1

The month of May stretched a benevolent springtime hand over the Russian landscape. Upon the broad steppes new shoots of grass pushed through the muddy earth to wave in the brisk, pleasant air. Peasant farmers began the arduous task of plowing the rich black loam, preparing it to receive the seeds of autumn’s harvest. Farther north, in the vast forests, wildflowers bloomed through the snow as warmth penetrated the thick mesh of branches and leaves. Even the icy tundra took on a different appearance, welcoming new green shoots and brief, dazzling signs of life.

But in the heart of true Russia, in the ancient city of Moscow, the newness of spring led to the welcoming in not of a season but of a new ruler.

The year of mourning for the dead Alexander III was over. His heir was about to be crowned.

Even a pragmatic and cynical man could not deny the singular honor of this occasion. To Cyril Vlasenko, riding in the coronation procession with the ranking Russian nobility was the crowning achievement of his career. This ought to impress even the likes of his haughty cousin Prince Viktor Fedorcenko.

Mounted astride his spirited charcoal stallion, obtained at no small expense from a famed Cossack horse breeder, Cyril felt he had finally arrived. He was decked out in the stunning blue-green uniform of the Preobrajensky Guard—he had purchased a commission in the prestigious regiment, also at no small expense. But he knew every kopeck had been well spent when he learned that the tsar would be garbed in the regalia of the Preobrajensky for the coronation ceremony. Gold braid hung from Cyril’s shoulders, and across his ponderous chest he proudly sported the blue sash of the Order of St. Vladimir. He had actually earned this honor—though mostly by ingratiating himself by any means possible to ministers and other important government officials. He might not have the shimmering rows of jeweled medals across his chest like many of the nobles accompanying him, but he was satisfied enough with his other gains in the last fifteen years.

He glanced around at the mobs of spectators lining the four-mile route of the Imperial procession. Thousands upon thousands had poured into the city for the great event, and the squadrons of Cossacks had their work cut out keeping the excited people in tow. Cyril swelled within at the boisterous cheers almost as if they were being offered for him alone. It never occurred to him that if it were he alone, the crowds would be more inclined to attack than cheer him. His past association with the police had not made him especially popular with the people.

Cyril Vlasenko, however, cared less than nothing for the “people,” that overly glorified symbol of the Russian spirit.

What had always mattered to Cyril in the past, what continued to drive him even now, was the acceptance by the men who this moment surrounded him—men of power and influence and wealth. He had striven for their acceptance, fought, lied, cheated, and stolen for it. He had earned it.

He thought about the last fifteen years. In hindsight, he congratulated himself on his great wisdom during the reign of Alexander II, when he had chosen to curry the favor of the tsarevich instead of the tsar. He had not openly alienated the tsar—heaven forbid! But since the tsarevich’s conservative political stance aligned more closely to Cyril’s, it had been natural to lean toward his camp.

When Alexander II had been assassinated, Cyril had mourned with as much shock and grief as anyone. But down deep he was exhilarated. The new tsar, Alexander III, would not forget his past friends when he ascended the throne. And Cyril was thus carried closer to the coveted inner circles of power.

First, he had been promoted to Assistant to the Supervisor of the state police. He had contributed to the writing of “The Statutes for the Protection of State Security and Social Order,” in which nearly every manner of political action was effectively banned. In later revisions, the document gave governors-general immense latitude in overriding the law, thus offering them potential for great individual power. This provision worked greatly to Cyril’s advantage when he had been elevated to the governor-generalship of a small Ukrainian province.

Although he could enjoy vast power in that position, and it was a tremendous career move, he had not liked the idea of once more being removed from the real hub of power. And the province was one of the smaller and less influential of Russia’s ninety-six provinces. He was not fool enough to protest, however, but rather sought to use his new position to his advantage. Availing himself of the ancient Russian institutions of bribery and taxation, he had comfortably padded his personal coffers.

But his true moment of opportunity had come during a series of peasant outbursts in the area. Not wanting the disturbances to be credited to their true source, the revolutionaries—for the government preferred to perpetuate the myth that revolutionary activity had abated in Russia—Cyril had pulled off a masterful stroke by turning the wrath of the discontented peasants onto the large Jewish population in the province. A successful pogrom had ensued, forcing the emigration of thousands of Jews while at the same time raising the esteem of the government in the eyes of the anti-Semitic majority in the community. Violence had been averted—at least, violence against orthodox Russians not Jews—and Cyril came out looking quite heroic to the passionately nationalistic central government.

He was immediately brought back to St. Petersburg to serve as the Director of the Committee for National Indemnification—a grandiose title that simply meant he was to carry out on a national level the kind of effective Russification he had implemented in his province. The position represented nothing short of government sanction of his rabid bigotry and prejudice. And with this advancement, Cyril was directly responsible to the Minister of the Interior. He had never been closer to real power.

The sudden death of Alexander III had been a blow, for Cyril had little idea where he stood with the new tsar. Alexander had not thought much of his shy, frivolous heir, and thus had done little to prepare him for the duties of rule. In 1894, Alexander assumed he had two or three more decades yet to rule, plenty of time to whip his son into shape. Nicholas meanwhile had enjoyed the role of playboy-heir and had never shown any strong inclination toward taking a greater hand in government. The tsar’s death caught up with both of them.

Cyril had no reason to believe that Nicholas Alexandrovich did not adhere to his father’s conservatism. But to his delight—and relief—the new tsar made his position clear.

The young tsar stated unequivocally, “I shall maintain the principle of autocracy just as firmly and unflinchingly as my dear father also strove to preserve it.”

Many hopeful liberals groaned with despair, but for Cyril it meant a renewal of the life he had come to depend upon. The quiet, demurring new monarch didn’t look like much on the outside, but he was no liberal, and that was all that mattered. Such a diminutive young man might be an asset for the government if those in power could perfect the proper techniques for using him to their best advantage.

So, Cyril had kept his coveted position. Here he was, riding in a place of honor with men of power. And, if he had a shread of humanity, it could not have prevented him just then from thinking of his cousin and old nemesis, Viktor Fedorcenko. The once-mighty prince had fallen ignominiously while he, the despised country relation, had risen to the heights. The thought brought a grin of immense satisfaction to his pudgy face. The only thing that could possibly dull the swell of pride within him was the fact that Viktor himself was not present to see his cousin’s grand moment. Perhaps, Cyril thought with evil delight, I shall drop a little note to him, expressing my regrets that he could not have been present at the coronation, mentioning—off-handedly, of course—my own elevated role in the festivities. Ah, yes! I shall do so tonight.

A note would not be as effective as a first-hand witness, but it would have to suffice. Cyril grimaced. Even absent, Viktor managed to rob him of some of his glory.

Cyril’s smile faded. Why, even now, did Viktor stir such ambivalence in him? His prideful gloating teetered on the edge of anger and a feeling of inferiority. Yes . . . as much as he tried to ignore it, that horrible demon of inferiority always lurked inside Cyril. Maybe it would be there even if he were to become a tsar. Perhaps he would not be able to shake it as long as Viktor Fedorcenko lived.