June 1837, St. Petersburg
Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Gatchina study, illuminating scattered reports, engineering drafts, and letters from rural governors. Alexander Nikolaevich stood at his desk, eyes fixed on a dispatch from Kazan.
Increased grain yield in three districts thanks to coordinated irrigation and potato cultivation. However, local clergy publicly opposed water management teams, claiming interference in "divine matters."
He rubbed his temple, then read the line again.
"Divine matters," he muttered, voice sharp. "God has no interest in latrines."
A knock interrupted his thoughts. It was Sergei Witte.
"Highness," Witte said with a small bow, "I've received word from Odessa. The merchant guilds have agreed to fund a portion of the southern rail line—if we guarantee customs reforms."
Alexander raised an eyebrow. "They want tax breaks."
"They want fairness," Witte said. "They say bribes and noble tariffs are eating them alive. If we level customs across provinces, they'll help bankroll the rail network all the way to Kharkov."
Alexander exhaled and crossed the room to the map on the wall. He tapped the southern corridor. "That route will allow the Black Sea trade to bypass the grain bottlenecks. We could feed a quarter of Europe."
"And the army," Witte added. "We both know war is not a matter of if—but when."
Alexander paused. "Begin negotiations. Quietly. If we uproot noble tariffs too fast, we'll have the entire Duma against us."
Later that week, Alexander traveled to a military training ground outside Pskov. Dozens of new recruits were drilling in formation under the early summer sun. Their uniforms were ill-fitted, their rifles older than most of the men. But their faces—eager, curious, determined—stirred something in him.
He walked beside Colonel Sokolov, a grizzled veteran of the Caucasus campaigns.
"These are our best?" Alexander asked, watching a recruit fumble a reloading drill.
Sokolov shrugged. "Our best who haven't been bought by noble households as guards or grooms."
Alexander frowned. "So the Empire's finest are polishing silver while farmers bleed at the border?"
"That's the way of it."
Not for long, Alexander thought.
He spent the rest of the day observing and listening. He noted the lack of hygiene protocols, the poor nutrition, and the outdated tactics taught by officers still clinging to Napoleonic doctrine. That night, back in his tent, he wrote a new directive:
Found a War Sciences Academy—technical, tactical, and sanitary training mandatory. Recruit from merit, not blood.
It would take time. But it would be done.
Word of Alexander's reforms spread further than intended.
In salons and drawing rooms across the capital, whispers turned to murmurs of rebellion. Count Ignatiev, voice sharp with disdain, commented during a gathering:
"He funds peasants and laborers while kneecapping noble estates. What's next—land redistribution?"
In churches, sermons subtly warned of a prince "playing at godhood," interfering with what heaven had ordained. One priest in Novgorod likened sanitation crews to "secular inquisition squads," driving villagers away from the Church's authority.
The tension reached its peak during a mid-June reception at the Winter Palace.
The Tsar had ordered a gathering of ministers, nobles, and key industrialists to celebrate the successful laying of the first iron rails from St. Petersburg to Tsarskoye Selo.
Alexander stood quietly at the edge, watching the celebration. His father, Nicholas I, stood like a statue in full uniform, offering few smiles and fewer words.
Then came the clash.
Grand Duke Mikhail Pavlovich approached Alexander with a flinty gaze.
"I've heard of your sanitation crusade," he said. "And now military academies? Commerce reforms? Do you plan to rebuild the empire before you even rule it?"
Alexander's voice was calm, but cold. "I plan to keep it alive."
"You undermine tradition."
"No, I replace decay with reason."
The Grand Duke's face darkened. "Don't mistake your books for blood. Russia isn't ink on parchment."
Alexander stepped closer. "Russia is the millions who suffer while men like you polish medals and sneer at potatoes."
Gasps flitted through the room. But Nicholas I merely raised a hand silencing further escalation. The party continued. But lines had been drawn.
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Two days later, in private, Nicholas I summoned his son.
"You embarrass us," he said simply.
Alexander stood at attention. "I serve Russia, not applause."
The Tsar's eyes narrowed. "You challenge clergy. You court merchants. You train peasants like officers."
"And still you have not stopped me," Alexander replied. "Perhaps because, somewhere, you know I am right."
A long pause. Then the Tsar dismissed him.
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Weeks passed. Despite pressure, Alexander pushed on.
In late June, the first batch of new rifles arrived from a secretly modernized armory in Tula. The design had been Witte's idea—lighter, faster to load, using standardized parts that could be mass-produced in peacetime.
Alongside the rifles came small, steam-powered carts—prototypes for rail-bound supply transports. Witte had called them "iron mules." Alexander loved the name.
He arranged a demonstration for select military officials. Some scoffed. Others watched in awe as the "mules" carried barrels twice as fast as horse carts along a short test track.
"It won't work in the Caucasus," one general said.
Alexander nodded. "Then we redesign it. But the Empire will not enter the next war with wooden wheels and rusted swords."
By early July, early resistance turned into organized pushback.
Noble factions in the Duma began circulating "loyalty petitions" calling for stricter oversight of "princely expenditures." Bishops lobbied for the censorship of sanitation manuals, calling them "secular subversion."
Alexander responded not with outrage—but with results.
He published the first quarterly report of his reforms—anonymously. It showed:
- Cholera cases dropped 18% in test districts.
- Grain transport costs fell by 22% along the new rail line.
- Rural schooling attendance increased by 31% after sanitation efforts and food incentives.
The numbers spoke for themselves.
In a meeting with Witte, Alexander read them aloud.
"Let them resist. Let them scream. But we will show them that modernity saves lives—and gold."
Witte grinned. "And when you ascend the throne?"
Alexander's voice dropped. "Then the real war begins."