Aleksei left the house and headed once again up Nevsky Prospect, towards the Admiralty, or the Winter Palace, or wherever in that area of the city the uprising might begin. He still wore his full uniform. It was all he had to wear, but he knew that most of the rebels – those who were soldiers rather than poets, at any rate – would do the same. His sword was at his side and his gun was in his pocket. The city was eerie in the morning twilight. The streets were as busy as they might be on any Monday morning, but Aleksei saw in the eyes of all he passed the sense that something of unspeakable enormity was about to happen. Before he reached the Admiralty, he saw someone he recognized; a young captain by the name of Yekimov – a keen member of the Society.

  ‘What’s the news?’ Aleksei asked. There was no one near them who might eavesdrop.

  ‘The senate has assembled already,’ said Yekimov. ‘They’re going to swear loyalty to Nikolai Pavlovich.’

  In reality, it didn’t much matter. The senate had no power – less even than its Roman namesake at the height of imperial ascendance – but the symbolism might prove significant.

  ‘Have any of the regiments marched on the Winter Palace yet?’ Aleksei asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but when they do, it will be Senate Square, not the palace. Troubetzkoy thinks that if we can sway the senate, everything else will follow. At least that’s what he said last night. No one’s seen him today.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Aleksei. ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘To the fortress. Ryleev’s told me to see what can be done about raising the battalion there.’

  ‘Have you seen Lieutenant Danilov? Dmitry Alekseevich? My son?’ Aleksei realized that his intensity risked frightening the captain.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t.’

  They walked a little way together, then Yekimov headed off to complete his task. When Aleksei reached Admiralty Boulevard he looked west towards Senate Square. Even at this distance, it was clear that a crowd was assembling. Between him and them, outside the Admiralty, stood a group of concerned-looking men on horseback. Aleksei could only guess that they were loyal to the tsar, keeping an eye on how events unfolded. It would not be safe for him to approach the square directly. Instead he slipped north, between the Admiralty and the Winter Palace.

  The Neva was a stunning sight – not just because it was a vast, wide, gleaming sheet of ice, but because of the soldiers, converging from all directions on to Senate Square. In the middle of the widest part of the river, opposite the Peter and Paul Fortress, just before the Great and Lesser Nevas split, the crowds separated, avoiding the invisible but potentially deadly weak spot in the centre of the ice. How many hundreds were there altogether? It was impossible to count. There were typically around twelve thousand soldiers stationed in the city in total; both sides would be considering how those would divide. If the split were balanced, it would probably mean a victory for the rebels, as a drift would begin from previously loyal troops. But they were unlikely to get half – how many fewer would still be enough? It was possible that Nikolai had brought in additional troops, but he could not be entirely sure which side they would take.

  Aleksei stepped down on to the frozen river. He would far rather have walked along the paved embankment, but that would mean passing close to the Admiralty, where loyal soldiers would be stationed. His fear of them was more rational than his fear of the ice, and so he overcame the latter. The Neva allowed him to give the building a wide berth. It was slippery, though most who crossed seemed to be dealing with it better than Aleksei was. He was reminded of two previous occasions when he had been forced to travel on foot across an icy plane. Both of those had been in battle – once on Lake Satschan, after the Battle of Austerlitz, and then seven years later as the French fled across the Berezina. Then cannonfire, and slightly warmer weather, had meant that the ice was unstable. Today at least, as during every winter in Petersburg, it was as reliable as any other thoroughfare.

  His way was eventually blocked by the Isaakievsky Bridge, but it marked the point Aleksei wanted to reach. The pontoon bridge stretched out from Senate Square, across the Great Neva towards the Twelve Colleges on Vasilevskiy Island. With the river frozen, it was impossible to crawl under it, and it would be difficult to climb up on to it, but along the embankment, steps that in summer led up from the water’s edge now led up from the ice. From the river he was too low down to be able to see into the square – all that was visible was the top half of the statue of Pyotr the Great – but he could sense from the murmuring noise that a vast crowd had assembled.

