If anyone is interested:
Moghilev/Mogilev, Russia
In the massive wake of ancient cathedral, blowing snow swept across the face of a Russian general as he gazed upon a sea of white. It was the village of Moghilev.
“Only in Russia,” the solider said, enjoying the last drag from his cigarette, “would we pick a town as lovely as this to house an army.”
It was his army he was referring too.
Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov- the Emperor of All Russia never asked to be the tsar. In fact, he accepted the title of tsar with as much enthusiasm one reserves for an unwanted gift. Regardless, the tsar was who he was and for the last twenty years and he was growing increasingly tired of it. God-like power is a heavy load to bear for any mere man.
As he exhaled an icy cloud of smoke, Nicholas deep blue eyes watched the shifting snow dance upon the nearby rooftops. The sight reminded him of home- Petersburg. At that moment, a shiver traveled down his back and he remembered where he was.
A tall steeple hovered over him like a bad omen. It was Moghilev’s age-old cathedral and for the last twenty minutes Nicholas was mustering enough courage to enter it. In the past, he had visited the church frequently but tonight was different.
“Enough,” the tsar said, as he discarded his cigarette, “I have already wasted enough time.”
Swiftly, the tsar scaled the remaining stone steps.
Inside the church, the Russian wandered nervously through a dimly lit hall until he came across a hint of milky light. Following it, he traced the dancing light to the church’s inner sanctum. The high-arched chamber was a glow in thick flickering light. Hundreds, perhaps, thousands of lit candles lined the altar wall. It was a beautiful sight.
Then, as he paused to stroke his beard, Nicholas noticed the faces staring back at him. Mixed within the candles were tiny portraits of young men in imperial uniforms. Hopefully, he thought they did not all represent the town’s honored dead, but he knew they did.
Removing his jacket, he asked himself how could there be so many? He knew his country was engaged in a bruising war with Germany but how could there be so many?
“What a terrible waste? A generation lost for what?” He had no answer. Just grief.
Approaching the altar, he tossed his hat and jacket over a vacant pew and knelled before his Maker. It was time. “Dear God, what have I done?” Dropping to his knees, “There is still time. Guide me, oh Lord. Allow me to save those souls not yet lost.” Tsar Nicholas removed a crumbled up letter from his pocket. It was what bore so heavily on his mind. It was from Father Rasputin- the Siberian that had saved his only son.
I feel I shall leave life before January 1. I want to make known to the Russian people, to Papa, to the Russian Mother and to the children, to the land of Russia, what they must understand. If I am killed by common assassins, and especially by my brothers the Russian peasants, you, Tsar of Russia, have nothing to fear, remain on your throne and govern, and you, Russian Tsar have nothing to fear for your children, they will reign for hundred of years in Russia. But if I am murdered by boyars, by nobles, if they shed my blood, their hands will remain soiled with blood, for twenty-five years they will not wash their hands from my blood. They will leave Russia. Brothers will kill their brothers, and they will kill each other and hate each other, and for twenty-five years there will be no nobles in the country. Tsar of the land of Russia, if you hear a sound of a bell which will tell you that Grigory has been killed, you must know this: if it was your relations who wrought my death then no one of your family, that is to say none of your children or relations, will remain alive for more than two years. They will be killed by the Russian people. I go and I feel in me the divine command to tell the Russian Tsar how he must live if I have disappeared. You must reflect and act prudently. Think of your safety and tell your relations that I have paid for them with my own blood. I shall be killed. I am no longer among the living. Pray, pray, be strong, think of your blessed family.
Grigory
Closing his eyes, he continued to pray for his family.
As he opened them, the tsar concentrated on the solid oak cross that centered the chamber. The tsar became hypnotized by it as he recalled a past conversation with the prophet. Nicholas once asked the Siberian, “When will the war end?” Rasputin replied: “When you take Constantinople that will be the end of it.”
Grigory spoke the truth. Why was it that his sole purpose for this war was the liberation of that forgotten Christian city? Why? As his eyelids grew heavy, he knew that answer all too well. He was the one chosen to restore the cross to the altar of St. Sophia. Professor Pobyedonostzev his tutor as a child had foreseen it. Over and over, he would say, “Nicholas, my dear child, save Constantinople from the Turks. It is the founding city of the Russian Orthodox Church held captive by the Muslim faith. Restore the cross to the altar of St. Sophia. To do so, the Lord would bless thy.”
How many times had he heard that same message, in these past few years resound in his head? Far too many times but today his armies were no closer to its gates then before the war. Perhaps the professor was wrong? It was not his legacy to be known as ‘great.’ In Petersburg, the tsar was referred to as anything but great.
“Oh Lord? Through your abundant Grace, you sacrificed your only son to wash away the world’s sin- now what do you wish of me?”
At that moment, the heavy wooden doors of the church swung open. Nicholas continued to pray, “Whatever you choose, let thy will be done.”
Through the doors, a stranger appeared accompanied by a strong breeze that blew out a majority of the candles along with knocking down several of the pictures. Closing the vast doors, the bald intruder bowed and quietly entered the darkened cathedral. It was the Cossack Chekov the tsar’s most trusted bodyguard. Wearing a bright green greatcoat that ran to the floor, the Cossack’s enormous frame nearly filled the aisleway as he quickly approached his sovereign. He was thankful His Majesty was okay.
Wearing a rare grin, he asked the figure of the Mother of God, “Duty calls.”
“Your Majesty,” the Cossack said, scanning the room for possible danger, “I have been looking for you for over an hour.”
“And now you found me.”
“Your Grace, it is not safe for you to walk the streets alone. Radicals wander the streets- even in Moghilev.”
Before Nicholas could respond, an old and disheveled priest emerged from a side entrance. Still wearing his bedclothes, he appeared half asleep. “What’s with this racket? It’s nearly morning for god sake.”
“Sorry Father,” the Russian tsar replied, “I could not sleep.”
Instantly recognizing him, “Your Majesty,” he said falling to the floor, “I am so honored.” In Russia, the tsar was considered to be God’s gift to the people- just a notch below the Creator. His Majesty was the magical glue that held together the church and state. Without him, the entire empire would fall to pieces.
His Grace was tired of playing god. “Father, please, stand up. I am not worthy of such praise.” Nicholas gathered his fur hat and overcoat as he heard the priest mumble that he was the chosen one.
“Your Majesty, who is more worthy than you?” the obedient priest declared as he rose. “Is there anything I can do for you? Perhaps a prayer?”
“Yes, that would be nice.”
“Splendid! Let’s see, what should I prayer for?” the priest said as he scratched his head. “Oh, I know. How about a glorious victory this spring?”
“No,” he replied as he marched towards the door. Turning back, “Just pray for--”
At that moment, the steeple bell chimed in the hour. Four bells, it was late- too late for anyone to pray for peace. In three days the tsar would be dead.
end of chapter II
DS