Suvorov

SUVOROV


A Novel


"Victors are not judged"
— Catherine the Great

"We, the lower ranks, judge differently"
— From a soldier's letter, 1812
 
Prologue
MOSCOW BURNS
September 1812

The road was choked with people.
Carts and horses and cattle and children. Everything jumbled together, everything moving one direction. Away from the city. Away from the fire.
Prokhor Gavrilov sat by the roadside on an overturned barrel. His wooden leg stuck out at an angle, the stump aching. Rain coming, maybe. Or just aching. He was seventy years old and had long since stopped telling the pain of his body from the pain of everything else.
Moscow was burning.
Not a fire. A sea of fire. Half the sky red and the smoke swallowing the sun. Ash drifting down, settling on the faces of the fleeing, on the muzzles of horses, on bundles of belongings.
People passed him by. No one looked at the old man. Who cared? Everyone had their own grief.

If only we had Suvorov now, someone said in the crowd. A man's voice, tired. Suvorov would show the French.
Suvorov's dead, said another. Twelve years dead.
That's the pity. Wouldn't have come to this under him.
The voices drifted on with the crowd.

Prokhor said nothing.
He wanted to say: I knew Suvorov. Forty years at his side. From Kunersdorf to his death. I saw him as none of you ever will. I know what no one knows.
But he said nothing.
Because who would he tell? And why? They loved their Suvorov—the one in songs, in folktales, in cheap prints. The little old man who beat the Turks and the French. Wonder-warriors. The bullet is a fool, the bayonet a fine fellow. They loved the hero.
Prokhor had loved the man.
These are different things.

He closed his eyes. The fire was visible even through his lids. Red on black.
And then came the other.
Not Moscow—Ismail. Not this fire—that one, long ago. Twenty-two years. Or yesterday. Time tangled in his head like refugees on the road.

He saw the wall. The ditch. The ladders. Men falling from ladders. Screams—Russian and not Russian, no longer distinguishable. The smell you never forget: blood, gunpowder, burning flesh.
And the small figure on the hill. In a white shirt. Calm.
Forward, lads. Forward.
The voice quiet. But everyone heard.

Prokhor opened his eyes.
Moscow was burning.
There in the city were the French. The same French Suvorov had beaten in Italy, in Switzerland. The same he had taught others to beat.
Now this wind-headed people had taken the ancient capital of Russia. Taken it without a fight. Kutuzov had retreated.
Kutuzov—also Suvorov's pupil.
They were all his pupils. Bagration—killed last week at Borodino. Raevsky. Yermolov. All from him.

A woman passed with a child. The child was crying. The woman stared straight ahead with empty eyes.
Prokhor flinched.
A Turkish woman. Ismail. A different woman, a different child—but the same eyes.
He remembered her. Twenty-two years gone and he remembered. Every night.
Suvorov did not remember. Suvorov never remembered faces. Maybe that was why he won.

Grandpa, someone touched his shoulder. A boy, ten years old maybe. Dirty, barefoot. Grandpa, I'm hungry.
Prokhor looked at him.
What's your name?
Vaska.
Where are you going, Vaska?
Don't know. Lost my ma.
Prokhor sighed. Reached inside his coat. Pulled out a piece of bread.
Here. Eat.
The boy grabbed it, bit in.

Tell me about the war, grandpa, Vaska said, chewing.
I served under Suvorov. Forty years.
What was he like?

Prokhor was silent a long time.
Small, he said. Scrawny. Funny. Crowed like a rooster every morning. And never lost.
Why?
Maybe because he didn't care. Wasn't afraid of anything. And those who fear nothing—everyone fears them.
Is that good?

Prokhor did not answer.
Moscow was burning.
 
Part One
BLOOD
"A soldier's blood is not water"
— Russian proverb
 
Chapter One
First Meeting
Kunersdorf, August 1759

They brought him to the army in the fall of fifty-eight.
Prokhor was seventeen. His master had lost at cards and sold half the village to a neighbor, who sent the men off as recruits—more profitable that way. Twenty-five years of service. Survive and you're free. Die and—well, that's war.
For a year they drilled him outside Petersburg. Formation, shooting, bayonet. The sergeant beat him across the back with a stick for every mistake. Prokhor learned fast.

In August they marched his regiment to Prussia.
They camped at Kunersdorf. Tomorrow, they said. Battle. With the Prussians. With Frederick himself.
Prokhor did not sleep that night. Lay there looking at the sky, thinking: tomorrow they might kill me.

