‘The end is close.’ It had been Wylie who said that. He was a good doctor, and a good friend. There were many men in Russia like him – from all walks of life. It was not simply their skill or their kindness that was remarkable, but the fact they had chosen to make Russia their home. It was easy for a native to love his country – he had no choice. But that someone like Wylie should adopt Russia as his homeland said a lot about the man – and the country.

‘Might we be alone?’ His wife’s voice.

‘We must stay by his side.’ Volkonsky. They went back to before Aleksandr was tsar. Pyotr Mihailovich had helped make him tsar. There was no matter upon which they did not trust each other.

‘Some privacy, please!’ Yelizaveta Alekseevna again.

No one else had spoken. Aleksandr had strained to open his eyes and seen that many around him had taken a step back from the bed. Volkonsky looked fixedly out of the window; Wylie and Tarasov were in feigned conversation.

‘Please drink.’ The tsaritsa’s lips were close to his ear. He felt her warm breath. Her fingers rested upon his cheek and her palm cupped his chin. There was something cold there too – glass. She was pressing a bottle against his lips. ‘It will cure you,’ she said.

Aleksandr knew that he was beyond cure, but he was thirsty. He smelled wine; good, red wine. His doctors had refused him any drink, but for the little water they carefully rationed to him. He understood why they were doing it – he had agreed, but this might be his last ever chance to taste a fine French vintage. And it came from his wife, of all people. She would never harm him.

And besides, there was another figure in the room – tall and dressed in dark clothes. Aleksandr could not see his face, but he was sure he recognized him. On his finger was a ring in the shape of a dragon, with emerald eyes and a red, forking tongue. Aleksandr did not know how he had entered, but if the others in the room had been aware of his presence, they would have cowered in terror. His deep, grinding voice was compelling as it spoke.

‘Drink! Drink! Drink!’

Aleksandr parted his lips slightly and his wife began to tip the bottle.

Aleksei strode across the room and swung his open palm at the tsaritsa’s hand. The tips of his fingers caught Aleksandr’s cheek, but it did not matter. What mattered was that the vial in her hand was flung from the tsar’s lips and on to the bed. Huge gobbets of the thick, crimson liquid inside spilled out, sitting as perfect, hemispherical domes upon the sheet for a few seconds before slackening and oozing their way into the linen as wide, red stains.

What the hell had they all been thinking, wondered Aleksei. Tarasov, Wylie – even Volkonsky – all looking away like wise monkeys. Were they all in league with Iuda? Possessed by Zmyeevich? No – they were simply fools, persuaded by a woman’s love. Now that the spell was broken, they rushed over to Aleksandr.

‘How dare you?’ hissed Yelizaveta Alekseevna.

‘How dare I?’ replied Aleksei, his voice quiet, but unshakably firm. ‘I would not condemn His Majesty’s very soul.’

‘How could the gift of a holy man condemn his soul?’ asked the tsaritsa.

Aleksei calmed. She seemed sincere.

‘A holy man?’

‘A starets, from the monastery.’

Had she been fooled? It was impossible to tell. It seemed likely she was quite ignorant of the horror she had almost perpetrated, but that could be a façade; Iuda had wiles that could persuade the most faithful of wives.

‘A starets? Tall and blond, with grey eyes, I imagine.’

She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said in a whisper.

‘That was no medicine,’ said Aleksei.

She looked up at him. She had not moved since he had struck the vial from her hand. She knelt on the floor, arms stretched out across the bed and across her husband’s pale, limp body. ‘It could not have made things worse,’ she said bitterly.

Aleksei wondered if he should reply. He could find no words that would help her. The decision of whether to speak was taken from him. Dr Wylie had approached the tsar’s bed and been examining him. He raised his hand and Aleksei obeyed the gesture with silence.

The tsar’s breathing was shallow. His eyes were closed and his skin showed a pallor worse than Aleksei had ever seen, but there was no sheen of sweat to it. The tsaritsa knelt up and Volkonsky stepped in closer. Aleksei took a step backwards. It was not his place to intrude on this moment.

Aleksandr’s eyes opened slowly, flickering like the shaking fingers of an old man as he tried to gain a final glimpse of the things he loved. His frail hand reached for the table beside him, feeling its way, and his fingers found the crucifix that lay there. He lifted it and turned his head so that he might glimpse it. Now he lay back, exhausted from the effort, letting the figure of Christ fall back on to the tabletop. His eyes remained open, gazing at the woman who had stood beside him, and a smile formed on his lips.

He breathed in deeply, then released a sigh of unutterable contentment. Then he breathed in no more.

Wylie took a step towards him and examined him briefly. The tsaritsa looked up into the doctor’s face, but saw in his eyes no hint of solace. She released a sob, but then became silent. Wylie raised his hand towards the tsar’s face, but Yelizaveta saw what he was doing and reached out herself. The doctor withdrew his hand and the tsaritsa touched her late husband’s face, gently closing his eyelids. Wylie stood and faced the room before making his announcement.

‘The great monarch has stepped into eternity,’ he said.

IUDA WAS TERRIFIED. IT WAS A NEW AND REVOLTING SENSATION. He enjoyed the feeling of fear – more in others, admittedly, but also in himself. Fear focused the mind, precipitated action, punished failure, but above all it forced Iuda to flee from it. It forced him to the extremes of his abilities – mental and physical. There was no other emotion that could so powerfully drive him to achieve what most would regard as impossible.

But terror was different. Terror was to sit in the dank hold of a ship, in the presence of a creature so dangerous even Iuda would hesitate before deceiving him, and to wait for events to unfold. That was the worst of it – it was out of his hands. Not like a stone rolled down a hill, which gathers momentum, dislocates more stones to join it in its descent, ever accelerating in a noisy cascade until they crash upon some innocent in a terrible, but predictable landslide. This was like a coin thrown in the air; a coin he had weighted, but whose landing still had no certainty. The die was cast.

‘Look again.’

He reached out and took the spyglass from the hand that offered it, wincing at the pain in his cracked ribs. His eye dwelt on the ornate ring rather than looking up at the face of its owner. The tail of the gold dragon curled around his finger and the red, forked tongue seemed to flick out, reaching for Iuda. The emerald eyes were almost as compelling as those Iuda was so conscientiously trying to avoid.

He walked over and pulled back the shutters on the porthole. In the distance, he could see the Taganrog shoreline and the tsar’s palace. He had been aboard R zbunarea before, several times – to plan, to discuss, to gloat over events which had not yet come to pass – but this time there was nothing to be decided, except perhaps his own fate. And his fate was bound to the fate of the tsar. He glanced across the hold before raising the spyglass to his eye. Zmyeevich had retreated into the shadows, wary of even the small patch of sunlight Iuda had allowed to enter. Perhaps, if it came to it, Iuda would be able to flee. The steps were not too far away, and outside the daylight was bright. It was a cool autumn day in human terms, but for Zmyeevich, it would mean an instant, burning death. But Iuda would still have to get as far as those steps – and Zmyeevich could move with enormous speed. The open porthole might help, but Iuda did not rate his own chances.