Chapter 45: Master of the Empire (3)

There was a question that still came to Trotsky from time to time.

How on earth was M seeing all of this in advance?

Privately, he prided himself on being a genius with few equals anywhere in the world.

And yet M’s insight ran broader than his own, and his ability to analyze the political situation seemed superior as well.

He hated to admit it, but the results were already in, and there was no denying them.

It was probably a matter of years.

M was clearly some venerable professor or great scholar, so there was no helping the fact that he had more experience than a man not yet thirty.

In that respect, Trotsky was a man with a firm and honest grip on his own limits.

“If I had another 10 years of seasoning behind me….”

Wasn’t that precisely why M had held him up as the hope of the revolution in the first place?

Trotsky, whose mind had always been extraordinary, formed a hypothesis at this point.

Why had M never stepped forward himself, and instead reached out to young revolutionaries like him and Lenin?

Tied together with M’s remarkable insight and seasoning, the reason was not hard to deduce.

“He’s a generation older than me… no, at the very least he could be two generations older.”

Having finished his calculations in his own fashion, Trotsky set off carefully.

The meeting place Gapon had given him was a shabby building on the outskirts of Petersburg.

It had the same smell about it as the safe houses revolutionaries so often used, but the atmosphere was quite different.

Gapon was waiting at the entrance, and behind him stood a single closed door.

“M is inside.”

“Might I… meet him in person?”

“That is not possible. M’s identity must never be revealed under any circumstances. You will speak with him through the door, with me carrying the written conversation back and forth.”

Trotsky’s eyes drifted naturally to that firmly closed door.

To think the man whose identity he had wondered about for so long was sitting just beyond it.

“I trust you won’t do anything foolish, such as trying to peek.”

“Of course not. In any case, whether it’s in writing or otherwise, once you’ve spoken with a man you learn quite enough about him. There’s no real need to see his face.”

It was a confident answer, but not an arrogant one.

Trotsky’s powers of observation truly were as excellent as his pride in them.

Gapon nodded and knocked on the door, and a sheet of paper slid out from within.

[A pleasure. Please forgive me for not showing you my face in person.]

The handwriting was hard to make out, perhaps deliberately scrawled, but the tone that came through it was unexpectedly humble.

Trotsky nodded and set his hand and his mouth busily to work.

“It is an honor to meet you. I am Trotsky.”

Feigning indifference, Trotsky watched Gapon closely as he carried the answers back and forth.

His bearing in particular, when he received M’s replies and delivered them, was distinctly out of the ordinary.

Extremely deferential.

It was not the manner of a man dealing with a fellow revolutionary Comrade but rather that of a man waiting upon a superior, and given that Gapon was a priest, it seemed likely that M was also a figure from the religious world.

A churchman with free access to the imperial house, whom Gapon served with such deference.

It was not certainty, but… the outline did seem to be taking shape.

“M, I will ask you frankly.”

Trotsky was the first to come to the point.

“Between the Socialist Revolutionary Party running wild and the Tsar’s reforms, the revolution we have dreamed of until now has become effectively impossible. I admit that much myself.”

[I agree.]

“But let me ask you one thing. Why did you let the Tsar carry out those reforms? With your insight, surely you could have obstructed them.”

After a brief silence, Gapon respectfully took up M’s answer and handed it to Trotsky.

[So you are saying that, for the sake of the revolution, I should have made the Tsar oppress the workers?]

Trotsky’s mouth froze for an instant.

[Do you want a revolution for the sake of the citizens of Russia, or do you simply want the revolution for its own sake?]

Trotsky was silent for a long while, then let out a slow sigh and nodded.

“…That was a poor choice of words. Please forget it.”

To speak of revolution had to mean making this country better; to make the revolution itself the goal was to put the cart before the horse.

And to make the workers’ lives harder for the sake of the revolution, no less?

The very fact that such a question had come out of his mouth showed just how far into a corner the revolutionaries had been driven.

[It was not a poor choice of words. It was an honest question, and it conveys your present frustration well enough.

Still, my answer does not change. A revolution the citizens do not want cannot be a revolution. If the uprising from below has been blocked, then another road must be found.]

Trotsky raised his head.

“The revolution from above that you wrote of in your letter. Tell me about that.”

He had a rough idea of what M meant to say, but he still could not see how such a thing was possible.

Fortunately, M did not talk in circles and went straight to the heart of it.

[I am raising a young seedling. A seed that can carry the spirit of the revolution with it as it climbs to the summit of the system.]

Trotsky’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the paper.

A young seedling. Did that mean a young child, literally?