In the morning they formed up.
And then he saw him.

An officer. Lieutenant colonel. Small, scrawny, in a uniform that seemed borrowed from someone else. Sharp face, long nose, pale quick eyes. Riding along the line on a horse as small as himself.
Who's that? Prokhor whispered to the man beside him.
Suvorov. They say he's strange. Crows like a rooster. Runs naked through camp. A holy fool.
A fool?
But he beats the Prussians like nobody's business.

Then the battle began.

Prokhor barely remembered how it happened. Pieces, fragments. The thunder of cannon. Smoke. The shout: Forward! Running. Men falling around him.
Blue uniforms ahead. Prussians.
The bayonet.

Prokhor thrust.
The Prussian—young, blond—looked at him with surprise. Looked down at the bayonet in his stomach. Then back at Prokhor. Opened his mouth. Said something in German.
Fell.

Prokhor stood over him. His hands were shaking. The bayonet was red.
He had killed a man.

What are you standing there for? Move!
Prokhor ran. Killed another. And another. Then lost count.

By evening it was over. The Prussians fled. Victory.
Prokhor sat on the ground, wet with blood. Looked at his hands.

Hey, young one!
He looked up.
Suvorov. The small one, the fool. Only now he wasn't foolish—he was terrifying. His uniform covered in blood, his face spattered. Eyes burning.
How many did you kill today?
I don't know, your—
Don't know—good. Means a lot. If you'd been counting—not enough.
He laughed. Short, sharp.
Good lad. What's your name?
Prokhor. Gavrilov.
Proshka, then. Good soldier. We'll beat more tomorrow!
And he rode off.

An old soldier sat down beside him.
See that? That's him. Battle—he laughs. After battle—he dances. Like it's a holiday.
And the others?
The others— He gestured at the field. Bodies. Many bodies. The others are here.

Prokhor looked.
I killed a man, he thought.
And felt nothing.
That was the most terrifying part.
 
Chapter Two
A Letter Never Sent
Moscow, November 1774

Princess Varvara Ivanovna Suvorova to her husband.

My lord, Alexander Vasilievich.

I am writing you a letter I will never send. Because the man I would write to does not exist.

Seven years ago I married a hero. So everyone said: hero, victor, glory of Russia. Father was proud. Mother wept with joy. I believed.

I remember our first meeting. You came to propose in an old uniform, in worn-out boots. Mother whispered: Eccentric. Father: But a general. I looked at you and saw your eyes—pale, quick. You looked at me and past me. Through me. At something I could not see.

I should have understood then.

The first year you were at war. The second—also. The third, fourth, fifth. You came home for a week, for two. We slept in the same bed and I felt: you are not here. Your body beside me. Your soul—far away.

I bore you a daughter. Natasha. You saw her three times in her first year. You call her Suvorochka in your letters—funny, tender letters. But you do not know the color of her eyes.

Brown, Alexander Vasilievich. Like mine.

You accused me of betrayal. Demanded divorce. Wrote complaints about me to the Empress.

I was not unfaithful.

I was lonely.

These are different things.

You do not need a wife. You do not need a home. You need war. Only war. Without war you are emptiness.

I married a hero.

I live with a void.

I loved you. That is the most terrible part. To love you is to love fire. It warms from afar. Come closer—it burns.

You burned me.

Your wife, Varvara.

She folded the letter. Looked at the candle. Held the paper to the flame.
Changed her mind.
Hid it in a box, under a false bottom.
Locked it.

They found the letter a hundred years later—when they tore down the old house.
Read it. Marveled. Forgot.
Victors are not judged.
;
Chapter Three
What His Father Told
Suzdal Regiment, Spring 1763

By his third year of service Prokhor had become a batman.
Not to Suvorov—to his father, old General Vasily Ivanovich. He had come to visit his son and stayed two months.
Prokhor brought him food, stoked the stove, listened to him talk. The old man liked to talk—especially about his son.

Do you know how he was born? Vasily Ivanovich asked one day. He was born dead.
Prokhor froze.
Dead?
So the midwife said. Not breathing. Blue. I came in—my wife weeping, the midwife crossing herself, and this bundle on the bed. Blue, still. My son.
The old man paused.
I picked him up. Still warm. And suddenly—he jerked. Cried out. The midwife nearly fainted. My wife said: He wouldn't be born until his father came.

