Anna, standing in the garden near the greenhouse, looking up at the mountains, could do nothing. Through tears – which were in themselves hypocritical, indulgent, ridiculous – she imagined the scene that captured the imagination of the nation. Shamil on his white horse, followed by the remnant of his bedraggled army, their torn banners held up high for one last time. It shamed her that he was lied to. Promised that none of the tribal chiefs who had turned against him would be allowed to be present and yet there they were, gloating. Promised that he would not be disarmed but at the last minute, just before the surrender, they took away his sword.
It was said that his face was impassive. It was said that he was noble in defeat as he had been in success.
Then the newspapers took over. She would sit with Ilia perched on her knees, his arms swatting the pages, and she would read about Shamil’s ‘triumphal progress’ as he left Dagestan, as he descended the mountains and headed towards Stavropol. The young and the curious ran after his carriage, military wives welcomed him with garlands, crowds lined the streets to see him drive past and parks were lit up in his honour, choirs performed … ‘A ball at Mozdok railway station!’ her voice rose loud and sudden to the extent that Ilia slipped down to the floor in surprise.
David laughed in satisfaction. ‘Orders from the tsar himself. Shamil is to be respected and celebrated as a worthy, honourable adversary.’
There was a lot to take in as she nursed Tamar, cajoled Ilia, hired a new nurse, remonstrated with Alexander to obey his hapless tutor. She took to accusing David of exaggerating only to find it a day later in print.
The tsar receiving Shamil during a military parade. The two swap comments on military matters and embrace. Really?
Shamil, impressed by the wonders of St Petersburg, the towering achievements of Russian industry, a visit to the planetarium and the Zoological Gardens, a visit to see the Crown Jewels, a visit to a sugar factory.
Massive crowds camped in front of his hotel (the thought of him in a hotel of all places was in itself bizarre), but here it was in print, crowds waiting just to catch a glimpse of the Lion of Dagestan.
Shamil and his entourage driving up for a gala performance. His son, Ghazi, in tears after the performance of
Les Naiades,
deeply moved by the ballet’s sentimental story of unrequited love.
Shamil saying that if he could be born again he would devote his life in service to the empire.
Anna was finding it all more incredible by the minute. ‘Are we to believe that now in captivity he loves everything Russian? That he regrets all these years of war?’
David, puffing on his pipe, assured her that she was being unreasonable. ‘In his own words Shamil was expecting to be tortured or executed. Now he is getting a taste of Christian mercy and he is grateful.’
‘Grateful to be treated like an exotic pet for people to gaze at? And don’t tell me that there aren’t ulterior motives behind this. They want something from him, David. These people don’t give something for nothing.’
This time he agreed with her. ‘Yes. They want the whole Caucasus to submit behind him. They want no more challenges.’
She heard Tamar crying and left him to go to the nursery. Her steps quickened as the cries mounted in volume and intensity. It was a joy that she could make her stop crying just by calling out
her name, just by picking her up, feeling her dampness, looking into her eyes. Such true need, such anguish. A glistening tear wetting the smallest of lashes. One little tear. Tamar, named after Queen Tamar the Great, the first woman to rule Georgia in her own right. ‘Tamar, Princess of Georgia,’ she said. ‘I’m here. Don’t cry.’
Six months later, she found herself in Moscow. ‘When the tsar invites you to dinner, how can you refuse?’ David said. ‘What excuse can you give?’ The ball was held in Shamil’s honour. A reconciliation between him and the Chavchavadzes, a forging of bonds must be witnessed. Petersburg society would appreciate such a scene. Anna dressed as she would dress to attend a funeral except that she wore all her jewels. Diamonds on black. It aged her but she did not want to look attractive. She did not want to look happy. Why pretend? David’s enthusiasm was due to a monetary gift promised by the tsar, a much-needed boost to regain Tsinondali. It had not been easy for him to convince her to travel. They had argued, and because he had won the argument he did not criticise her choice of clothes. If this was a whim, he would humour it.