[The boy is only about ten years old. But among all the gifted people I have seen, none has held as much promise as this one.]

So it was a child after all.

If M had been teaching him personally since infancy, the ideals of the revolution would be lodged in the boy’s very bones.

But that child would climb to the summit of the system?

“Surely not… is he connected to the imperial house?”

The answer that came back a moment later was short.

[That question lies outside what I am able to answer. I will say only that had the road been an impossible one, I would not have given half my life to it.]

Half his life.

That single phrase set Trotsky’s deduction firmly in place.

If he had given half his life to it, M had to be at least in his late 50s, and possibly in his 60s or older.

And if he was raising a ten-year-old child, it meant M himself had little time left to stand at the forefront.

M was paving a road not for his own era but for the next generation.

“What is it you want from me?”

[Trotsky, there are three things, broadly speaking, that I wish to ask of you.]

Steadying his breath, Trotsky read down the page Gapon handed him.

[First, gather the scattered revolutionary forces under a single banner.

Second, using the false identity I will provide, enter the Okhrana Foreign Agency and work as a double agent. You are the only one capable of controlling the movements of the revolutionaries and keeping them from running wild.]

Trotsky’s eyebrows trembled faintly.

Join the Okhrana?

It was not unheard of for a revolutionary to become a member of the secret police, but wouldn’t that inevitably mean arresting his own Comrades?

[Third, if any faction begins running wild as the Socialist Revolutionary Party did, eliminate it at once. If something like another assassination attempt on the Tsar occurs, the revolution is finished forever.]

There was no room to argue with that last sentence.

It was, without question, the truth.

“If I enter the Okhrana… there will be times when I have to sell out my Comrades.”

[I am not asking you to sell out Comrades. I am asking you to cut away those who would ruin the revolution.]

It was not an easy decision.

Certainly, a seedling M had taught from childhood would never betray the revolution.

The problem was what came after that… and a calculation formed naturally in Trotsky’s head.

M was an old man.

The disciple M had raised was still a boy of ten.

So what would happen once M eventually withdrew from the stage?

Managing a single child would be no trouble for him at all.

‘Inherit M’s legacy, but keep the real initiative in my own hands. Why shouldn’t that work?’

This was not subordination to anyone.

Ultimately, he would be the one leading this revolution.

“…Very well. I accept.”

Gather the scattered Mensheviks and Bolsheviks and every other faction, and bind them together under a single banner.

Those who got in the way could be stamped out using the Okhrana’s power.

‘I can do it. I can.’

Having accepted M’s proposal, Trotsky took up his new identity and was appointed department head of the Okhrana Foreign Agency.

* * *

After sending Trotsky on his way, I slipped out through the secret passage into an entirely different building, and with Gapon seeing me off, climbed into the carriage.

“I’m sorry for putting you to such trouble, Father.”

“Not at all, Young Master.”

“Did Trotsky get back safely?”

“Yes. Though from the look on his face, he seemed to be working out a few more calculations of his own. Will that be all right?”

Gapon’s guess was exactly right, but there was nothing much to worry about.

Trotsky was certainly a genius, but a streak of self-infatuation was buried at the root of that genius.

He was the type who could acknowledge someone greater than himself, but who could never submit to that someone forever.

-Which is exactly what makes him so useful.

Right.

The moment he believed M was an old man, Trotsky had surely already painted himself a grand coronation inside his head.

By the time the great tree called M stepped aside, he could hardly help feeling certain that he could keep a boy so much younger than himself under control.

That was the kind of man Trotsky was.

-But what if Trotsky finds out the truth later on?

As long as M and Mikhail were kept thoroughly separate, he would never learn the truth anyway.

By the time that mattered, the odds were good that a man called M would no longer exist in this world.

As I sorted out the plan with Seong-jun and watched the scenery pass outside the carriage, Gapon asked carefully.

“Young Master, may I ask you just one thing?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“You told Trotsky to stop the revolutionaries from running wild… Are you trying to cut off any attempt to assassinate the Tsar at the source?”

“That’s right.”

Gapon knew who I was, so he seemed to have vaguely grasped one of my true aims.

-Yeah, well, if Nicholas II dies the whole plan goes up in smoke.

It could not be allowed to happen.

Assassination was the one variable that could smash my plan apart at the roots.

No matter how thorough the surveillance, if a few of those bastards went in on a suicide attack, there was no guarantee it could be blocked completely.

However far the odds were driven down, they would never quite reach zero.

If an accident like that broke out and Nicholas II died, I would drop in that instant to being nothing more than an orphan from a collateral branch of a princely house, and everything would be finished.