Dead—and came alive. From the first minute he defeated death. Then he was sick all through childhood. The doctor said: Won't live to twenty. Weak lungs. I believed him. But he—didn't. Got up at five in the morning, doused himself with well water—in winter, in the frost!—ran, exercised.

He told me once—he was ten: Papa, I won't die until I've done what I must. I asked: What? He didn't know. But he knew he wouldn't die.

Your excellency, Prokhor said. Is he... a good man?
The old man was silent a long time.
He's my son. I love him. But is he good... He shook his head. I don't know. He is great. And the great—they're not good or bad. They're different.

A month later the old general left.
A year later he died.
Suvorov did not attend the funeral. He was fighting Poles.
Prokhor remembered that.
 
Chapter Four
The Science of Victory
Suzdal Regiment, 1764–1765

Suvorov taught them to fight.
Not like other officers—formation, turn, forward march. He taught them to win.

The bullet is a fool, the bayonet a fine fellow! he shouted on the parade ground. Speed and drive! Eye, speed, drive!
The soldiers repeated. At first they didn't understand. Later, in battle, they understood.

He taught night marches.
At night the enemy sleeps—you march. The enemy wakes—you're already striking!
The soldiers groaned. But they marched. After a month they could cover twenty miles in a night—silent, without torches.

Hard in training, easy in battle! His favorite saying. The soldiers hated that phrase. And remembered it all their lives.

One night—a march, as usual—a soldier fell. Young. His heart, probably. Fell and didn't get up.
Suvorov walked over. Crouched. Touched the neck.
Dead. It happens. The weak don't last long. Forward, lads!
And walked on.

Prokhor caught up with him.
Your honor... that soldier... he died because of the drills. We drove him to death.
Suvorov stopped. His eyes—pale, cold.
I'll tell you this once, Proshka, and won't repeat it. In training one dies. In battle—a hundred die. If you don't train—a thousand die. Understand?
I understand...
No. You don't. You're thinking about that one—lying back there, dead. I'm thinking about those who'll be alive a year from now—because I trained them. You see the dead. I see the living. That's the difference between a soldier and a commander.

He turned and walked away.
Prokhor stood.
A commander counts the living, not the dead.
Maybe that's why he wins.
 
Chapter Five
After Battle
Poland, Autumn 1769

After one battle—at Orekhov—Suvorov went off into the field. Alone. He said: Don't follow me.
Prokhor waited an hour. Two. Night fell. Suvorov did not return.
He went looking.

He found him on a hill, beyond a grove.
Suvorov was on his knees. Facing east. Praying.
Prokhor wanted to leave—but couldn't. Hid behind a tree.
Suvorov prayed a long time. An hour, maybe. Bowing, crossing himself. The words inaudible—too far.
Then he stood. Turned.
His face was wet. He had been weeping.

Prokhor never told anyone about this. No one.
But he remembered.

Suvorov prayed after battle. Long. Alone.
About what—Prokhor did not know.
Maybe giving thanks for victory. Maybe asking for the dead. Maybe for himself.

Years later he understood: those were the only moments when Suvorov was a man. Not a general. Not a hero. A man on his knees before God.
 
Chapter Six
Pugachev
Autumn 1774

They took Pugachev without them.
Suvorov drove his detachment across the steppes—three hundred miles in ten days—but did not make it. The rebel was already captured, chained.
Then came the order: escort Pugachev to Simbirsk.

Prokhor saw him—Pugachev. Saw him close.
A peasant like any other. Black beard, cunning darting eyes. No majesty, no fear. Sitting in an iron cage on a cart, looking around.
Suvorov rode up to the cage. Looked a long time.
So you're the tsar? he said.
Pugachev bared his teeth.
Was a tsar. Now a thief. What's the difference, master? You're a thief too—only in a uniform.

Suvorov did not answer. Turned his horse, rode away.
That night—Prokhor heard—he did not sleep. Walked the camp, muttering something.

But Prokhor remembered his face at the cage. Suvorov looking at Pugachev—and seeing something. Something he feared.
Maybe himself.
A man who leads thousands—and decides who lives, who dies.
Only one in uniform. The other in chains.
And the difference—what?
 
Part Two
GLORY
"One can resolve to storm such a fortress
only once in a lifetime"
— A.V. Suvorov
 
Chapter Seven
Kinburn
October 1, 1787

The Turks landed at dawn.
Five thousand janissaries. Elite troops. Green banners, cries of Allah! They came in a solid wall—beautiful, terrifying.
The Russians were fewer. Two thousand. And Suvorov.

