But there was no point in abandoning the service. Dmitri could just as well write his report—his book, if you will—without leaving the regiment. The count was ready to facilitate his task. His guests this evening had been chosen with precisely this project in mind. He had invited the relatives, the acquaintances, and all the friends who had ties in one way or another to the history of the Caucasus and who could provide Dmitri with information. The grand aristocrats of the Bagration dynasty, who had joined the ranks of the Russian army and fought the Muslims ever since Georgia had been annexed by Czar Alexander forty-five years before, would be coming. The members of the general staff of the new viceroy who had just been posted to Tiflis, Count Mikhaïl Vorontsov, would be there too. And he was expecting the officers of the regiments on the line, who were on leave. There would be plenty of “Caucasian youth” on hand.

The count had extended the evening’s theme to the female guests as well. The princesses of the Georgian royal family, granddaughters of the last king, George XII, would be chaperoned by their mother, Princess Anastasia, who was an old friend. Born Princess Anastasia Grigorïevna Obolenskaïa, the princess had once been a great beauty. Now forty years old, she had thirteen children—eight girls and five boys—a gold mine for adolescent balls. Although her husband, Prince Ilya of Georgia, held the rank of Serene Highness and lived in Moscow, their three eldest daughters attended the Smolny Institute, which was reserved in principle for the daughters of the impecunious aristocracy of Saint Petersburg. Said to be even more breathtaking than her mother had been, Anna, at seventeen the eldest, had just been received at court as a maid of honor to the empress. Of course, all that was of no interest to Dmitri, who had already met his soul mate. But his second brother, the handsome twenty-seven-year-old Nicholas Alexeyevitch Milyutin, preferring a civilian career to the army, had chosen a more difficult path. And Volodia, the third, was at the university, supposedly studying philosophy. Perhaps Nicholas and Volodia would find an advantageous match among this evening’s guests, one that far exceeded their expectations. One could always dream.

Encouraged by the count’s questions, the guest of honor was not mulling over any of these urbane considerations.

“We’re losing ground and retreating everywhere,” Dmitri sighed. “In a single year, Shamil’s bands have taken fifteen fortified towns and twenty-seven cannons.”

“A disaster, I know, I know. And the czar is at the end of his patience. Every Monday, at the council meeting, he explodes, demanding that we have done with it. In this respect, you should note that the czar has taken what you once termed the ‘necessary measures.’ His Majesty dismissed Grabbe. He replaced all the generals and doubled your troops. This time you can’t possibly claim that you lack means.”

“No, I wouldn’t dare. The emperor has also sent money, a great deal of money, to bribe those closest to the imam. We tried to have him assassinated; we even provided the killers with poison. They took the vials and the funds and laid all of it at the feet of their victim.”

“And you seem to find that normal.”

“The only choice we’ve left the Montagnards is to remain faithful to the imam Shamil.”

“Faithful? That close to treason? That kind of loyalty hardly seems commendable.”

“On that point—Russian loyalty, our own loyalty—we have a curious way of treating the indigenes who back us up and serve us. On the one hand, we spare no expense persuading the renegades to join our ranks. But once we have won them over, we pay no more attention to them and turn them over to the vengeance of their own without batting an eye. As a result, we reinforce their conviction that it is preferable to fight us, so we will try to buy them off, than to join us, only to be abandoned to a cruel death at the hands of the murids.”

“The arrival of Count Vorontsov will change all that. He’s been granted full powers. I know him. He’s very intelligent and shrewd. A formidable strategist, one of the great conquerors of Napoleon.”

“But what does a battlefield in the Napoleonic wars have to do with the war of ambush Shamil is waging?” Dmitri flushed with anger and slapped his knee, emphasizing each word with indignation. “Except perhaps that in Napoleon’s time, the Russians were defending their own liberty, their own territory against the invader. Whereas now, we’ve taken on the opposite role.”

The count uncrossed his legs and furiously crushed out his cigar, then hurled the contents of the ashtray into the fire in the hearth.

“I strongly suggest that you refrain from writing this sort of thing in your book, my dear. You risk finding the climate in Siberia much harsher than that of your much vaunted Caucasus.”

