‘“For what would you give me half of Russia?” asked the friend. Pyotr didn’t reply, and so was presented with another question. “What is it that you most desire?”

‘When my grandmother first told me this story,’ said Aleksandr, breaking from his narrative, she asked me to guess what Pyotr’s answer was. Of course, I got it wrong, but every subsequent time she told it, she asked me again, and I’d still get it wrong, deliberately. I’d answer “Power!” or “Wealth!” or “Victory!”, but babushka would smile and shake her head.’

‘And what did Pyotr answer?’ asked Tarasov. Aleksei scowled at him for breaking into the tsar’s recollections, but Aleksandr did not notice, and was happy to answer the question.

‘Pyotr replied, “Enlightenment.” It was all he had ever wanted – to know.

‘“That I can give you,” said the man. “But it is worth more than half of Russia.”

‘“I will not give all of Russia,” Pyotr said.

‘“No, but you can give me your soul.”

‘Pyotr did not blink at the concept. His response was far more practical. “How?” he asked.

‘His friend explained. He was what we would call a voordalak. An undead creature. He told Pyotr of how, when he, centuries before, had become a voordalak, he had briefly known the mind of every other such creature on the planet. This was not a blessing that was shared by them all, but one which he would endow on Pyotr – in exchange for half his nation.’

‘What was the name of this voordalak?’ asked Aleksei, though the answer was already forming itself on his lips. Aleksandr looked at Aleksei perceptively, detecting the foreknowledge that the question implied.

‘He told Pyotr the name in his own language, then translated it into French, and then Russian. Its meaning was “the Son of the Dragon”.’

‘Drakonovich?’ whispered Tarasov.

‘So you might think,’ explained the tsar, ‘but the creature chose to formulate his Russian name in a slightly different manner. He chose…’

‘Zmyeevich,’ interrupted Aleksei. His voice was full of hatred.

‘Zmyeevich – that’s right,’ said Aleksandr, without surprise at Aleksei’s knowledge.

‘How did you know?’ asked Wylie.

‘We met,’ answered Aleksei.

‘When?’ said Wylie.

The tsar interrupted them before a reply could come.

‘1812,’ he said.

Aleksei was astonished. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because I saw you,’ said the tsar, simply. ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself. We are speaking of 1712, not 1812. According to my grandmother, Pyotr expressed no doubts as to the existence of such a creature as the voordalak. He asked merely how he could become one.

‘Zmyeevich explained that the process was simple. First, he would drink Pyotr’s blood. He would drink deeply. It would be enough to kill Pyotr, but not immediately. Then, Pyotr need only drink a little of the blood of the voordalak, but it would be enough to ensure that he did not die, but lived for ever as another such creature. Then they two could rule Russia together – and for ever.’

‘It’s just like in Cain’s book,’ hissed Wylie. ‘You knew all along.’

Aleksandr laid his head back on his pillow for a few moments. Telling the story was a strain for him, and he needed the strength to continue.

‘Pyotr asked for three days to prepare himself,’ he continued.

‘He agreed?’ asked Aleksei, aghast.

‘He asked for three days to prepare himself,’ the tsar repeated. ‘Then he met Zmyeevich where they had arranged, just before midnight, in the place we now know as Senate Square. Zmyeevich was there, waiting. Pyotr knelt down in front of him, by the very bank of the Neva, which they together had tamed, and ripped open his shirt, exposing his flesh to the voordalak. The fangs descended and Pyotr felt Zmyeevich’s lips close around his throat as his teeth penetrated his skin. It was, he later told, an ecstatic sensation, to feel the very blood being drained from one’s body, but Zmyeevich did not go too far. What he drank would kill a man, but the man would still have the chance of – in a quite perverted sense – salvation.

‘“Now, give me your sword,” Zmyeevich said. Pyotr unsheathed it and handed it, hilt first, to the voordalak. Zmyeevich took it, and with its tip inscribed a cut across his own breast, from which blood began to ooze.’

Aleksei hung his head and shut his eyes tightly. The image was far, far too familiar; not a memory of Zmyeevich and Pyotr but one much more recent and, for Aleksei, indescribably more poignant – an image of Iuda and… God knew whom. But even by closing his eyes, Aleksei could not shut out the tsar’s story.

‘“Drink!” instructed Zmyeevich. Pyotr looked up at the voordalak, and his mind became filled with understanding. He knew all that Zmyeevich knew – and Zmyeevich was centuries old. He gazed at the blood which ran in a thin line down the creature’s chest. He desired to taste it, though he knew that that desire came not from himself, but from whatever had passed into him when the vampire had drunk his blood. He might share Zmyeevich’s knowledge, but he had also to share his tastes.

‘Pyotr stood back up on his feet, his eyes fixed on the bloody wound in front of him. He felt weak from his own loss of blood, and he knew that to consume a single drop of Zmyeevich’s would make him strong again, make him strong for ever, make him immortal. All he had to do was to bend forward and suckle.

‘But he did not. Instead, he looked Zmyeevich in the eye. “You imagine that I would want to become a thing like you?” he hissed. Then at a signal from him, Pyotr’s personal guard revealed themselves. They grabbed Zmyeevich. He was strong, but there were a dozen of them, and they wrestled him to the ground. Pyotr stepped forward and, with what little strength he had, placed his foot on the monster’s chest.

‘“I have beaten you, Zmyeevich. Russia has beaten you. We have taken everything we could from you, and given you nothing in return.”

‘“You have betrayed me,” replied Zmyeevich, with a snarl. “I helped to build your city. I gave you knowledge. Without me you would be nothing.”

‘“You took as much as you gave,” said Tsar Pyotr. “Do you think I didn’t know what you are – you and all those you brought with you? Do you think that I didn’t observe that as your kind grew fat, good Russians would vanish in the night? You came to feed, not to help. Don’t forget; I know your mind. You would not have shared Russia. You have tried to rule me and thereby rule my country. You would probably have succeeded. But instead you will die.”

‘Pyotr raised his hand to his brow. He felt faint. He knew he must end it quickly. He held out his hand to the commander of the troop – a Colonel Brodsky – who placed in it a stake made of hawthorn. He raised it, preparing to strike, but did not have the strength. He handed it back to Brodsky. “You do it,” he said.

‘It was a momentary distraction, but enough for Zmyeevich to exert his huge strength and throw off his captors. Blows from his bare hands were enough to kill two of them, snapping their necks like dry sticks. He ran towards the Neva and then turned back to Pyotr.

‘“It was your choice, Romanov,” he shouted. “To live or to die. You are dead now – dead since I took the blood from you. To live, you only had to drink my blood in exchange, but you refused. You feel unwell. Your heart beats weakly – it has little to pump, too little even to sustain itself. Soon you will die and you will die knowing this: I have your blood – Romanov blood. That cannot be undone. You have completed the first part of the transaction, but rejected the second, but it is not only you who can accept. I shall ask them all, in each generation, and one day, one of them will accept, and then, Romanov, Russia shall be mine.”

‘“Kill him!” shouted Pyotr, though he had barely the strength to make a sound. The soldiers ran across to Zmyeevich, but he was ready for them. He leapt into the Neva. The moment he jumped was the moment Pyotr lost consciousness. Zmyeevich must have been a strong swimmer. No trace of him was ever found.’