Hold! Suvorov's voice. Calm, clear. Hold, lads! Let them come closer!
Closer? How much closer? Already you could see their faces—swarthy, bearded, snarling.
Fire!

The volley. Smoke. Screams.
Bayonets!

Suvorov was in front.
On horseback, saber drawn, wearing a white shirt over his uniform—so they could see him. Slashing right and left.
The first bullet hit him in the chest. Prokhor saw—he jerked, swayed. Did not fall.
Forward, lads! Nothing! A scratch!
The second—in the arm. Blood poured out, soaking his sleeve.
Drive the Turk into the sea! Drive him!

By night it was over.
Five thousand janissaries lay on the shore. All five thousand.
They carried Suvorov on a stretcher. Pale, bloody—but alive. Smiling.
See that, Proshka? We beat them!

Your excellency, Prokhor said. Weren't you... afraid?
Afraid of what? Death? Death is a fool. Comes when it wants. Till it comes—fight.
 
Chapter Eight
Suvorochka
From A.V. Suvorov's letters to his daughter Natalia

My dear Suvorochka, greetings!

You ask when I will come. I don't know, my dove. The war goes on, many Turks, must beat them. When I've beaten them—I'll come.

I miss you. You are my only joy. Everything else—duty, service, war. But you—joy.

I kiss you, my dove. Pray for me.

Your father, Alexander Suvorov.

* * *

You write that you want to marry. Be careful, my dove. Husbands come in different kinds. I was a bad husband to your mother. I know this. I repent. But I could not change myself. War made me so.

Find another. Kind, quiet. One who stays home. Who loves you—not Russia, not glory, but you.

Natasha read the letters and wept.
She loved her father—through these letters, through stories, through his portrait. She saw him rarely.
She did not know what he really was.
Maybe it was better that way.
 
Chapter Nine
Rymnik
September 11, 1789

A hundred thousand Turks.
Prokhor heard the number and did not believe it. They were seven thousand. Seven against a hundred.
There are many of them, Suvorov said at the council. But they're spread out. Three camps. We'll beat them in pieces.

They set out at three in the morning.
By dawn they reached the first camp.
Attack!

They crushed the first camp in an hour. The second in two. The third held until evening—the vizier himself was there. But by sunset he too fled.

A hundred thousand. Routed. Russian dead—five hundred.
Prokhor sat on the ground, his legs numb. Around him—bodies, bodies, bodies.
Hey, Proshka! Suvorov rode up, cheerful. Alive?
Alive.
Good lad. We beat them, eh? A hundred thousand—gone!

Nearby lay a Turk. Young. A boy. Eyes open, staring at the sky.
Prokhor closed his eyes.
He didn't know why. He just did.
 
Chapter Ten
The Village
Wallachia, Autumn 1789

A week later there was another battle.
Not a great one. A village. Forty houses, a mosque, a well. Of no importance.
The order: take it.
They took it in an hour.

Forty Turks—dead. Six Russians—dead.
Prokhor stood in the middle of the street and did not understand. Why.

Your excellency, he asked later. Was this village... needed?
Suvorov looked at him. A long time.
No. Not needed.
Then why—
There was an order. Take it. I took it.
But men died—
They died. Suvorov turned away. War, Proshka. Sometimes men die for nothing. They just die. And everyone is guilty.

He walked away.
Prokhor remained.

Six Russians. Forty Turks. A village no one needed.
Why?

There was no answer.
There never would be.
 
Chapter Eleven
Ismail: The Order
December 1790

Ismail.
Prokhor saw the fortress and understood: here they would die.
Walls forty feet high. A ditch twenty feet deep. Three hundred guns on the ramparts. Inside—thirty-five thousand Turks.
The Russians had besieged Ismail twice. Twice they retreated.

Suvorov arrived in December. Rode around the fortress. Silent.
Then gathered his officers.
The fortress has no weak points. But it can be taken. By storm.
What losses?
I don't know. Many. Maybe half.

He wrote the Turks an ultimatum.
Twenty-four hours to think—freedom. The first shot—slavery. Storm—death.
The Turks' answer: Sooner will the sky fall to earth than Ismail surrender.

Suvorov read it and smiled.
Very well. Let's see how the sky falls.
 
Chapter Twelve
Ismail: The Council
December 9, 1790. Midnight.