  As he ascended the stone steps away from the ice, the whole scene became clear to him. In the background stood Saint Isaac’s, the scaffolding already in place for its planned demolition, but the crowds were keeping well away from there. They were clustered around the statue of Pyotr – an odd choice for rebels in a republican cause, but Aleksei doubted if many truly knew what their leaders had planned for the country. There were over a thousand there, and more flocking in all the time.

  Aleksei stood on the quayside, a little way from the crowd, watching. He was about to cross over to the square when a sudden chill came over him – noticeable despite the winter cold. He remembered a story he had heard about what had happened on that very spot, one hundred and thirteen years before. The landscape would have been different then. The embankment would not have been built, and there would have been no statue of Pyotr. Saint Isaac’s was just a church, small compared with the current building and minuscule in comparison with the new one that was planned. The Admiralty would have been there, but nothing like as grand.

  In Aleksei’s mind, Pyotr had approached from the east, emerging from the Admiralty. Zmyeevich stood there waiting. Where could Colonel Brodsky and his men have been hiding? How had they been strong enough to subdue a creature like Zmyeevich? It was all the stuff of myth, handed down from generation to generation of the Romanovs and embellished at every step. Could the whole thing have been invention? Nullius in Verba. There was little concrete evidence that there was anything in Aleksandr’s blood. He claimed that he sometimes saw through Zmyeevich’s eyes, but that could be simple hallucination, brought on by the fear of the tales his grandmother had told him. Zmyeevich believed it though – or at least Iuda claimed he did. Zmyeevich had been there – here – so the story went. It may not have happened the way Aleksandr described it, it may not even have happened here, but there had been a meeting between Pyotr and Zmyeevich. And Pyotr had come out on top. If not, why had Yekaterina ensured that his statue, close to that very spot, depicted him trampling a serpent?

  Aleksei crossed over to the square and joined the crowd. There seemed little coherent purpose to their presence. They simply stood and waited. Occasionally a shout could be heard: ‘Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya!’ But at whom they were shouting was not clear. Aleksei spoke to the first officer he came to.

  ‘What regiment are you with?’ he asked.

  ‘The Moskovsky,’ he said, ‘but there are Grenadiers here too, and some of the Marine Guard.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’

  ‘Bestuzhev led us here, but we’re waiting for Prince Troubetzkoy. He’s going to take charge until Konstantin Pavlovich can be freed.’

  ‘Freed?’

  ‘It’s all a lie that he’s abdicated – Bestuzhev told us. They have him in chains in Warsaw on Nikolai’s orders. It’s an outrage. Even the senate’s fallen for it.’

  ‘They’ve already sworn allegiance to Nikolai?’ asked Aleksei.

  ‘Apparently. They took the oath at seven this morning. They already left.’

  It was almost laughably disorganized. Perhaps Aleksandr had done his brother a favour by bringing on the succession so suddenly. If the rebels had been able to stick with their plans of acting the following year, they would have had more time to prepare. But any comedy that there was would vanish if this crowd continued to grow. Loyal troops would have to do something to disperse it – and that would mean a massacre. But none of that was Aleksei’s immediate concern.

  ‘Do you know a Lieutenant Danilov?’ he asked. ‘Dmitry Alekseevich.’

  The man shook his head. Aleksei moved on through the crowd, asking for Dmitry, but of the few who had even heard of him, none had seen him. It seemed hopeless that he would ever find him; his main hope lay in his son’s height. He would stand out from the crowd, but only by a little.

  Over to the east and south, Aleksei could see more troops assembling, many on horseback. There was no indication that they were part of the rebellion – they were here to put it down, and were merely awaiting the order so to do. Aleksei again saw the group of horsemen that he had noticed outside the Admiralty. Now they had been joined by Tsar Nikolai. At that distance it was impossible to see his expression, but on his decision of whether to end the rebellion by persuasion or by force lay the fate of thousands of men.

  Aleksei turned back and scanned the crowd. He still saw no sign of Dmitry and – as the numbers swelled – had little hope of finding him. Then he noticed movement around the statue of Pyotr. A figure was climbing up on to the Thunder Stone, preparing to address the rebels. It was Ryleev. Aleksei ran over to listen.

