It was Aleksandr who was currently the object of his brother’s greatest wrath. The emotion disgusted him, and he was certain – and prayed for that certainty to transform into reality – that in a few weeks or months he would feel different. He had loved Aleksandr all his life, almost as a replacement for the father who had been taken away from him when he was only four. He had disagreed at times with some of Aleksandr’s earlier liberal attitudes to the modernization of his country, but Aleksandr had seen the error of his ways. Above all, Nikolai could only regard his brother as a hero – a world hero – for his stand against Bonaparte.
But Aleksandr could not have picked a worse time to die. That was not fair – nor was it ultimately Nikolai’s complaint. Aleksandr could not choose the time and place of his death, but as emperor, he should have been prepared for it to happen at any moment. As it was, he had left his affairs – the nation’s affairs – in a terrible state.
For a start, there was the shocking vagueness over the succession. The decision that Nikolai should become tsar was clear and sensible, but why had that clarity not been conveyed to the very people he was intended to rule? It was not their place to decide who governed them, but it was a matter of simple practicality that they should be aware of who that person was. On top of that, Nikolai now discovered, there was the fact that Aleksandr had been aware for several years of groups within the army that were plotting against him. Had he not understood that the very idea of ‘plotting against him’ did not mean ‘plotting against Aleksandr’, but ‘plotting against the tsar’, whoever that might be? And now – de facto if not yet de jure – Nikolai was the tsar. The plots had not stopped with Aleksandr’s death; if anything, they were likely to intensify.
Nikolai had to concede that he had not been completely unaware of what was going on, but he had assumed that his brother had things under control. Now, here in front of him, sat Baron Frederiks, fresh from Taganrog, with news that should have been known in Petersburg long before.
‘I cannot but apologize for the delay, Highness. His late Majesty told me to leave with all haste, but upon his death I delayed. Then when Baron Diebich heard of the dispatches I had, he told me to depart immediately.’
‘The fault is not entirely yours, Baron,’ replied Nikolai. ‘You were but the final link in a chain of delays.’ It was as close as he could bring himself to criticizing his brother in front of another. He did nothing to correct the way Frederiks addressed him. The announcement of the fact that he was tsar would have to be handled with care.
‘What action has been taken against the Southern Society?’ he asked.
‘When I departed, nothing,’ said Frederiks, ‘but much was planned. Arrests may have been made already; if not, then in the next few days. Pestel will be detained for sure.’
‘And without him, the rebellion in the south will collapse?’
‘It will be greatly hindered.’
Nikolai nodded curtly. Frederiks was wise not to employ hyperbole, however much he might be tempted. There was one document amongst the papers of the greatest interest, made up of just five sheets of paper, with the briefest of notes attached in his brother’s hand.
Membership of the Northern Society – for NPR only
Nikolai’s attitude momentarily softened as he saw this reminder of his brother, possibly one of the last things he had written. He touched the paper with his thumb, making sure that Frederiks would not discern the action, and felt the whisper of a connection. He sat down and glanced through the list. Many names were unfamiliar to him, some he could easily have guessed, others were horrifying. Troubetzkoy was a shock; Volkonsky a greater one. He checked carefully. It was S. G. Volkonsky – Sergei Grigorovich. It would have been unthinkable to see Pyotr Mihailovich on the list.
Perhaps more shocking than the names of the élite were those of the high- and middle-ranking officers; men with whom the royal family should have been able to trust their lives. A. I. Danilov, for example. He was a colonel in the Life Guards, wasn’t he? Nikolai couldn’t picture the face, but he remembered Aleksandr specifically commenting on some action he’d carried out. It was horrible for his brother’s trust to be so brutally betrayed, but it was his own fault. He’d been too soft-hearted; too ill disciplined. Well, that wouldn’t happen in the reign of Nikolai I – and this list would make a good start for showing everyone who needed reminding that treachery was the greatest sin of all.
Dmitry had chosen to stay a while longer at Ryleev’s, but Aleksei thought it was best that he himself returned home. It had been an excuse to visit the leaders of the Society first – he had simply been shying away from the encounter with his wife. The fact that Dmitry now knew about him and Domnikiia didn’t change anything – not with regard to Marfa. Aleksei felt certain Dmitry hadn’t and wouldn’t tell her. He could have asked him about it on their journey home, but he was always a coward when it came to things like that. Even so, he felt confident his son would keep his secret. How would it help to let Marfa know?
Aleksei’s apprehension about seeing his wife after over two months was not related to his infidelity, but to hers. He had only just discovered the existence of Vasiliy – Vasya – before his departure. Now he had had time to consider it. Many men were hypocrites. They were happy to screw their own mistresses, but appalled at the idea that someone else might be doing the very same thing to their wives. In fact – as with most hypocrisies – there was a logic to it, deep, deep down. Men did not care so much that their wives had lovers as they feared other men might discover the fact. They did not fear the discovery of their own infidelity – most would admire them for it; most men at least.
Did Aleksei not fear such a discovery? Not greatly – not for himself. He had been so many things in his life – a Jacobin to the French, a Bulgarian to the Turks, a rebel to the revolutionaries – that he had almost completely managed to fortify himself against any consideration of the ill the world in general might think of him. There were four people on the planet whose good opinion he cherished, positioned with an obvious symmetry; two companions, two children: Marfa, Dmitry, Domnikiia, Tamara. There were a few others whose estimation he valued: Yelena Vadimovna, perhaps; Dr Wylie – he was too recent an acquaintance to judge; Tsar Aleksandr – undoubtedly, but the good opinion of the dead was worth little.
He stopped briefly in the street and uttered a single, abrupt laugh, causing a number of his fellow pedestrians on the Nevsky Prospekt to look. Aleksandr was not dead. He had managed, however momentarily, to fool himself. It was a good sign; if he believed it, how many others might? He smiled. The most important thing was that Iuda and Zmyeevich believed it. He cared little for Zmyeevich, but it dawned on him how much pride he felt to have fooled Iuda – Iuda, who had so often played him for the fool. It was a shame Iuda could never know.
Aleksei began walking again, through the snow. It was dark now, as it was for the vast majority of the day in Petersburg at this time of year. He was still a few blocks from home, and he returned his thoughts to the matter of his – and Marfa’s – reputation. If he admitted that he desired the high opinion of the dead then the list grew longer. Maks and Vadim were both men whose low esteem of him would have shattered Aleksei. Dmitry Fetyukovich? – No, not in the end. Perhaps it was those early deaths, of two people who had truly mattered to Aleksei, that explained why he was so selective now in whom he gave a damn about. Or perhaps he had simply been thick-skinned since he was a boy, and that was what made him someone who could survive as a liar, a cheat and a spy.