Nine generals sat in the tent. Suvorov stood.
Twice the Russian army besieged Ismail. Twice it retreated. We have one choice: victory or glorious death. I have decided to storm.
He looked around at them all.
Who is with me?

Silence.
Then de Ribas stood.
Storm.
After him—Kutuzov.
Storm.
One by one—all nine.
Storm!

When everyone had gone, he stayed alone.
Prokhor saw through a gap in the tent: Suvorov went to his knees. Knelt there a long time, motionless.
Lord, he said quietly. Help them die quickly. That is all I ask.
 
Chapter Thirteen
Ismail: The Storm
December 11, 1790

The rocket went up at five-thirty.
Three hundred guns fired as one. Night turned to day.
Forward! The cry along the whole line.

Prokhor ran with a ladder. Ahead—the ditch. Beyond the ditch—the wall. On the wall—Turks.
The first soldier reached the middle of the ladder. A stone from above. In the head. He fell.
The second—climbed higher. A bullet. In the chest. He fell.
The third—Prokhor—reached the top.
A Turk—right in front of him. Saber raised.
Prokhor thrust with the bayonet.

The battle lasted all day.
Street by street. House by house.
By four in the afternoon it was over.

Ismail had fallen.
Twenty-six thousand Turks—dead. Nine thousand prisoners. Russian dead—four thousand. Six thousand wounded.

Suvorov rode up on his horse. Dismounted. Looked around.
Victory. Complete victory.
Then—quieter:
One can resolve to storm such a fortress only once in a lifetime.
 
Chapter Fourteen
The Night After
December 12, 1790

Prokhor walked through the city.
Bodies. Everywhere. In the streets, in the yards, in the houses. Russians, Turks—all mixed together. Blood between the stones. Dogs had already begun eating the dead.

By one house—a woman.
A Turkish woman. Young. Sitting against the wall. Holding a child.
The child was dead. Small. A year old, maybe two.
The woman looked at Prokhor. Did not scream, did not weep. Just looked.
Her eyes were empty. Completely empty.

Prokhor stopped.
He wanted to say something. Did not know what.
He turned. Walked on.
The woman watched him go.

For the rest of his life.

* * *

Suvorov did not sleep that night.
Prokhor saw him—toward morning, by a ruined mosque.
Your excellency, you should rest.
I'll rest, Proshka. When I'm dead.
He paused.
How long have you been with me?
Thirty-one years.
Thirty-one. You've seen everything.
I have.
And what do you think?

Prokhor was silent.

I think, your excellency, that war is a terrible thing.
Terrible. The most terrible thing there is. But someone has to do it. Otherwise—others will. And it will be worse.
Aren't you... afraid?
Afraid, Proshka. Every time, afraid. But I learned not to show it. Because if I show it—the soldiers will run. And if they run—everyone dies. So I don't show it. I smile, I joke, I crow like a rooster. But inside...
He did not finish.
 
Part Three
DISGRACE
"I do not jump, I do not prance, I do not speak French"
— A.V. Suvorov on Paul's Prussian reforms
 
Chapter Fifteen
Death of an Empress
November 1796

Catherine died suddenly.
A stroke. She collapsed in her water closet. Lay unconscious for two days. Then—the end.
Thirty-four years she had ruled. And now—gone.

Suvorov learned the same day.
May she rest in peace. A good empress. She let me fight.
That was all.

Paul now, he said to Prokhor. Mad. He hated his mother. Everything she did—he'll undo. He'll remake the army. Prussian style. Wigs, curls, drill.
Maybe it will be all right?
It won't be. Expect trouble.
 
Chapter Sixteen
The Emperor
St. Petersburg, February 1797

Paul summoned Suvorov to the capital.
The emperor was short, snub-nosed, with bulging eyes. He spoke sharply. Twitched.
Count Suvorov, I intend to transform the army. On the Prussian model. Your methods are outdated.
Your majesty, Prussian methods are good for parades. War requires others.
You dare argue?
I dare speak the truth, sire.

Paul turned crimson.
Out!

In the carriage Suvorov said:
Now—disgrace. He is mad. Truly mad. And he fears everyone. Especially those who do not fear him.
 
Chapter Seventeen
Exile
Kontchanskoe village, 1797

The order came in May.
Field Marshal Count Suvorov—to retire to his estate. Without uniform. Under police surveillance.

Kontchanskoe—a village in the wilderness. Sixty miles from Novgorod. Forests, swamps, mosquitoes.
Suvorov arrived—and wilted.
Prokhor had not seen this in forty years.

