The streets of the city were eerily quiet. Captain Valentin Berezik had often visited st Petersburg during his posting to Schlüsselburg. It had been only a short train ride, and the schedule of a peacetime officer in the army's more popular postings was not very demanding. He had always come away with an impression of crowded, bustling, confused activity, and anthill of a city that did not even seem to go to sleep completely when the last dances ended. Now, you hardly saw a person. Nothing moved. The occasional pedestrian would consciously avert his eyes, affecting the slow, purposeful shuffling walk that signalled they were going about legitimate business, not running away from anyone. Only the pickets posted at crossings and bridges acknowledged his presence, formally saluting him as he led his men into what had still been a battlefield yesterday.
Things were worse in the workers' neighbourhoods. Out in the suburbs, you saw the occasional bit of damage – smashed windows, carts and carriages roughly manhandled off the road – but here, the smoking ruins of barricades had been left uncleared. Entire blocks of flats and factories stared at the men with empty-burned-out windows, the walls pockmarked with bullets and occasionally holed by artillery shells. And almost every intersection sported a gallows. Berezik had heard of the “Crassus order”. Originally, scuttlebutt had it, Dubrovin had advised the Czar to have all rebels taken alive impaled, but Grand Duke Nikolai, or someone with a sense of the demands of modernity, anway, had intervened. He approved of making an example of rebels in principle, but the idea of decorating miles and miles of roads with the corpses of captives still felt revolting. He was a soldier, not a hangman! Apparently, others had gone about the task with greater enthusiasm. Berezik could feel the eyes of the men marching in column behind him. Straining his ears, he could make out their muttered comments amid the clatter of hooves and boots on the cobblestones. They did not sound approving.
The Neva bridges were intact – that, at least, had been achieved. Navy vessels had been instrumental in getting the troops across the river at undefended points, circumventing the rebels at the bridgeheads. Cossack cavalry and guards infantry were posted at every one now. In the inner city, some people were out and about – well-dressed folk, mostly, and many sporting the silver bagde of the Patriotic Union. Women brought flowers and water to the guards. They did not bring food, there had been little enough of that in the city over the past months. Still, it was nice being appreciated. Or maybe appeased. It could be hard to tell. Finally, they reached the command post set up at the Smolny Institute. Here, he would be assigned duties and billets for his men. Soldiers across the street had turned an enclosed schoolyard into an improvised holding pen, guarding sullen-looking civilians. So, at least not everyone had been hanged out of hand. Maybe these were just suspects, waiting for whatever justice the state of emergency would allot them. Or maybe they were already scheduled for the next trains out to Siberia. It was tolerably warm and not raining, Berezik figured, so they should not be in too great danger for now. He still hoped they would find him and his men indoor accomodation.