Rome and Rome and Rome. They said Britain was the New Rome. All she inherited was the patrician. Moscow inherited the priest. Rome and Byzantium, Kiev and Moscow. The voices are still as sweet and I did them no damage. I was clean. I was cleaner than the others. We got to the church and Petlyura himself had arrived. He was furious. ‘Sleeping, comrade?’
‘I worked late into the night.’
‘And so has this fellow?’ It was the soldier with whom I had shared a cigarette. He looked bleak. Petlyura had evidently been screaming at him. There were various generals standing about in coats and elaborate frogging. Some had no insignia. Some had removed their epaulettes. I had learned to recognise such signs. It was almost as good as waving a white flag. From below in the church the priests were holding a service. It was the Kiev part-singing of Diletski. I think it was
‘My machine is as good as ready,’ I said with dignity, i was awaiting instructions.’
‘Antonov’s forces are moving in from all sides.’ Petlyura scowled. ‘We’ve no time to set up further stations. This is the only one we can use. Tonight we shall direct it over there.’ He pointed roughly towards my own home. I was glad Esmé and my mother had gone. There was no more sun. I blinked at Petlyura. He said. ‘You are certain the light is invisible?’
I reassured him.
‘It will weaken their morale. It will give us time to put the rest of our plan into action.’
‘You are going to counter-attack?’
‘Look after the scientific matters, professor.’
The soldier glanced cynically at me. I avoided his eye. I wanted no trouble. My head was aching. I had forgotten my cocaine. I asked permission to return to the hotel for medicine. ‘Have some of mine,’ said Petlyura. He handed me a small golden box containing cocaine. I was not surprised. That entire Revolution, that entire Civil War, was fought on ‘snow’. It was the fuel, far more than politics or gunpowder, of the entire affair. Revived, I noticed the soldier smiling at me in an insolent way. ‘You think I don’t know what I’m doing?’
‘I think you might be the only one who does, comrade.’
Petlyura said sourly: ‘You could be shot, corporal.’
‘I think I stand a fair chance of it today, comrade Supreme Commander.’ The corporal had no fear because he had become so tired. I felt sympathy for him. We were being outmanoeuvred. Even Scipio had needed an army to destroy the Carthaginian elephant. It was all sunshine in those days. The battles were fought in heat, not snow. Only Hannibal had known snow, and that was the kindly snow of the Alps, not Russian snow. Ragnarok come again. Entropy. There is so much evidence in Russia. We are lucky to have our brief moments of warmth and life. It is why we worship God.
Petlyura was mumbling at the corporal. He could afford to shoot nobody. His army might only now consist of the silent generals, the corporal and my ray machine. He said something in French to the only man apart from myself in civilian dress. But Petlyura’s accent was so abominable I think no one understood. The civilian might have been the French consul. He nodded. Petlyura asked me to position the lens towards the woods of Trukhanov. ‘Could you hit those trees?’
‘Of course. But I must have the power.’
‘It’s being diverted.’
I directed my machine towards the Dnieper ice. As I pressed the appropriate switch I drew a thin line of heat across the white surface. ‘I have melted it. Think of the civil applications of the machine.’
‘Cutting ice seems hardly the purpose...’ said one of the generals.
‘It could be of use on ships,’ said another. They all spoke like automata. It was as if they had drawn their energy and inspiration from Petlyura, a source which could no longer supply what they needed. My device meant little to most of them. They did not know why they were here.
‘You burned the ice?’ Petlyura borrowed some field glasses, ‘I see the crack. Excellent. In itself, this will be of use when they try to cross. It will be like Alexander Nevski. Our enemies will perish in our river.’
He gave me the field glasses. They were of no use to me. A general leaned forward and, with a peculiar smile, retrieved them. ‘Thank you,’ he said slowly, as if I could not understand Russian.
The priests were still singing for their congregation. The sound grew louder and louder. Petlyura found their voices disturbing; I was glad of them. Even then, without realising what I was doing, I was receiving God’s inspiration and not Man’s. I was to remember that moment, when I alone, in the assembled company, had strength.
‘Those peasants,’ said Petlyura. ‘They are brutes. They are treacherous, stupid. They betrayed me. They are primitive beasts.’