The first days he still held on. Got up at five. Doused himself with water. Ran.
But—why?
Nowhere to run. No one to beat.
After a week he stopped getting up early.
After a month—stopped the cold water.
After three—barely left the house.

Your excellency, maybe a walk?
Why, Proshka? Where to?

He aged before their eyes. Without war he was dying.
 
Chapter Eighteen
Silence
Kontchanskoe, 1798

The days dragged like rubber.
Morning—prayer. Afternoon—books. Evening—letters to his daughter.

My dear Suvorochka...
I sit here in the wilderness like an old dog on a chain. A long chain—walk around the yard. But no farther. Farther is freedom, and freedom is not for me.
I miss you. I miss war. Yes, war too. Like a drunkard misses drink. I know it's bad. But still—I miss it.

Natasha came rarely.
When she left—he locked himself in his room.
Once Prokhor heard—weeping. Quiet, muffled.
Suvorov. Weeping.
The conqueror of Ismail.
Weeping like a child.
 
Chapter Nineteen
Night
Kontchanskoe, Winter 1798

One night—he called.
Proshka! Are you asleep?
No.
Come in.

Suvorov sat at the table, in a robe, by a single candle.
Sit down.
Prokhor sat.
How long have you been with me?
Thirty-nine years.
Thirty-nine... Almost a whole life.
He paused.
Tell me honestly. Am I a good man?

Prokhor started.

Your excellency... You are a great man.
That's not an answer.
I know.

A long silence.

I don't know, your excellency. You killed. Many. But you also saved. Those soldiers who survived because of your victories. Under another commander they would have died. With you—they lived.
That's not justification.
Maybe not. But it's the truth.

And that woman, Proshka? With the child? At Ismail?
Prokhor froze.
You... remember?
I remember. Every night. I just don't show it.

Suvorov stood. Went to the window. Black glass, nothing visible.
Do you remember Prague, Proshka? The Warsaw suburb. Ninety-four.
I remember.
The Poles had surrendered. The battle was over. I could have stopped the soldiers. I could. They would have listened. But I didn't. I told myself: let them blow off steam. After a siege—they need to. Otherwise there'd be mutiny.
He fell silent. A long time.
Twenty thousand, Proshka. Civilians. Not soldiers—civilians. Women, children, old people.
Your excellency—
I could have. And I did not.

He turned. His face gray, old.
That is not war. That is a choice. Mine.

Prokhor said nothing.
What was there to say? Nothing.
Silence—the only judgment.
 
Chapter Twenty
The Rescript
Kontchanskoe, February 1799

The courier arrived at dawn.
Suvorov read the letter. His face changed—from disbelief to astonishment, from astonishment to joy.
Proshka... War. With the French. In Italy. Paul has agreed.

He stood. Straightened. His eyes lit up.
Pack! We're going!
Your excellency, perhaps you should rest first—
Rest? I've rested two years! Rotted alive! Enough! War, Proshka! War at last!

He ran out into the yard. Hatless, coatless—just his robe. Twenty degrees of frost.
Cock-a-doodle-doo! he shouted across the yard. Cock-a-doodle-doo!
The peasants looked out from their huts.
The master's gone mad, someone said.
Not mad, Prokhor answered. Come alive.
 
Part Four
THE ALPS
"We are Russians! What glory!"
— A.V. Suvorov
 
Chapter Twenty-One
Italy
April–August 1799

The Italian campaign was a miracle.
Six weeks—and all northern Italy liberated. Milan, Turin, Mantua. The French fled.

Thirty miles a day. Sometimes forty. Without rest. Battle—march—battle.
Soldiers collapsed from exhaustion. Some died on the march.
Forward! Don't stop!

Prokhor was fifty-seven. An old man now. But he marched.
Because Suvorov marched. And he was sixty-nine.

After Novi—a terrible battle, ten hours—Prokhor found him in the tent.
What were our losses?
Seven thousand. Dead and wounded.
And the French?
Eleven thousand. And General Joubert—killed.
Joubert? Suvorov paused. A good general. Brave. A pity.

A pity. He said—a pity. About the enemy.
Strange. And somehow—right.
 
Chapter Twenty-Two
Betrayal
August 1799

The Austrians betrayed them.
Suvorov read the order from Vienna.
They're sending us to Switzerland. Through the Alps. On foot. Without mules, without maps, without provisions. The Austrians promised—and did not deliver.
But... that's death.
Those are orders. So—we go.

