Chapter 2 – Lessons in Empire

Chapter 2 – Lessons in Empire

The clamor of cannon fire shattered the winter silence.

Alexander flinched, not from fear, but from the sheer concussive force of it. On the snow-covered training field just outside the barracks, artillerymen manned six-pounder field guns, their wool uniforms stained with powder and frost. Each discharge sent a thundering roar across the parade ground and kicked up clouds of smoke and snow.

He stood on a raised platform beside General Mikhail Andreyevich Durnovo, a short, barrel-chested officer with a bristling mustache and the blunt confidence of a man used to yelling over gunfire. Two adjutants hovered nearby, scribbling into notebooks.

"You see, Your Highness," Durnovo bellowed over the boom of the next shot, "our current field pieces are French by design—captured during the Napoleonic campaigns. Solid workhorses. But heavy. Cumbersome. And our powder—mmph—is not always consistent in charge."

Alexander nodded, eyes narrowing. He watched the crew reload—slow, methodical, too many steps. "How fast can they fire?"

"In good conditions? Two rounds per minute, maybe three. But mud or frost brings that down. Wheels freeze. Springs snap. Horses panic."

"And what about accuracy?" Alexander asked.

Durnovo grunted. "You tell me."

Another cannon fired. The ball slammed into the snowbank beyond the target, a good fifteen meters off.

Alexander frowned.

"Your Highness?"

He didn't answer at once. He was running numbers in his head. Mass, range, temperature effects, reload time. Compared to what he knew of modern artillery, this was—primitive. And yet, this was state-of-the-art for 1836 Russia.

"What if we tried rifled barrels?" he murmured. "Longer range. More accuracy."

The general blinked. "Rifling? Some Prussian theorists have toyed with it. Not reliable. Difficult to produce at scale."

"Yet."

Durnovo raised an eyebrow. "You've taken a sudden interest in gunnery, sir."

Alexander gave a wry smile. "It's not enough to understand politics, General. I must understand force."

The general let out a rough laugh. "You'll make a fine Tsar one day, if you keep that attitude."

But Alexander wasn't laughing.

He stared out over the drills, watching how the soldiers moved—slow, inefficient, outdated. His mind itched to redesign everything: the carriage, the recoil system, the training process. But he knew he couldn't push too hard too fast. Not yet.

He filed it away in his mental journal. A long list already forming.

Military Reform Priority Notes:

- Artillery modernization—begin with rifling studies.

- Standardize powder grain size.

- Explore improved gun carriage suspension.

-Invest in metallurgy. Need better steel.

That evening, as snow fell silently over St. Petersburg, Alexander returned to his chambers with boots caked in mud and powder.

He peeled off his outer coat, shook off the chill, and sat at his desk by candlelight. A fresh pot of ink waited, and a blank page of parchment.

He began to write.

"Memoirs of Reform, Entry Two."

(The Russian army is formidable in spirit but aging in practice. We are fighting with the bones of Napoleon's war machine, while the world around us sharpens new blades.)

I must tread carefully. My father sees strength in tradition. I see doom in it.

I must find allies. Scientists. Officers. Merchants.

And I must give the Empire something no Tsar has ever truly mastered—momentum.

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter," he called.

It was Konstantin, his personal valet—a man of maybe forty, graying at the temples, always polite, always watchful.

"Your Highness, your tutors await in the west drawing room. Latin and theology today."

Alexander blinked. "Cancel theology. Tell them I wish for a private session in mathematics."

Konstantin hesitated. "Your father—"

"I'll speak to him if necessary. Go."

The man bowed and withdrew.

Alone again, Alexander stared at the map of the Russian Empire pinned to his wall. It stretched impossibly vast—Baltic to Pacific, tundra to desert, cities choking on bureaucracy, villages frozen in serfdom.

And at its heart, him. A stranger in a crown.

He whispered aloud, "I can't fix it all. Not yet."

But a spark ignited behind his eyes.

"I can start small."

He thought of the artillery crews. Of the factory smoke he'd seen as a child in his old life. Of something simpler than cannons. Something modern. Industrial. Clean.

Soap.

The idea clicked. Industrial-scale soap production. Hygiene was poor in both city and countryside. Cleanliness was linked to class. But soap was cheap to make—if done right. Fat, alkali, fragrance, branding. It was a start. A business. A cover. A foundation.

He reached for a second page.

Soap Manufacture Plan – Early Industry Front:

- Secure suppliers: animal fat from estates, lye from wood ash.

- Develop brand: Imperial Soapworks. Tie to cleanliness, modernity.

- Begin with noble markets, expand downward.

- Use profits to fund engineering apprenticeships under the table.

He smiled faintly.

"You wanted to make history," he murmured to himself. "Now you'll make soap."

And perhaps—just perhaps—a future.