Anyone with a drop of Russian blood in his veins could not fail to be stirred by the grand spectacle of the thousands of brightly uniformed troops of the Motherland, marching proudly down Nevsky Prospect on their way to war.
Viktor Fedorcenko possessed more than a drop of such blood. Russian through and through, and as loyal as any other under the tsar’s command, he was moved as near to tears as a man of iron constitution could be. Such a display of Russian military might, in fact, have moved things deeper within his heart than any of the more human sentiments. Above feelings for wife, daughter, or son, for a man like Prince Viktor Fedorcenko, love of country reigned supreme.
But as Viktor rode beside the men of his regiment that day, to the cheering of the St. Petersburg throng, the thunder of an ominous portent beat within his heart to the cadence of the drums. The forced precision of his mount’s gait did not betray the apprehensive misgivings still lurking deep within his soul over the tsar’s decision. Even deeper lay the ache, the hurt, and the fear caused by Alexander’s mistrust of his loyalty. But events were moving rapidly, and if he intended to prove his faithfulness to his old friend, he would probably have to do it on the battlefield rather than in the drawing rooms of the Winter Palace. Although the tsar would rely on Fedorcenko’s military experience, he was as likely to turn on him—maybe even send him spitefully into the front of the battle—as on any private suspected of cowardice. It was a bitter culmination to a distinguished career and long friendship. But such were the misfortunes of life in proximity to a supreme autocrat, whose will and whims were the law of the land.
In addition to Viktor’s personal reservations about how—and perhaps whether—he would survive this war, as a soldier and military man and veteran of the Crimea, he harbored grave doubts as to their potential success. Proud and virile now, many of these same uniforms would lie on a distant battlefield splattered with blood. Viktor’s more rational nature could not deny the utter futility of this so-called “holy cause.” Had he possessed the advantage of historical foresight, he might have broken down in utter despair. For this war—a small one really as European conflicts went—was destined to open the door to alliances and discord and malice among the states of Europe, changes which would ultimately culminate in the world’s first violent eruption of global war.
For Viktor Fedorcenko, however, it was enough that crass adventurism, blatant imperialism—for such was the only name his logic could give it—would claim the lives of many valiant sons of the Motherland, including, perhaps, his own. That Alexander remained in distress over the declaration was no great comfort. Alexander hated war, but he was not strong enough to prevent it, any more than he was strong enough to forge a friendship which could weather small incidents such as his last interview with Viktor. He was neither a strong tsar nor a strong friend; how competent would Alexander be in command of his troops on the battlefield?
The noise of the cheering crowd echoed discordantly in Viktor’s ears as he marched along.
“Down with the heathen Turks!”
“On to Constantinople!
“Save our brother Serbs!”
“Crush the Ottoman Empire forever!”
But none of the shouts and hopeful slogans meant as much to Viktor as the silent prayer embossed on the banner held aloft in front of the leading regiment. Above a Greek Orthodox cross on a pure white background with black and orange stripes were emblazoned the words: God Save and Protect.
“Amen,” Viktor murmured. His voice was obscured by the roar of the multitude the instant the word left his lips.
———
Anna and Katrina, from where they stood viewing the parade, were filled with varied and turbulent emotions, the least of which was the nationalistic fervor of those around them.
Dutifully Katrina scanned the unending rows for her father, and waved when she thought she caught a glimpse of him. Her heart, however, looked for another. She would never spot Dmitri among the thousands, but hoped that as he marched into the south his association with her brother would serve to remind him of her existence.
Since their night together in the garden, Anna had purposefully tried to keep thoughts of Sergei from entering her mind. But she could not keep them out of her heart. In her quiet manner, Anna had pondered and treasured the words spoken to her by the young prince who was so far above her, yet suddenly so close to her heart. Now, as she stood gazing upon the vast columns of soldiers, she feared their closeness might have been a dream, after all.
Both girls were reluctant to voice the silent fear that lay at the bottom of each of their hearts—that they might see neither of their young soldiers again.