Just before his departure in 1849, the emperor received an urgent and disturbing note from Jamal Eddin’s captain concerning the official civil status of the recruit. Should he write down the words habitually penned on his scholastic records: son of a rebel?

The czar had penciled in his response in the margin of Jamal’s military records. “Since the boy is not responsible for the acts of his father, and the word ‘rebel’ does not indicate his country of origin, the expression ‘son of a rebel’ is not appropriate. Moreover, it could negatively influence the character of the soldier in question. Consequently, his first name, his last name, and the notation ‘of Montagnard origin’ will suffice.”

The question of his identity resolved, the captain was faced with another, one that the authorities were already familiar with: what uniform should Jamal wear? The papakha, cherkeska, ghizir, and kinjal of the Montagnard regiments? Or the imperial eagle-emblazoned shako, royal blue tunic with its red plastron and double-breasted button closures, wide silver-threaded belt, and lance of the Uhlans?

Exasperated by the errors of his predecessors, all of whom were going off on the wrong tangent, the captain composed a second note to the czar, this time concerning “Shamil’s uniform.”

Again in the margin of Shamil’s military records, His Majesty scribbled his reply: “The dress he prefers.”

Beneath this comment, Jamal Eddin’s decision would be noted.

But what would he choose?


This question became the subject of a guessing game the following day when the czar posed the question to the empress, Count Kiselyev, and the rest of their intimate circle at their “four o’clock dinner.”

“Mouffy, you know him well. What do you think, will he wear the cherkeska or the blue tunic? Which one has he chosen, the uniform of the Caucasian Montagnards or that of the Vladimirsky Lancers?”

His tone was triumphant. He did not wait for her reply.

“Well, no, you’re wrong, you’re all wrong. Jamal Eddin did not make the choice you all expected. He is faithful to his past, to his father and to his origins. He didn’t hesitate for an instant. In a gesture from the heart, he chose the symbol of his people of the Caucasus.”

The czar was jubilant.

Why would he be so pleased that his chosen son, his protégé, his favorite, had preferred the cherkeska? The empress and their guests were mystified. The czar was the only one who understood the significance of this ultimate act of loyalty, this gesture of faithfulness and affection that confirmed all his own acts and intentions. In choosing the cherkeska, Jamal Eddin demonstrated respect for his ancestors and for his commitment to the czar. He had, in effect, sealed the pact they had made that evening on the marble bench at Peterhof. He remained what he was always had been: a Caucasian.

Wasn’t this what they had agreed upon?

Both Russian and Montagnard, the boy was continuing to embrace the path of dual loyalty.

But did he think—as His Majesty feigned to believe—did he really believe he could reconcile the two? Without renouncing one or the other? Without betraying who he was?

Loyal to the czar and loyal to the imam, Jamal Eddin was trying to meet that challenge and make good on his word.


Keen to lend him support, the emperor immediately dispatched a Chechen aide to serve as his orderly at Kovno. He had no doubt that his envoy would prove both useful and pleasant. This servant would help Jamal Eddin perfect his knowledge of the language, the people, and the customs of the Caucasus. Jamal Eddin must progress considerably on this path before he could send him back to the mountains. And this Shibshiev was fluent in over thirty dialects.

He didn’t know it at the time, but the actions of this individual would prove fatal to the czar’s plans.


“A Muslim like you, Jamal Eddin, a Muslim who sleeps with his feet pointing toward Mecca, a Muslim who shaves his beard, a Muslim who wears scent, who kisses the hands of women, a Muslim who does not get up to pray in the middle of the night. A Muslim like you is no longer a Muslim, but a dog.”

With great difficulty, Jamal Eddin refrained from slapping the man across the face. Shibshiev was driving him crazy and had pushed him to the limit.

