"Moscow was burned in the year fifteen seventy-one, tutor," Maxim said, his high-pitched voice grating against Nikolai's nerves like breaking glass. One of the things that most infuriated Nikolai when it came to the whipping boy was his refusal to fight back or even cry out when he was beaten or teased. He took his punishments silently and seemingly without bitterness, and he was always unfailingly polite to the Prince. Just once, Nikolai would like to get Maxim to lose his composure, just once he wanted to see him cry, as he knew he himself would cry were he to be beaten so often and so thoroughly as Maxim.
"Correct, Maxim," the tutor said, shooting Nikolai a dark look. The Prince had yet to answer a single question correctly today. "Perhaps His Majesty should go to Maxim in the future for assistance with his studies."
Nikolai flinched as if he had been struck. He glared at the tutor, who glared right back and crossed his arms over his chest, daring the Prince to throw one of the tantrums for which he was known so well. Nikolai was happy to oblige him. He shot up from his desk and turned it over, relishing the loud thud and the crack of splintering wood. Then he picked up a bottle of ink from the desk across from him and uncorking it, began to run about the room, spattering all of the drapes and tapestries with black ink. He made sure to give an ample libation to his tutor, who had taken shelter behind his own desk. As the crowning gesture to his tantrum Nikolai ran to Maxim, who was still sitting calmly behind his desk, and upended the bottle over his head. Ink splashed down onto the top of the whipping boy's head in torrents, dying his hair jet and turning his face into a black mask. He sat perfectly still, letting the ink drip down onto his shirt collar, and Nikolai began to laugh. Maxim turned to him then and the look in his eyes was one that the Prince had never experienced before. It was plain, naked hatred. His giggles abruptly ceased, and as the tutor crawled out from behind his desk, Maxim rose and walked to the schoolroom door, his eyes now downcast.
"Punish him," Nikolai suddenly said, angry that he had allowed Maxim's hatred to shake him, "I deserve to be punished so you have to punish him. You can't let me get away with spraying ink all over the place, Tutor." The tutor narrowed his eyes and looked at Nikolai for a long moment, making no effort to conceal his dislike for the Prince. Nikolai stuck out his tongue at him and the tutor sighed, dropping his gaze. Maxim had stopped in the doorway with his back to them, waiting.
"Come here, Maxim," the man said, reaching to pick up a heavy wooden staff which had been leaning against the wall. "His majesty needs to be punished," And Maxim went, saying nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. He bent over, presenting himself for the cane and grasping the edge of a desk to keep himself steady. "Watch well, Tsarevich," the tutor said as he brought the cane down for the first time on Maxim's waiting backside, "This is how a true Prince should behave." He delivered a volley of blows, hard and fast, each smack echoing through the silent room. But Maxim never cried out, never shed a tear. When the beating was over, he stood up, winced ever so slightly and then limped out of the room without saying a word, his face still covered with black ink.
Chapter One
Maxim Ivanovich entered the throne room for the first time in six years. It hadn't changed much since he had left, but his status within it certainly had. Gone were the days when he had been forced to submit to the whims of a spoiled princeling, and gone too were the pitying, condescending stares of the Boyars who populated the court. He was now among their number, elevated into the nobility by the grace of the Tsar upon the occasion of Tsarevich Nikolai's coming of age. He had spent eight years, eight miserable years, from the time of his parents' death until Nikolai's eighteenth birthday, serving as the plaything for a cruel and spoiled little brat whose greatest pleasure seemed to be watching Maxim suffer punishments for crimes which he had not committed. The very day after the Tsar had granted him the privileges of the Boyar, Maxim had left Moscow, traveling to England and installing himself in a townhouse in the most fashionable district in London. The Tsar's monetary recompense for Maxim's years of slavery had been quite substantial; the man had known what type of boy his son was and had not been unsympathetic when all was said and done. Maxim could have spent the rest of his life living quite comfortably without ever making any money of his own, but he soon discovered that the idle life did not suit him. He bought shares in an English shipping company, and accompanied his vessels to many of their destinations. He had sailed the Mediterranean and journeyed to the Far East. He had even been on expedition to Africa and his ship had come back loaded with enough merchandise to make every man in the crew rich. For six years he had lived the life of a sailor, had tasted so much of what the world had to offer, but it had all come to an end less than a month ago.
