months and ideas and inspiration had been sought from every quarter. Emirs’ robes, Muscovite princes and even court falconer costumes had been studied and copied in minute detail. Peter and Militza had spent a small fortune on their attire. Peter wore a jacket of black velvet with a golden double-headed eagle embroidered on the front in the finest gold thread; his broad shoulders were edged in gold piping and he wore loose baggy black trousers and soft black boots, while on his head was a fur-trimmed boyar’s hat. Militza wore matching black velvet. Her long wide sarafan was trimmed with jet beads and golden sequins and her golden kokoshnik headdress quivered with pearls. The Grand Duchess Vladimir was naturally at her extravagant best in a gold velvet sarafan embroidered with jewels, complete with a kokoshnik headdress almost a foot high, studded with enormous precious emeralds, rubies and diamonds. It dominated proceedings, as indeed did the huge forty-one-carat Polar Star diamond at the centre of Princess Zinaida Yusupova’s kokoshnik – which was only usurped in splendour by the 400-carat sapphire worn by Alix herself.

‘That stone is larger than a matchbox,’ Peter had remarked, sipping a glass of champagne as they watched the State Trumpeters announce the entrance of the Tsar and Tsarina.

However, despite the fine fashions, the exquisite workmanship and the ostentation of jewellery on display, Militza recalled that evening for something else entirely.

Stana.

It was just as Anna Pavlova started to dance a few select moments from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake that she noticed them. Standing at the back, hidden – or they so hoped, by a porphyry column – were Stana and Nikolasha. He was dressed as a boyar and she as a boyarina. His arm was around her waist and he was leaning forward, his small black lambskin hat pushed to the back of his head. She held her face close to his as she laughed. He leant a little closer and then, as all eyes were on Pavlova’s slowly dying swan, he kissed her. Stana did not resist. In fact, she closed her eyes and seemed to kiss him back. It was not a fleeting embrace. It was passionate and public. It was also easily reciprocated and this was clearly not the first time they had kissed. Militza frantically looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Peter? The Tsar? The Tsarina? The Grand Duchess Vladimir? They were thankfully watching the ballet. But then she turned to look the other way, only for her gaze to be met by a man dressed as a seventeenth-century boyar with a white velvet coat with mink trim and a pair of soft, cream Moroccan-leather boots. His hair was swept back, his moustache had been trimmed and he wore a dagger at his waist.

‘I see the Necromancer has found fresh blood,’ he said, staring across at Stana and Nikolasha as she fell backwards against the column, her mouth straining still higher, hoping for another kiss. ‘Does she not know that incest is illegal in this country?’

‘They are not related!’ snapped Militza.

‘Oh, but they are,’ he replied, his eyes slowly closing with satisfaction. ‘You are married to his brother – and brothers are not allowed to marry sisters in Russia; it is a sin.’ He smiled. ‘Quite apart from the blatant adultery, which is, of course, an entirely different matter.’

‘I am not sure it is any concern of yours.’ Militza turned to face him. ‘And frankly, you are not in a position to do very much about it, now, are you?’

She could hear the hanging pearls on her kokoshnik shaking as vigorously as a shaman’s rattle as she feigned amusement. Her dislike for this man had in no way abated.

‘One can only admire your confidence, Goat Girl,’ he smirked. ‘Don’t you realize your days are numbered? Your butcher’s boy has been sent back to Lyon and you are still without the heir. How long before she tires of you? How long before she sends you back to the Black Mountains where you belong?’

‘You will spend a long time holding your breath.’

‘Are you still in the bedchamber?’ he scoffed. ‘In charge of the imperial pot?’

‘Militza?’ came a voice from behind.

‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ he said, his cheeks flushing as he rapidly bowed his head.

‘Count Yusupov.’ The Tsarina nodded. ‘How are your sons?’ she asked politely, as she linked arms with Militza. ‘They must be really quite grown-up by now?’

‘Nikolai is twenty and Felix is sixteen; he’s been in Italy and now he’s off to Paris, thinking about going to university in Oxford.’

‘England is such a charming country,’ she replied. ‘We simply don’t go there often enough. I used to love our summers in the Isle of Wight. Osborne House.’ She smiled.

‘Ella has mentioned to me your holidays with your grandmother,’ he enthused.

‘Militza,’ Alix added hurriedly, gripping her hand. ‘I need to speak to you.’

‘Of course.’ She smiled slowly, her head to one side as she turned her back on Count Yusupov.

Alix wove her way through the melee of cigarette smoke, stiff, jewel-encrusted costumes and increasingly inebriated dancing. Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich was dancing an enthusiastic quadrille, attempting to keep hold of a glass of champagne, while declaring at the top of his voice quite how ‘astonishingly beautiful’ everyone was.

‘What is your sister doing?’

