“He left the antechamber. I had several visits this morning. He did not seem to notice. Every time I received someone, I saw him there, standing very still against the wall in the shadow of a corner, oblivious to everyone coming and going around him.

“Although he remained standing, perfectly straight, he seemed devastated, as though stricken.”

In the antechamber of General Muravyev’s office Warsaw November 8, 1854

Prisoners in a Caucasian village.

His mind raced; he could not get hold of himself. What, exactly, did the general say? That Anna and Varenka, their children and their servants were being held captive on the promontory of Akulgo. No, wait, the general had not mentioned Akulgo.

An abyss yawned before him. He felt dizzy, as though he were on the edge of a precipice. He felt nauseous as his mouth filled with the taste of blood and dust and he breathed in the odor of rotting flesh—the taste, the stench of Akulgo. What other name had the general mentioned? Prisoners at Veden. The seraglio of Dargo-Veden. He said the words over to himself. Varenka was Shamil’s hostage. Jumping from one detail to the next, drawing his mind back to the objective facts, he tried to penetrate the reality, understand the meaning, and measure the consequences. But in his turmoil, he was unable to identify the nature of the shock that had struck him. He could not express the actual pain. He clung to a kind of generalized suffering, an overall view, and to snatches of the conversation that came back to him. The princesses were to be distributed. The princesses were to be sold. Varenka would become the servant of a naïb. Varenka, the slave of a Shibshiev! The reality of that image appeared before his mind’s eye in all its horror, and he could follow it no further. Varenka, the prey of a vermin such as Shibshiev. Yes, of course it was Shibshiev who was behind the whole plot—the kidnapping and the blackmail. That sneak hadn’t wasted a minute informing his master.

“I should have crushed him like a cockroach on that first day in Poland. I should have chased him and slit his throat in the forest, with Lisa, the last time.”

Lisa, the last time? Until this moment, he hadn’t dared contemplate the link between Varenka and Lisa. Of course he knew, he had instantly made the connection: returning to his father’s side meant losing Lisa. Going home meant giving up love, happiness, and the future, everything he had once believed was possible.

But not returning meant killing the princesses.

Whether he stayed or left, there was no solution.

He was caught in a vise, torn between two impossible choices.

“If I obey my father, maybe he will free his hostages. And then what? I will take my place beside him among the warriors of Allah. Just as before.”

He dared not imagine what his life would be like in the Caucasus. He had come such a long way in Russia.

How could he go back?

“How do I unlearn all that I have learned here? How do I unlearn the books and physics and mathematics, unlearn the music? Destiny is so strange. At the very moment I accepted all the advantages of studies and civilization, at the precise moment I was preparing to devote myself to them, fate throws me back into the heart of ignorance. I shall probably have to forget all that I have known and walk backward, like a crab.

“But what does it matter? Without Lisa, what does anything matter? Without Lisa, the rest is immaterial. How can I unlearn loving her? Happiness with her seemed so close. Her parents had consented, the czar had consented. Nothing stood in our way. Who is forcing me to sacrifice her today? Who is making me sever myself from her? No one. The czar has left me to be master of my own destiny. Who is forcing me to leave Lisa? Who is forcing me to abandon my regiment, leave my friends, disown Russia? No one. Why should I sacrifice Lisa for the princesses, if no one asks it of me? Why should I break the heart of the woman I love in the name of hatred? Out of duty? Come, now. What duty? Filial duty? I can recognize no sense of duty toward a father who turned his son over to his enemies. For the son that the imam supposedly claims today was not captured by the infidels at Akulgo. He was given to them. He was abandoned for fifteen years without any news, even though Shamil was evidently powerful enough to place informers in his midst to spy on him. Of all the traitors and hypocrites, my father is the greatest; he speaks of love, but his acts express only vengeance and hatred. My only duty today is to Czar Nicholas, my benefactor. And to Lisa, my wife. Why should I sacrifice her to the cruelty of men? Why should I sacrifice her to the conflicts of the past and the uncertainties of the future? What can that possibly accomplish? She has nothing whatever to do with the tragedy of the princesses. If the imam has the audacity to carry out his threats, then he alone is responsible. I have no part whatsoever in his brutality. I am free to make my own choices, free to choose my destiny. I am a free agent.”