He had been in London when he had received a letter from the Tsar. His Majesty wrote to Maxim that he had been diagnosed with a wasting sickness and had not long to live. His son would soon become Tsar of Russia and his father was now, in his final extremity, wracked with doubts about Tsarevich Nikolai's ability to rule the country. The Prince had predictably grown from a thoughtless, selfish boy into a thoughtless, selfish man, caring more for sport and drink than for other people and the affairs of Mother Russia. The Tsar was certain that if Nikolai were to inherit the throne as he was now, Russia would crumble and fall into a state of irreparable neglect. Maxim, the Tsar explained, was the only man capable of bringing his son to heel. The prince was a man now and the Tsar had grown old; it was now far too late for the Tsar to curb his son's behavior with the rod. Nikolai's hold over court was unshakeable. He was feared for his temper and cruel sense of humor, and his sway had grown large since the old Tsar's confinement to his final sick bed. No, only Maxim, the Tsar was certain, only Maxim who had grown up alongside the prince, who had dealt so unflinchingly with Nikolai's cruelty, would be able to mold him into a man who was capable of running an empire. Maxim must return to court and re-establish ties to the Prince. He must, through hints, threats, reasoned argument and entreaty, mold the Tsarevich into a Tsar, and he had been granted full immunity to do so. As long as the old Tsar remained alive, Prince Nikolai would have no power over him.
Maxim had thought about refusing, about sailing away on another journey and pretending that he had never gotten the Tsar's letter, but something stopped him. It was more than just patriotism; he did not have much cause to love Russia after all. Russia had not been kind to him, but the Tsar had kept him fed and provided him with an education. It was perhaps this last thing which had made him answer the Tsar's letter. It was his love of books of adventure which had first driven him to the sea, and if it had not been for the tutors which he had shared with Nikolai, Maxim may never have had the wit or desire to discover them. Another thing which crossed his mind when he answered the letter was that he would quite like to see Nikolai again. He was no longer the whipping boy, the hated slave. He was Boyar, and he had been granted immunity by the Tsar. He had captained half a dozen voyages to the most savage corners of the world. Prince Nikolai could no longer command him. In fact, Maxim intended things to be quite the other way around. He had learned much in his travels about how to curb the behavior of men like Nikolai, and he intended to practice them upon the Prince as soon as the opportunity arose. The Tsarevich would not be swayed by reasoned argument or academic entreaties to his better judgment. The only thing which would cure Nikolai of his dangerous arrogance was for him to learn what it is like to be truly humble, and that was something at which Maxim was very, very accomplished.
He tried to spot Nikolai now among the crush of courtiers, but didn't see him. It had been six years since they had last laid eyes on each other. The Tsarevich had been eighteen, and Maxim twenty when he had been granted his title by the Tsar and had left Russia for England. Nikolai had perhaps changed a great deal since then. Maxim may not even recognize him. A flurry of mutters suddenly when through the crowd of Boyars and heads began to swivel towards the door. Maxim turned himself and saw, for the first time in six years, Tsarevich Nikolai Danilavich sweeping into the room clad in clothes of immaculate cut and costly style. He looked just as Maxim remembered him at their last meeting, tall and lean with high, prominent cheekbones, gray-blue eyes and long hair so blond that it was almost white. The perpetual expression of haughty superiority which he wore upon his face had also not changed since their schooldays and Maxim smiled slightly to himself, anticipating what it would be like to wipe that self-satisfied smirk from the Prince's lips.
Nikolai was almost level with him now, and Maxim stepped deliberately forward, placing himself in plain view of the Tsarevich and his retinue. He saw the Prince's face first freeze and then grow dark with anger when he caught sight of Maxim. His Majesty stumbled ever so slightly, and Maxim allowed his smile to widen. He cocked an eyebrow at Nikolai and then turned away, going to find a servant who could lead him to the Tsar's sick room.