Alix spun around as soon as they reached the quiet corridor. There was a fiery, furious look on her already patchy red face. She placed her hands swiftly on her earlobes and winced; her earrings were so heavy they hurt when she moved.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ replied Militza.

‘How long has it been going on?’ Militza remained silent. ‘It is common knowledge that her husband has a mistress in Biarritz.’

‘It is?’

‘I can’t believe it!’ The Tsarina was exasperated. ‘Stana must know that it is not allowed for a woman to conduct herself in this manner. People will talk – I am sure they are already talking. You must put a stop it. Put a stop to it immediately. She can’t behave in this way. It is unseemly the way she is carrying on with Nikolasha. And Nikolasha of all people! The man is so respected, so admired by everyone, particularly in the army. He may not be married, but she is!’

‘I am sure it is just a flirtation,’ soothed Militza. It was impossible to deny any more. ‘High spirits, the champagne!’

‘That is no excuse!’ Alix clasped her hands in front of her and pursed her lips before whispering in a low, seething voice. ‘Women do not have lusts; they are not allowed to have lusts and they should not even entertain them.’ She paused and rubbed her hands together. ‘They simply have a duty to their husbands. And that is it. A duty.’ She stared at the floor and then looked up. ‘This is also a scandal that this court does not need. That I do not need. That Nicky doesn’t need. I am sure that a certain lack of moral rectitude in this court was tolerated in the past, before Nicky became Tsar, but I find it unbecoming.’

Militza nodded. There was nothing more to be said. The subject was closed. Both sisters were to be denied.

Back inside the ball it was late; the Peacock Clock was creeping towards 3 a.m. and it was clear that a certain amount of moral rectitude was disappearing along with the champagne. The Grand Duchess Vladimir was demanding another glass of Madeira, while trying to hold on to her enormous headpiece. Grand Duke Konstantin was opening up small enamel cases, looking for some more Sobranie cigarettes and Nicky, who’d certainly drunk more wine than usual, was complaining his sable-trimmed hat was making him hot.

Militza was working her way through the crowd just as the orchestra struck up another mazurka, scanning the puce, pinked faces in the Pavilion Hall, looking for her sister. Where was she? What was she doing? Her behaviour was going to jeopardize everything that she, Militza and, indeed, their father had been working for. How could she?

In and out, between the white pillars, Militza searched. The enormous glittering chandeliers above did little to illuminate proceedings and the whirl, the swirl, the constantly circulating and dancing figures were beginning to disorientate Militza who was growing more and more confused by the second. In the swirling melee she saw Alix’s face, her calves, her thighs… she could taste her. She needed air and she needed it quickly. The heat of her incredibly heavy ornate costume was beginning to consume her. Added to that was the blind panic that it was all about to come crashing down around her and she broke out in a cold sweat. She tried breathing deeply, panting, but the sweating and her parched mouth were too much. She had to get out of the hall. Anywhere. Immediately. She needed air or she was going to faint. Eventually she found her way to a small, curved French window. The door handles were stiff; it was February and she didn’t suppose they expected anyone to go out into the Hanging Garden. She pushed on the doors and staggered outside.

It was a cold night and the cloud was winning the battle with the stars. Even so, the Hanging Gardens were reasonably warm. Built above the imperial stables, surrounded on all sides by galleries, they were away from the heat and the noise and yet were protected against the harsh elements of a winter’s night in St Petersburg.

Relief. Militza breathed deeply and she willed herself to calm down. She flapped her skirts and tried to loosen the tight collar of her heavily embroidered black and gold caftan. She leant against a wall for support as she inhaled and exhaled, feeling its cold solidity against her back. As she closed her eyes, she heard a stifled squeal and she suddenly realized she was not alone on the roof.

Moving rapidly into the shadows, she flattened herself against the wall, behind a climbing evergreen jasmine and peered through the leaves. There, about four arched windows further along from her, she could see a couple below a statue, bent over each other in the darkness. The woman had her skirts pushed high up over her back, her underwear was gathered in a pool around her ankles and her white buttocks were visible in the shaft of pale moonlight. He had pulled up his robes and loosened his trousers to the floor. They were quite clearly copulating. She’d squealed as he’d first thrust into her, but now she was moaning. The more he pummelled and pounded, the louder she cried. He was gathering momentum as he gripped on the ankles of the statue for support. She was on the tips of her toes, raising her rump, her back arching with pleasure, her chin thrust forward and her mouth wide open as she welcomed him, more and more. He moved harder and faster and her thighs shook with each penetration as the force rippled down her legs. He then slowed and moved more determinedly. Her hands edged out from underneath her, as she, too, grabbed hold of the statue for support. One more. Two more. Three more. A fourth. The woman cried out a shrill yelp, weeping with joy as she shuddered and then collapsed, spent, up against the statue. He folded himself on top of her back.

Militza stood completely still. Then, eventually, she slowly closed her eyes. She would recognize that cry anywhere.