An immense strength surged through him and buoyed him with hope and elation. He had his answer. He could stay in Russia, share his life with Lisa, and be happy with her. Yes, he had the answer.

“I shall marry Lisa. Shamil can sell the princesses and kill them. I disavow all of his crimes and disown him for his barbarity. He is nothing to me.”

But the victory of love, the triumph of hope over fate, was ephemeral.

“But then, how will we ever find peace after that? How can we construct our own happiness—a family, children—upon the deaths of twenty-three people?

“Honor demands that I deny all that I feel, renounce all I desire, to save the captives. I have no alternative. The czar knows it. He knows that Lisa cannot love a man who has built his life upon an act of cowardice. He knows that I shall lose her either way. What would my wife think if I refused to return to my father and spare his victims? What would I think of myself?

“Yes, I will lose her. Les jeux sont faits, and were from the very beginning. I have no choice, though they let me believe that I did. It’s all been an illusion. No matter whether I stay or go, our life is over, and our happiness is dead. At the very least, we can save the princesses.”

Follow-up of General Muravyev’s report to General Milyutin November 8, 1854

“[…] Late this morning, Lieutenant Shamil entered my office. He brought me his response. I suppose he had done some difficult soul searching.

“At the conclusion of his reflections, the sentiment of filial love prevailed, and his immense respect for his father ultimately convinced him. He was serious and pensive when he announced to me that he was ready to join him. I asked him to confirm his decision in writing, immediately, on the sheet of paper I handed him. He deigned to write a single sentence: ‘I accept returning to my father, according to his wishes and with the permission of His Majesty.’

“He had nothing more to say once he had agreed, and that was sufficient. I hope that the Ministry will find these few words adequate. I have sent him back to the Vladimirsky Lancers until further notice. I beg Your Excellency to inform me of the Emperor’s wishes concerning him.

“Should I send him to Saint Petersburg?

“Please find enclosed with this letter the accord signed by Lieutenant Shamil. […]”

The Winter Palace Saint Petersburg December 31, 1854

Just as he had fifteen years ago at Christmastime, Dmitri Milyutin escorted Jamal Eddin through the salons. The two men were the same height now. They wore similar uniforms and walked at the same pace.

Tomorrow Petersburg would rise before dawn to celebrate the first day of the new year with a visit to the Winter Palace, as was customary. The candles on the Christmas trees of the grand dukes’ apartments would be lit at midnight the night before, and garlands of tinsel would decorate the immense Christmas tree in the Throne Room. It was there already, glittering with shiny red apples and bonbons, pathetic and solitary in the twilight of the czar’s reign. The two officers detoured around it without so much as a pause or a glance.

With their spurs jangling and their sabers clicking and scraping the parquet, the men’s boot steps echoed down the corridors. The sounds broke the silence like a knell. The days when the police chief had sung of the future of Russia, comparing the new year to a fireworks display whose splendor illuminated the world, seemed long ago. The drawn curtains in the middle of the day, the veiled mirrors, the emptiness and shadows—everything here spoke of death and disaster.

The few courtiers who mingled in the White Hall voiced their thoughts out loud, and no chamberlain silenced them. They said that the czar was at the end of his tether, exhausted and worn out. He had been in power too long—just think, thirty years—and his judgment had suffered. How else could one explain this string of defeats, if not to attribute them to his own errors and indecision? How could one explain the thousands of wounded at Sebastopol and the siege that promised to worsen as the city became bogged down by winter?

Absorbed in his thoughts, Jamal Eddin did not even hear them. He lifted the end of his saber, conscious of the racket that their martial pace made in the stairway leading to the small study.