Shamil looked out of place amidst the wine and dancing. As much as she had been out of place in the aoul at Dargo. He looked fatigued, as if everyone’s eyes on him were casting a net to hold him in place. If only they would not gape, these jaded couriers. If only these Asiatic mountain princes, who had switched allegiances to Russia long ago, would not gloat so openly. She could hear them whispering. ‘Are there no children for him to play with today?’ they sniggered. He survived these functions by withdrawing himself from the adults to spend time with those who were instinctive and pure.
When she walked towards him she sensed his ache for the mountains. The minder by his side, a Russian official, assumed that he must initiate an introduction, jog a memory. But Shamil did not need reminding of who she was. ‘Anna, Queen of Georgia,’ he said. His voice had not changed, nor his tone.
It was not the correct form of address and the Russian official with all good intention said, ‘Princess Anna,’ in such a way as to
suggest that Shamil should repeat it. A silence as everyone waited for the repetition. The longest moment of silence when she stood like a queen and breathed like a queen, a moment in which Georgia was its own kingdom, not annexed to Russia. This continued until awkwardness interrupted. The air bristled, skirts rustled and someone was clearing his throat. Next to Anna, an aged general changed the subject and drew Shamil away. The guests mingled, saying that Shamil had become hard of hearing and forgetful. And she went home knowing better.
From the upstairs window Shamil could see a church and beyond it the railway station. The houses were in even rows, built on a flat road, tame under a blanket of snow. There were no peaks, no jagged rocks; beyond the hills the forests were pine instead of birch. He had known all along that Russia was vast and different but to find himself living in it was still a surprise.
In this provincial town, south of Moscow, he had been given a three-storey house. For the first few months he was alone without his family, pacing the empty rooms, sensing his minder hovering just outside the door, policing him but not wanting to intrude. Shamil had formed a favourable impression of his
pristav,
Runovsky. The officer was well-mannered and sensitive, genuinely interested in his charge. He wrote down the things that Shamil said and answered his questions about Russian life. It could have been worse, Shamil knew, but he was still wary, understanding that he was now fulfilling a role in his adversary’s agenda, a role that was still unclear. All this largess was for the sake of illustration. And once they were done with him, they would change in some way that he could not yet predict.
He told Runovsky how much he admired the Russians for their treatment of him in captivity; they were neither angry nor intent on harming him. The crowds that swarmed to see him off at the railway platform in Petersburg had made him put his hand on his heart and nod to them to express his thanks. He responded to their sincerity, sensed their simple, difficult lives. They hailed him as a hero against oppression because they knew only too well what oppression was. He told Runovsky that he had expected abuse and humiliation. His own men in the Caucasus would hurl dirt on the Russian prisoners and kill them given half the chance. Shamil had prided himself in treating Princess Anna like a guest, but he realised now that from her point of view, he must have been only doing what was right.
It was interesting to discover that Runovsky had served in the Caucasus for several years. Together they went over details of fortresses under siege and battles lost and won. To hear the perspective of his former enemies was illuminating. To recount history in parallel was intellectually fulfilling. And it was not only Runovsky; officers and soldiers who had served in the Caucasus wanted to meet him. Most of them were respectful; even those who had been prisoners of war would bend and kiss his hand as they used to do in their time of captivity. A few, though, made him angry when they told lies. When one lieutenant boasted that he had been given the St George’s cross for storming the aoul of Kitouri and capturing the naib Magamoi, Shamil rose to his feet and shouted that Magamoi was already dead by the time Kitouri surrendered. A martyr’s name must not be sullied and Shamil trembled as he strode out of the room. That such falsehood could be repeated and believed made him feel old.
Runovsky, in charge of the household, issued Shamil an allowance. It was too much money and every time he went for a walk, he would give it away to the beggars he passed. As the weeks went by, the beggars of Kaluga came to wait for him. He never turned them away empty-handed. Runovsky took him to task for this. They
would only spend it on vodka, he said. ‘But if I give them too little I would be mocking them,’ Shamil replied. ‘It says in my Book to help the poor. Does it not say that also in yours?’