Shibshiev wasn’t much to look at. Small and stooped, he had an unhealthy gray complexion, and his cherkeska was always dirty. He lacked any of the elegance and physical courage that marked the mountain men and did not even wear the traditional Montagnard weapon tucked into his belt—a telling detail. He wore a long beard, which made him stand out among the Cherkesses of Saint Petersburg. How he had managed to get the czar’s stamp of approval was a mystery. Czar Nicholas execrated bearded men and had ordained that all at court, in the army, and in the city should be clean-shaven. He tolerated beards only among the Jews, the muzjiks, and certain indigenous regiments, with whom Shibshiev had never served. In fact, he wasn’t Chechen at all, but Uzbek, from the Kipchak tribe—a detail that escaped the notice of the Russians, who, in their contempt and ignorance of all other peoples, had failed to make the distinction. He had grown up in Dagestan and joined the imperial army as a “child of language.” General Fézé, whom he had served as an interpreter, had highly recommended him to communicate with the sons of khans studying at the military academies.

He had come to Petersburg a few years before Jamal Eddin, at the age of thirty-five. At the time, he had been very friendly to the infidels, especially to the young Circassians he sometimes visited. Jamal Eddin had known him for a long time and remembered him clearly. As a child, he had given Shibshiev a letter for his father, hoping to secretly bypass the authorities. The letter had ended up on the emperor’s desk, like all the others, and his efforts had earned Jamal Eddin a stern scolding and strict orders that he write only through the intermediary of the director. This incident had convinced Jamal Eddin that Shibshiev worked for the police as an informer charged with surveillance of the Cherkesses of the Cadet Corps, including himself. He had cut off any contact with Shibshiev immediately.

However, Shibshiev had changed over the past twelve years. He had taken a different path, in precisely the opposite direction of Jamal Eddin’s trajectory.

He was neither impressed nor attracted by the Christian lifestyle. In fact, his experience in the empire’s capital had transformed Shibshiev into something he had never been in his Dagestan village: a good Muslim. In Russia, he stopped smoking, drinking, and gambling. He learned to recite from the Koran and knew Sheik Al-Buhari’s Book of Hadiths by heart. This late-in-life return to the Sharia had made him all the more rigorously devoted to his religion. Now he obeyed all the precepts of the imam Shamil and concentrated his efforts on fighting the holy war, furtively and from afar.

Among the exiles of the Caucasus, Shibshiev was not the only admirer of Shamil. In the early 1850s, the imam’s victories had become legendary. Even his old enemies, even the hypocrites and the sons of the khans, had to admit that Shamil had brought honor to the Muslims. His network of spies now reached far beyond the line of Russian forts along the Caucasus. He received information from all over the empire, even the Saint Petersburg papers, which he had translated by his prisoners at the eagle’s nest of Dargo-Veden. He was so well informed that he had written to Queen Victoria, pointing out that his combat, and his alone, here in the mountains with his warriors, had prevented the czar’s armies from threatening the interests of the British as they advanced toward Afghanistan and India. Since, as he pointed out, the holy war was such a boon to the queen, he had asked her for arms. In London, in absolute secret, her ministers discussed whether or not to send rifles to the imam. And Shibshiev knew that he was a link in this chain, a cog in the wheel, and a relay in the organization of this formidable head of state.

When the czar had chosen him to serve Jamal Eddin, the eldest son of his guide and master, Shibshiev could scarcely contain his joy. He had galloped off for Kovno right away.


His disappointment was as immense as his hopes had been.

He understood instantly what the Russians had done to this boy. They had corrupted him, perverted him, and turned him against his father.

“Your forehead is as smooth as a woman’s,” he sneered, observing the absence of the zabtba, the blue callus that marked the faithful, above Jamal Eddin’s brow. He considered this to be ample proof that the boy did not pray as he should. Shibshiev did not even bother to look at his pants. He already knew that the knees were not worn out, as they should be if he knelt in prayer seven times a day as the faithful did. He could well imagine the rest. This Jamal Eddin was vain, soft, accustomed to luxury, his every action an affront to the law of God. He danced, he played music, he touched women and petted dogs. He used both hands at table and consumed food that the dietary laws forbade. He was even more impure than a giaour.

Profoundly shocked, Shibshiev pelted Jamal Eddin with threats and curses. He stuck to him like a shadow, relentless in his abuse. Jamal Eddin, who could not stand a confrontation or a row, considered Shibshiev’s behavior highly uncivilized. His crudeness and vulgarity were appalling. Shibshiev’s reproaches were so constant and so merciless that they exasperated him before he had even bothered to understand or register their substance. Most importantly, they were so excessive that they didn’t elicit in Jamal Eddin the least doubt or worry concerning his own conduct.