  Dmitry looked up into the sky. The face of Kondraty Fyodorovich Ryleev looked down on him and the whole crowd. Behind him, Pyotr’s bronze horse reared into the air. Dmitry felt elated. Ryleev had been a hero to many at the Cadet Corps College, and though there had never been any official path of recruitment, a number of the youngest members of the Northern Society – those, like Dmitry, who had never seen battle – had joined on the basis of his reputation. In all there were at least three thousand here, he’d heard, with more on the way. Those soldiers who remained loyal to Nikolai – fooled into thinking he was truly tsar – would never fire on their comrades. Nikolai would have to relinquish power and let Troubetzkoy take over, if only Troubetzkoy would arrive soon. Perhaps they had already arrested him. Then Ryleev would have to lead. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

  Dmitry had arrived at Ryleev’s house the previous night, to be told that he had missed his father by less than an hour. It was a disappointment, but he knew Aleksei would appreciate that forthcoming events would take precedence over kinship, at least for the day. He had stayed at the house, and in the morning all had been in chaos.

  First, Bestuzhev had arrived with news that Kakhovsky had promised to assassinate Nikolai at the first opportunity. Ryleev paused at the news, and then said, ‘Remember the garde perdue. He must not be linked to us.’

  ‘He knows,’ Bestuzhev had replied.

  The conversation had taken place as a shouted exchange through Ryleev’s bedroom door as he prepared himself. When he finally emerged, Dmitry was shocked at what he saw – too shocked even to laugh. He was not alone in his emotions. Ryleev himself described what he was wearing – and the motivation behind it – far better than Dmitry ever could have.

  ‘I’m dressed as a peasant, you see,’ he explained, indicating his rough clothes and knapsack. ‘But’ – the word was long and drawn out – ‘I’m also carrying a rifle – like a soldier. That’s what today is all about; the union between the soldier and the peasant – the first act of their mutual liberty.’

  Dmitry would have observed that Ryleev was neither a soldier nor a peasant, but he bit his tongue. Bestuzhev had been more outspoken.

  ‘There are only soldiers with us today – no peasants,’ he said. ‘They won’t understand any of this sort of patriotic symbolism. All they believe is that Nikolai should not be tsar.’

  Ryleev had eventually agreed and had gone again to change, with the words, ‘Perhaps I was being a little too romantic.’ Bestuzhev left the house to search the city’s barracks for more support. Ryleev had dressed once more and was about to leave when his wife rushed out to him and grabbed his arm.

  ‘Don’t stir from the house today,’ she begged.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he had replied.

  ‘You will die,’ she shouted.

  Ryleev had pulled himself away from her, and she shouted up the stairs, ‘Nastenka! Nastenka! Beg your father to stay.’

  A little girl had appeared – Ryleev’s six-year-old daughter – seeming as upset by her mother’s shouting as by her father’s departure. In the end, she had to be dragged away from her father’s legs, to which she had clung desperately. His wife had swooned on the couch. Ryleev left hurriedly, accompanied by Dmitry and several others. It was a terrible way for a man to part from his family on a day that carried such risk, but if he had stayed, he might never have got away. Again, there were times when the affairs of the nation had to be placed above those of the family.

  They had arrived at Senate Square to the news that Troubetzkoy had not arrived and that the senate had already sworn allegiance to Nikolai. Ryleev decided that he must speak. They had helped him up on to the plinth that supported the statue of Pyotr, and he had addressed those that could hear him.

  ‘Let them read Aleksandr’s will,’ he shouted. ‘They’ve got the parchment sealed there in the senate.’ He pointed over to the building. ‘That will tell us whom His late Majesty wanted to succeed him.’

  There were cheers in the crowd. Dmitry had never felt more convinced of their victory. He stood and listened to Ryleev’s words and to the roars of the crowd. When the speech had finished, a familiar chant rose up.

  ‘Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya! Konstantin ee Konstitutsiya!’