They want us to die there, in the mountains. Russians don't matter.
Can you refuse?
No. Paul ordered.

He took up his pen. Began writing the disposition.
Your excellency... you know we may not make it.
I know. But Russians don't surrender. Russians—march. To the end.
 
Chapter Twenty-Three
St. Gotthard
September 24, 1799

The mountains were white.
Snow—everywhere. Paths narrow as knives. On one side—rock. On the other—the abyss.
Twenty-one thousand men climbed upward. Without mules. Without maps. Without hope.

Suvorov walked in front. On foot. With a stick. Sixty-nine years old.
You should ride in a litter!
No. If I ride—the soldiers walk. If I walk—the soldiers run.

On the pass the French waited.
The Russians came out of the fog—frostbitten, starving.
And charged.

The French ran.
From terror. From these men who should not have made it—and did.
 
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Devil's Bridge
September 25, 1799

The Sch;llenen gorge.
Cliffs—sheer, wet. The river below—raging. The bridge—stone, narrow, over the abyss.
The French had blown part of it. A ten-foot gap.

Impossible, someone said.
Suvorov rode up.
Are there logs?
Yes...
Lash them together. With officers' sashes. Lay them across.
Under fire?
Under fire.

The sappers went forward. Under bullets. One fell into the abyss. Another. A third.
The rest kept on.
They lashed. They laid.

First company—forward!

The first man reached the middle. A bullet in the chest. He fell.
The second—a bullet in the head. He fell.
The third—jumped over the body. Made it across. Thrust with the bayonet.

The French ran.

Suvorov crossed last. Went to his knees.
Lord... I thank Thee.
 
Chapter Twenty-Five
Surrounded
October 1799

Rimsky-Korsakov's corps—destroyed. The Austrians—gone.
Suvorov—surrounded.

How many do we have?
Twenty-one thousand. Enough ammunition for one battle. Enough food for three days.
And the French?
Twice as many.

Suvorov stood.
Gentlemen. We are surrounded. There will be no help. There is no way out.
A pause.
So—we break through.

Russians don't surrender. We cut our way with bayonets. Or die with glory.
Who is with me?

Bagration leaped up first.
Lead us!
The others followed.

Suvorov smiled.
We are Russians. What glory!
 
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Breakthrough
October 1799

They attacked at dawn. In silence. No shots—no ammunition. Only bayonets.

The French ran.
From terror. These men coming out of the fog—they were not men. They were something else.

Of twenty-one thousand—seventeen came out.
Four thousand stayed in the mountains.
But the rest came out. With their weapons. With their colors. With their honor.
 
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Price
October 1799

The cannonball came from nowhere.
Prokhor was walking across a bridge and the ground went out from under him.
He woke in a tent. His leg—gone.
We took it off. It was shattered. Gangrene would have started.

Forty years of service. And now—the end. A cripple.

The tent flap opened. Suvorov.
He came in—small, gray, barely standing. But he came.
Proshka... Alive?
Alive. Without a leg—but alive.

Suvorov sat beside him. Took his hand. In silence.
Prokhor could not remember him ever doing that.

You've been with me from the beginning. Forty years. Longer than with my wife. Longer than with my daughter.
Service.
Not service. Loyalty. They're different things.

A pause.

Bear it, Proshka. We'll walk again yet.
We will.

Suvorov stood. Went to the door. Turned.
I am... glad you are alive.
He left.

Prokhor lay there. Tears ran down his cheeks.
Maybe this was love. The only kind he was capable of.
 
Part Five
THE END
"Here lies Suvorov"
— The inscription on his grave
 
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Road Home
Winter 1800

The journey was long.
Through Austria, through Poland. Snow, cold, posting stations.
Suvorov was fading.

Proshka... Come here.
I'm here.
I will die. Soon. I feel it.
Don't say that.
Why? It's the truth. I will die. Like everyone.

Will you remember me?
I will.
How will you remember me? As a hero? A general?

Prokhor thought a long time.
As a man. Who crowed like a rooster. Who ate from the soldiers' pot. Who wept after battle. Who held my hand.
That's all?
That's all. It's enough.
 
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Disfavor
St. Petersburg, April 1800

Paul was angry again.
Suvorov was forbidden to appear at court. Forbidden to live in his own house.
Disgrace. Again.

He fears me. A generalissimo, conqueror of the Alps—and he fears me. Laughable.

He lay in a dark room. Prokhor sat beside him.
Two old men. One dying. The other waiting.

