Jasper Kent - Thirteen Years Later

‘Colonel Danilov, Your Majesty,’ he said, his head still bowed. ‘Aleksei Ivanovich.’

Aleksei felt the tsar’s hand suddenly withdraw. He looked up and saw Nikolai backing away, with an utterly unconvincing pretence of casualness. With every step he took, the look of horror on his face grew. Aleksei could not fathom what had caused it. He glanced over his shoulder to see what it was that had so shocked the new tsar, half expecting to find that Iuda had broken into the palace, but there was no one there. He looked back at Nikolai.

‘Kolya?’ asked the tsar’s brother. ‘What’s the matter?’

The tsar raised a trembling hand and pointed at Aleksei. ‘That man,’ he said, ‘is a traitor.’ He had reached the door and opened it to shout through. ‘Guard! Guard!’

‘You must be wrong,’ insisted Mihail. ‘Our brother put great faith in him.’

Nikolai remained by the door, moving the line of his gaze between Aleksei and the guards he was hoping to see outside. ‘Only yesterday I received a letter from Aleksandr Pavlovich declaring this man a turncoat, along with the whole of their damned society of rebels.’

It took Aleksei a moment to realize what Nikolai meant. It was a simple misunderstanding to clear up – the very list the tsar referred to was written in his own hand. At that moment, the guards arrived. There were three of them. Aleksei realized that he might prove his innocence, but that it would take time, which for now he didn’t have; not if he was to save Dmitry.

He grabbed hold of one of the long, sleek velvet curtains that hung from the window and jumped into the air, pulling himself up on it. The curtain swung back towards the window, and with it went Aleksei. He held his feet out in front of him and heard the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood as they made contact. He closed his eyes momentarily to avoid them being hit by any shards, and when he opened them, he found himself suspended above the snowy street below, at the very limit of the curtain’s swing, before he slowly began to fall back towards the palace.

He let go just before reaching the broken window and landed on the ledge outside. The snow was halfway up his calves and felt slippery under his feet. Inside, the guards were almost up to the window, swords drawn. Aleksei edged along the ledge as fast as he dared, and soon found his way blocked by one of the towering Corinthian columns that decorated the walls of the palace. He began to climb down, lowering himself from the ledge and scrambling with his feet for the ornate golden leaves of the capital of the column below. He found them and allowed himself to slip a little further downwards.

Suddenly, there was a shot. He looked over to the window and saw one of the guards leaning from it, smoking pistol in hand. Even as Aleksei looked, he saw the guard withdraw so that another might take his place. Aleksei let himself fall, and then grabbed the tiny ridge that ran above the next row of windows, scarcely able to grip it through the snow. He dangled there, wondering whether to let himself drop or try to climb further down.

The decision was taken from him. Another shot rang out, and he felt a sudden burning pain in the middle finger of his left hand. He snatched it away instinctively, but his right hand could not take his weight alone. He fell to the ground and immediately found himself in blackness and unable to breathe. He pawed the snow aside with his hands until he saw light and felt the cold night air fill his lungs again. The snowdrift had to some extent broken his fall, but he could not waste time determining whether he was injured. He scrambled to his feet and ran along the quay to the east, keeping close in against the palace wall.

Another shot was fired at him, but came nowhere near. Now all three guards had fired, and Aleksei felt safer. He forgot about hugging the wall and ran with all his strength, his aging lungs and legs straining for life and freedom. When he did stop, he fell down exhausted in the snow.

Monday 14 December 1825

IT WAS MORNING – AS DARK AS ANY WINTER MORNING IN PETERSburg; the solstice had occurred just five days before. Aleksei had slept in the same tavern as the night before. His one goal since fleeing the Winter Palace had been to find Dmitry, and so far he had failed. He had gone first to his own home, but the footman had informed him that neither Marfa Mihailovna nor Dmitry Alekseevich was there. The man had bandaged Aleksei’s finger, which was a relief. In future he would be known – amongst those voordalaki who cared – as the two-and-a-half-fingered man. The bullet had gone clean through between the first and second knuckles, leaving a reasonably neat stump. The cold had numbed it, but once he had got into his house, it began to throb with pain. He could not stay. His address was registered. Soldiers, under Nikolai’s orders, would soon arrive there.

He had gone to Ryleev’s house and found it bustling with officers, each with the same thought on his mind: tomorrow was to be the day of revolution. But Dmitry was not among them. Someone suggested he should try Obolensky’s, but that had been his next port of call anyway. The prince’s house was quieter than the poet’s had been, but amongst those who were there, the mood was the same. There was still no sign of Dmitry.

Aleksei had wandered through Petersburg searching the streets, the taverns, even the churches. He was aware there might be troops out looking for him, but they wouldn’t recognize his face, and it was a chance he had to take. None of it proved to be of any avail. It was after midnight when he trudged back to the tavern.

In the morning he awoke feeling refreshed. It was still dark outside, but he had more desire to rise than he had done for many months. Today was simple – simpler than any other day of his life had been. He must get Dmitry away from the rebels. They would fail; that was obvious. Nikolai was far too well prepared. Aleksei had done his son a service by erasing his name from that list, but it would all be meaningless if Dmitry was caught in the act with the other revolutionaries. As for his own fate, Aleksei cared little – at least for today. Tomorrow he would see whether he could save his own neck; today was about Dmitry. Still, his own survival was important – if dead himself, how could he ensure the death of Iuda?

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.’