Nikolai made his way to the edge of Peter’s Square, where the majestic statue of Peter the Great presided again. Flags flapped in the breeze. Soldiers’ drums beat in rhythm. And the grand Neva River provided the backdrop on the far edge of the square. How fitting that it would all end here, in this square where Nikolai’s challenge to Pasha had begun.
However, the square, according to the Decembrists’ plan, was supposed to overflow with soldiers who had refused to swear their oaths of allegiance to Pasha. But “overflow” was not at all the right word. Nikolai scanned the square and did a rough count. By his estimate, there were only three thousand or so soldiers standing before the statue of Peter the Great. Nowhere close to the twenty thousand that the Decembrists had claimed.
Please say more are coming. He’d staked everything on this revolt. They had to win, and quickly, or he’d end up in a prolonged battle with Vika, which was the last thing Nikolai wanted.
He needed to find Trubetskoy, Obolensky, or Volkonsky. Someone who was in charge. Nikolai wove through the loosely formed regiments. The first of the three men he found was Volkonsky.
“What’s happening?” Nikolai asked. “Where are all your men?”
Volkonsky startled but quickly composed himself. “Your Imperial Highness,” he said, quietly enough that his men nearby did not hear, but loudly enough to pay his respects.
“I thought you claimed you could carry twenty thousand soldiers.” Nikolai tried to mask his anxiety by making his tone disappointed. Imperious. Like an heir to the throne. “This is but a fraction of that number.”
Volkonsky stood tall. “There was some confusion at the garrison when the oath of allegiance was given. Not everyone refused to swear loyalty. But we are still strong. This is enough to force a coup d’état.”
“Where are Trubetskoy and Obolensky and their men?”
“Obolensky is over there.” Volkonsky pointed to the soldiers in formation to the right. “Trubetskoy . . .”
“Trubetskoy what?”
“He, er, cannot be found. But Ilya is looking for him, and he’s the best at tracking people.”
“Your fearless leader is still doing something ‘important’ for his wife or Lebzeltern?” Nikolai did not hide the sarcasm.
Volkonsky checked over his shoulders, as if afraid the soldiers were listening. They were not. They milled about and chatted casually among themselves, surreptitiously passing flasks to warm themselves against the morning chill. “I know this doesn’t look promising, Your Imperial Highness, but I swear, even without Trubetskoy, this will work. We shall prevail.”
Nikolai clenched and unclenched his fists. All his life, he’d had to rely on himself. Had he erred now in counting on the Decembrists?
“Get your men in order,” he snapped at Volkonsky.
“Yes, Your Imperial Highness.” He saluted Nikolai.
Nikolai nodded to dismiss him, and Volkonsky gave a quick bow and marched off.
Not long after, he saw Ilya speaking with Obolensky. Trubetskoy had not returned. Damn it.
But then a shout resounded across Peter’s Square. “Attention!” A collective stomp answered the call. What had seemed to be only a mass of men a moment ago now filed in unison into straight lines and proud regiments.
Nikolai couldn’t help that his mouth dropped open. The precision of the troops was glorious. What had been a milling mess was suddenly neat rows of uniforms and weapons. All chatter among the men ceased. The drums beating in the background gained a magnificent ferocity. They certainly were impressive, and Nikolai could see now how men like these had defeated Napoleon. Perhaps we have a chance after all.
Obolensky stood below the statue of Peter the Great, at the Thunder Stone. With Trubetskoy absent, he must have assumed the lead. “Loyal soldiers of the Imperial Russian Empire,” he called out. “Today is a momentous day. Today is the day we give Russia back to the people to whom it belongs. Today is the day we fight for our liberty and human dignity.
“Many of you fought bravely against Napoleon. On the battlefield, it mattered not whether you hailed from noble or peasant blood. We were all Russians together, and we brought glory to our empire.
“Now, however, without war to unite us, the monarchy has returned to its old ways, enslaving farmers to their lords. The imperial family has forgotten how serfs and nobles alike laid down their lives for our country. And we aim to remind them. To Karimov and a constitution!”
The soldiers pounded their boots and flagpoles on the ground and roared, “To Karimov and a constitution! To Karimov and a constitution!”
A smile spread across Nikolai’s face. These were his people. Royal blood or not, Nikolai had come from a tiny nomadic village on the steppe and spent his entire life fighting for respect. He’d been an errand boy for a tailor, and he’d polished shoes for a cobbler. He’d bartered for dance and sword-fighting lessons by trading his time and his services. So these men who stood before him, these ordinary soldiers, were his brethren.
But then the thundering of hooves drowned out the shouts of the Decembrists. The men in the square all turned away from Obolensky toward the sound.
“No,” Nikolai said.
It was not, as the Decembrists had hoped, reinforcements from other garrisons. It was Pasha’s cavalry and infantry. They were close to ten thousand strong.
They were still some distance away, but Nikolai felt as if their horses were already stampeding him.
Because the Decembrists were now outnumbered by more than three to one.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Vika rode to Pasha’s left as he led the cavalry into Peter’s Square. Yuliana rode to his right, unwilling to accede to his requests to stay behind or at least ride behind the front line. Their horses had to tread carefully on the icy cobblestones.
The Decembrists were lined up in formation in front of the statue of Peter the Great.
The forces Pasha commanded were much more daunting.
“Infantry,” Pasha shouted, “surround the square, but maintain distance from the rebels, and do not fire unless ordered to.”
His commanders snapped to action, and their regiments marched to take strategic places around Peter’s Square.
“I want light artillery there”—Pasha pointed to a spot in front of one of the infantry units, facing Peter the Great—“and here,” he said, indicating a line to shield where he and his horse currently stood. They would be able to see the Decembrists from this vantage point but remain protected by several regiments of infantry, along with the light artillery.
“Cavalry will ride to flank the rebels,” Pasha said. “I want the Decembrists to have to look up at us.”
The officers and their soldiers marched off to their places. Vika looked from Pasha to the square and back to Pasha again. “Very impressive, Your Imperial Highness.”
Pasha gave her a curt nod, a serious commander of troops. But a smile curved at the corner of his mouth.
“Count Miloradovich, where are you?” Pasha asked.
The count, a war hero who, like Obolensky and Volkonsky, was admired by the troops, hurried to Pasha and saluted.