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.’
‘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.