Chapter 1114: New Strategy
The captain lowered his head, teeth clenched, his entire body trembling.
It wasn't the pain of the whip he feared—that would only keep him in bed for a couple of weeks—but the humiliation of being publicly flogged by the Tsar's personal order. That mark of shame would follow him for the rest of his life.
Paul I glared at him, his voice booming. "Have you all grown so accustomed to such sloppiness that you even hesitate to follow a direct command?!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!" the captain stammered, snapping to attention. Without waiting for the military police to arrive, he turned and sprinted toward the disciplinary officer.
Suvorov felt a surge of panic.
He had recognized the flags; the men training at Gatchina Palace belonged to an infantry regiment of the Izmailovsky Guards. These were the elite of the elite, the very core of the Empire!
If that officer were whipped in front of his own men, he would be effectively ruined. How could an officer lead a charge after being the laughingstock of his soldiers?
Suvorov hurried toward Paul I. He was about to bow out of habit when he suddenly recalled the edict regarding Chivalric Etiquette. Its most critical rule dictated that all nobles must kneel when meeting the Tsar and, on formal occasions, kiss the back of his hand.
Gritting his teeth, Suvorov took the lead and dropped to one knee. "Your Imperial Majesty, your humble servant pays his respects."
A satisfied smile spread across Paul I's face. He gestured for them to rise. "You may stand. Are you here to observe the military review?"
Suvorov had completely forgotten his original reason for coming to the palace. He glanced toward the corner of the square, where the officer was already being stripped of his jacket. "Your Majesty," he urged, "the mistake that captain made... perhaps it does not warrant such a severe punishment. If it must be done, I beg you to allow him some shred of dignity. Perhaps in the execution room of a military tribunal..."
Paul I cut him off instantly. "Absolute discipline, the most rigorous drill, and merciless punishment are the only paths to a powerful army."
He continued, "Frederick the Great often personally struck officers who violated military discipline. It was that very iron will that forged the invincible Prussian army!"
Suvorov muttered under his breath, 'And he lost a fair share of battles, too.' Aloud, he explained patiently, "Your Majesty, the Prussians won their wars through raw courage and training tailored to the realities of the battlefield—things like high-intensity reloading, marksmanship, and the ability to execute a bayonet charge. As for parade drills and controlling the exact length of a stride... those are mostly for show."
Paul I's voice turned cold. "There is no need to make excuses for the army's slackness and lethality. The fact is, our military's combat effectiveness is the worst among the Great Powers of Europe. It is time for a change!"
From the corner of the square, the sharp crack of a lash snapping through the air rang out.
Suvorov turned his head just as a square of Guards marched past him.
The soldiers were dressed in German-style tight uniforms and high-top leather boots. The wigs they wore looked utterly ridiculous, with white hair powder constantly dusting off onto their shoulders.
Then, he noticed that each infantry company had at least twenty men carrying halberds. He could no longer restrain himself and shouted at Paul I:
"Your Majesty, you cannot use the powder on a wig as gunpowder! You cannot use shoe buckles as bullets! And the pigtails on a wig are certainly not as effective as a bayonet! We are not Prussians; we are Russians born and bred. We have defeated the Prussian army time and again. Why should we learn from them?"
He stepped forward, his voice rising. "If you truly wish to enhance the army's combat power, you should look to the French! Their Crown Prince defeated nearly a hundred thousand Coalition Forces from Britain and Prussia with only fifty thousand men!"
Paul I was momentarily stunned by the rebuttal. He instinctively tried to defend his vision. "The French are indeed strong, but that is because of their superior weaponry and ample military funding. The harsh training and absolute discipline of the Prussian army are much better suited to our circumstances..."
Another muffled groan from the captain drifted over from the distance.
Suvorov's expression darkened. "Your Majesty, you are not building an army; you are destroying its spirit!"
As Russia's most decorated and prestigious general, even Catherine the Great had treated him with a degree of deference. In his anger, he was blunt with Paul I.
"You! How dare you..."
Paul I had been neglected and disliked by Catherine the Great since childhood, which had left him with a paranoid, sensitive, and deeply insecure personality. Suvorov's words felt like a stinging rebuke from his mother.
Fury erupted within him.
He was the Great Tsar now, the most powerful man in all of Russia. He would no longer allow anyone to lecture him!
"You dare to question me?" He glared at Suvorov, suddenly pointing a finger toward the palace gates. "You are relieved of your command. Go home and retire!"
Suvorov was taken aback. The surrounding ministers hurriedly began to plead for him, but Paul I held his head high, his face a mask of arrogant resolve.
After a tense silence, Suvorov, the legendary God of War of Russia, turned pale with rage. He gave a stiff bow, retreated several steps, and then spun around to march out of Gatchina Palace.
Count Ostermann and Count Bezborodko looked at each other in dismay. They hadn't even had the chance to bring up their official business, and they had already lost their strongest supporter, Suvorov.
Ostermann prepared to leave so he could start planning a way to save Suvorov's career. Just as he was about to bid farewell, Paul I smiled. "Since you are all here, I shall share my vision for the Empire's future with you."
Indeed, after a lifetime of being sidelined during his mother's era, the ability to dismiss the most famous Marshal in the land gave him an intoxicating sense of power.
Ostermann and the others had no choice but to stay put, adopting an attentive posture.
Paul I looked satisfied as he surveyed them. "First, I intend to withdraw all troops from Transcaucasia. We have wasted millions of rubles there only to gain a few desolate mountains. Going to war with the Persians was a massive mistake from the start!"
The more he spoke, the more emboldened he felt. Invading the Middle East had been his mother's strategy; now, he could criticize it without restraint, finding a perverse sense of vengeance in dismantling her legacy.
Count Ostermann took a deep breath. With Suvorov gone, the burden fell to him.
However, before he could speak, Arakcheyev stepped forward. "Your Majesty, while central Persia may be of little value, it is vital for stabilizing our position on the Caspian Sea."
Ostermann felt a wave of relief. Arakcheyev was one of the Tsar's most trusted confidants, serving as Inspector General of the Military. He hadn't expected him to oppose the withdrawal. After all, no Russian in their right mind would agree to simply hand back a million square kilometers of territory.
Paul I didn't get angry this time. Instead, he chuckled smugly. "Why must we occupy Persia to solve the Caspian problem? We can employ a much better strategy. For example... we could form an alliance with the Persians."
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