The nobility of his features, the coldness of his eyes, something stiff and martial in his demeanor all contributed to his incomparable perfection. He sat down with solemnity, as though being seated on his throne.

He had already changed for the ball and was wearing the uniform of the Gardes-à-Cheval, the most sumptuous of all his costumes.

But even more impressive than his natural bearing and the richness of his costume—a gold-trimmed white tunic on which he wore the respective crosses of the Orders of Saint Andrew, Saint Alexander Nevsky, Saint Vladimir, Saint George, and the Order of the Eagle—was the décor of his surroundings. The room held a single couch, three armchairs, and a flat desk upon which a portrait of the empress and seven miniature pastels of their children were displayed. That was all. The only decorations on the walls were a few engravings and a large icon that had accompanied Peter the Great to the Battle of Poltava. For Milyutin, nothing amid all the splendor of the Winter Palace was nearly as touching as the fact that this man who made the earth tremble in his wake, who could give or take away everything—fortune, liberty, honor, even life—had chosen a simple camp bed with a straw-filled mattress and an old plaid blanket. This sobriety inspired the lieutenant’s admiration and love.

“I have here the report of my brother, His Highness the Grand Duke Mikhaïl Pavlovitch, concerning your mission. I have a few comments for you,” he said severely. “Let me finish the director of cadets’ report, and we’ll discuss this calmly.”

Indefatigably energetic, as meticulous in nature as he was calculating, hard on others and demanding of himself, the czar had a well-known reputation for attention to detail. He indulged his taste for responsibility and his sense of duty by controlling even the most minor aspects of his administration.

“The emperor of Russia is commander in chief,” he liked to say, “and every day of his life is a day of battle. Even the first of the year.”

He was taking advantage of this break between the mass and the ball to settle some affairs.

Twilight had fallen. In this narrow room, where the fate of sixty million subjects was decided daily, the only luxury was a vast window that covered an entire wall. The quay of the Neva was dark with crowds, onlookers and passersby who had paused to watch the czar perusing his dossiers on this festive evening. The lights of his ground-floor study would be on until midnight. Everyone knew that the “little father” worked late for the good of his people. And that he would return after the last cotillion.

Nicholas turned to Milyutin again with a distracted look that indicated he had worries other than the one at hand.

“Well?” he repeated. “Did you take him where you were supposed to?”

Milyutin blinked, not sure what he meant.

“I don’t know, Your Majesty. I hope so.”

“Have him come in. You speak his language, you can serve as interpreter.”

“Your Majesty, I spent only six months in the Caucasus, and I—”

“And he, four in Russia,” the sovereign interrupted. “Go fetch him, we should be able to understand one another.”

In less than a minute, the lieutenant reappeared with Jamal Eddin.

The interview, customarily brief, was over in less than a quarter of an hour.

But twenty-five years later, His Excellency Dmitri Alexeyevitch Milyutin, at that point minister of war, would clearly remember the exchange to which he had been witness and accomplice. In his memoirs, he described the first encounter between the czar and the child as one of searing intensity.

“How are you, my little one? And how is your arm? I’ve been told it’s not healing well. You must let a doctor see the wound. You don’t want me to send you back to your father in bits and pieces?”

The boy had looked up. No one dared look the czar in the eye that way. Was it his voice that had affected him, the deep, sonorous voice that his soldiers found so engaging, the voice so accustomed to a commanding tone? Or was it the words that Milyutin tried valiantly to translate, “…send you back to your father?”

“Sit down, there.”

Another exception. Only members of the imperial family, intimate friends, and a few ministers were permitted to listen to the emperor expound from an armchair.

The child obeyed and sat down in front of the desk.

“I have some news for you.”

One could almost hear Jamal Eddin’s heart beating beneath the cartridge belts of his ghizir.

“Some very good news.”

He listened, straining to understand. His eyes shone beneath his long lashes, which made them seem even darker as they met the impassive gaze of the Great White Czar in anxious expectation. Soulful and attentive, they questioned him with infinite hope.

