Roll For The Czar

     This is a tale of the days of the Czar, of ermine and gold and pure white bread.

     In Saint Petersburg, the Czar held his court with pomp and ceremony that dazzled peasants and ambassadors alike. His Winter Palace covered acres by the side of the frozen lake. It had pillars of azure-blue colored gemstone and of rare stone from the Urals. Its halls held treasures from all around the world.

     Once a year, the Czar paid a visit of state to Moscow, where the rich and merchants lived, trade center of the Imperial Domain. Here, he would sit in the throne room of the fortress, where his ancestors once ruled The Russian Empire.

     There was another great man in Moscow- a backer, Morkov by name. The master bakers of the city were famous, and Morkov was prince among them. His cakes and pastry were renowned throughout all the Russians, but his rolls were the best of all: pure white bread, like the driven snow of the steppes, a crust just hard enough to crunch, the bread not too soft, but soft enough to hold the melted butter.

     Merchants princes from the gold rivers of Siberia, chieftains from the Caucasus in high fur hats, nobles from their feudal estates in the country, all came to Moscow to eat Markov's rolls.

     The Czar himslef was mighty eater and especially fond of Markov's delicacies. So, one day if February, when it came time for a visit to Moscow, the Czar was thinking of Morkov and his art, anticipating the rolls. His private car bore the imperial coat of arms. The rest of the train was filled with grand dukes, princes of the blood, and noble laddies. The railroad track ran straight as an arrow five hundred miles through the snow,the white birch forests, and the pines.

     The train chuffed into the Moscow station, into a morning of sun and frost. The sun sparkled on the gold domes of churches, it glittered on the armor of a regiment of guards, all men of noble birth. Smoke rose straight up from chimneys. Twin jets of steam snorted from the nostrils of the three horses of the Czar's troika. The Czar has a fine appetite.

     The horses' hoofs kicked up gout of snow as they galloped over the moat and through the gate in the Kremlin walls. The Czar walked up the royal staircase, carpeted in red and lined with bowing servants. He was thinking of the rolls.

     He went through the formal greetings with a distracted look, then sat down eagerly at the breakfast table. Not a glance did he give the caviar, the smoked starlets, the pheasant in aspic. He watched the door, when a royal footman came through carrying a sliver platter loaded with rolls, the Czar smiled. All was well.

     The Czar rubbed his hands and took a steaming roll. He broke it open and the smile vanished from his face. A dead fly lay embedded in the bread. Courtiers crowded around to look.

     "Bring Markov here!" said the Czar, with one of his terrible glances. The banquet room was silent in tense horror. Markov came in puffing slightly but bearing himself with the pride of a master artist.

     "Look at this, Markov," said the Czar, pointing at the fly, "and tell me what it is."

     Markov looked and stood frozen for a moment. Princes, nobles, and servants all leaned forward waiting for doom to strike. The Czar could bend a horseshoe with his bare hands. A word from him and the bleak wastes of Siberia lay waiting.

     No man could tell what Markov thought, but they knew that a fly had endangered his life. He reached to the platter and picked up the fly. He put it in his mouth and ate it. Every eye watched him swallow.

     "It is a raisin, Sire," he said.

     Wrath faded from the Czar's face. He broke out laughing and the nobles relaxed.

     "Markov,"  he said, "we grant you a coat of arms with a fly as the motif. A fly imperiled your life and a fly saved your life."

     And the Czar went on with his rolls.

     The End