Great portions of Shamil’s day were spent reliving the fall of Dargo and then Gunaib. He would not talk to Runovsky about this, he could not. In private, in solitude, he wanted to identify the errors made and by whom; he wanted to pinpoint the moment when the tide turned against him. Not for the sake of learning from his mistakes and improving his future performance (he was not in denial) but for the sake of knowledge. Those last weeks before the surrender were worse than the surrender itself. There he was from mosque to mosque preaching, no, begging, bullying, cajoling, for more men to join the jihad, for those who were already enlisted not to drop out. It was no use. Had he not taught that martyrdom was better than surrender? And yet Allah had not graced him with it, had not crowned his achievements in the best of ways. When the Russians gained the peaks above them and that was a sign that they were done for, that the end was near, that even Gunaib, that impenetrable fortress, had been betrayed and was now ready to crumble, he had gone around with fire in his heart pleading with his men to kill him. ‘Kill me,’ he said. ‘I give you permission to kill me before they come for me. Spare me the shame.’ They turned away though he held their arms, held their faces between his hands and saw in their eyes helplessness and love. ‘If you won’t kill me then leave me,’ he said. ‘Save yourselves. I give you permission to leave Gunaib and I will stay here alone. I will fight when they come; I will fight them until my sword is shattered into small pieces and I will die alone.’ But they would not go. These men who had lasted this long and would last for ever. They were the upright, the robust whom the Russians couldn’t buy with their ‘red and white’ coins. By this time, many of his naibs had already changed sides, naibs who had been his friends, naibs he had esteemed and trusted. ‘We must be pragmatic,’ they said to him but he never listened. ‘We must think ahead.’ All he knew was that fire is better than shame and he
had won before, he had rebuffed them before, decade after decade, year after year, so why was it all slipping away now?
In the last short night, which he spent in prayer at the mosque, surrounded by the moans of the wounded and the smell of the dead, Ghazi came in and hovered. When Shamil turned his head to the right and the left to finish, Ghazi fell to his knees before him. Ghazi wanted to say spare the children of Gunaib, spare the woman you love, Chuanat; spare your lovely daughters, your newborn grandson. Spare the crooked legs of your favourite daughter. The longer Ghazi knelt before him, the more selfish martyrdom became; the longer Ghazi knelt the clearer it dawned that this was defeat and that defeat was Allah’s will. Instead of martyrdom, it was time for Shamil to accept this failure. Disappointment stabbed him like an arrow.
He agreed but he had conditions of his own. First, he and his men would still be carrying their arms when they surrendered to the Russian general. Second, he would be allowed to go on pilgrimage to Makkah accompanied by his family and anyone who wished to join him.
Neither condition was honoured. As he rode out, they came between him and his followers and disarmed him, claiming that the general was afraid of armed men. His sword, which he wanted to keep fighting with until it was shattered to pieces, was taken from him and handed over to Field-Marshal Bariatinsky. And instead of setting out for the pilgrimage, here he was in Kaluga being asked by this pleasant Russian minder about what he thought of the local women’s low necklines.
Apparently every officer arriving in Kaluga had strict orders to pay him an official visit. They liked to hear him praise the tsar and Russia, they beamed when he expressed gratitude for the house he was living in. Sometimes they asked to see the fabled seventeen wounds on his body. Sometimes they just stared. He waited to find out what more they wanted from him. Days spent with memories, nights spent in prayer. Often he thought of his son Jamaleldin and longed to talk to him. If Jamaleldin were here now, he would
translate for him, explain to him and help him. The son would lead the father. This was yet another thought that made him feel old.
Zeidat covered her ears with her hands. ‘Oh this sound is intolerable. Must the Russians have all this clamour to remind them to pray?’
The church bells of Kaluga were tolling. The sound filled the large family room on the first floor, furnished all round with cushions in the Ottoman style. Shamil looked across at Chuanat, who was sewing. He was relieved that she was here, that they were together at last. It had lifted his spirits to have the family gathered around him. They were all here except Ameena, whom he had divorced before leaving Dargo and made sure that she was safely back home with her family in Bavaria. The elderly Bahou, too, had not been able to attempt the journey. Now with him in Kaluga were his two sons, Ghazi with his wife and baby and young Muhammad-Sheffi; his two older daughters and their new husbands, the younger children and their nannies. The house was full of their voices and footsteps. A piece of the Caucasus to wrap around him.