  After that, Ryleev climbed down and Dmitry lost sight of him. Then came disappointment. Dmitry overheard a conversation between Obolensky and Bestuzhev.

  ‘Troubetzkoy’s not coming!’ snarled Obolensky.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The man’s turned chicken.’

  ‘He’ll be here,’ insisted Bestuzhev.

  ‘He’s already been here. He didn’t like the look of what was going on, so he nipped along to the office of the chief of staff and asked where he was supposed to go to swear allegiance to Nikolai. You know where he is now?’

  Bestuzhev shook his head.

  ‘Hiding in the Austrian embassy.’

  For the first time, Dmitry felt doubt. What kind of men were they led by? Ryleev made no claim to be a commander, but the farces of that morning proved that his poetical head was irredeemably in the clouds. Troubetzkoy had been a brave soldier – not least at Borodino – but that had been years before. Here they were – thousands of brave men with hope of a new future for Russia – brought to the square like sheep and then abandoned. Just a little leadership could make all the difference, but there was nowhere for it to come from.

  Obolensky and Bestuzhev began to bicker about who should take charge – each trying to pin responsibility on the other. Bestuzhev insisted that he only had naval experience, which would be no use here; Obolensky argued that he was no leader of men. But Dmitry had stopped listening. He had seen someone through the crowd, approaching him.

  It was his father.

  Aleksei rushed through the crowd and embraced his son.

  ‘Thank God I found you,’ he said. Then he saw Dmitry’s face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s falling apart, Papa. There’s no one to lead us.’

  ‘What about Troubetzkoy?’

  ‘Troubetzkoy made a run for it,’ said Dmitry, ‘and none of the others has the wit to take charge.’

  Despite himself, Aleksei felt some of Dmitry’s disappointment. There was a dignity to the rebels, or to many of them – those involved at Dmitry’s level, chiefly. The ordinary soldiers here knew nothing. They had been deceived into thinking they were here to support Konstantin, when in reality Konstantin wanted no support. The men at the top were a mixture of politicians and dreamers – the former in the south and the latter in the north, to make a broad generalization. It was men like Dmitry who truly wanted a better Russia, and might have created one, given the opportunity.

  ‘You could lead us,’ said Dmitry suddenly.

  Aleksei gave a curt laugh and then saw his son was in earnest. ‘Me?’ He laughed again. ‘I’m a colonel. I have no nobility in my blood, and no ability to make pretty speeches. More than that, it’s my profound belief that this day is beyond salvation. If I were to lead them anywhere, it would be back to their barracks.’ Aleksei did not have to lie for any of it. He had no need to admit to his son that he wanted the uprising to fail, because he could see now with certainty that it would fail.

  Dmitry looked at him with a gaze of utter disappointment. He shook his head slowly and turned away, saying, ‘I never took you for a coward, Papa.’

  At that moment, a silence settled on the crowd. Aleksei looked around and saw a figure on horseback riding boldly towards the centre of the square, where Bestuzhev and Obolensky stood. Aleksei recognized the man immediately – it was Mihail Andreevich Miloradovich, the governor general of the city. Aleksei remembered him from Austerlitz and more recently his heroic efforts to save lives in the floods the previous year. He also remembered that Miloradovich had submitted to Aleksandr a practical plan for the abolition of serfdom – and there was no man working on his own estates who was not free. Was it possible that he was coming here to join the rebellion? If so, Dmitry’s fears would be transformed. This would be a man to lead them.

  Aleksei stepped forward and put a hand on Dmitry’s shoulder. Dmitry glanced at him and Aleksei could see in his eyes that sense of hope he had anticipated. They moved closer to hear what the governor general had to say. As soon as they were in earshot, it was evident that he had not come to succour the rebels.

  ‘And so I implore you,’ he was saying, ‘return to your barracks. You have my word; Nikolai is rightfully tsar. Those of you who have been deceived will not be punished for misplacing your patriotism. I’ve fought alongside many of you. I hope you’ve found me to be a man you can trust. I in turn trust our tsar, as appointed by his predecessor and by God – Nikolai Pavlovich.’