Proshka... Do you believe in God?
I believe.
And what is there—after?
I don't know.
And I... He coughed. What will I say to Him? That I killed thousands? With His name on my lips?
You did what you had to.
Had to? Who said so? I decided myself. The war is mine. The deaths are mine. The answering—mine.
 
Chapter Thirty
Daughter
May 1800

Natasha came three days before the end.
She went in. Came out an hour later—eyes red.
He's asking for you.

Suvorov lay in bed. Small, dry, yellow.
Proshka... My Natashka. Did you see her?
I did.
Beautiful. Like her mother. I hurt her. Badly. It's too late now.
She has forgiven you.
How do you know?
She came. She wept. That means—forgiven.

I loved her, Proshka. In my way. The only way I knew. I just didn't know how to show it.
 
Chapter Thirty-One
Bagration
May 1800

Bagration came in secret. He knelt by the bed.
Alexander Vasilievich...
Petrusha... You came.
How could I not come?

Petrusha... I will tell you what I've told no one.
Tell me.
I fought all my life. Killed thousands. And do you know what I understood?
What?

Nothing. No meaning. No justification. I just did it. Because I could.
But the victories—
Victories are for the living. The dead know nothing of victories.

Bagration was weeping.

Remember this, Petrusha. Every man killed—someone's son, husband, father. And you answer for him.
I will remember.
And one more thing. Don't be afraid. Of anything. Fear is death. And death—is a fool.

Twelve years later Bagration would die at Borodino.
As Suvorov taught: in front, to the end.
 
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Last Night
May 5, 1800

The last night he was delirious.
Ismail... ladders... forward, lads...
Genoa... battle... Massena... flank them...
He was fighting. Even now—fighting.

Toward morning he went quiet. Opened his eyes. Clear, clean.
Proshka...
I'm here.
What time is it?
Nearly five. Morning.
Good. Morning is right for dying. Like waking.

Call Natasha. And a priest. It's time.

He confessed. Took communion.
Natashka... On the grave—a plain stone. Here lies Suvorov. No titles. Promise?
I promise.
And... I loved you. I showed it badly. But I loved you.
I know, papa. I know.

He smiled. Closed his eyes.
Genoa... Battle... Forward...

And fell silent.
Forever.
 
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Funeral
May 12, 1800

They buried him as a field marshal—one rank below. Paul's last revenge.
But the people came—thousands.

At the monastery gate—a hitch. The coffin would not fit.
Suvorov went everywhere—he'll go here too!
They lifted it. Brought it through a window.
Even dead—he was victorious.

On the stone they carved:
HERE LIES SUVOROV
No titles. No medals.
Enough.
 
Epilogue
The Year Twelve
September 1812

Moscow was burning down.
The crowd was thinning. Moving east.
Prokhor sat on his barrel. Vaska slept with his head on the old man's knee.

Toward night an officer came over. Young, wounded.
Old man, did you serve?
With Suvorov. Forty years.
Tell me. What was he like. Really.

Prokhor was silent a long time.

Small. Scrawny. Funny. Crowed like a rooster. Loved his soldiers. Respected his enemies. Won—always. Pitied—rarely. Showed it—never.
That's all?
No. He also wept. After battle. Alone. On his knees before God. No one saw—except me.

Was he a good man?

Prokhor looked at Moscow. At the fire.
I don't know, sir. Great—yes. Brave—yes. But good... Forty years beside him—and I don't know.

* * *

By morning the fire had weakened.
Vaska woke.
Grandpa, will they beat the French?
They will.
How do you know?
Suvorov's pupils are there. Kutuzov. Raevsky. They remember.

Prokhor stood. The wooden leg creaked.
Come on, Vaska. Long road ahead.
Where to?
Home.

They walked.
An old man and a child. Away from the fire, away from the war.
Toward the dawn.

* * *

Three months later Napoleon fled Russia.
Two years later he abdicated.
Suvorov's pupils had won.

Prokhor died in March of thirteen. Quietly, in his sleep.
His last words were:
Alexander Vasilievich... I am coming...

Perhaps they met—there, beyond the line. The old general and the old soldier.
And walked together—to where there are no wars, no victories.
Only silence.
And peace.

* * *

On Suvorov's grave today—a plain stone.
HERE LIES SUVOROV
No titles. No medals. No explanations.

Beneath the stone—bones.
Above the stone—glory.
Between them—nothing.

Empty.



THE END