But with Trotsky planted where he was, that variable could be controlled.

Bind the revolutionary organizations into one, keep them from running wild, and channel their energy in the direction I wanted.

-And later you’ll use them to purge, revolution-style, anyone standing between you and the throne.

Wouldn’t it be more correct to call that purification rather than a purge?

-Ahhh, the body I dropped into was a proper jackpot, no question.

No, my head grew in this direction because a weird ghost like you latched onto me.

The carriage came to a stop in front of the palace.

I waved Gapon off with a word about getting home safely, and as I stepped into the palace an attendant who had been waiting came toward me at a quick pace.

“Young Master, Her Majesty the Empress has asked that you attend the evening banquet.”

“Understood.”

When I entered the dining hall, everyone was already seated.

The Tsar and the Empress at the head of the table, Olga and Tatiana side by side, one empty chair next to Maria, and Anastasia on her nursemaid’s lap, playing with a spoon as though it were a toy.

Even Alexei was there, asleep in his cradle, so it truly could be called a gathering of the whole family.

“Misha! Over here, over here!”

“Oh, our Misha has come too. Did the charity work finish well?”

As I took the empty seat beside Maria, the Empress broke into a bright smile and spoke.

“It’s been such a long time since the whole family gathered like this, hasn’t it?”

The Tsar tilted his head and scratched at his hair.

“…Didn’t we have a family dinner last week as well?”

Instead of answering, the Empress glanced briefly my way and gave the Tsar a look.

Misha wasn’t with us last week… was that what she meant?

Reading his wife’s meaning, the Tsar’s face spread into a contented smile.

“Ahh… I see. Yes, it has been a while.”

It was a line that passed by as if it were nothing, but there was a trace of real feeling in the Emperor’s voice.

After all, that Empress had just acknowledged that a family dinner was only whole with me at the table.

The princesses did not quite follow the exchange between the Emperor and the Empress, but they smiled as brightly as ever and chattered at me about this and that.

“Misha, my French homework has been so hard lately. Could you help me a little?”

Olga, the eldest, asking obliquely for help with her homework.

“French? Which part is giving you trouble?”

“The subjunctive is so confusing. Even when I ask the teacher, I still don’t understand it.”

“Let’s look at it together later. I’ll sort it out and explain it to you.”

“I knew it! Misha is so clever.”

Tatiana and Maria must have found the board game I’d made for them last time enormously entertaining, because they kept giving me feedback on it right through the meal.

“Big brother Misha, could you add new cards to the game you made last time? Put in a train station, not just the stable!”

“I think new profession cards would be good too. How about a lawyer?”

“Big brother, big sister, me too! Let me play too!”

The conversation must have looked like fun, because Anastasia waved her spoon and shouted.

Insisting on joining in without even knowing what was being discussed seemed to be a trait of youngest children everywhere.

Though with Alexei born, strictly speaking she was not the youngest anymore.

“Anastasia, you can’t even read properly yet.”

“I can too!”

“All right, all right. When you can read better, we’ll let you join.”

Perhaps because of the bursts of laughter coming one after another, Alexei, who had been sleeping, suddenly began to wail.

Before the Empress could even react, Olga rose from her seat and hurried to the cradle.

“It’s all right, it’s all right, little one. Your big sister’s here.”

The practiced way she lifted Alexei up and gently soothed him was, I supposed, exactly what one would expect of the eldest daughter.

It was rather impressive to see a child of only ten already carrying out the role of the big sister.

As Alexei slowly stopped crying in Olga’s arms, the Empress let out a breath of relief and smiled.

“I’m so glad Olga takes such good care of Alexei.”

Cradled in Olga’s arms, Alexei’s small hand gripped the hem of his sister’s dress and would not let go.

I watched them quietly.

Alexei had merely been born into the fine-sounding position of Tsesarevich; with the technology of this age, nothing anyone did would get him much past thirty.

My younger sisters, too, had lived their whole lives shut inside the palace, so ignorant of the world’s cruelty and malice that it went past worry and became something closer to dread.

No matter how I thought about it, there was no one to do this but me.

To build a world where my poor brother, born under the curse of hemophilia, could still be alive at 40, and at 50.

So that my sweet, kindhearted sisters could live happy lives without a single worry.

And so that I could take hold of everything in this country.

I would mobilize every last thing I could.

The Okhrana, the revolutionaries, even this state called Russia.

They were nothing but means to that end.

Because this precarious, rotted-out country could only find stability beneath me.

~~~

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