Peter smiled. “The descendants of these men will not gossip about me. They will not live long enough for that.

“My people do not respect me, Daniel Petrovich, if I do not chop their heads off.”

Kotikokura entered, followed by two officers, immensely tall. They remained at attention.

“Duke, have you carried out my instructions?”

Kotikokura nodded.

“Are the heads of the scoundrels upon the roof of my palace?”

Kotikokura nodded.

“Let us go and see them, Prince.”

Kotikokura and the officers preceded. His Majesty took my arm.

The coagulated blood of the setting sun mingled with the slowly dripping blood of the severed heads which garlanded the roof of the Kremlin, like a grotesque and horrible wreath. There was something alive in the glaring eyes which had not yet closed and in the heavy beards, shivering like ferns gray, red, and black, in the breeze.

The Tsar slapped his thighs and laughed uproariously. “Look at the Patriarch, Daniel Petrovich! There he is in the center, his mouth is wide open as if he wanted to swallow a sheep. He was always greedy. Look at the chief Strelitz! Ha, ha, ha! His left eye seems to wink—the panderer! Look at that fellow,—who is he? Let me see—yes, he is Gabriel Gabrilovich, stupid and obstinate as a jackass. Doesn’t he seem to bray! He-haw! He-haw! Ha, ha, ha! Look at the red-bearded fellow. Re is positively laughing, Prince. Watch! Laugh on, you damned wretch,—and may the devils tickle your soles forever!”

The two officers laughed. Kotikokura grinned. I tried in vain to feel the horror of the situation. It seemed so theatrical and unreal.

“Are you amused, Daniel Petrovich?”

“A little.”

“You are squeamish. The West has an effeminate sense of humor. We Russians can laugh at anything which is really funny. And aren’t they funny? Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

I smiled drearily.

“Do you pity them, Daniel Petrovich?”

“It is ridiculous to pity the dead, Your Majesty.”

“I pity the dead, Daniel Petrovich. They cannot eat, they cannot drink, they cannot laugh, they cannot kiss women.”

“Life—death—there is no difference, Sire. All things are within the Great Substance, all things partake of it.”

“I do not understand.”

I was treading on dangerous ground.

“What I meant, Your Majesty, is that after all, you have not robbed them of so much. Tomorrow, in one year, or ten, they would have died without Your Majesty’s gracious assistance. Decapitation may be a boon, a deed of mercy.”

“How?”

“You have relieved them, perhaps, of some terrible malady—a canker, leprosy,—who knows what fate had in store for them?”

“That is right and you speak most wisely, Daniel Petrovich. From now on, decapitation shall be reserved for those whose crime is excusable. Real traitors shall suffer deaths infinitely more lingering. I do not wish to be charitable. I do not mean to relieve them from greater pain. Peter Romanoff is not a doctor or a saint. He is the Tsar of Russia!”

His voice was so imperious and so final in its intonation that I dared not object to his interpretation of my words. I bowed, my right hand upon my chest.

For three days and three nights Peter gave a feast in the Kremlin.

Even at the orgies of Nero, I had never seen such abandon—voluptuaries without refinement—mighty drinkers and eaters—Homeric heroes resurrected. The day was for food and wines, the night for endless and promiscuous embraces.

The grass and flower beds were crushed and destroyed as if Attila’s horsemen had galloped by, and the feathers of torn pillows flew about like a heaven of deplumed angels.

Never since my Bath of Beauty and Salome’s feast in Persia had I witnessed such unlimited sensuality. The men vied with one another in capacity, the women in endurance. Wagers in gold and slaves and mistresses were made for what seemed incredible prowess of mere human beings.

Kotikokura outdid three Russians in their feats of endurance. The women gazed at him with terrified desire. He was supremely happy.

“Kotikokura,” I whispered, as he passed by. For the first time in centuries he did not hear.

Pathetically sober and disgruntled I watched the fretful pageant.

Had Kotikokura transferred his affection to a new master? Was he unfaithful to Ca-ta-pha? I drank much to forget this indignity, but the wine did not go to my head.

Two of Kotikokura’s competitors died from heart failure. One was carried out on a stretcher. The festivities ended with the decapitation of ten of the guests. Five were quartered to boil in oil and six women immured in nunneries for having made in their drunkenness remarks disrespectful to the majesty of the Tsar.

Peter sedulously endeavored to paint upon Russia the coating of Western civilization.

Recognizing that clothes and manners determined the mental attitude, Peter was merciless to those who refused to dress in the “German fashion,” clip their beards, refrain from expectorating in the presence of women, or wipe their boots before entering places of worship or offices of the government.

Nevertheless, we progressed slowly.

“Your Majesty,” I said one day, “however sedulously a man endeavors to repair a house that is fallen into ruins, he will find always walls crumbling, the ceiling leaking, the cellar infested with vermin and rats. It is wiser to build anew…”

Peter was in the habit of thinking quickly.

“Where shall I build my new house?”

“On the Baltic, sire.”

He undid one of his medals, a cross studded with diamonds, which he wore upon his chest, and pinned it upon mine.

“Let us drink to St. Petersburg, the new capital of Holy Russia.”

The insight I gained into world politics through the wars and the treaties of Peter made me realize that Europe would be ruled, in the future, neither by armies and navies nor, before very long, by monarchs, but by wealth. The bankers were becoming the potentates of the world. The Tsar, influenced by courtesans and monks, considered my idea visionary and derogatory to his divinely appointed authority.

I founded banks at my own risk. With the aid of a few men of affairs, chiefly Jews of Spanish and Portuguese descent, I established wide financial ramifications. The credit and the currency of the Emperor were weapons in my hands. Peter never dreamed that I, not he, was the real master of Russia!

Russia alone, however, was unsafe. I needed expansion,—a great net to capture all nations. If I controlled the world’s money, I could never lose. No one could win without me. Life was a lottery in which I held all numbers!

Peter grown stout, gouty and tormented by pains in the groin, drowned his troubles in vast quantities of vodka. He proclaimed himself the Patriarch of the Holy Synod. The slightest deviation from his whims was not alone an insult to the crown, but to God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. About his neck he wore an immense black cross of wood. He counted rosaries until he fell asleep.

The symptoms indicated too clearly the end of his reign. His successors would not relish the favorite of a predecessor. The moment for my departure had come.

“Kotikokura,” I said one day, “we have been estranged for too long a time. Your love for the Tsar has snapped the golden band that united us two. I never could imagine a blow powerful enough for that. I was mistaken!”

He shook his head.

“What! Did you only pretend a greater loyalty to the Emperor than to Ca-ta-pha?”

He nodded.

I looked into his eyes. “Kotikokura, are you still my ancient friend? Do medals and swords and position mean less to you than my love?”

He threw himself at my feet. I raised him and embraced him.

“Kotikokura!” I exclaimed, shaking his shoulders. “You have returned to your friend! Never was Ca-ta-pha happier!”