Genuinely sorry to have provoked the ire of the man he owed so much, the young man calmed down before continuing.

“But Count Vorontsov is moving too quickly, Uncle, and the czar is urging him on. He operates at double time. When he orders his entire army to plunge into the Chechen forest without taking the time to cut down even a single tree or clear out a single thicket, he’s committing an error that not even the most humble veteran of the Chechen regiments would be guilty of. He would know there are Montagnards hiding behind every tree trunk. He would be prepared for the barricades at every path, set to trap the middle of a column between several heaps of branches and isolate our soldiers in small groups—with men ready to decimate our troops once they are helpless to advance, retreat, or defend themselves. All that would be obvious.

“As for the horrors of the spectacle the imam regales us with, those of us who have managed to force our way through the obstacles and survive, they’re included in every report. Barbarities that make your blood run cold, a foretaste of what awaits us. The heads of our comrades planted among the branches, their mutilated bodies—hands, feet, and genitals chopped off—draped over the barricades, their bloody remains that must be removed before we can advance. I don’t want to upset you with such visions, Uncle. But I must tell you that just last month, Shamil massacred four thousand Russians. In three days.”

“That fanatic is a monster!”

“Indeed, that’s what he’s becoming.”

“What do you mean, what he’s becoming? It’s what he’s always been. For the past twenty years, he’s spread carnage and death.”

“For the past twenty years, he’s been fighting for the survival of his people. But now he wants something else.”

The count shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course, gold.”

“No, his son.”

“The kid you brought back?”

“The child I kidnapped. Shamil will do anything to obtain his return. He’s ready to murder, blackmail, even take hostages to exchange.”

“A wide-ranging program,” said the count with bitter irony.

Another thunderous commotion from upstairs shook the room, and the fifty candles of the ceiling light went out.

“Now they’ve gone too far up there! This is the last time I let these vandals come here, they’ve got some nerve! Go see what the hell Sacha is doing and tell him what I think of his behavior. As for the imam’s son, all you have to do is give him back. We don’t need the offspring of monsters and madmen here.”

Dmitri had scarcely reached the top of the stairs before Sacha threw himself into his arms. As he glanced at the other “vandals” standing on the landing, he immediately recognized the tall, slender figure of Jamal Eddin Shamil.

Milyutin was so taken aback that it did not occur to him to mask his surprise and emotion.

Jamal Eddin greeted him with a nod that the captain acknowledged. Standing stock still, they exchanged a long look of mutual anxiety and curiosity. Both felt a catch in their throats as memories of the past flashed through their minds.

Of the two, the younger one seemed the least troubled. He had been waiting for this encounter, wishing for it and seeking the opportunity to make it happen. He knew that Sacha’s brother had returned from the Caucasus. It was this that had motivated him to accept this invitation, not his friends’ excited chatter about getting away from the school, dancing with real partners, and finally, finally, meeting some girls. If only he could approach the captain to ask him about what was happening in Dagestan and Chechnya. His knowledge of his father’s triumphs was limited to rumors circulating in the Cherkess dormitory, all of them contradictory, ambiguous, and deformed by the pacifieds’ mistrust of the growing power of the imam. Would Dmitri Alexeyevitch be willing to give him some real news?

Despite his impatience, Jamal Eddin did not move and asked no questions. The boy hadn’t changed in that respect, Milyutin thought. With his characteristic reserve, this blend of restraint and assurance, he waited politely for the captain to speak. He kept the same distance from his former jailer as before, but this time his expression was devoid of all aggression and scorn.

The captain even thought he saw a certain softness, a hint of kindness, in the boy’s serious face.

In five years, the “hostage” had changed. He had become a sleek adolescent, extremely elegant in his red and green cadet’s uniform, cap in hand, saber at his side. A Russian aristocrat of the First Cadet Corps of Petersburg. He seemed only slightly less crazy than the two grand dukes, Count Buxhöwden, and the youngest of the Milyutins, who were racing up and down the corridor, doing handstands and myriad other acrobatic antics.

Dmitri hadn’t time to pursue his reflections further. The crystal of the torchères vibrated, and he heard a heavy step behind him.