“I want you to know that your mama is very well. She gave birth to a baby, a little boy, and his name is Mohammed Sheffi. I’ll confirm his name for you when I receive more precise information. Your little brother is fine too. As for your father, he is a great warrior, your father, of a courage and skill one can be proud of.”

After having kept the child in heartbreaking ignorance, the czar had just performed a miracle. All at once, he had swept away all his anxiety, reassured him, saved him.

“He even managed to escape from Akulgo. Of course, I’m not surprised. I’m well aware of his reputation for bravery. Had we been able to meet, your father and I, had we been able to discuss things, we would have understood each other. He would have realized that I am not his enemy. But he mistrusts us. I do not blame him. So many iniquitous acts have been committed in my name, so many unspeakable betrayals. In his place, I would have behaved in the same way.”

Of any speech he could have imagined, this was the last Milyutin expected. He translated with considerable difficulty, cutting to the essential.

“Now, Jamal Eddin, you must understand one thing: I loathe betrayal and I loathe laziness. At the Alexandrovsky Cadet Corps, you will study under the direction of a very learned mullah. I am expecting great advances in your knowledge of God. The faith of your forbears is your treasure, one you must preserve and prove yourself worthy of. Never forget that it is God who brought you here. You must obey and follow the path He has chosen for you. God is your protector, as He is mine, as He is for each one of us. Nothing can be done here on earth unless He has decided it will be so. You are responsible for your acts before Him. Just as I am responsible before Him for everything that happens in my kingdom. You must conduct yourself here as you would at home, in keeping the memory of His presence. I have confidence in you in this respect, and in many others. And I will give you proof…”

The emperor opened his desk drawer.

Milyutin instantly recognized the object he took out.

“…by returning what belongs to you.”

Jamal Eddin paled when he saw what the czar held in his hand.

“I give you back your arms.”

Even if Jamal Eddin had been able to speak Russian, this rush of emotion would have left him breathless.

“I am simply asking you not to use it, not against yourself and not against your comrades. Here is your kinjal, you may have it back now.”

Jamal Eddin stood up, incredulous. He held out his right hand and took the dagger, nodding his respectful thanks, not daring to sit down again.

Nicholas was touched by the restrained dignity of his gesture, even more so by the expression of boundless gratitude that transfigured the little boy’s face. The czar looked down at him kindly.

The czar loved animals. He loved horses and dogs. And he loved his children. He took an active and personal role in their upbringing, treating them with a rigor that was by no means lacking in tenderness. Every day he questioned them about their activities. He was interested in what they were reading and how they were progressing, and he was the one who meted out punishment and rewards. He had just allowed the eldest of his daughters to marry for love, as he himself had done twenty-two years before when he wed the empress. He still considered his wife to be the most remarkable of women. As for his four sons, though he raised them with strict discipline and let them get away with nothing, he was also well aware of the individual merits of each one. The child before him was between his last two sons in age. Perhaps they could grow up together? This boy was noble. He was beautiful. And he was alone and vulnerable. He must be guided and protected.

“You won’t try to escape, and you won’t hurt anyone. Will you give me your word?”

A faint sign of reproach flickered in Jamal Eddin’s eyes.

Did he need anyone to tell him that, if given back his arms, he could neither use them nor take back his freedom? It went without saying. He had been given back his honor. The rest, obviously, followed.

He nodded his agreement with a haughty look.

The czar did not miss the look of remonstrance and changed his tone.

“The next time, Jamal Eddin,” he said sternly, “the next time, I expect you to reply ‘Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.’ Now I shall bid you good evening and ask you to leave. I have a few words for Lieutenant Milyutin.”

Jamal Eddin hesitated, unsure of how to take his leave and how to express his gratitude. He bowed deeply, hugging the kinjal to his heart, against the arm that was in a sling, and returned obediently to the waiting room.

He passed in front of the valets in livery and went to perch on the chair he had occupied before his audience with the czar. He sat there, spellbound, alone and immobile, indifferent to the aides-de-camp who came and went, the visitors who would be granted an audience next.